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anothermindofwonder · 2 months ago

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aint that the worst thing you ever heard - part six

Pairing: Sam Mitchell (Warfare, last name decided by author)/Original Female Character

rating: E (see below for warning)

word count: 12.8k

Summary: Sam could have picked literally any other woman in the bar to talk to. But he didn't want to talk to any other woman, he wanted to talk to this one. Prompted by a Reductress headline I can no longer find "10 Believable Lies to Explain Your Obvious Miliary Haircut so You Can Still Get Laid"

Warnings: sex, oral and otherwise, talk of Bush-era American politics, talk of 9/11, TW: Dick Cheney mention, talk of Vietnam war, PTSD, domestic violence, substance abuse, talk of death, talk of funeral plans, coping mechanisms, medical stuff, skin grafts, talk of blood and bypasses, nothing extremely graphic but if you hate that stuff please be aware.

A/N: Oh my goodness. How are we at the end of another fic already?

This chapter…it turned out to be incredibly difficult to write and try to give these two the happy, but realistic ending they deserved. I do so very much hope you like it.

And while I'm not promising anything concrete, I truly fell head over heels for this couple and would not be opposed to writing about them some more. Maybe a scrapbook-style fic with some random one-shots throughout their life together. Something like that, maybe? I don't know. If there's interest I will add it to the spreadsheet.

I love you all. I keese you all. I'm so so grateful to you for reading this.

part six.

December 11, 2006

Serious condition.

That’s all anyone was saying.

Sam was in serious condition. He’d been critical in Iraq, then serious in Germany, then fair enough that they arranged a transport back to the US.

And then at some point during the transport, the internal injuries they thought they had stabilized ruptured, and he’d almost died.

A second time.

He was lucky, Erik said half a dozen times while he tried his best to explain everything that had happened. Incredibly lucky. Miraculously lucky.

With her head still spinning and her heart hammering in her ears, Hayden couldn’t help but think that was an odd choice of words for someone who no longer had his spleen.

For someone who had lost almost three liters of blood in the initial explosion.

For someone with full-thickness burns and nerve damage in both of his legs.

Whose ability to keep those legs was not a foregone medical conclusion yet.

“Could’ve been a lot worse,” Erik said with a subtle shake of his head.

And Hayden knew he was right.

Sam could have died.

Or he could have been Elliott.

Sam at least had woken up and been deemed stable enough to move back to the US. Elliott was still in a coma at the treatment facility in Germany.

She knew she should ask for details about what happened to Elliott—to inquire if anyone thought he had a chance of making it. But she couldn’t think of anything to ask that wouldn’t sound ridiculous or insensitive.

Is he going to be okay?

No, probably not.

Is there anything anyone can do?

No. Of course not. If there was anything that could be done, they would have done it already.

And if she was honest, her attention couldn’t wander too far from Sam at any given moment to wonder or worry if Elliott was going to pull through.

“Can I…see him?” she asked, hating how small her voice sounded.

“Yeah,” Erik said right away. “That’s why I had Tommy come get you.” He offered a tight smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “We didn’t want to tell you what happened only to have you wait around for clearance.”

She swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you.” Even though she hated that this had happened almost a month ago and she was only finding out about it now.

But she didn’t know what else she could have expected, she considered as Erik led her through sliding glass doors down a long, sterile white hallway. It wasn’t like she was family. The Navy had no reason to contact her over something like this.

Sam probably didn’t even have her information listed anywhere.

Of course he didn’t, she told herself, mentally smacking her own hand away from the button labeled ‘Indignation’. They’d barely known each other two months before he’d shipped out. She hadn’t even wanted to call him her boyfriend, for fuck’s sake.

Erik stopped outside of room 1656 and put a hand on her shoulder. “He doesn’t look good, Hayden,” he said quietly. “I just—I know he’s going to be okay,” he said quickly. Quick enough that she had to wonder if he really believed that. “But you need to understand that he doesn’t look like the same guy who left.”

She took a steadying breath. “I understand,” she said and managed a tight smile. “But that guy’s been gone for more than a year. So I don’t care if he’s black and blue and bandaged from head to toe like a mummy—I just want to see him again.”

The edge of Erik’s lips twitched briefly as he nodded. “Understood.” He unclipped a laminated badge from his belt loop and swiped it over a sensor next to the door. “I can make sure you get one of these,” he promised. “Then you won’t have to wait for an escort.”

Hayden nodded her thanks, not wanting to admit that all she’d wanted to ask was, Is he going to be here long enough that I’ll need one? But as soon as the door opened, she got her answer.

She had just told Erik she didn’t care if Sam was bruised and bandaged beyond recognition. And she had told herself she would be able to handle seeing him injured. But she wasn’t prepared to see him like this.

He wasn’t wrapped in gauze or suspended in traction. There was no blood or injury she could even see as she stepped inside. He was just still. Shockingly pale and still. Wired to the teeth with tubes and sensors. His chest barely rose and fell beneath the stiff white sheets. If she hadn’t been able to hear the monitors and see the green peaks that proved otherwise, she wasn’t sure she would believe his heart was still beating.

Sam didn’t look injured.

He looked like he was already dead.

She turned to look over her shoulder back at Erik, who had stepped in almost silently behind her. “Is he…conscious?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

Erik’s throat moved as he swallowed. “He’s in a lot of pain,” he said grimly. “He’s conscious, but they’re keeping him pretty doped up to try and help with that.” He cleared his throat quietly. “He can hear you,” he assured her. “He’s just not entirely lucid a lot of the time. But yeah,” he motioned to the chair next to Sam’s bed. “You should talk to him. He’ll want to know you’re here.”

Hayden waited until Erik had left the room before she moved slowly to sit in the empty chair. Between the medical tape and plastic tubing surrounding his IV, and the pulse ox monitor that swallowed his index finger, there was nowhere she felt safe enough to touch his hand. She settled for lightly laying her fingers on his forearm. “Sam?” she said tentatively, willing her voice to stay steady. “Sam, it’s Hayden.”

At the sound of her name, a little line appeared between his eyebrows and his expression wrinkled slightly in confusion. It felt like it took forever before he turned his head toward her, seeming to struggle to open his eyes. That was the morphine, she guessed. She remembered when they’d given it to her when she’d had her appendix out. It made her feel like she was underwater; everything was slow and difficult.

Sam pursed his lips in a frown of concerted effort, but after a moment, he managed to speak. “Hayden?” he asked in a voice that was hoarse and gravely. “Wait. My Hayden?”

She felt like someone was standing on her chest as her eyes welled against her will. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Your Hayden.”

She had always thought Sam’s eyes were dangerously, unfairly pretty. But when he finally opened them and blinked the world back into focus, she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen anything more beautiful in her life. He looked at her for a few long moments before the edge of his lips lifted in a sleepy half-smile. “Hi.”

She let out a wet laugh and wiped uselessly at her eyes when the tears spilled over to run down her cheeks. “Hi,” she echoed before blurting out, “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” he admitted, reaching his other hand across to gently brush his thumb over her cheek. “You look so good.”

Hayden swallowed and leaned her face into his touch. “Well, if I’d known this was how my day was going to end,” she curled her fingers around his, keeping his palm against her skin. “I probably would have worn the waterproof mascara.”

He made a conscious effort to wet his lips and clear his throat once. “Y’know, I—uh—I think I’m starting to see daylight on your whole anti-war outlook.”

She laughed again quietly. “And this is all it took to get you to agree with me, huh?”

Sam’s smile widened before it dimmed as he looked down at his body. “I didn’t do anything stupid,” he shook his head slowly. “I swear. All I did was walk outside.”

“I know,” she whispered, unable to stand being even this far away from him a moment longer. She got to her feet and leaned over him; two of her tears landed on his cheek when she closed her eyes in relief at the feeling of his hand sliding to the back of her head to bring her closer, his fingers combing into her hair again after what felt like a thousand years of waiting.

“I was trying real hard to keep my promise,” he said as her nose brushed against his.

“You did,” she assured him. “You came home. That’s all I wanted.” She let him pull her the rest of the way down so she could meet him in a soft, slow kiss that was nothing like the one she thought she’d give him when he finally returned. It felt like she’d just come home, too.

She reached her other hand to Sam’s left and carefully hooked her pinky with his. She could feel him smile against her lips when he realized she was still wearing her ring.

December 12, 2006

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Hayden’s hand froze just as she was about to hit ‘Enter’ on the front computer to clock in. She turned around to see Deirdre standing with her arms crossed over her chest. “I’m…working?”

“No you are not,” Deirdre said firmly, brushing past her to shoo her away from the computer. “You’re going to the hospital.”

Hayden exhaled with intention. “Dee, I would love to be at the hospital right now—”

“So go!” she shooed her again, this time toward the door.

“But I can’t just not come into work,” she finished. “I don’t have any PTO left.” And she was not going to ask her mother for special favors and money she knew the store didn’t have to spare just to cover her need to be in two places at once. She would work her usual morning shift and then she would spend the rest of the day and night in Sam’s room if they let her.

“The hell’s she doing here?” Ronnie asked, pulling her attention over her shoulder a second time.

“She thinks she’s working,” Deirdre said with the same level of disbelief as if Hayden thought she was piloting a hot air balloon over the ocean.

“You’re not working,” Ronnie said, ambling over with the help of his cane. It was a new one; glossy wood, hand-carved by his grandson as a birthday gift in November. “You’re going to the hospital.”

“Oh my God,” Hayden muttered, turning her exhausted eyes upward. “I work in retail. It’s December. I can’t just not be here.”

Although she would love nothing more than to not be there. She’d stayed with Sam until the nurses kicked her out, long after he’d let the morphine pull him back to sleep. She had rested her chin on the side rail of his bed and watched his chest rise and fall with each slow, deep breath. Counting beeps on the monitors as if her counting would be enough to keep his heart from stopping if it decided to.

“Don’t worry about us,” Deirdre ordered lightly. “Anthony’s going to come in and help pick up any slack if we need it. You go and be with your man,” she nodded toward the door.

“Guys,” she sighed. “Your concern is very sweet, but I still have to pay my rent and the check’s going to bounce if I don’t work my regular hours.��

“When’s the last time you checked your PTO balance?” Ronnie asked.

“October,” she said immediately. “When I ran out.” Try as she might, Hayden never could manage to stretch out her paid days off to last the full year before they reset in January. She always ended up a month or two short.

He hummed as he inched past her to get to the computer to clock in. “You should check it again.”

Hayden raised an eyebrow and shifted her eyes from Ronnie to Dierdre. “Why do I feel like shady business is going down right now?”

“Shady business?” Ronnie laughed and shook his head. “Nothin’ shady about this. If anything, it’s cahoots. You just don’t recognize cahoots when you see ‘em.”

“Is that the problem with my generation?” she asked, amused.

“Mmm,” Dierdre nodded. “Nobody gets into enough cahoots anymore. When I was younger I was in cahoots every other day. Couldn’t keep me out of cahoots.”

“You should try it, Wildflower,” Ronnie suggested as Hayden made her way toward the computer in the back. “True cahoots’ll change your life.”

She had just sat down at the desktop in the office when she heard the back door of the shop open and the unmistakable sound of her mother’s footsteps leading to the office doorway. “Don’t ask me what I’m doing here,” Hayden said, holding up a hand as she navigated to her name in the employee records software that kept track of everything HR-related.

“I assume you’re checking your time-off balance to see if you have enough hours to spend more time with Sam,” Joni said easily as she slipped out of her slippers and into the clogs she always wore around the store.

“Don’t worry,” Hayden assured her while the loading bar crawled across the screen. “I’m not asking any fav—” she stopped as the screen refreshed. “What the fuck.” She turned in the chair to look at her mother. “Why do I have fourteen days off left in my balance?”

Joni smiled. “Because we have fourteen employees,” she said simply with a small shrug. “And everyone decided to donate a day to you so you can be at the hospital rather than here, being absolutely useless to the rest of us because you’d rather be there.”

Her vision blurred unexpectedly as she got up and hugged her mother tightly. “Thank you,” she said, muffling the words against Joni’s cardigan.

“As much as I’d like to take credit,” the other woman said delicately as she pulled back to hold her daughter at arm’s length. “It wasn’t my idea.”

Hayden returned to the front of the store and put her arms around Ronnie without warning. She swallowed down the lump in her throat as he laughed quietly and gently patted her back. “Thank you,” she said again. “You all didn’t have to do that.”

“Course we did,” Dierdre said, accepting the hug that Hayden gave her next. “We love you, honey,” she reminded her with a kiss on the side of her head. “And call me crazy, but something tells me we might just have to love this Sam guy, too.”

She sniffled back the sting behind her nose as she let her go. “It’s a possibility,” she mumbled as she swiped beneath her eyes. She swallowed hard and looked from Dee to Ronnie and back again. “I love you guys too,” she promised with a nod, trying her hardest not to start crying in earnest quite so early in the morning. “Like, a lot.”

Dierdre squeezed her hand once. “We know you do,” she assured her before her smile widened and she glanced at the door again. “But now we want you to get out of here and go be with that man you’ve been waiting so long to see.”

As she was leaving, she could hear Dierdre and Ronnie clink their coffee mugs together in a little toast to their cahoots.

Erik had promised her a laminate badge of her own to bypass the visitor-check-in song and dance, but when she arrived at the hospital just after ten, he had not yet made that happen. Still, her name was on the approved visitor list for the intermediate care unit, so she only had to show her ID to be granted access to his floor.

Hayden expected that if she was going to see someone else in Sam’s room when she arrived, it would be a nurse or a doctor. Possibly some military personnel or one of his teammates. She was not expecting to reach his doorway and find three people in regular clothes and no Sam. His entire bed was gone. She paused with a slow knot of anxiety twisting in her gut and waited for one of the nurses to swipe her in.

All three people turned at the same time. A man and a woman who looked to be around her mother’s age, and a younger man whose face was a perfect mix of the other two. Hayden swallowed and forced a smile. They were all very tall. “Hi,” she said after a moment of expectant silence passed between them. “I’m—”

“Hayden,” the younger man said, his confused expression melting into a warm smile. “Right?”

She nodded. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Oh, Hayden,” the woman exclaimed, her blue eyes lighting up with recognition. “Of course,” she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Hayden in a surprisingly tight hug before she could say anything. “I’m Angela,” she said as she let go. “I’m Sam’s mom.”

As soon as she said it, Hayden could see the little similarities. Sam had her nose and her smile. “Sam’s mom,” she repeated clumsily before she shook her head. “Right, of course. Hi.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Angela said warmly. Like this was any other day. Like Sam had brought her home for dinner for the first time. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“You have?” she asked weakly. Hayden had met the family of exactly one other man she’d ever dated. And that had been when she’d been brought along to a family barbecue where no one really cared if she was there or not.

And for that, she’d been prepared.

And also, not alone.

“All good things,” Angela assured her before she stepped back and motioned to the man to her right. “This is Will, my husband.”

Sam’s father was exactly as he’d described. Well over 6 feet tall, built like a refrigerator, and with sleeves of tattoos covering both arms. He’d be more than intimidating if she didn’t catch sight of the Seattle Humane Society’s name and logo printed on the left side of his t-shirt. She thought briefly of this giant man bottle-feeding kittens and couldn’t help but smile as she shook his hand.

“And I’m Chris,” the remaining person in the lineup said. Like his mother, he stepped forward and gave Hayden a brief hug. “Really is nice to meet you. Sam’s talked about you a lot,” he added with a smile.

Chris was not what she pictured when Sam had told her about his public defender, anti-military older brother. She wasn’t entirely sure what she thought he’d look like, but a slightly shorter version of their barrel-chested father was not one of the possibilities. In fact, as she looked at all three of them standing together, Hayden couldn’t believe that Sam appeared to be the lankiest member of his family.

Even his mom looked like she rarely missed a date with the weight rack.

“It’s nice to meet you all as well,” she said finally. “Sam’s…entire family. All at once.”

“They took him for a scan about an hour ago,” Angela spoke up when she saw how Hayden’s eyes kept finding their way to the big empty space in the room. “He should be back soon.” A brief frown pulled at her lips. “You have seen him, though, right? This isn’t the first time you’ve been here?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I—um—I was here yesterday.”

Mercifully, his mother’s prediction was correct, and it was only a few more minutes of awkward silence interspersed with polite questions and answers back and forth before the door opened again and Sam’s hospital bed was returned to its rightful place.

He looked better that day she noticed with a little wave of relief. Slightly more alert, a little color back in his face. Everything about him brightened when he realized that Hayden had joined his room of visitors.

“So you all know each other now,” he said, casually reaching his hand out for hers. He laced their fingers together over the bed rail. “That’s convenient.”

“Nice of you to tell her we were all here,” Angela said pointedly, crossing the room to kiss the top of her son’s head. “Poor girl was ambushed as soon as she walked in the door.”

Sam winced. “Sorry,” he said, looking over at Hayden. “I forgot.”

“You forgot your whole family was here?” Chris asked with a laugh.

“I’ve been a little distracted, dude,” Sam fired back without any venom. “You try being on this much morphine and keeping track of who’s all here and who’s a hallucination.”

“Alright, alright,” Angela said gently, raising a hand in Chris’ direction. “We were just waiting around so you didn’t wonder where we’d gone,” she returned her attention to Sam.

“You’re leaving?” he asked.

“We’ll be back later,” Will spoke up from the foot of the bed. “We’re going to go get Charlie from the airport, let her get settled at the hotel.”

Hayden didn’t ask who Charlie was or offer much more than smiles and waves goodbye as they all bid their farewells and shuffled out of the room in a little clump.

As soon as they’d gone, Sam looked over at her with another guilty wince. “This was not how I wanted you to meet my parents.”

She smiled, feeling some of that tension dissipate from the room. “How would you have preferred that introduction happen?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted and glanced down at their intertwined fingers. “Figured I’d convince you to come out to Seattle with me at some point. Have to apologize ahead of time for my mom making us sleep in separate bedrooms. And for my dad probably making us help him build the infrastructure for his senior animal sanctuary.”

Hayden ignored the tightness in her chest as she moved her chair closer to his bed so she could lay her arm on the rail and set her chin on her wrist. “What else?” she asked softly. “What else would we do in Seattle?”

“Have you ever been there?” he asked. She shook her head. “Well then you’ve gotta do the tourist stuff,” he assured her, untangling their hands so he could lightly brush the backs of his fingers over her cheek. “Space Needle, Pike Place Market, all that. Get some really good coffee, maybe take the ferry out to see Whidbey Island or Bainbridge.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this a little bit,” she noted.

“I had a lot of downtime the last few months,” he said with a little shrug. “And as far as things I could think about, you were much nicer than a lot of my other options.”

She swallowed hard, wishing she could just go back to that little imaginary trip Sam had just taken them on. Wished he wasn’t in this hospital bed so that could still be an option. Wished the worst thing she had to worry about was whether or not his parents would like her. “I hadn’t heard from you in five months.” The words fell from her lips before she could decide if she wanted to say them.

When she looked up, Sam had dropped his eyes again. “I know.”

She’d known that communication was going to be sparse as soon as he arrived in Iraq. But he’d written her letters at least once a month for the first few months. He’d called her three times when cell service was stable enough to connect for a five-minute phone call. She’d sent him letters in return and a few care packages—books she thought he might like, homemade Rice Krispy Treats, boxes of animal crackers, a mixed CD.

And then right around the beginning of August, it had all stopped. Her letters went unanswered. No numbers from prepaid phones appeared in her call log. A check-in with Bonita around September only added to her fears that something terrible had happened. No one had heard anything. From anyone. Lincoln had told her they were being moved west, but west from where he wasn’t able to say.

“And when Tommy came to the store,” she pursed her lips and shook her head, not wanting to remember how it felt like someone had doused her in freezing water. How it still felt like someone was holding her under, waiting to see how long it would take until her heart gave out. “I really thought you were dead.”

“I thought I was dead too,” he said quietly. “Erik was dragging me back—there was so much blood on the ground, at first I was trying to figure out who else got hurt. I was thinking whoever it was had already lost too much blood. There was no way someone bleeding that much could be okay. It wasn’t until we were back inside that I realized it was me. It was my blood. They hadn’t even brought Elliott in yet.”

Hayden bit her bottom lip and ignored the seemingly permanent sting behind her eyes and nose. “I didn’t say that to make you feel guilty for not writing to me.”

“And I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty for being mad at me for not writing to you,” he countered with a small, sad smile when she looked up. “Cause I know you are.”

She huffed a joyless laugh and shook her head again. “I was,” she agreed. “But your excuse seems pretty genuine, so…”

“I’ve never been that scared in my life,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I was laying there, trying not to pass out, and all I kept thinking was ‘I’m going to die here, and Hayden is going to be so pissed off.’”

She chuckled despite the lump in her throat. “Yeah,” she said hoarsely. “I would’ve been.”

“I’m sorry,” he said after a long moment had passed between them.

“Stop it,” she shook her head.

“No, I am,” he insisted. “I never wanted to make you worry like that. I wish I could have told you where we were going and why I wasn’t—”

“Sam,” Hayden cut him off firmly. “Stop. It doesn’t matter. You’re back now,” she reminded him with a glance around the room. “You’re home. That’s…that’s all I care about.” She managed a smile as she stood up to bend down to kiss him. “If you’re that sorry,” she said, teasing her lips above his. “You’ll do whatever you have to so you can get out of this hospital and make it up to me.”

He reached up to pull her in for a long, slow kiss that warmed her belly and had her wishing she could climb into his lap like she’d done so many times before. “I fully intend to,” he promised when they parted.

December 26, 2006

Charlie, as it turned out, was Chris’s wife. She was brilliant and funny, and to Hayden’s relief, only about 5’6” which put them in the same boat of being dwarfed by this family of giants.

She had also known Chris since they were ten years old and had no trouble telling Sam exactly what she was thinking at any given moment.

“I think you’re being a goddamn idiot,” she said plainly, folding her arms over her chest.

“Well, I don’t remember asking you,” Sam replied, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice.

“That’s never stopped her before,” Chris said under his breath from where he and Hayden were sitting together on the windowsill, both pretending to read different sections of the same newspaper while they eavesdropped.

“Sam, you have not recovered enough for this surgery.”

“The doctor—which, if you recall, Char, is not you—” he said, ignoring the look she gave him. “Thinks I am. So.” He held up his hands. “Call me crazy, but I think I’m going to do it.”

Charlie may not have been Sam’s doctor. But she was a doctor—a pediatrician, specifically. And she had been in the room when Sam’s doctor had arrived earlier to tell him there was an option for the first of what would likely be many skin grafts sooner than expected.

“He did not say that,” Charlie reminded him. “He said it’s up to you, but he’d rather wait a few more weeks until—”

“Until they’re not so worried about the phosphorus burns,” Sam cut her off. “I know. I was there.”

“It’s not just the burns, you moron,” she groaned. “You lost way too much blood too quickly. There’s no possible chance your system has recovered enough to make this a good idea.”

“They wouldn’t have told me it was an option if it wasn’t safe,” he said before he grumbled, “I don’t know why you care so much, anyway.”

Chris and Hayden exchanged a glance while Charlie’s head recoiled in shock.

“Uh, because you’re my brother and I love you?” she said. “Because I don’t want you to go through needless trauma for something that might not even work and likely is going to put you at greater risk for an infection that might cost you one or both of your legs!”

Sam let out a cavernous sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Charlie, I appreciate the concern,” he said in a way that told them all he clearly did not. “But I can’t sit in this bed and do nothing for another minute—”

“Healing is not ‘doing nothing,’” Charlie interrupted. “It’s exhaustive work. Your body is trying to stitch itself back together—”

“So why the fuck shouldn’t I help it along?” Sam demanded. “I was listening to the same spiel you were. He said I was in a good place to try this.”

“He said you were in a good enough place,” she corrected. “Good and good enough are not the same thing.”

Chris finally stood up and set his section of the paper aside. “Maybe everyone needs to take a break?” he suggested before giving his wife a pointed look. “Maybe an outside break? Where there’s no yelling and more deep breathing?”

She looked at Chris for a long time before her shoulders dropped in a heavy sigh. “Fine,” she said, turning to grab her coat from the back of a chair. “Do whatever you want. Go gangrene for all I care.”

“Oh, I will,” Sam assured her, rolling his eyes. “And you can enjoy every minute of getting to say, ‘I told you so’.”

Chris held up his hands. “That is so much enough out of both of you,” he said, glancing from one to the other. “We’re going to get some air. Hayden,” he looked in her direction. “Do you want to come?”

More than anything in the world, she wanted to say. Your brother can be a real asshole when he’s this bored. But she shook her head instead. “No, I’m good. Thank you.”

Charlie’s large eyes moved from Sam over to Hayden and she softened. “I can bring you back a coffee if you want,” she offered sweetly.

Hayden smiled in return and nodded. “That’d be great, thank you.”

Sam waited until he heard their conversation fade as they turned down the hall before he let out a heavy exhale and closed his eyes. “What do you think?”

“Me?” Hayden asked dumbly, pointing to herself.

“Yeah,” he let out an unhappy chuckle. “What do you think about all this?”

I think you’re rushing things because you’re restless, she considered saying. I think Charlie’s right and you need to slow down.

“…Hayden?” he prompted gently when she couldn’t decide how she wanted to answer his question.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. At least that was the truth. “I get why you want to try it,” she admitted. “But I also get why Charlie thinks you should hold off.”

He waited for a beat before he lifted his brow. “And if this was your call to make?”

She inhaled steadily. “I think I’d wait until they told me I was good, rather than good enough.” He sighed again and rubbed his closed eyes. “I know that’s not what you want to hear,” she went on. “But, I mean,” she let her gaze fall to his legs, which were still heavily bandaged beneath the hospital sheets. “This isn’t going to be fixed overnight, right? The doctor said even if this graft is successful, you still have a very long road ahead of you.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “A road I would very much like to get started on so I can get down it as quickly as possible.”

Hayden wet her lips and pressed them into a firm line. “I don’t think it works like that.” She gave him a moment to respond before she continued. “Look, you’ve obviously made up your mind about what you want to do,” she conceded. “So my opinion doesn’t matter.”

“No, it does—”

“Sam,” she cut him off. “I’ve been here all day. I’ve seen this whole thing transpire. And I know you made your decision the second your doctor told you it was a possibility. So please spare me the ‘we’re making this decision together’ theater, okay?” Sam’s lips pursed into a pensive frown as he dropped his eyes again. “It’s your body,” she reminded him needlessly. “It’s your recovery. You can and should do whatever you think is best.”

He looked up. “Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”

“But,” she said with emphasis, pleased when he smiled just a little. “Charlie clearly loves you very much and she’s just trying to help.”

He ran a hand over his face and looked exceptionally exhausted. “I know she is.”

“So maybe don’t be such an asshole to her.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Am I being an asshole?”

“Oh my God, yes,” Hayden said immediately. “You’re a terrible patient for someone with so much medical training.”

He winced. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” she replied. “Apologize to Charlie—and also to Chris because he’s just trying to keep the peace and you’re making it difficult.”

Despite her reprimanding him, Sam smiled again. “Okay,” he agreed quietly.

December 28, 2006

Hayden was pretty sure Dr. Weiss regretted his decision to mention surgery this early as a possibility to Sam. As he went over the risks for the tenth time while the nurses moved around the bed doing the work of unhooking all the monitors and sensors and prepping him for transport down the hall, she could tell he had not expected his patient to be quite so eager to give this treatment a try.

“I have to warn you,” Weiss said with his face pinched in concern. “If this graft fails, we may need to look into a vascular transplant before we can try again.”

“Understood,” Sam nodded.

“That would greatly extend your recovery time,” the doctor went on, weighting his words with a pointed look.

“I know,” Sam said, with an infuriatingly impatient edge to his voice as he pointed to the stapled stack of papers on the table. “I read the packet.”

“Not to mention that the use of anesthesia at this stage still puts you at a much higher risk of severe hemodynamic instability—”

“Yep,” he cut him off. “I understand that too.”

There was a long moment of silence before Dr. Weiss let out a heavy exhale and handed over a metal clipboard with consent forms for Sam to sign.

She watched as Sam’s parents exchanged concerned looks from their place on the small, uncomfortable sofa against the wall. She waited for his mother to speak up, tell her son he was taking these risks for no good reason. Tell him he would be better off waiting another few weeks like the doctors had originally suggested.

But she didn’t say anything. She just kept her mouth shut and twisted her plain gold wedding band back and forth on her finger.

Hayden thought about her own mother and how there was no way she would go along with something like this if it was her child signing these forms. She thought about how Joni would put her foot down and tell her it wasn’t happening. She’d probably threaten the doctor into telling her he’d made a mistake, and that this surgery wasn’t an option yet.

If she was honest, Hayden didn’t know if that would be better or worse than this apprehensive silence.

But it didn’t matter if it would have been better or worse, because within moments, Sam had signed everything he needed to sign, and the orderly had been signaled to come and wheel him out behind the medical team.

Angela stood and crossed over to squeeze his hand once. “We’ll all be here when you come back,” she said before she stepped to the side so Will could lean over and wrap Sam in a tight hug.

“We love you, buddy,” Hayden heard him say, not bothering to hide his sniffle.

Sam smiled up at him when he let him go. “I love you too, Dad,” he assured him. He looked back to his mother. “And if I die on the table, you can tell Charlie she gets to say, ‘I told you so’ as much as she wants.”

She let out an irritated sigh. “I will do no such thing,” she clipped. “And that is not funny at all.”

“Just tryin’ to lighten the mood,” he said, holding up his hands in defense.

Hayden followed them out of the room and watched the orderly stop just outside the door. She took the opportunity to motion for him to wait just another minute before she stood at the side of Sam’s bed.

He looked up with a mildly guilty expression. “I know I said I’d stop with the gallows humor, but—”

She silenced him with a kiss, enjoying the little hum of surprise he made against her lips. She lingered just a moment longer before she pulled away and pressed her forehead against his. “You’re not going to die on the table,” she told him firmly.

“I know. I was just—”

“Because if you do,” she spoke over him. “I’m going to get a list of every man on that naval base and I’m going to have your friends go through and circle the names of everyone you hate,” she waited, watching as his eyes narrowed in confusion before she continued. “And I’m going to fuck all of them.”

“Jesus Christ…” Sam snorted, shaking his head.

“I’m not kidding,” she insisted, keeping a straight face. “Do you understand? I’m going to fuck every. Last. One of them.”

He was still laughing as he nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good,” she bobbed her head once and dropped one more kiss on his lips before she stood up and gave the orderly a little salute. “I’ll be here when you wake up,” she promised.

Hayden watched as he was pushed down the hall and around the corner toward the elevators before she turned back and saw his parents standing in the doorway of his hospital room. The looks on their faces assured her they had heard every word of her threat to their son. She blanched. “You—uh—you know I wasn’t serious, right?”

Angela pressed her lips into a firm line and shook her head. “Not sure anyone could have come up with a better motivation to make it through a surgery, honey,” she admitted. “Good job.”

Will didn’t bother to hide his smile. “I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t refuse to go to sleep just so he can do the procedure himself.”

The relief of not having completely horrified Sam’s parents only lasted about an hour. His surgery was predicted to take between four and six. Around the three-hour mark, Hayden excused herself for a change of scenery and the chance to swap the stale hospital air out of her lungs for something a little fresher.

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting in the little courtyard, trying to enjoy the unseasonably warm weather—60° in the last week of December, the planet was definitely dying—when a white paper cup was placed in front of her. She looked up to see Chris holding a coffee of his own and offering one of his easy smiles.

She turned the cup to see that he had remembered her order—unsurprising since between the two of them, they’d fetched and carried more coffee for everyone over the last two weeks than she ever had in her life—and smiled back. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

“Did you come out here to be alone?” he asked. “Or would you prefer some company?”

Hayden took a sip of the cinnamon latte and motioned to the seat across from her at the little stone table. ��Please.”

Chris sat and wrapped his hands around his cup. “You doin’ okay?”

She opened her mouth to give a reflexive lie before she closed it again. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “Should I be?”

He considered this with a tilt of his head. “I don’t know,” he echoed. They nodded together and drank their coffees as a silence that wasn’t quite uncomfortable settled over them. It felt like a long time before he spoke again. “He told me a lot about you, you know.”

She looked down and smiled to herself. “All good things, I hope.”

“He told me how you didn’t want to give him a second chance,” he said. “When you found out he was in the Navy.”

“Yeah,” she let out a quiet laugh. “That’s true.” Her teeth pressed into her bottom lip, thinking about the person she had been before he’d come into the bookstore that day. “I was so sure I knew exactly what kind of guy he was.”

“Yeah,” Chris sipped his coffee. “He said you were too good for him,” he went on, smiling when she choked on a laugh. “He did. He said every time he was with you, he felt like he was getting away with something.”

She swallowed hard and dropped her eyes again when she felt them well up. “Well. He made me feel the same way,” she admitted. “Even when…” she stopped and shook her head. “Y’know, my whole life, I never wanted anything to do with the military,” she said, even though she was pretty sure Chris already knew this. “Not just for activism reasons,” she added. “Or the guaranteed PTSD that goes along with it. But for this, too,” she looked around the hospital courtyard. “I never wanted to be one of those people who spends half their life with their heart in their throats, waiting for bad news.” She took another drink and tapped her cup lightly against the table. “There was this woman in the apartment across the hall from us when I was in middle school,” she said, unsure why she was telling him this story. “Her husband was a cop. He was kind of a dick,” she remembered with a frown.

“Ya don’t say,” Chris commented dryly.

“Shocking, I know,” she said before she went on. “Um, anyway. I came home from school one day, and I was coming up the stairs and two other cops were standing in front of her place.” She remembered how she’d stopped at the top of the stairs, clutching the mail in her hands as she watched them knock on the door. “And my neighbor answered the door and…” She shook her head again. “She just fell on the floor. Like she was a tissue or a piece of paper someone crumpled up. They didn’t even say anything, y’know? She just…opened the door and it was like her life was over.” She glanced up with a sad smile. “I never wanted that to be me,” she said softly.

Chris nodded slowly before he ran his hand over the lower part of his face. Hayden heard his palm scrape on his stubble. A trio of squawking geese flew overhead and the closest clocktower chimed four times before he cleared his throat again. “About four years ago, Charlie was in a car accident.”

She looked up again and felt her brow lift in surprise. “She was?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Pretty bad one, too. She—uh—she was on the freeway and some guy in an SUV had a heart attack behind the wheel. He hit the gas when he fell forward. Plowed straight through the median into oncoming traffic.” His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. “Practically tore her car in half.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hayden murmured. “But she’s—I mean, she’s alright. Isn’t she?”

“Now she is,” Chris clarified. “But it was touch-and-go for a while. She had—has—a traumatic brain injury. They weren’t sure she was ever going to be able to go back to work. Even now,” he went on. “Her memory isn’t…There are whole parts of her life—especially that year—that she probably won’t ever get back.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “That’s awful.”

“My point is that Charlie’s a pediatrician in private practice in the suburbs. Her idea of extreme sports is reading more than one book at a time. She’s about as safe as it gets as far as personal risk goes. But when I got that call—” it was his turn to shake his head. “I thought my life was over, too.” He let the words settle between them before he spoke again. “Bad things happen, Hayden,” he said quietly. “Accidents and IEDs and strokes and heart attacks…doesn’t matter how safe you think you are. Or how safe you think they are. When you love someone enough—” he moved a shoulder in a shrug. “We’re all bound to end up on the floor at some point.”

She didn’t bother trying to blink away her tears this time. The space beneath her eyes felt raw from all the crying she’d done lately, and the salt stung her skin when she wiped them away with the cuff of her sleeve. “Yeah…” she said after a long moment. “I guess we are.”

Chris reached across the table and put a hand on her arm. “I know this wasn’t part of your plan,” he said. “But I’m glad you’re here. And so is everyone else.”

Hayden swallowed again and looked up to see him getting to his feet. “Thanks,” she said for the second time.

“You going to be okay out here by yourself?”

She nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” he walked behind her and gave her shoulder a quick, brotherly squeeze. “I’ll see you inside.”

Hayden waited until he was gone before she laid her arms on the table and buried her face in her sweatshirt.

It was six and a half hours, all in, from the time they took Sam out of the room to the time they brought him back. According to the surgeons, the procedure was initially successful, but they wouldn’t be able to tell for certain until the graft had a few days to begin to heal. “He came through just fine,” Dr. Weiss said with a small smile. “But he’s probably going to be a little out of it from the anesthesia for a few hours.”

Hayden stayed seated while they wheeled him back in, not bothering to hide her giggles when the doctor’s predictions turned out to be correct.

“Mom?” Sam asked, squinting in the bright fluorescent light. “Did you just get here?”

“No, Sammy,” Angela said, coming to stand next to him. “We’ve been here the whole time.”

“We?” he repeated. “Who’s here?”

She laughed quietly. “We’re all here, honey. Me and Dad, Chris and Charlie, and Hayden. Everyone’s here.”

He could barely keep his eyes open, but Sam’s face split into a dreamy smile. “Hayden’s here?”

“Uh-huh,” Angela said. “She’s been here all day.”

A little line appeared between his eyebrows. “Wait. D’you think she’s mad at me?”

His mother laughed again and looked over at Hayden as if to double-check. “I don’t think so,” she reported after Hayden had shaken her head.

She got up and came to stand on the other side of his bed. “I’m right here, Sam,” she said quietly as she slipped her hand into his. “And I’m not mad at you.”

“No?” He motioned to his otherwise immobile body with his free hand. “Good. Cause I didn’t die. See? I told you I wouldn’t. And I didn’t.”

She giggled and squeezed his fingers. “I can see that.”

“Kay good,” he said again, his words bumping clumsily into one another. “Cause I’m gonna get out of here,” he went on with his eyes still barely open. “And I’m gonna make you soooo many Rice Krispy Treats.”

It was another half hour or so of Chris and Charlie gleefully taking advantage of Sam’s inebriated state and his 30-second short-term memory—giving him different answers to the same questions he kept forgetting he’d just asked, asking him questions he couldn’t answer just to hear the nonsensical responses he’d give, prompting him incorrectly when he’d trail off and ask if they remembered what he’d been talking about—before a nurse arrived to reset the timer on his morphine pump.

“This will likely knock him out for the rest of the night,” she said with a smile when Sam gave her a drowsy two thumbs up. “If you all wanted to go and have some dinner or come back in the morning.” She cast a sympathetic look around the room. “I know it’s been a lot of long days.”

Hayden wasn’t hungry, so she offered to stay with him while his family went to get something to eat. His mother had insisted on spending the night; she figured she would sit with him until they came back and go home a little earlier than usual in a vain attempt to get some sleep. The timer on the morphine beeped, signaling a dose being administered not long after they had been left alone.

“Hey.”

She looked up from her book to find Sam had turned his heavy head in her direction. She smiled. “Hey.”

“I wanna tell you something.”

“What’s that?”

“Hang on.” He squinted, studying her for a moment before he asked. “You’re still Hayden…right?”

She snorted. “Yes, Sam. I’m still Hayden.”

“Mmm,” he hummed with another sleepy nod. “Good. Because Hayden is my favorite person.”

Her grin widened. “Oh, she is, is she?”

“So favorite,” he said with as much emphasis as he could muster. “She’s the most beautiful. Is she still here?”

“Yes,” she giggled again. “She’s still here. I kinda like you like this,” she mused.

“I like me like this too,” he agreed. “I feel really good.”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” she laughed. “But you should try and get some rest.”

“I just wanna ask you something,” he lowered his voice and beckoned her to come closer. “It’s really important.”

She scooched her chair in. “What’s up?”

“D’you think…” his words were slowing down, each one seemed to take more of an effort to produce than the last. “She would say ‘yes’ if I asked her?”

Hayden blinked. “If you asked her what?”

Sam shook his head, nearly asleep already. “Don’t tell her I told you anything, okay?”

She smiled again, reminding herself that he was under the influence of extremely potent narcotics, and nodded. “Okay,” she promised, matching his whisper. “I won’t.”

January 2, 2007

Charlie was not the type to say, ‘I told you so’, despite being permitted to do so several times. But she could have.

Because she was right.

Sam’s skin graft had not been successful for a whole host of the very reasons he’d been warned about, but his circulation was the primary concern. The damage done to his femoral artery was proving more of a problem than they’d anticipated. The team in Iraq had done a bypass in his initial surgery, but it wasn’t a long-term substitution, and it couldn’t keep up with the volume and circulation needed to ensure his body would accept the new tissue.

Hayden was at work when Erik texted her. Her wonderfully gifted time off was used up by the end of the year, and she had no choice but to split her time between the store and the hospital as much as she could.

She was just finishing up for the day when her phone buzzed with his update.

How is he? She typed after she’d clocked out and said her goodbyes.

Erik’s response was almost immediate. About as well as you’d think.

But Hayden didn’t know what she thought. She drove to the hospital with her stomach in a knot, wondering what kind of hurricane she’d be walking into. If she had to guess, she would imagine that Sam would be angry. Frustrated. He might have moved into solution mode already, she considered. Which would mean he’d be badgering the doctors for what their next move was going to be and determining all the ways he could speed things along. That’d be annoying, but it wouldn’t be surprising.

But he wasn’t doing any of that.

He was just quiet. Pensive. He barely looked up from the hole he was staring into the foot of his bed when she arrived and bent down to kiss him hello. Chris and Charlie had left the day before, both having to return to work after the first of the year, but his parents were still there. They greeted her with tense smiles and banal small talk before they made up an excuse to leave the room, treading as lightly as they could on all the eggshells littering the floor.

Erik was still there, but she could tell from the look on his face that he wasn’t getting anywhere with Sam. He stood from where he’d been seated next to him and cleared his throat. “I—uh—I gotta get back to base,” he said and swatted Sam’s arm lightly. “I’m gonna send Mac over tomorrow, alright? Maybe Mikey and Frank?”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded but didn’t look up. “Sure. Sounds good.”

Hayden watched as Erik studied his friend for a moment longer before he reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “Hang in there, man,” he said quietly. “You’ll be outta here in no time.”

“Yes sir,” Sam said hollowly and raised his right hand in a half-hearted two-finger salute.

The sounds Hayden made as she shrugged off her jacket and set her bag down by the radiator weren’t enough to combat the oppressive silence Erik left in his wake.

He waited until she’d dragged the more comfortable chair over to his bedside and sat down before he spoke. “Guess you heard the news.”

“Yeah,” she replied. “I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be,” he said. “You told me not to go through with it. I just didn’t listen.”

She pursed her lips. “Are you…okay?” she knew as soon as the words passed her lips that it was a stupid question.

“Yeah,” Sam said shortly, moving his hand before she could reach for it. He ran his palm down his face. “I’m fit as a fuckin’ fiddle.”

She let out a heavy exhale. “What did the doctor say? As far as a timeline goes—”

“Oh no,” he shook his head. “He didn’t even bother putting a number on it this time.” His lips pouted as he blew out a breath that deflated his cheeks while he turned his head to look out the window. “That’s what I get, I guess.”

“What you get for what?” she asked. “For wanting to speed up your recovery? I don’t think that’s—”

“I could’ve treated Elliott on site,” he cut her off.

Her forehead creased in confusion. “What?”

“The reason we left—the reason any of us went outside—is because he was injured, and I called for a CAS EVAC.”

“Sam…”

“I know I was following protocol,” he went on as if he hadn’t heard her. “But I could’ve stitched him up there. It wouldn’t have been pretty but at least…” he stopped and swallowed. “I just keep thinking…If we didn’t need to meet the Bradley, we could’ve gone out a different way or taken out the guy who triggered the explosion. I don’t know. We could’ve done a lot differently.”

“Sam,” Hayden said firmly. “Look at me. What happened to you and Elliott is not your fault,” she said when he finally turned his eyes back to her. She motioned to his legs. “And this not your punishment for making a decision in the field that you would have made a million other times.” She sighed again and sat back a little in her chair. “And look, I know this is a setback, and it’s changed your plans, but it’s not the end of the world. You’re going to be okay. It’s just going to take longer and require more—”

“Hayden,” he closed his eyes and held up a hand. He looked suddenly exhausted. “Please stop. You don’t have to keep doing this.” He opened his eyes again and looked at her. “You don’t have to keep pretending, okay?”

She felt her head retract an inch. “Exactly what have I been pretending?”

“Pretending this doesn’t bother you,” he said, mirroring the way she’d motioned to his lower body a moment ago. “That this is…”

“Pretending that this is what?” she demanded lightly.

Sam sighed and rubbed his eyes again. “I get why you’re doing it,” he said. “Because you’re a really good person and you think—” he stopped and shook his head. “I don’t want you to think that I’m not grateful for everything you’ve done so far,” he said, starting over and sounding like he was choosing his words carefully. “But c’mon,” he looked at her with the most resigned expression she’d ever seen. “We both know this isn’t…That I’m not…” He swallowed hard. “This isn’t a version of me that you—that either of us—wanted to come back.”

She sat further back in her chair. Her mouth opened to snap something back, but all that came out was a quiet croak of incredulity.

“I should have let you off the hook before I left,” he went on. “But I—”

“Let me off the hook?” she repeated in disbelief, finding her voice again.

But her interjection only seemed to annoy him. “Hayden,” he said her name again, an edge of exasperation in his voice. “You did not sign up for this.” He looked down at himself and sighed quietly. “This is… This is years of rehab and skin grafts and surgeries and complications and it’s not pretty,” he said firmly. “It’s not going to be fun. And it’s not anything that you ever wanted to have to deal with. I know that. I know this isn’t what you want—so you don’t have to keep pretending that it is. You’ve done more than enough,” he assured her. “You don’t owe me anything more.”

In the silence that followed, Hayden stared at him, studying all the curves and rounded edges of his profile. The slope of his nose and the dip above his lips. He had such soft features; they almost didn’t make sense when paired with everything he pushed the rest of his body to do. She swallowed down the lump in her throat, pushing the hurt aside to give herself room to breathe. “I had no idea you thought so little of me.”

Sam blinked and looked up. “What? No, I—”

“No, you must,” she assured him. “If you think I only want to be with you when you’re perfectly healthy and Superman strong? If you think I’m here out of…I don’t know. Pity? Or obligation?” She hated how hoarse her voice was, but she kept going. “‘Letting me off the hook’,” she repeated bitterly. “Go to hell. The only thing I asked you to do was come back,” she reminded him. “I didn’t say I’m only interested if you come back without a scratch. And I didn’t have any delusions that you were going to be the exact same person you were before you left. I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were—” he argued weakly.

“Do you think I don’t know how hard this is going to be?” she demanded. “How long it’s going to take? I know it’s going to be awful,” she assured him. “And painful. And that the likelihood of you being exactly the way you were before you left is practically nonexistent. But I don’t need you to be exactly the way you were. I just need you here,” she choked out the word. “Alive. With me. So, I am going to be here for the rehab, and the surgeries, and the bad days and the really bad days because you are not going through all of this by yourself.”

His dark eyes were glassy for a moment before he blinked quickly and shook his head. “You don’t deserve this…”

“I know what I deserve,” she snapped. “I deserve someone who doesn’t think the worst of me and pushes me away when things get hard. But guess what?” she asked before he could argue that he wasn’t doing either of those things. “I want you. I just had more than a year of seeing what my life looks like without you and I hated it. So, if you want me to go,” she forced herself to slow down. “If you want me to leave? You can fuck off with telling me it’s because you’re doing me a favor.” She swallowed again. “And if you think you’re going to scare me off,” she shook her head. “You’re going to have to do a lot worse than this.”

Sam stared at her for what felt like a long time before the corner of his mouth softened into a small smile. “I’m in love with you.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ better be,” she said before she could stop herself.

“…What?”

She gave him an incredulous look. “I don’t care how many drugs they’ve got you on,” she said, nodding to his forest of IVs and monitors. “You’ve gotta be out of your goddamn mind if you think I’m going to go through all of this for someone who isn’t as catastrophically in love with me as I am with him.”

His eyes narrowed and his look of confusion only deepened. “Cat-catastrophically in love with me?” he repeated uncertainly.

Hayden let her shoulders drop as she expelled a deep breath. “Yes, you idiot,” she said, talking as much to herself as she was to him. “I am… hopelessly, stupidly, life-alteringly in love with you. And it is catastrophic for all the plans I made for myself, and what I was so sure my life was going to look like.”

Another silence descended on the room before Sam’s lips dipped into another frown and he glanced down at the blue device by his side. “Did you hit the morphine pump before you started talking?”

“What?” she asked. “No. Why?”

“I just…want to make sure I’m not hallucinating all this.”

She gave him a look. “You’re not.”

“So, you really just said that you’re in love with me?”

“Yeah,” she huffed out the word. Confirmation of what she’d been trying not to say for much, much longer than she wanted to admit. “I did.”

When she looked up, his confusion had melted into something more tentative. More hopeful. “Can you say it again?”

She softened into a smile, the anger and hurt that had burned so sharp and hot faded the longer she looked at him. “I love you, Sam,” she said softly. “There’s no ‘letting me off the hook’ for that,” she added. “So please stop trying.”

His throat moved as he swallowed. “I love you too,” he echoed. “And I don’t want to let you off the hook,” he assured her. “I just don’t want to be something you regret.”

Hayden stood from her chair and bent over him. She let her fingers lace lightly behind his neck and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I haven’t regretted a single second that I’ve spent with you,” she told him. “I don’t intend to start now.”

He pulled her in for a long, slow kiss that tasted like sweetness and relief. Like the feeling of coming up for air after being under the water for too long.

Like something that had been painfully out of place had finally been returned to its rightful spot.

March 11, 2007

They couldn’t tell him how long he was going to have to walk with crutches, but Hayden had spent the day before rearranging his furniture to clear wider pathways through his house. It didn’t look as good, but there was a much lower chance of crashing into corners or table legs at least until he got the hang of his new mobility aids.

Linc and Mac had been by earlier in the week to install grab bars in the shower and along the wall in the bathroom.

“It’s going to look like an old lady lives there,” Sam said when she told him about all of the improvements.

“Yes,” she nodded happily as she watched him slowly move around his hospital room to pack his bag. “Lives there, being the operative word.”

The idea had been for there to be no ‘Welcome Home’ party or gathering. Nothing that would be tiring or overwhelming.

But that didn’t stop the members of his unit from dropping by in groups of two and three throughout his first day home.

“Hey sweetie,” Tawny’s voice startled Hayden from where she’d been reorganizing Sam’s kitchen cupboards to keep him from having to reach too high for anything.

She looked over her shoulder and grinned at the sight of Tawny and her chubby, towheaded baby boy on her hip. “Hey,” she echoed, pleased when Riley reached for her. “Oof,” she grunted quietly as she took him from his mother. “He’s so heavy!”

“I know,” Tawny sighed good-naturedly. “He’s gigantic. Everything I buy him, he outgrows in a week.”

“You better learn to love secondhand clothes, girl,” Hayden smiled.

“That’s what I keep telling her,” Frank called from the other room where he and Tommy were sitting with Sam.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start!” she called back.

“I can show you my favorite spots,” Hayden assured her. “Now that I might have a little more free time.” She kissed Riley’s soft, round cheek. “We can get this bruiser some almost-new threads.”

“Oh, speaking of shopping,” Tawny shook her head and held out a plastic grocery bag. “You said your store didn’t have any,” she smiled when Hayden looked inside. “So, I cleaned out mine.”

Hayden grinned. “You’re a goddess,” she said, setting the bag on the counter to upload later.

She’d nearly forgotten about it by the time the revolving door of visitors finally stopped an hour after sunset. “I have to work tomorrow, but I’m off on Wednesday, so I can drive you to your appointments,” she said as she left the bathroom, bringing the towel with her to finish drying her hands on the way to the laundry basket. “And Bonita said she can take you to PT on Friday,” she came around the corner to find Sam in the kitchen, examining her reorganization. “She said the girls really want to see you, but she won’t bring them if you’re not up for it.”

“That’s fine,” he said absently as he studied his shelves. “This is all different.”

Hayden rolled her eyes. “It’s not,” she assured him. “This is still where all your staples live, I just sorted everything better to keep it off the top shelves.”

He pouted slightly. “Where are my snacks?”

She pointed to the next cupboard to his right. “Exactly where they always are,” she said with a laugh. “Oh, and next Thursday, the twenty-first? I think? You have that all-day eval so I was going to switch shifts with someone so I can take you. But if I can’t switch, Tommy said he’d be my backup.”

Sam leaned more heavily on one crutch to slide down the counter. “Is this just going to be your life from now on?” he asked, mildly amused. “Organizing all my medical appointments?”

She bounced her shoulders. “For the time being.”

He shook his head. “Like the activities director on the lamest cruise ev—” He stopped as he opened the cupboard door and stared inside. “Hayden…”

“What?” she asked innocently.

“What,” he repeated, a smile stealing across his face. “Like you don’t know there’s a hundred boxes of animal crackers in here.”

“That’s Tawny’s doing,” she laughed again. “I told her the store I went to was out and asked her to pick up a few boxes and she brought like, twelve of them. So, you’re good for a little while.”

“Well, Tawny doesn’t do anything in half-measures,” he muttered, still grinning before he reached a hand out to pull her over to him. “But thank you,” he said when she was close enough to loop her arms loosely around his neck. “For doing all this.” He kissed her once. “Especially for the animal crackers.”

She smiled and traded him another kiss. “Just wanted to make sure you had all your favorite things when you came home,” she said softly, stretching her neck to tap the tip of her nose to his.

“I do,” he assured her. “All my favorite things,” he gave her a squeeze with the hand he wasn’t using to brace himself on the counter. “Right here.”

“Good.” She pulled back slightly to study his face. “But you look tired,” she assessed gently.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I am tired.”

“Let’s go to bed,” she suggested, moving away from him before he could argue.

Between the crutches, swapping his clothes for sweats, and taking the right dose of the right medications, it took about ten times longer than it had before for Sam to get into bed. But Hayden could tell it was worth it when he finally settled back onto the pillows and stretched out. “Oh, fuck I missed this bed so much,” he declared to the ceiling.

She giggled as she slipped under the covers next to him. “Me too,” she admitted. He had given her his keys and told her she could sleep at his place whenever she wanted, given that he lived closer to the hospital than she did. But she’d tried it once. She couldn’t sleep in his bed without him. A thought occurred to her, and she shifted over onto her side to prop her head up with one hand. “Did I tell you about Easter?”

Sam squinted. “What about Easter?”

“Your parents are coming back—” he interrupted her with a groan and an almost comical pout. “You might want to save that reaction for the rest of what I’m about to say.”

“Oh God,” he looked at her. “What? Why? I love them,” he clarified as if she didn’t know that. “But we literally just got rid of them. How long are they staying this time?”

“Just the long weekend, I’m pretty sure,” she said, hoping she wasn’t lying and that she’d read Angela’s email correctly. “But while they’re here, they’re going to have dinner…with my mom.”

Sam’s face fell. “What?”

“I know.”

“How the fuck did that happen?”

“I don’t know!” she exclaimed. “I had nothing to do with it. But this is not the first time they’re all meeting.”

“What?”

“Yeah!” she squeaked. “I guess they snuck off to have coffee together back in February? And apparently, they talk on the phone?”

He stared. “Your mom and my mom.”

“And your dad. The three of them. A little trio of besties.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“What is the world coming to?”

They looked at each other for a long moment before Sam started to smile again. “Y’know for two people who were so staunchly anti-military, you Bellows girls are turning into a couple of regular barracks bunnies.”

Hayden gasped dramatically and smacked him lightly in the chest. “Oh my God, do not say that about my mother!” she exclaimed. “It is so not true!”

“Okay,” Sam said, still laughing. “If you say so.”

“I do!” she cried as her lips betrayed her in their refusal to allow her to keep a straight face. “First off, I don’t think that term applies to the Navy,” she said, only making him laugh harder. “And second, I’m pretty sure my mom is not having sex with your parents.”

“You’re pretty sure?” he repeated. “You can’t give me a 100% yes or no on that one?”

“I cannot believe you said that,” she declared, shaking her head. “Now that’s what I’m going to be thinking about when we’re all sitting at dinner together!”

“Are we invited to dinner with them?” he asked. “Or is this a date?”

“Shut the fuck up,” she insisted. “Of course we’re…” she stopped and frowned. “Actually, I don’t know. I can’t remember if either of them said we were invited or if they’re just going out on their own.”

“It’s totally a date.”

“Oh my God,” she giggled. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Hayden’s laughter subsided as she leaned in to kiss him again. “No,” she agreed softly. “I don’t.”

He reached over to brush his thumb over her cheek. “What time do you have to work tomorrow?”

“Not until ten,” she said, stretching a hand up to turn off the light above his headboard.

“So no sneaking out in the middle of the night?” he joked while she settled back in beside him.

“Not this time,” she grinned. “It’s been far too long since I’ve treated myself to a Sam Mitchell Experience. I’m not going anywhere until I absolutely have to.”

“Well, we do apologize that not all elements and features of the original Sam Mitchell Experience are—uh—cleared for active duty.”

“Like I said,” Hayden laughed and cuddled against his side. “I went an exceptionally long time without any portion of the Sam Mitchell Experience. I will happily take whatever elements I can get.”

He kissed the top of her head before she tucked herself under his chin. His arm went around her shoulders, tracing slow stripes on her arm. “Um, actually, I was thinking…”

“What?”

“If you’re interested,” he said in a tone that was trying just a little too hard to be casual. “You do qualify for an upgrade—being such a loyal customer, and all.” He cleared his throat lightly. “We could bump you up to Gold Level.”

Hayden snorted. “And what does being a Gold Level member get me beyond sleepovers and morning-after breakfast dates?”

There was a slight pause. “Un…limited sleepovers and breakfast dates?” he said like he was tasting each word on his tongue before he let it slip past his lips. “Along with convenient off-street parking in the garage and—uh—space in the closets for all your stuff?”

Hayden smothered a smile between her lips and forced herself to take a breath before she turned her head to look up at him. “Those are some rather attractive perks,” she admitted.

His smile seemed even brighter in the dark. “And the thing about Gold Level,” he continued with the bit. “Is that it qualifies you for a future upgrade, should you be interested.”

She hummed in amusement. “There’s a level higher than Gold Level?”

“Diamond Level.”

Her eyebrows lifted almost without her permission. “Diamond Level?”

“All the perks of the Gold Level,” he said smoothly. “But with better health insurance.”

“Better health insurance?” she laughed. “That’s the big selling point?”

“It’s really good health insurance,” he said seriously, smiling again when she did. “Did I mention you get your name on the door?”

“Like a law firm?”

“Exactly like a law firm,” he agreed.

“So instead of the Sam Mitchell Experience,” she said slowly. “It’d be the…”

“Sam and Hayden Mitchell Experience?” he finished the sentence for her with something like hope turning up the end of his words.

She bit her bottom lip, holding back a giddy giggle. “That sounds pretty good.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

She stretched her neck to meet him for a kiss. “But let’s stick with one upgrade at a time,” she said softly, brushing her nose against his when they parted. “There’s still a chance we could get sick of each other.”

Sam’s smile bumped into her when he pulled her in for another kiss. “I don’t think so.”

“Promise?” she asked, holding out her right hand where the slim gold ring had been sitting on her little finger for almost a year and a half.

“Promise,” he echoed and hooked his pinky with hers.

fin.

---

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anothermindofwonder · 2 months ago

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"I can't fuckin' do this without you. I don't know where the fuck I'm going, what the fuck I'm gonna do." THE LAST OF US

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anothermindofwonder · 2 months ago

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aint that the worst thing you ever heard - part five

Pairing: Sam Mitchell (Warfare, last name decided by author)/Original Female Character

rating: E (see below for warning)

word count: 10.8k

A/N: Ooof yeah this one kinda hurt to write the whole way through, not gonna lie. You've all been so sweet and supportive so far, have to selfishly ask you to continue because I hurt my own feelers with this one a wee bit.

part five.

September 20, 2005

“And then for the final song,” Mac paused with his last triangle of buttered toast poised just outside his mouth. “We gotta go with “Yeah!” by Usher.”

Hayden watched, feeling like she’d possibly slipped into another dimension, as this decision settled over the table. Dozer cocked his head to the right and squinted. “Wait, no, I thought you wanted to be taken out to “C.R.E.A.M” by Wu-Tang?”

Mac chewed his toast and swallowed before he answered. “No, I think it might be too political.”

Beside her, Sam snickered and shook his head. His one hand was draped over the back of her chair, his thumb tracing absent lines between her shoulder blades. She would much rather be focusing on that than listening to this macabre conversation that had dominated the end of what had otherwise been a lovely brunch.

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Jake agreed. “I feel like it should still be in the mix somewhere though.”

Tommy snapped his fingers. “They could play it during Communion.”

Mac pointed at him and then touched the tip of his nose. “My man.”

“But for real?” Dozer looked at him critically. “Usher? Kinda lame, dude.”

“First of all, fuck you,” Mac said firmly. “Usher has helped me get laid far more frequently than Wu-Tang—” he glanced over at Hayden. “Apologies. That was crass.”

She let out a dry chuckle. “I think I’ve heard worse,” she assured him. “But thank you for considering my delicate ladylike sensibilities.”

“And second,” he went on without skipping a beat. “The last part has that awesome horn line, right?” He pursed his lips, imitating the trumpet that faded out at the end of the song in question. “You could time it right so it’s like—one-two, one-two, one-two, one-two, first volley. Then again for the next two shots, and then that can just sort of fade into “Taps,” and we’ll call it a day.”

“Oooh. Yeah.” Beside him, Elliott nodded in consideration. “That’s good, dude.”

“I know,” Mac insisted. “I’ve thought a lot about this. Oh!” He set down the fork he’d just picked up as another thought occurred to him. “And I want you guys to print out the words to the Ludacris bit and put them in the programs.”

“Oh my fucking God,” Sam muttered.

“I don’t think it’s that outlandish of a request to ask my loved ones to all join in with Luda as I’m being led out of the church, do you?”

“He’s got a point,” Hayden spoke up finally, taking a break from pushing her seasoned potatoes around her plate, her appetite nonexistent. “Nothing brings the people together more than their shared desire for ‘a lady in the street, but a freak in the bed.’”

Mac smiled and motioned to her. “Thank you. Sam,” he looked to her right. “She’s brilliant. She gets it.”

“I know,” he laughed before he looked to Elliott. “What about you, Miller? “Country Roads” still leading you home?”

“You know it,” Elliott said as he reached for his coffee. “Best song in the world. No need to fuck with that.”

Hayden laughed quietly, desperately wishing they’d change the subject. She might have thought this was funny any other time, this odd listing of their preferred funeral songs. But since the conversation started with discussing the wills they were all told to update before Monday, every additional joke felt like another pinch of salt someone was rubbing in a wound she didn’t want to acknowledge.

It might not have been so bad if Amy and Valera had shown up. But Amy was sick with the usual ‘Back to School’ plague always brought on by the first few weeks of returning to the classroom. And Valera had some mysterious new man who was monopolizing a great deal of her time and who Amy was pretty sure was married and at least in his forties.

No problem, Hayden told herself, trying to settle the discomfort twisting her stomach. They would have to talk about something else eventually.

Sam’s hand flattened against her back, drawing her attention. “You okay?”

“Mmhmm,” she nodded and gave him a smile that didn’t feel as genuine as she’d hoped it would. She glanced down at her plate. “My eyes were just bigger than my stomach I think,” she said.

Although that wasn’t true. She’d never had a problem finishing one of Stella’s scrambles before. But no amount of hot sauce could keep each bite from feeling like ash on her tongue.

She pushed her leftovers toward him. “You can give it a good home if you want.”

He did want, which was no surprise to her. Hayden had never known anyone who could eat so much and still look the way Sam did. Although looking around the table, she was well aware that he wasn’t any sort of outlier among his team.

“We should probably put all this down somewhere in one place though,” Sam said after he’d cleared her plate.

“What—the track lists for our funerals?” Tommy asked.

He nodded. “In case we all get taken out at the same time,” he said as casually as if he were saying they all might end up at the grocery store at the same time. “Save it on one of the base computers: SEAL Team Five’s final wishes. You know, in case there’s no one left to relay these very important details.”

“I’m with you,” Jake agreed. “I can’t leave it up to my mom; she’ll send me off with some Lee Greenwood shit and I’d never forgive her.”

“Oh man, you’d look like such a bitch,” Dozer commented.

“This is what I’m saying. We cover all bases,” Sam replied with a smile. “I mean, my brother already knows this, but I think it should be somewhere in writing that I will rise from the grave and haunt the fuck out of whoever tries to play ‘Good Riddance’ at my funeral. I don’t care if it’s my mom. She’s getting haunted.”

Mac gasped and put a hand on his heart. “With a photo montage!”

Sam pointed at him. “Get fucked with a photo montage.”

“No slide shows,” Elliott said firmly.

“No slide shows!” the rest of the table echoed.

Hayden felt like she was going to throw up.

It was easier to breathe and easier to chase away that nausea-inducing dread when they were out of the restaurant and back in Sam’s truck. With the windows down and the sun treating them to an extra-beautiful Sunday afternoon, it was almost possible to forget that whole conversation and just enjoy the day for what it was.

According to the sign, the state park was closed for some kind of annual maintenance, but there was still a Ranger posted at the front gate. Erik had met them there and was the one who pulled up first. Hayden didn’t know what was said, but the Ranger looked out of his hut to see a short line of vehicles before he nodded, and he and Erik bumped fists.

“Are we allowed to be here?” Hayden asked when they reached their final destination. She hopped out and grabbed her bag with her towel and sunscreen before closing the door behind her. They had arrived at the lagoon-like clearing in the center of the park. A place she’d been plenty of times, but never when there weren’t at least a dozen other people there.

“It’s fine,” Erik assured her with a smile. “They let us train out here sometimes. Just gave me the usual rundown—y’know, no support staff around, no cell reception—”

“If we get hurt, we’re fucked,” Elliott cut him off with a shrug as he stuck a pinch of tobacco in his cheek.

“Sorry, am I not standing right here?” Sam asked, looking mildly offended. “If you get hurt, you’re fine.” He aimed a softer, more charming smile at Hayden. “I’ll take care of you.”

“My hero,” she mused, accepting the hand he offered to begin the walk through the trees to the water.

“Sorry,” Elliott corrected himself. “If Sam gets hurt, we’re fucked.”

“Like usual,” Tommy grinned.

For the most part, it was a gorgeous day. The sun had warmed all the flat rocks where they set out their towels and when the clouds parted, the waterfall looked like it was raining diamonds into the water below. After a summer of scorching temperatures, the pool was pleasantly warm, and Hayden could have probably spent all day swimming and floating on her back and playing far too many games of chicken.

And the bonus of getting to stare unabashedly at Sam while he was dripping wet and clad only in swim trunks? That was just icing on the cake.

It only stopped being such a gorgeous, perfect day around three o’clock. Hayden had taken a break from the water when it became clear the new game was going to involve diving from higher and higher rocks along the bank. She had no diving game and no interest in competing with outrageously competitive boys who did just that for a living.

She’d just finished a chapter of her book when someone sat down beside her. She looked up to see Erik swiping at the water in his eyes with his beach towel. He glanced over. “Am I blocking your sun?”

She smiled and sat up. “No, you’re good,” she assured him. “Done diving?”

“Yeah,” he nodded and motioned to the right side of his head. “My ear’s fucked up, I gotta do something about it. Water’s not helping.”

There was a mildly awkward pause as Hayden realized he was hesitating as if he was going to say something else. She raised her eyebrows. “Something on your mind?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly before clearing his throat.

Oh Christ, she thought. Here comes the shovel speech. How many ways could they kill me and make it look like an accident if I break their boy’s heart?

“Your friend Amy…”

Hayden blinked. That was off-script. “Amy?” she repeated. “What about her?”

Another quiet cough. “She didn’t…say anything to you recently…” he glanced over quickly and then looked back towards the water. “About me? Did she?”

She felt her brow crinkle in confusion. “No...” she said cautiously. “Why would—” she cut herself off with a soft gasp before she dropped into a whisper. “Did you hook up with Amy?”

“Just…twice,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was like a…one-time thing and then it was a…nother time thing.”

Hayden laughed once with her mouth still hanging open in shock. “Okay,” she said, shaking her head trying to process this new little development. “Amy and the Cap’n made it happen,” she muttered. “Good for her.”

When she looked over, Erik had caught her reference and choked on a laugh. “Yeah, well. I mean.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I know she just broke up with someone and obviously, I’m not exactly…geographically desirable at the moment. I just didn’t know if it was like a rebound thing or…I thought maybe she might have given you some kind of indication one way or the other.”

She pressed her lips together, trying unsuccessfully to smother another grin. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “She hasn’t mentioned anything.” She paused debating on whether to keep going before she spoke again. “But I could slip her a note before study hall if you want.”

Erik stopped and looked over at her, holding her gaze for a moment before they both laughed. “Alright,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “Message received.”

“You could just call her,” Hayden reminded him with a little nudge of her elbow. “Tell her you like her. She’d probably…” she trailed off at the way Erik’s expression changed. His smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed at a point past her. “What?” she asked, looking over her shoulder. She didn’t see anything.

“What the fuck is he doing?”

“What the fuck is who doing?” she echoed, turning around to try and see what had captured his attention. It wasn’t until she looked back toward the water that she felt her stomach give an anxious twist. Sam wasn’t in the water. And everyone who was had turned toward the waterfall and was shouting a mix of cheers and catcalls over the roar.

Hayden followed their sightline and found exactly what had stolen the smile from Erik’s face. Sam had scrabbled up to the very highest point and was standing next to the brink of the waterfall.

“Holy mother of God,” she heard herself murmur.

It should have put her at ease to see that except for their captain, no one else seemed concerned with how high up he was. But it didn’t. Not when all she could see were the sharp rocks at the foot of the falls. How smooth the rocks at the top were. And he was soaking wet. It would only be too easy to slip and fall, snapping his neck or cracking his skull on the way down.

“He’s not going to jump from there, is he?” she asked faintly, hating how her voice sounded stuck in her throat.

“No,” Erik shook his head and got to his feet with a grumble. “He’s gonna fuckin’ dive.”

She watched as he scrambled down from where they’d been to join his team near the water. She waited for him to yell up to Sam. To give him some kind of command to not do the dumbest possible thing imaginable. To insist he come down immediately.

But he didn’t.

He looked at the rest of the men in the water, his hands on his hips, and dropped his head. “Which one of you fucks dared him to do this?”

Immediately, Elliott raised his hand. “That’d be me, boss.” He grinned. “To be fair, I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”

“Oh, like we didn’t think he’d jump out of a plane without a parachute?” Erik countered.

“Or walk straight across a minefield to recover one comms computer?” Dozer laughed.

Like this was a hilarious anecdote.

“Hey, I walked back, too!” Sam called from the edge of the cliff. “You always leave that part out!”

“Dude, come on!” Erik called up to him, interrupting a story Tommy had started to tell about some sort of underwater demolition trick that had almost killed him. A week ago. “It’s not deep enough!”

Sam waited for the predictable response of That’s what she said from the rest of the unit (which, even scarcely being able to breathe, Hayden could admit he’d walked right into) before his grin widened. “Not deep enough for you, maybe,” he called back.

“Come on, man,” Erik rolled his eyes. “Come down.”

“Sure thing,” Sam nodded. “Be right there.”

Erik was right. Sam didn’t jump.

He dove.

Hayden heard the quiet scream she let out before her hand went over her mouth in an attempt to keep from vomiting her heart out from where it had stuck in her throat. The entire way down, Sam looked like he was aiming straight for the sharpest rock. Perfect form. An arrow of a man pointing out his death as it raced up to greet him.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tensed her whole body, waiting for the sound of bone crushing against stone.

But none came. There was the sound of the water rushing and then an explosion of cheers to pull her eyes wide open again.

No blood.

No broken body.…

No body at all.

The seconds ticked past, and Hayden watched the water, looking for any sign of movement. She saw the ripple of uncertainty snake through the rest of the men. The cheers died down. Smiles faded.

She got to her feet the moment Tommy asked, “Uh…where’d he go?”

She was down to the water’s edge by the time someone called his name.

“He couldn’t have hit something,” Jake said firmly while they all moved closer to the waterfall. “Right?”

“No, we would’ve seen it,” Mac said firmly.

“Where is he?” Hayden demanded, finally forcing her voice from where it had stuck in her chest.

Tommy was first under the water. In seconds they all were closer to the falling water. She watched for what felt like hours—but must have been only minutes—as they went down and resurfaced, shaking their heads in bewilderment.

Where could he be? He didn’t just disappear the second he hit the water. He must have—

Elliott screamed like a little girl.

Hayden happened to be looking in his direction; her stomach plummeted when she heard his shriek the second before he was pulled under the water.

There was a moment of stunned silence before two figures emerged from beneath the surface. Elliott. Splashing and brawling and laughing with Sam.

Sam, who was perfectly fine and had just hidden underwater for the fun of it.

Her car was still at his place. Her keys were inside on the kitchen counter. As they drove back to the house, Hayden spent half the time berating herself for not offering to drive. Or at least kept her keys with her—then she could just jump out of the truck and zip on home the second her feet touched the ground.

“Can you say something, please?” Sam asked, interrupting her thoughts as he got off on his exit. Hayden wanted to say something. She didn’t want to be this kind of shut-down angry at him. But every time she thought she could put into words what she was feeling, they died on her tongue before she could even open her mouth.

So she didn’t say anything. She kept her mouth shut and her arms crossed while Sam navigated the few turns and stoplights before they reached his driveway. “Literally one word,” he tried again as he pulled into the driveway. “I will take one single word over the silent treatment.

Hayden got out of the truck and slammed the door. She heard him sigh as he followed her up the walkway and to the front door. She waited until he’d turned his key in the door before she looked at him. “Jackass,” she said plainly before stepping over the threshold. “There’s a word.”

Sam paused outside the door and nodded slowly. “O…kay.”

“Suicidal fucking idiot,” she went on as he came inside. “How about that? That’s three words.”

“Yes it is,” he agreed evenly, closing the door behind them before following her into the kitchen. “Hayden, I’ve dived that cliff a million times,” he said, repeating what he’d said as soon as he noticed her icy demeanor on the drive home. “I was not in any danger whatsoever.”

“Well and who cares if you, right?” she asked, turning around as she pulled her sunglasses off the top of her head just to have something to do with her hand other than smack him. “Since it’s all a big joke to you anyway.”

He let out a quiet sound of frustration. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Is that what you want me to say?”

“Yeah, Sam. That’s what I want you to say,” she snapped with a roll of her eyes as she grabbed her keys and turned back around to face him. “‘I’m sorry’ with that incredibly attractive condescending tone and that look on your face that tells me you think I’m being irrational.”

Sam blinked. “That’s because I do think you’re being irrational.”

She paused and felt her head retract an inch. “Thank you for being honest about that,” she said with a nod. “I’m going home.”

“Hayden,” he sighed and reached to grab her hand when she went to walk past. “Come on. Don’t leave.”

“Why not?”

“Because I…don’t…want you to go,” he said, stumbling over the response like he couldn’t understand why she asked.

“Oh hey,” she shrugged off his hand. “Now you know how I feel.”

“Is that what this is about?” he asked with something that sounded a little too close to a laugh of incredulity in his voice. “Am I…acting in some way like I don’t know how you feel?”

Hayden stared at him wordlessly for a moment before she shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”

“Jesus Christ,” he sighed again, his hands going to his hips as his shoulders sagged. “I don’t know what to tell you—I don’t feel any better about it than you do.”

“Right,” she scoffed.

Sam looked confused. “What—do you think I like this?”

“No,” she said, wishing she could just make herself walk out the door and get into her car. “I don’t. I think you love it,” she clarified coldly. “I think this is exactly what you’ve always wanted to do, and you love that you have a job where—apparently—you get to put yourself in as much danger as humanly possible all the goddamn time in service of a government that views you as chattel and cannon fodder—"

Something flashed across his expression, and she wondered if she’d hit a nerve. He shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know enough,” she assured him, finally feeling all the thoughts and things that she’d been fighting all day and allowing them to line up to fall out of her mouth. “And I know that you are acting like you’re going to summer camp instead of a warzone without any consideration for how fucking terrifying it is to be in your life right now.”

“And what else am I supposed to do?” he asked with another joyless laugh. “Wring my hands and pace for the next ten days? Go cry to the captain and ask him to let me off the hook this time?” He let the rhetorical questions hang in the air before he exhaled heavily. “There’s no version of this where I can give you what you want and stay home. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. And I have not tried to sugarcoat that.”

“I know that,” she said tightly. “But do you have to be so fucking gleeful about it? About being dropped into some unspecified bloodbath for an indeterminate amount of time? And I’m just supposed to be okay with that?” she demanded. “With not being allowed to know where you’re going or even how long you’re going to be gone?

“Yes,” he said simply. “You are. That’s the deal.”

“Well. I’m not okay with it.”

They stared at one another for a long moment while Hayden considered she might have just turned the spotlight on The Thing They Were Never Going to Agree On. She considered this might be it. She might have gone just a step too far for Sam to keep thinking she was worth the trouble.

Although if he broke up with her now, she thought darkly, he’d save them both a lot of misery later on.

He’d do what she wasn’t able to do, no matter how much sense it made.

He ran a hand over his face, scraping his palm on his stubble, and crossed his arms over his chest. “What can I say that will make this better?”

“Nothing,” she replied, trying to ignore the way her heart seemed to sigh in relief that he hadn’t just ended things right there and then. “There’s nothing either of us can say,” she went on, not allowing herself to get sidetracked into not letting him know exactly what had angered her so much. “And there’s nothing you can tell me that’s going to erase the thought of watching you almost kill yourself swimming and you thinking I’m just going to trust that you won’t take unnecessary risks or do anything irreparably stupid just because you’re acting like it’s some foregone conclusion that you’re going to come back.”

“Would you rather I act like I’m not going to come back?” he asked, letting his arms drop. Hayden couldn’t make herself answer that. Of course that’s not what she wanted. “Because those are the options,” he said before he rubbed his eyes like she was exhausting him “And I’m sorry if you think I’m being flip or not treating this with the right amount of gravity but if I stop and think about what I’m—” he stopped abruptly and shook his head. “It doesn’t work,” he said firmly. “I don’t work. And I need—” he swallowed hard and when he continued, his voice sounded rough. “I need to be able to work. I know you understand that.”

“Yeah,” she said quietly, grateful he didn’t ask if she understood that. “I do.”

“But if you think I’m not scared—you’re wrong,” he said, making her look up from where her eyes had landed on the carpet. “I’m just not scared about the same things you are.”

She blinked. “What?”

Sam let out a heavy sigh. “I’m not scared of where I’m going, Hayden,” he said, taking a tentative step toward her. “I’m scared of what I’m…leaving.”

When he paused, Hayden opened her mouth once and then decided against it. She tried again, hoping that she could say something to put him at ease, but all that came out was, “Oh.”

“I’m scared of you deciding this is too much to deal with—and I wouldn’t blame you—” he raced on. “It’s too much to ask of anybody. Really. I just—I know the timing sucks—but I don’t want this to be over yet.”

She swallowed hard and pursed her lips tightly. “I don’t want it to be over yet either,” she said hoarsely.

The problem was, they were both right. He was asking too much. This was an absolutely shit situation she never wanted to be in. And if he needed to make light of it to keep from spinning out, she didn’t have the right to tell him he couldn’t or shouldn’t just to make her feel better.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I’m kind of being a selfish bitch right now—”

He interrupted her with a hug, pulling her tight against his chest. “You’re not a bitch,” he said quietly in a voice she could feel more than hear.

The lump that had been about to rise in her throat stopped as she pulled back to look up at him, waiting for him to dispute the rest. “No?”

He smiled slightly. “You are being a little selfish,” he admitted before he hastily added, “Not about the thing that happened today. You had every right to be mad about that. But about the other stuff.” She sighed and he wrapped his arms tighter around her again. “It’s okay,” he said quietly, into her hair. “I’m being more than a little selfish too.”

“Yeah,” she said with a tone of faux indignation. “You are.”

“I’ll try and work on that,” he promised.

She took in a steadying breath and looked up again. “I think I can live with being scared just because of your job—because you can’t really help that,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t think I can handle you scaring me on purpose.”

Sam nodded slowly. “I am sorry I scared you,” he said. “I didn’t mean to. And I won’t do it again.”

“Thank you.”

“And if it bothers you that much,” he added. “I will cut the gallows humor.”

“Just…when I’m around,” she requested meekly. “You guys can talk about whatever horrible things you want when I’m not there. Just…”

“Okay,” he smiled as she trailed off.

“Okay,” she echoed. “Can you kiss me, please? I want this fight to be over.”

Sam’s grin widened as he moved to hold her face in his palms. “Thought you’d never ask,” he said the moment before his lips met hers.

Hayden felt like something cracked in her chest as she melted into him. The relief was so stupidly intense that it could have knocked her over if he hadn’t been holding her so tightly. His hands dragged down her neck and swept down her back, pulling her closer so she could wind her arms around his neck. She heard the little sound she let out when he gently bit her bottom lip, and she opened her mouth on instinct to allow him to stroke his tongue over hers.

Sam’s hands slid down her back and over her hips. He squeezed her ass once before he bent his knees and picked her easily off the floor. She broke away with a little squeal as she wrapped her legs around his waist. She felt him smile into her neck before he resumed his kisses down her throat and over her collarbone.

By this point, she could make the walk from Sam’s front door to his bedroom in her sleep and she closed her eyes, waiting for him to walk them back down the hallway. But he didn’t. He stopped and set her down on the edge of his kitchen table before his hands were under her shirt, sliding it up and over her head, taking off his own a moment later. His chest was warm and firm and just slightly pink from too much sun. It felt addictively good to run her palms over and arch to press her breast against.

Sam captured her lips again, sucking her tongue into his mouth while his hands roamed freely over her curves. She squeezed her knees tighter around his hips, trying to deliver some relief to the sudden driving need he’d ignited between her legs. His lips ran down her neck again like he was hungry; like he was starving for the taste of her skin on his tongue. She reached to her back and untied the bow of her bathing suit top while Sam pulled on the strings tied behind her neck.

She mashed her lips together to muffle a sigh when he slipped the material from between them, and she could feel so much more of him against her. She arched her back again and leaned back on her hands as he kissed his way down her chest. He flicked his tongue over one stiffened nipple while he pinched and rolled the other between his fingers, making her squeal again when she felt the light graze of his teeth. He bit down harder when he switched sides, dragging an embarrassingly loud moan from the back of her throat as another shock of heat rushed through her.

But as good as he was making her feel, Hayden missed his lips on hers. She took his face in her hands and pulled him back up to kiss her. Hard and greedy and desperate. Breathing into each other’s mouths while she pushed his shorts down his hips and wrapped her hand around his cock, stroking him eagerly while he plundered her mouth with his tongue. He grabbed the sides of her shorts, catching her bathing suit bottom with them, and stepped back just enough to slide everything down her legs. His fingers slipped between her thighs, and she heard him hum appreciatively against her lips as he spread her arousal over her throbbing center.

Sam grabbed the backs of her knees and dragged her a few inches to the edge of the table. “Lay back,” he commanded in a breathless whisper against her lips, giving her a gentle push until she reclined back on her elbows and watched as he pumped his cock twice before teasing her entrance with the tip.

She closed her eyes and ground her teeth together, trying to muffle a whine even when he circled her clit with his fingers. “Saaaam,” she all but begged before she bit her lip.

“Oh, you don’t want me to tease you?” he asked, grinning down at her when she opened her eyes. She shook her head. “Are you gonna say please?”

“Please will you fuck me, Sam?” she asked, squirming with anticipation when he grabbed her hips again. “Pretty please?”

“Pretty please?” he repeated with a laugh. She nodded, biting back another giggle. “Can’t say no to that,” he said and sank into her with one fluid thrust.

Her giggle fell into a gasp and then a low sound of satisfaction as she lay back on the table and he started to move. Slow and measured at first, the thick drag and pull of his cock never failed to hit her in just the right spot. He grabbed at her thighs and the backs of her knees again, pulling her down on his next thrust and bringing her legs up over his shoulders as he leaned over her, reminding her of the first time they did this.

It was too much, it felt too good, and they were too far gone for her to care about going slow. She felt herself nodding dumbly when he started to move faster. Panting and groaning with each fevered snap of his hips against hers. Hayden thought she could get drunk on just the sounds he made when he was inside her. The way he tried to muffle his moaning through his clenched jaw. The smack of his skin against hers. How he could make her feel like she was doing everything right, no matter what. That she was the only thing he’d ever wanted or would want again.

Her eyes felt dangerously close to rolling back in her head when his fingers dipped between them, and he started to rub her again. Hard, tight circles in time with how he was pounding into her. She practically screamed when he took his hand away seconds before she was about to come.

But before she could beg for him to touch her again, Sam took her hand and sucked three of her fingers into his mouth. Hot and wet and seemingly desperate for the taste of her. He pulled her fingers from between his lips and Hayden watched as he dragged them down his chest and pressed them back to her clit, coaxing her to touch herself. “Yeah?” he lifted his eyebrows as he huffed out the word, never losing his pace.

She smiled as she nodded. “Yeah,” she breathed, moving her fingers to give him what he wanted. To give her what she wanted. She’d been close before. It only took a few strokes from her hand before she was coming so hard spots burst behind her eyes. Clenching around Sam’s cock as he kept moving. Moaning loud enough that she was certain the neighbors could hear them when he pushed her thighs wide open and slammed his hips against hers at a frenzied pace, making her head spin.

Hayden was mesmerized by watching the planes of his torso move and contract. She reached her hand out to run her fingertips over the grid of his abdomen just as his rhythm faltered and the muscles there shuddered, and he finally came with a sound deep in his chest.

Sam stayed deep inside of her for a long, breathless moment. A bead of sweat slid from his temple onto her foot when he turned his head and kissed her instep. She let out a soft whine when he pulled out and turned back toward the kitchen counter. She heard the sound of water running and was still catching her breath as he returned with a warm washcloth to clean up the mess they’d made between her thighs.

He helped her sit up and stood between her knees, trailing his fingers in long, slow strokes down the center of her back while she rested her forehead against his chest.

Don’t go, she wanted to say, tasting the words on her tongue before she swallowed them back. Please don’t go. Please don’t let me have this and then take it away again.

But when she lifted her head to look at him, all that came out was, “I’m really hungry.”

Sam smiled wide. “Pizza?”

“Yes,” she whispered loudly.

He held her face in his hands and tipped her chin up to deliver a sweet kiss to her swollen lips before he left to go find a takeout menu.

September 21, 2005

Hayden liked sleeping at Sam’s house. Not only was his bed bigger and considerably less squeaky than hers, but on the weekend nights she stayed over, she knew he turned his alarm off and let himself sleep in, saving his ridiculous workout regime for after she’d gone home. She liked waking up first and turning to watch him with his eyes still closed and that fan of unfairly long eyelashes brushing against the top of his cheekbones. His forehead uncreased, his mouth parted just slightly. He looked younger like this, she decided the next morning, studying him in the golden light streaming in through his blinds. Unbothered. Unburdened.

She resisted the urge to kiss him before she got out of bed and helped herself to the t-shirt she’d gone to sleep in from the pile on the floor. She went into the kitchen and started making coffee as quietly as possible, resigning herself to plain milk and sugar before she looked in the refrigerator and found a small, unopened bottle of French vanilla creamer.

Biting back a smile, she opened it and poured a healthy serving into one of Sam’s mugs while she waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

She had only taken a few sips, staring out the window into his empty backyard, when she jumped at the feeling of Sam’s hands on her hips. She relaxed a second later and leaned back against him while he wrapped his arms loosely around her waist.

“See you found your creamer.” His voice was low and sleepy, with a smile she could hear right next to her ear.

“I did,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he kissed her cheek and held her a little tighter before he whispered, “But if you eat all my animal crackers again without telling me, we’re fuckin’ done.”

Hayden’s eyes widened and she turned around with a gasp. “I did not!”

“You did,” he assured her, still grinning. “Last time you were here.”

“No, you had another box!”

“Nope,” he shook his head. “Totally out. Thanks to you.”

“Oh, no! I’m so sorry,” she giggled, putting her hand on his cheek before she stretched up onto her toes to kiss him. “I would have replaced them if I’d realized what I’d done, I swear!”

“Just tell me next time,” he laughed. “So I can at least replenish my supply.”

“I think it’s really cute that animal crackers are your go-to snack,” she admitted, hiding another smile in a sip from her mug.

“It’s not cute,” he scoffed. “It’s a very manly food.”

She hummed in amusement. “Is it? Cookies shaped like animals that come in a circus box? That’s a manly food?”

“They travel well,” he insisted. “You can put them in your pockets,” he motioned weakly to his chest. “They don’t get crumbs everywhere. I don’t…need to defend this.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “I believe you.”

“Brat,” he muttered, putting his arms around her again.

She wanted to stay just like that. Freeze time like a photograph and live in that sweet moment of sleepy, silly comfort for as long as she could. But Hayden saw the way his eyes strayed briefly to the clock on the stove. She swallowed. “What time is your flight?”

“Not until two,” he said and sweetly moved a lock of her hair when it fell into her face.

“Sure you don’t need a ride to the airport?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Sam had nine days remaining until he left for Iraq. Five of those days he’d already planned to spend with his family in Seattle.

“When I come back, though,” he said slowly. “I have somewhere I want to take you if that’s okay.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Where?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said with another smile. “Is that okay? You trust me enough for that?”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I guess so. But I need you to tell me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you really jump out of a plane without a parachute?”

Sam winced. “Technically?”

“Oh my God…”

“It sounds worse than it is,” he rushed on. “We were on maneuvers, and we were told to evac, but the chute I grabbed wasn’t packed right and it wouldn’t have opened even if I’d had it on.”

“So, you were just like, ‘fuck it!’ And bailed?” she asked, unimpressed.

“No, no,” he shook his head. “I let everyone else go first, then I told the pilot to fly lower over the trees.”

“So that you could jump out of a plane without a parachute.”

“Y...es,” he said slowly.

“How are you not dead?”

“Well, for one, I wasn’t that high up, and the canopy broke my fall and slowed me down a lot.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “And for the other?”

He moved his head back and forth, seeming to waffle with the idea of continuing. “I have this theory that I might be unkillable.”

Hayden snorted. “How often do you test this theory?”

“Not…very,” he said, unconvincingly. She gave him a look. “Less now?” he guessed before he tried a third time. “Never again?”

“Never ever again,” she shook her head.

“Never ever again,” he echoed.

Hayden curled her thumb over her fingers in a fist and extended her little finger. “Promise?” She held her hand back when he went to accept her terms. “This is sacred,” she warned. “Don’t do it if you don’t mean it.”

“Understood.” Sam’s smile softened as he hooked his pinky with hers. “And yes. I promise,” he said softly.

She stretched onto her toes to kiss him again. “Thank you.”

***

She pretended she didn’t miss him while he was in Seattle. It wasn’t as difficult as it could have been—his time away coincided with inventory week and the Big Book Celebration at one of the local school districts. She had plenty to do. Plenty to keep her mind occupied and busy instead of checking the clock and willing time to move faster.

But Hayden was an excellent multi-tasker.

So she missed him while she was setting up and helping kids find their new favorite books during the day. And she missed him while she was at the store counting and organizing until three in the morning each night.

And she kept telling herself that she didn’t.

She was still patting herself on the back for not having brought him up in the four and a half days he’d been gone when she walked into the back room to see Tiana swapping out the weekly schedule for a new one. She stopped and frowned. “I just did that yesterday,” she said, tilting her head to one side.

“I know,” Tiana shrugged. “Your mom made some changes,” she said before she returned to her post at the front register.

Hayden studied the schedule for a moment before she went further back to pop her head into the office where her mother sat, squinting at the computer screen over the tops of her glasses. “What’s up, Wildflower?” she asked without looking up.

“Why did you give me the next five days off?”

Joni took off her glasses and looked at her daughter. “Thought you could use the break,” she said with an innocent shrug. “For absolutely no specific reason whatsoever. Maybe take the time to catch up on some sleep and get rid of those dark circles under your eyes…or go get a manicure, since you’ve chewed your cuticles right off.”

She pressed her lips together to smother a smile as she crossed the small room and wrapped her arms around her mother from behind. “Thanks, Mommy,” she said quietly as she pressed the tip of her nose to her hair and inhaled her familiar scent of almond shampoo and Neutrogena soap. “My cup runneth over.”

Joni laughed and patted her forearms. “Mine too,” she assured her before she took hold of her hand and examined her chewed-up cuticles and chipped black polish. “But you’re going to need a new nervous habit if you’re not ready to get off this train yet, babe. These are a catastrophe.”

Hayden was still laughing as she returned to work—but she stopped at the nail salon across the street to make an appointment for the next morning all the same.

Because her mom was right—her nails were a trainwreck.

September 26, 2005

To his credit, Sam noticed her nails the following afternoon when they were on his couch, still locked in a breathless tangle of sex and sweat that had not made it to the bedroom. He reached for where her fingers were still laced at the back of his neck and studied them. “These are nice,” he said after a moment. “They don’t usually look like this,” he glanced up. “Right?”

Hayden grinned as her heart rate slowly returned to normal and shook her head. “Not usually,” she admitted. “I got them done this morning; they were looking pretty shabby.”

He curled her fingers down over his so he could press his lips to the top of her hand. “If I was a little more self-absorbed, I might think you got them done just for me.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re so humble,” she joked before she moved off his lap when her hip started to twinge. “Otherwise, you’d be insufferable.”

Sam snickered as he got up to round up the clothes they’d strewn all over the living room. “Do you want to get something to eat?” he asked, crossing back to the couch to hand over her bra and sundress.

“Yeah,” she nodded, daring herself to say what she’d been thinking since the last time she’d been there. “Um, I just—”

He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“I was—uh—wondering if I could make a—kind of a weird request? Maybe?”

Half-dressed now, he sat back down on the couch. “Sure,” he said easily. “What’s up?”

She looked down at the fingers she’d twisted in her lap. “I know we just have, like, today, tomorrow, and Wednesday…” He had to report to the base on Thursday and their bus rolled out on Friday morning.

“Yeah…?”

“And obviously, I want to spend as much time with you as I can—if that’s what you want—” she added hastily.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “That’s definitely what I want.”

“Okay,” she nodded and smiled once before she continued. “It’s just—I don’t want to feel like we just have today, tomorrow, and Wednesday. Does that make sense? Like, I don’t want this to be any different or feel like we have to be extra intense or whatever.” She reached over and tangled her fingers with his to slow down her anxious fiddling. “I just want to enjoy these next few days without feeling like I’m staring at an hourglass that’s running out. Is that—” she looked up. “Is that okay?”

It felt like a long time before the corner of Sam’s mouth moved into a smile. “Yeah,” he nodded. “I like that plan.”

“Good,” she leaned over to give him a quick kiss. “Then yes, let’s get something to eat. Because I never did get to take you to my favorite Chinese place, you know.”

“That’s right,” he mused. “You didn’t. We should rectify that.”

September 28, 2005

Despite trying her best to hold onto every second of the next few days, time moved twice as fast as it had when he’d been away, and Hayden felt like she only had time to blink, and the sun was setting on Wednesday evening.

“Are you taking me shooting again?” she asked from the passenger seat as they drove further out of town with the world turning orange and gold around them.

“Nope.”

She scrunched her face, trying to think of possibilities before she frowned. “Oh God, it’s not something like skydiving, is it?”

Sam snorted and shook his head. “I would not surprise you with skydiving,” he assured her with a smile. “Anyway, you’re not dressed for it.”

“Yeah, I didn’t feel like dressing for horrific crime scene photos today,” she shrugged.

“Good thing I changed our plans,” Sam said under his breath.

“Seriously,” she laughed. “Where are we going?”

“Can you not just trust me and let me surprise you?” he countered.

She bit her bottom lip and shifted in the seat, so she was facing him rather than the road. “You have surprised me,” she said quietly.

Sam stole a look over at her, his easy smile suddenly a little bit shy. “Good surprise or bad surprise?”

“Good surprise,” she said. “Really good surprise.”

“Then what are you worried about?” he asked. “My record is speaking for itself right now.”

Hayden let out a heavy sigh. “Fine,” she said, turning to face forward again. “I’ll just be surprised.”

“Like it’s such a hardship,” he chuckled.

He drove for another twenty minutes, out farther than she’d ever needed to venture on her own, and turned into a large gravel lot at the end of a long, narrow back road. Hayden saw the back of the broad screen before she saw the sign that confirmed her guess.

“The drive-in?” she asked, unable to help her smile as they pulled into a line behind a gold Cavalier.

Sam looked over again. “You said you’d never been to one before—”

“I haven’t,” she said, surprised he remembered. It had only been a stupid, throwaway conversation they’d had weeks ago about the things they’d thought would be a bigger part of life based on movies and shows they’d watched as kids. Telegrams, quicksand, access to and need of a jackhammer, The Bermuda Triangle, and drive-in movies had topped the list. “What are we seeing?”

“This place does old movies on Wednesdays and newer ones on the weekends, so I figured even if you didn’t like it, it wouldn’t be while watching a new movie you’d been waiting to see.”

She leaned forward to where he pointed to see the faded letterboard. Night of the Living Dead was spelled out above Day of the Dead. She let out an excited gasp. “Double zombie feature?” she squealed. “This just keeps getting better.”

It was one of the older drive-ins that still had the speakers hanging on poles between spaces. Sam backed his truck in so that the tailgate was facing the screen; Hayden took the speaker off the hook and examined it while he rolled back the cover from the bed. She let out another gasp when she turned to see blankets and pillows piled atop a squashy air mattress. “And you made it cozy,” she said, clasping her hands together. “You are such a Disney prince; I almost can’t stand it.”

Sam laughed and shook his head. “Stop trying to make me blush.”

“Fine,” she reached into the front seat and grabbed her wallet. “I’m going to get popcorn.”

He had clipped the speaker to the side of the truck and rearranged the bed so Hayden could climb up and situate herself amongst all the soft things that smelled like him. She took off her shoes and rolled to lay on her belly with a pillow stuffed beneath her chest, waiting for him to join her. Sam settled in beside her as the sun slid the rest of the way behind the trees and the screen flickered to life.

It had been a long time since Hayden had watched any old zombie films, but Night of the Living Dead was just as delightful as she remembered. By the time the credits started rolling, she and Sam had finished the popcorn and shifted so he was lying on his back, letting her use him as a pillow.

“You want to stay for the next one?” he asked, letting his fingers brush the shell of her ear.

Hayden nodded and shifted to sit up to stretch. “Yeah,” she smiled sleepily. “This is fun; thank you for thinking of it.”

He sat up and dropped his ear to one shoulder, then the other, stretching out his neck before he coughed quietly and shifted a little, seeming suddenly anxious. “I—uh—” he cleared his throat again. “I have something for you.”

“For me?” she repeated dumbly.

He reached into his pocket and then paused. “I just—I don’t want you to freak out. Or think I’m asking for…I don’t know. I saw it when I was home, and I thought you’d like it—”

“Sam,” she cut him off with a nervous laugh. “What is it?”

Looking as though he wasn’t sure he wanted to continue, Sam reached into his pocket and retrieved a little velvet bag cinched with a ribbon and held it out for her.

With her stomach in an unexpected tangle, Hayden reached for it and pulled it open, upending it to spill the contents into her palm. It was a small gold ring, smooth on the outside with an engraving inside. pinky promise, it read, all in lowercase. She bit her bottom lip and tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t come out sounding like What the fuck are you doing?

“It’s just a ring,” he rushed on as soon as the silence got to be too much. “It’s not even…I’m not asking—or expecting—or. I just—” he let out a breath puff out his cheeks and slowly let it out through his pursed lips. “I don’t know. I saw it and it reminded me of you, and I thought you’d like it—”

“I do,” she said firmly, putting her empty hand on his leg to stop him from talking. “I do like it,” she repeated. “I just…” she ducked her head to meet his eyes. “It does kinda feel like you’re saying something with it, and I don’t…know what that is.”

He let out a sigh and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t…know what that is, either,” he admitted.

“Sam…”

“I know what I want to say,” he said, looking at her again. “But that’s not—” he stopped himself and shook his head. “I don’t expect you to wait for me,” he said finally. “If you think that’s what I’m—” He stopped again. “It’s not.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “That’s…very progressive of you.”

His lips twitched with a smile, easing her nerves that this was getting much too serious and breaking her big rule of No Unnecessary Intensity. “Just…I don’t know,” he rolled a shoulder. “I guess I’m hoping you won’t completely forget about me. And…if—when I come back—if you’re not…with anyone else,” he said with a barely contained grimace. “We could give this a real shot?”

She pressed her lips together in a firm line and studied the ring in her palm. “I don’t want to think about being with anyone else,” she said softly. “I mean. I appreciate you not asking or expecting anything, because if this summer has reminded me of anything, it’s that life is full of surprises,” she said wryly before she closed her fingers around the ring and looked up again. “But you would have to be gone a very long time before I forget about you.”

Sam’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “How long?” he asked, making her laugh. “Like…years? Decades? Is this like an Odysseus and Penelope thing, or…?”

She rolled her eyes and leaned over to kiss him. “Just come back,” she said when they parted. “And we can see what happens after that.”

He let his forehead rest lightly against hers. “I’ll come back, Hayden,” he said in a low voice and brushed his thumb over her cheek.

She swallowed hard and slipped his gift onto the pinky finger of her right hand. She held it out to him. “Promise?”

“I promise,” he said as he linked his finger with hers.

They settled back into the mountain of pillows and blankets as the second movie of the evening began. Hayden rested her head on his chest again and tried her hardest not to fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the soothing way he was playing with her hair.

How could I forget you? she wanted to ask him. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to let you go.

September 29, 2005

Hayden had asked if they could say goodbye before he left to go back to base. Like normal, she had said. Like it’s a regular goodbye. And Sam had agreed, but he held her longer and tighter than he normally would when it was time to leave early on that drizzly, chilly Thursday morning. He kissed her forehead. Her cheeks and her closed eyes. He didn’t mention the tears that stubbornly clung to her eyelashes, so she pretended she didn’t notice the slight tremor in his hand when tipped her chin up to press his lips against hers.

But it was over too soon. Too soon for her to decide how much of herself she wanted to pour into it. Too fast to hold onto, to pluck this memory and press it between pages to preserve it just in case she needed to remember what their last kiss was like. She barely had time to draw a breath before he’d whispered one last ‘Bye’ against her lips and was gone.

She stayed stuck in one place, stunned at how empty her apartment felt once the door had clicked shut. She stared at the spot where Sam had just been, trying to understand how someone who didn’t even live there could leave such a void in his absence.

She was moving again before she realized it. Unlocking the door that he’d locked behind him, stepping out into the hallway in her bare feet to race down the stairs to the sidewalk where he’d just closed the passenger side door.

“What—” he only had time to get the first word out before she crashed into him, her arms thrown around his neck in a tight hug. His arms went around her automatically, one hand coming up to hold the back of her head. She pulled back just long enough for him to take her face in that hand, now wet from the rain, and hold it to her cheek the moment before he covered her lips with his again.

This kiss was long and slow and from it, she tried to take everything she wanted to hold onto. All of Sam’s warmth and kindness, his strength and comfort. She tried to pull it all into her lungs when she breathed him in once more before letting him go. She wanted to hold her breath until he came back.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said, speaking the words into her hair as she rested her forehead against his chin.

She sniffled and nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

Sam looked down at her bare feet and managed a smile. “And you’re going to get sick standing out here like this.”

“Yeah,” she repeated with another nod. “I know that too.” She took a deep, but shaky breath, and put her hands on his shoulders. “Please, please be careful,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut.

“I will,” he said firmly, making her look at him as he said it. “I have a very compelling reason not to do anything…” he frowned in thought a moment. “How did you put it? Irreparably stupid?”

She let out a wet laugh. “Okay,” she nodded and forced herself to take a step back. “Then…I’ll be seeing you.”

Sam held her hands a moment longer and brought her fingers to his lips for one more chivalrous kiss. “I’ll be seeing you,” he echoed. He let go of her reluctantly and moved to the opposite side of the truck to climb behind the wheel.

Hayden forced herself to watch him start the engine and pull away from the curb. Forced herself to return his wave with a brief lift of her palm. Forced herself to stand in the drizzle and watch the road until she could no longer make out his taillights at the end of her street.

Her mother had given her the rest of the week off, but Hayden could only make so many laps around her living room and distract herself with Simpsons reruns for so long before she let her nerves chew a hole straight through her stomach.

Somehow, when she showed up at the shop later that afternoon, Joni didn’t seem surprised at all to see her.

“I’m going to redo the front window,” she said by way of greeting. “It’s time for Halloween stuff.”

Joni offered a smile that managed to be sympathetic without pitying as she nodded. “That sounds great.”

Normally, the way everyone knew each other’s business and gossiped non-stop at the store drove her crazy. But that afternoon, it was a relief. They all gave her a wide berth and didn’t remark on her mortifyingly red-rimmed eyes. Nobody asked her any stupid questions like ‘Are you okay?’ or ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

It was almost seven when the bell above the door jingled and pulled her attention up from the string of purple and orange lights she was trying to untangle from the year before. Hayden squinted at his profile as he stood just inside the doorway and looked around.

“Tommy?”

He spun toward her direction, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Hey,” he said, holding up a hand in an awkward wave. “How’s it going?”

She narrowed her eyes as she got to her feet and brushed her hands off on the sides of her jeans. “What’s up?” she asked, ignoring his question as they moved away from the door together. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he nodded and then looked around again. “I can buy something. If that’s—”

She held up a hand. “At ease,” she said with a smile. “You’re fine. What’s up?”

“Oh,” he looked down with a quick flash of something across his expression—something like nerves or embarrassment. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I just—um—I wanted to tell you that I—uh—” he cleared his throat. “I’m really glad you gave Sam another chance. You make him really happy,” he rushed on like he was daring himself to keep talking. “And it’s been fun. Y’know. Having you around all summer. And having him be in a good mood all summer.”

Hayden smiled and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “You came all the way up here to tell me that?”

“And to say goodbye in person,” he said with a shrug of his broad shoulders that did not match his rosy skin and bright eyes. “And to make sure you knew that Sam—” he coughed again. “I got his back. That’s all. I’ll make sure he comes home.”

She felt an unwelcome lump rise in her throat as she stepped in and put her arms around Tommy, pulling him down for a tight hug. “You make sure you come home too,” she said quietly. “And do me a favor.” She let him go just far enough to put her hands on his cheeks. “Don’t lose this baby face, okay?”

To her delight, Tommy blushed and nodded quickly. “Yes ma’am. I’ll do my best.”

***

It was fourteen months before she saw Tommy again. He came into the store as she was finishing up with a customer the second week of December.

For a moment, she was just relieved to see him. Happy to see he was in one piece.

For a moment, the urge to cross the store to hug him and welcome him home was strong enough that she didn’t stop to wonder why he was alone.

Why he was the first one she was seeing.

Why no one had told her they were coming back.

It wasn’t until she stepped out from behind the counter and he looked at her—really looked at her—that her heart sank.

Tommy looked older. Harder. There was a weight on his shoulders. A gravity in the way he carried himself.

He might have kept his baby face like she’d requested, but his eyes were different. They gave him away before he could open his mouth to tell her what happened.

He didn’t look like a little boy anymore.

---

A/N: The jumping out of a plane sans parachute is something an ex-boyfriend of mine actually did. Because he's an adrenaline junkie who longs for an early grave. It was a similar situation, and yes, the trees broke a lot of his fall (and his face!) but he did it. And he survived. And that's all he ever tells anyone.

le sigh.

---

Comment to be added to the taglist. Reblog to make me love you. Reblog WITH comments to secure your spot in my heart for all time.

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anothermindofwonder · 3 months ago

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Tommy is going through it this season, home invaded and destroyed, almost died, brother dead, inherits the feral child his brother was trauma-bonded to. I don't even think he's dealt with fact he's a communist yet let this man rest

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anothermindofwonder · 5 months ago

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falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part ii)

summary: Joel Miller never expected much out of Jackson—just a quiet place to live out the days he had left. But when a baby’s cries lead him to a mother unravelling under the pressure of nursing her child she never asked for, he finds himself tangled in something he can’t walk away from—no matter how much he tells himself he should.

a/n: on today's episode of 'angry idiots and sad assholes', introducing the one and only Joel Miller! I let out a few tears writing this one, too, it's really painful when you think about how Joel probably perceives himself, or how I think he does. onto other happier news, I simply cannot believe the kind of response the first part garnered, and I'm shook! rise up, depression girlies!!! To everyone who responded in the comments and reblogs, I've read them all twice over and giggled and twirled my hair and threw up butterflies. Thank you, and I hope you like this one! :)

Joel settled into his routine like a man settling into an old wound. Patrols, clearing trails, the stables, the repair shop, the bar, dinner in silence, rinse and repeat. It was easier that way—easier than thinking too much about a vain attempt. He ignored his neighbour’s existence completely. At least, that’s what he told himself.

But ignoring something didn’t make it disappear.

Every morning, he still ended up at the dining table—the one he never used—sipping his coffee too slow for his patience, gaze drawn to the big white house across the street like a goddamn magnet. Watching for movement. Watching for them.

And he fucking hated it.

Hated the part of him that waited, that noticed, that took account of the smallest details like they meant anything to him. Like he still had a reason to care.

Sometimes, Maya fussed too much, and Leela would come outside, her hair a little unkempt, gait all botched, but her hands steady as she cradled her baby against her chest. He saw her murmuring softly to the baby girl, pointing to the sky, the trees, the shifting clouds, the falling snow. A little trick from Maria, he figured. It worked well enough. Maya would quiet, those big brown eyes so curious, distracted by the vastness of the world she barely understood.

And Leela—she still looked tired. Still looked like she was moving through a fog, unseeing, carrying more than just the baby in her arms. But she took to Maya differently now, touched her calmly, like she was no longer afraid she might break her.

That was good. That meant she was doing fine. That meant she didn’t need him. And that meant Joel could stop worrying about the things that weren’t his to worry about.

Joel was outside, tightening the hinges on his porch gate, bracing against the cold, when he heard her steps crunching in the snow. Still quiet. Still waiting. He didn’t look up right away, just kept his focus on the task in front of him. If she needed something, she’d say it.

"Good morning, Joel," Leela greeted warmly.

Joel gave a short nod, adjusting the grip on his screwdriver. "Mornin’."

She lingered there. Honestly, he just wished she’d just go back inside. So, he kept working, unbothered, and didn't look up.

"Loose hinges?" she asked.

Courtesies. He wasn't falling for it. "Mhm."

He knew when he wasn't wanted. She was finding her feet now, somewhat starting to take care of herself, carefully taking care of Maya. She didn’t need him checking in, didn’t need him hovering. And maybe—maybe that should’ve felt like a relief. It didn’t.

"You need anything else?" he asked, voice gruffer than he meant it to be.

"No, I just..." Leela wavered, softly, like she already knew he was about to shut her down. "I wanted to say thank you. For helping me out these few weeks. I couldn't have done it without you."

Joel finally glanced up at that. Just a flicker.

Leela shifted in her puffy pants, adjusting Maya against her shoulder. The baby girl was bundled up tight, small fists curled into her mouth, watching him with that blank, childlike wonder in big eyes. It took every bit of strength he had to not fall for that, and just forget everything that happened.

Joel hung his head, nodding again, keeping his focus downward on the screw.

She was being friendly. Trying to meet him halfway. And he hated that this was what it had come to—that she felt like she had to say something, to extend some kind of olive branch, when all he’d done was build a wall between them. For no fucking reason.

He straightened up with a muffled grunt, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Nothin’ to thank me for. It was all you."

She half-laughed, something wry and knowing. "I know that's not true."

Joel glanced up, stiffening, but she wasn’t looking at him, just rubbing slow circles into Maya’s back, pressing a slow kiss to the top of her head, consoling herself.

He knew what she was doing. He wasn’t stupid.

She was trying to make things normal again. Like they hadn’t spent nights under the same roof. Like he hadn’t seen her fall apart. Like she wasn’t still here, right now, offering him something—a small, careful thing—and he was too much of a coward to take it.

So he didn’t.

Joel scratched the back of his neck with the screwdriver, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. "You oughta get inside," he said instead. "It’s too cold for the kid."

Leela’s expression flickered. Not hurt. Just resigned. He felt like he'd ripped the bandaid off a baby.

"Okay. Yes." She slowly nodded but hesitated a step back. Then—too quietly, almost like an afterthought—"It’s nice to see you around, Joel."

And with that, she started back down the road, holding Maya closer by her head, and Joel let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. That was better. Cleaner.

He grabbed his tools and turned back to his door, locking his jaw. He hadn’t meant to come off short, but it was better this way. Best to stay in his own lane. Best not to make something out of nothing. That’s what he told himself.

But later that night, when he was eating that damn delicious soup she’d left for him by his door—still warm, still considerate—he felt like a grade-A asshole.

From then on, it was Tommy who had taken over fixing the nursery, finishing what Joel had started. He figured that was for the best. It kept things clean. Tied up loose ends. He had no business stepping into that house anymore, no reason to.

And yet, his eyes always caught the details—the way the curtains in the nursery window shifted, the way light flickered between the slats, the way the wood he had sanded and painted was still unfinished, the way Tommy started bringing someone else along.

Mal.

Joel had seen him before, a younger guy with an afro that Tommy had taken under his wing. Handy with repairs, and good with his hands. Nothing special.

At first, Mal actually worked. Brought his toolbox, put up a few shelves, and nodded along to whatever Tommy said. Kept to himself. But then—things started changing. Mal started staying longer. Talking... to her. Right on the front stoop until the sun went down.

It was fine at first. Two steps between them. Then one. Then none at all. Soon, he was leaning close on the porch railing, shoulders nearly brushing hers, speaking in low, easy tones that Joel couldn’t quite make out from across the street. And then—laughter. Leela’s laughter. Soft, hesitant, but real.

More than Joel had ever gotten out of her. Not that he’d ever tried.

Tommy and Maria stopped coming around entirely. It was just Mal now. Every goddamn day. He’d stroll up, toolbox in hand, tap on the door, and then—nothing. No sounds of work being done. No hammering, no shifting furniture. Just conversation.

Joel told himself it didn’t matter. Repeated it like a prayer, like a lesson he should’ve learned by now. That whatever Leela did, whoever she let into her home, was none of his business. That was the whole point of leaving, wasn’t it? Cutting ties, walking away.

He didn’t care about the way Mal lingered on that porch, didn’t care about the way Leela had started looking at him—not quite wary, not quite inviting. Like she was still learning how to trust people but was willing to try. Didn’t care about the way Maya reached for Mal, the tiny fingers curling into his beard, the easy way Mal let her.

And yet, he always saw it.

The way Mal leaned just a little closer, the way Leela’s shoulders, once so tight and drawn, started to loosen. The way her fingers twisted in the fabric of her sleeves when she spoke to him, soft and hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to enjoy the conversation.

Joel hated how much he noticed. It was worse when he overheard them.

He'd been out all damn day. Sun up to sundown, rifle slung over his shoulder, dealing with raiders, clickers, and everything in between. The kind of day that made his bones ache, that made his back scream when he so much as breathed wrong. The kind of day where all he wanted was to go home, put his feet up, and maybe—just maybe—close his eyes for longer than ten damn minutes.

But no. Because just as he was rounding the corner to his place, the world ready to lay even more shit on him, he heard them.

"You mean to tell me no one's ever spun you around before?" Mal was saying.

Joel's step faltered. He should’ve kept walking. Should’ve ignored it. But of course, he didn’t. Joel adjusted his grip on the sack slung over his shoulder, slowing his pace, letting their voices drift through the cold evening air.

Leela snorted, light and dismissive. "Like dancing?"

"Exactly like," Mal confirmed, smooth as you please. "Having a little fun, letting go, feeling the music. Bet you don’t do much of that."

Joel’s fingers curled around the strap of his bag, grip tightening.

"There's more pressing matters than romance," Leela muttered, but she was laughing.

Joel didn’t like that one bit. He didn’t like the way she said it. Playful. Entertained. That was the first thing that rubbed Joel the wrong way. The second was the way the kid kept talking.

"Well, I bet Maya’s never even seen her mama all dolled up before, huh? Imagine that, baby girl," Mal cooed, and Maya's sweet crool followed like a melody.

Fuck this.

Joel didn’t hear Leela’s response, didn’t hear whatever she said next, because he was already moving—boots heavy, hands fisted, the strap of his bag biting into his palm.

The frozen dirt beneath his boots crunched as he made his way there, shoulders squared, hackles raised, barely restraining the urge to grab that kid by the collar and shake some goddamn sense into him.

Because who the hell did this punk think he was?

Talking like that, acting like Leela was some blushing girl to be sweet-talked. Like she hadn’t spent the last few weeks barely holding herself together. Like she hadn’t bled for that kid in her arms. Like Joel hadn’t been the one who—

He stopped himself there. Tamped it down. Shoved it deep into the pit of his stomach where all the other shit lived.

Instead, he turned away, kept his head down and walked straight home, fists tight around anything. By the time he kicked the door shut behind him, his jaw ached from how hard he’d been clenching it. Fucking Mal.

Joel dumped the sack of supplies on the table and went straight for the bottle. Pulled the cork out with his teeth, and poured himself a glass with a hand that was damn near steady.

He took a sip. Let it burn. Let it settle. Then he muttered, "Goddamn kid."

He wasn’t mad. Not really. Because why should he be?

She liked him. Sure, he wanted her to be happy. If that happened, he'd finally get a good night's sleep. And yet, it wouldn't mean a fucking thing to him if Mal was the reason. One day when he's going to see her and Mal inside her home, silver rings glinting off their hands, little Maya nestled between them, the picture of a perfect family...

Joel knocked back the rest of the whiskey and swallowed hard. Good. That was good. Good for her. She didn't need him. Maya wouldn't need him. He'd butt out and live alone, in peace.

He set the glass down a little harder than he meant to. Stared at it. Then, just to be sure, he muttered it out loud.

"Ain't my problem."

But the facts remained.

She still wasn’t eating much or sleeping well. The dark circles under her eyes hadn’t faded. She still rubbed at her temples when she thought no one was looking, still blinked a little too long, like she was fighting off exhaustion every second of the day. Food was out of compulsion, not hunger, for the sake of staying healthy for Maya.

And then, one night, he saw her asleep on the porch swing. Curled in on herself, arms tucked tight, shivering slightly against the cold, exhaustion dragging her under where she sat.

It took everything in him not to walk over and wake her. To shake her by the shoulder, drag her inside, make sure she was warm. It took everything in him not to care.

Because this wasn’t his anymore. He had no claim over them.

Didn’t change the fact that every time he saw Mal leaning against that railing, looking like he belonged there like he’d always belonged there—that knot in his chest twisted tighter.

And he hated that, too.

Joel had truly been looking forward to dinner. It was the same thing every week. He’d go over to Tommy's, have a decent meal, shoot the shit with his brother, and let Ellie fill in the gaps of conversation. It was comfortable. Familiar. Nice. A welcome change from the silence of his own home, from days spent running the same damn circuit—patrol, repairs, the bar, then back to a house that wasn’t a home, not really.

But tonight, something was off. Joel could feel it from the moment he sat down.

Maybe it was the way Maria and Ellie kept glancing at him like they were waiting for something. Or maybe it was just Tommy—sitting across from him, chewing through a mouthful of steak, his expression too nonchalant like he had something up his sleeve.

Joel didn’t think much of it at first. He focused on his food, carving through the meat, grounding himself in the scrape of his fork against the plate.

Then Tommy opened his big hole of a mouth.

"Mal’s been spending a lot of time over at Leela’s place."

Joel’s hand tensed around his knife. And just like that, his appetite was gone. He kept his face neutral and didn’t look up. Just kept chewing, lagging and deliberate motions, like he hadn’t heard a damn thing.

Tommy, either oblivious or just plain cruel, kept going. "Helpin’ out with the nursery. Putting some time in with the baby girl." He ripped a piece of bread in half, completely unaware of the way Joel’s grip had turned his fork into a weapon. "Good guy. He and Leela get along well. It's nice to see."

Joel exhaled slowly through his nose. Focused on his plate. Flattened a piece of potato with the back of his fork. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t his problem. That was the whole goddamn point, wasn’t it?

He’d helped Leela out. Gave her time. Took care of her baby. That was it. She was somebody else’s problem now. And yet, the idea of some guy stepping into his place, rocking Maya to sleep, working on the nursery, fixing things, being there—his mouth flattened into a hard line. It stung.

No. It wasn’t his place to care. He'd told himself so many times, it felt like one of those daily affirmations bullshit. Thou shall not think of thy neighbour's handyman and his fuckeries.

Though, still, before he could stop himself, the words were already out of his mouth. "Nursery ain’t even done yet."

The second it left him, he regretted it. A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, too slowly, Joel looked up—and immediately hated what he saw. Maria and Ellie were smirking. That stupid, all-too-knowing, ready-to-annoy-the-shit-out-of-him-smirk. He had the greatest urge to leave the room.

Maria lifted an eyebrow. "And how exactly would you know that, Joel?"

Joel pursed his lips casually, setting his fork down with a little too much care. "They live right across the damn street. Hard to miss."

Ellie leaned forward, propping her chin on her fist. "Right. And how much time do you spend looking across the damn street?"

He massaged the bridge of his nose. "Don’t start, Ellie."

Tommy tilted his head, giving him a look that made Joel want to knock his damn teeth out. "You’ve been actin’ real funny ever since you left that house, y’know."

"Ain’t nothin’ to act on," Joel muttered, shifting in his seat. "I helped her out. End of story. Moving on."

Tommy wasn't letting go, damn him. "Uh-huh. Then why you sittin’ here lookin’ like you just bit into a bad lemon the second her name came up?"

Joel’s jaw ticked.

"Yeah," Ellie added, grinning. "Why’s your face doing that thing?"

Joel frowned. "What thing?"

She pointed with her fork to the furrows above his eyebrows. "The thing where you pretend you don’t care, but your forehead says otherwise."

Maria hid a knowing smile behind her glass while Joel rubbed at his face consciously, glaring over at Ellie. "You could just go over there, you know."

Joel let out a short, humourless chuckle. "Oh, c'mon. For what?"

"Dinner," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Just a meal with friends. Tommy, me, you, Ellie—Leela and Maya. Nothing big."

Joel stared down at his plate. His food had gone cold.

"We don’t need to be doin’ all that," he muttered, shaking his head. Getting familiar and cosy. It'd only invite more trouble.

Maria ignored him. "She’s got that nice, big dining room. French windows. Good view of the lawn. It’d be like a little party."

Joel didn’t respond.

"Come on, man," Tommy pressed. "What’s stopping you?"

That was the question, wasn’t it? Joel wasn’t sure he had an answer. Or maybe he did—and just didn’t want to say it.

Because the truth was, he had no business going back. He’d done what he came to do. He’d helped. That was it.

But then there was Maya—her featherlight body in his arms, the way she’d reached for his shirt in her sleep. There was Leela—standing in the doorway that last morning, silent, watching him go. There was the stillness in his own house, the way he’d catch himself in the middle of the night, listening for a cry that never came. What the hell was wrong with him?

Instead, he just stabbed his fork into his potato and muttered, "Pass."

Maria and Ellie exchanged another conspiratorial glance. And Joel had the distinct feeling this wasn’t over.

Once dinner had progressed into a chore, Ellie and Joel, ever the gentleman, helped Tommy dry the dishes. Well—Joel did. Ellie, on the other hand, was just sitting on the counter, swinging her legs and cracking jokes about Tommy’s new manbun. The kitchen was warm, the soft clatter of dishes filling the space and laughter, the steak dinner still settling in Joel’s stomach.

“You’re really doing the whole ponytail thing now, huh?”

Tommy rolled his eyes, flicking on the tap. “Jesus, you sound like Joel.”

“Hey, you take that back! I am way cooler than Joel,” Ellie corrected. “And I'm a thousand times funnier. Pun-nier.”

“Debatable,” Joel muttered.

“Did Maria do this to you?” she asked, flicking a sudsy fork in Joel’s direction. “Blink twice if you need help. I've got emergency scissors.”

Tommy snorted, stacking the last plate in the cabinet. “It’s practical. And I'm starting to like it.”

Ellie tilted her head, unimpressed. “It's lazy. Tragic.”

Joel smirked but said nothing, wiping down a plate before handing it over. Tommy shot him a glare like he was expecting some backup, but Joel just shrugged. Not his fight.

Maria walked in from behind them, and Joel noticed that infuriating look on her face. Oh, nothing good would come out of this. She set a small box on the counter with a dull thud, right beside Joel. He barely glanced at it before she plopped another paper box on top—leftovers from tonight. Steak and potatoes just for a special someone.

“Could you pass this on to Leela on your way back?” she said casually, drying her hands. “It's one dose a day, each.”

Joel looked down, his hands bracing against the counter. Vitamins. Of course.

Maria tapped the food box. “And dinner.”

Joel eyed them both, then her. The way she said it, like it was no big deal. Like she hadn’t just put him in a position he couldn’t easily wiggle out of.

He sighed, already seeing where this was going. He set down the dish towel, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tommy can pass it to her tomorrow.”

Maria simply raised an eyebrow. “Meat’s gonna go bad.”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “Oh, so this is how you’re gonna play it?” He glanced at Tommy, then Ellie, both of whom were very pointedly looking elsewhere. “Really?”

Ellie grinned. “It’s a neighbourly thing to do, Joel. Don't you call yourself a gentleman?”

“I’m with her on that one,” Tommy added, crossing his arms.

Joel let out a slow, irritated breath. Family? No, just a bunch of annoying, traitorous little shits.

Maria only smiled, sliding the box closer to him. “Wouldn’t want her going without. She's already skin and bones. And you know... you live right across the damn street.”

Ellie burst out laughing, raising her fist to Maria, who bumped with her own knowing smile. “Respect.”

Joel clenched his jaw. She'd got him right where she wanted. Because now, if he didn’t take the stupid thing, he’d look like an asshole. And Maria knew that. She was being fucking shameless about it.

His gaze flickered down to the box. Then, before he could stop himself and leave them standing, an image surfaced—Leela, sitting on that damn porch swing, curled up against the cold. Maya’s tiny fingers tugging at her collar, red-cheeked, catching swirling snow in her dark curls.

Joel closed his eyes briefly. He couldn't shake it off. And he admitted it to himself, despite all his grievances against this, he missed them. He missed Leela's soft footsteps in the nursery past midnight, he missed Maya entirely. He missed the sense of normalcy once the blood and gore of patrol ended, to head to a warm home and lay down, exhausted, knowing he hadn't had a drink to fall asleep.

Then, wordlessly, he grabbed the boxes off the counter.

Ellie elbowed Tommy in the ribs, giggling. “See? Look at him. Good ol’ Joel, real man of the people.”

Joel shot her a warning look while heading over to grab his jacket, the delivery under his arm. “Don’t push it, kid.” Then pointed a threatening finger at Tommy as he yanked the front door open. “Can't believe we're related.”

Tommy only puckered his lips at him, miming a kiss. “Mensch Miller.”

The house across the street was unlocked again.

Joel stood at the threshold, jaw clenched, boots planted firm against the porch floorboards. The door was cracked open, swaying slightly from the evening breeze, the light from inside spilling out onto the steps. Did she even care about safety? It should’ve been locked. It should’ve been bolted shut, curtains drawn, an armoury stacked by the doorway. But Leela still acted like the world wasn’t what it was. Like Jackson was different.

It had been a whole two months since Leela brought Maya into this world, a month of struggling, of barely eating, barely sleeping, barely breathing. And now she had the nerve to leave her door wide open like she was inviting trouble? Like Jackson was some safe little haven where nothing bad could ever happen? A dangerous thing, that kind of trust. He’d seen what happened to people who had it.

His jaw ticked. He took the porch steps two at a time and pushed the door open without knocking.

Inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and something faintly sweet—baby powder, maybe, or that lavender soap Maria kept handing out. The fire crackled low in the hearth, throwing restless shadows across the room, licking at the edges of the high-backed armchair and the mathematics-riddled books and papers neatly stacked up in scatters.

And there she was, standing in front of it. Leela was running a brush through her hair, violently. Dragging it down, tangling it further, hissing under her breath when it snagged. Frustrated, impatient. Needed a haircut.

The same damn nightgown again. White, sleeveless, falling in soft folds just past her knees. But this time, his eyes caught the details—the way a single pearl button at her collar had been left open carelessly, the way the thin cotton made the dark silhouette of her body visible beneath, and the odd little cherries sewn sparsely into the fabric. Small, stitched by hand.

He had no idea why all that stood out to him. It just did. And boy, did it leave nothing to the imagination.

Leela stilled, catching sight of him in the doorway. The brush hung mid-stroke in her hand.

“Oh,” she said, like he hadn’t just barged into her house uninvited. “Hello.”

Her eyes and voice were warm. Soft, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary, as if she wasn’t standing there in nothing but a slip of a dress while the light of the fire turned her edge golden.

Joel forced his gaze away. His eyes flicked over the living room instead, to the couch against the far wall—his couch, as much as he hated to admit it. The blankets were still there, folded neatly, stacked with the pillows like she’d been expecting him to come back. His grip tightened around the boxes in his hands.

“I—” He cleared his throat, stepping forward, extending the boxes toward her. “Maria sent you some stuff.”

Leela blinked again before setting the hairbrush down, padding toward him on bare feet. She took the boxes gently, fingers barely brushing his. “Thank you, Joel,” she murmured, flashing a little smile.

“Just vitamins,” he played off.

She pried the lid off the larger box and inhaled deeply. He caught the way her nose twitched, her fingers tightening just a fraction around the edges.

“Her famous steak dinner,” he offered her.

And then, like clockwork, her stomach betrayed her, the low grumble cutting through the quiet between them. She stiffened, laughing, breathless and sheepish.

“Sorry.”

“You should eat—”

A sharp cry cut through the air, calling for her. Both their heads swung toward the staircase.

Leela sighed first, setting the boxes away. “Napkin,” she murmured, as if reciting from a schedule. “Please help yourself to anything. I’ll be right back.”

But Joel stepped forward, one arm extended, the box acting as a barrier between her and the stairs. He despised the unfamiliarity.

"Eat," he said, firm.

She hesitated. Her gaze flickered between him and the staircase, like she was weighing her options, debating whether to argue or just go along with it.

Another cry echoed from upstairs—short, needy. Joel could tell. It wasn’t hunger, wasn’t pain. Little Maya was lonely already.

“I got this,” he assured.

Leela chewed her lip. “But—”

“I know the drill.” He jerked his chin toward the kitchen. “Just eat.”

A long moment passed, heavy with hesitation. Then, finally, she relented, her shoulders sagging as she breathed in surrender. She took the box from him.

“I’ll grab a fork, I guess,” she muttered, turning toward the kitchen.

Joel smothered a grin while watching her go, and took the stairs two at a time, powerless to his anticipation. Two weeks since he held the baby girl. He'd missed the shit out of her, not that he would admit that to anybody. Of course, he wasn't about to pass up this chance for anything.

From the landing, the nursery's door cracked open, light from the hallway bleeding into the dim room. Joel frowned as he leaned in to inspect.

The first thing he noticed was that the crib had moved. His boots made no sound over the wooden floor as he stepped inside, scanning the space. The wooden shelves were up, already home to Maya's folded clothes, towels and napkins. The light installation dangled halfway, unfixed. No one had even begun work on painting the walls. No armchair. No rug.

This Mal guy was a complete jackass. Maya's nursery was a mess.

"Good with his hands, my ass," Joel muttered. "What a fuckin' tool."

Joel angrily followed the hallway light, stepping through the open doorway into the furthest bedroom, a room bigger than any he’d ever seen in Jackson.

Massive was an understatement. This was the kind of bedroom you’d see in a damn commercial—the kind of thing he would’ve scoffed at, once upon a time. The bed alone was ridiculous. Olympic-sized, sunken into a floor for itself, with plush, overstuffed pillows and thick sheets, barely disturbed. A sliding-door closet stood at the far end, pristine, untouched. A plasma-screen TV mounted to the opposite wall, thick with dust.

Joel’s lips pressed into a thin line. There was something unnatural about it. The way it felt more like a untouched display than her bedroom.

Maya’s cries pulled him from his thoughts. Joel crossed the room, approaching the crib—the one he’d worked on. All pink and polished for the spoiled little girl.

The moment she saw him, her cries hitched. Big, teary brown eyes blinked up at him, wide and glistening, like she was struggling to focus. She sniffled, tiny fists flexing against the mattress, mouth wobbling around her jutting tongue, as if trying to place him.

Joel couldn't resist a grin, brushing a coarse knuckle at her soft cheek.

“Hi, baby girl.” Then leaned closer to whisper, “Traitor.”

Maya sniffled, blinking again, then reached for him—small fingers curling, grasping blindly before finding his much larger one, tugging it toward her mouth. She gummed at his gnarled knuckles with a fussy little noise, her brows furrowing in concentration.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “That ain't fair. That's your apology?”

Maya made another small whimper of a sound. And a real smile. A big, toothless, gummy grin, full of warmth and recognition. Something nearly uncoiled at his ribs.

He pulled a so-so face. “Hm, I'll bite.”

It was muscle memory, really. The way his hands moved—effortless, practised. He'd done it more than fifty times in two weeks. He made quick work of the napkin, wiping her clean, then slid his hands beneath her arms, lifting her up in one smooth motion.

He grunted as he did, “C'mere, sweetheart. You beautiful, beautiful girl. Did you miss me, huh?”

She squealed, legs kicking excitedly as he cradled her against his chest, supporting her head the way he always did. And just like that, he eased into the old rhythm without thinking. That familiar weight against him, that warmth—gentle, swaying, murmuring under his breath. It was easy. Too easy. Like breathing. Like falling asleep.

She nestled into his shoulder, tiny fist pressing against his neck, seeking his warmth. She’d gotten bigger. Not by much, but enough. Still delicate, still small—but stronger now. More aware. Smart, like her mother.

"Yeah, you missed me," he murmured when she nuzzled against his neck.

And then—pure, infallible instinct—he dipped his nose into her hair and breathed her in deep. Soft linen and old cotton, warm and faint.

Sarah used to smell like this once. For just a little while. That same invisible claw tore at his memories. Joel closed his eyes, just for a second. He remembered how, when she outgrew it, he'd missed it terribly. How he’d sometimes let her sleep curled up in his arms all night long, his back against the headboard, just to hold onto that smell. Just to keep that small, fleeting moment of innocence before the world could take it away.

That nostalgia settled deep in his ribs, quiet and whole. This seemed like the only place in the world where suffering didn’t exist. Like his hands weren’t stained with all the things he’d done, all the lives he’d taken.

Because here, right now, with Maya, he wasn’t the man who had lost and lost and lost again. He wasn’t the man who’d left behind nothing but bodies and broken promises. No, she didn’t know any of that. She didn’t care.

She only knew his warmth. She knew the steady beat of his heart, the scratch of his beard against her soft skin, and the way he said her name. She only knew him as someone safe. And fuck, he wasn’t, he wasn’t, but—

God help him, he wanted to be.

Maya sighed, a tiny, content sound, pressing closer. And Joel—he let himself believe, just for a moment, that he was clean.

A soft gasp behind him made him turn to reality and toward the door. “Oh, Maya.”

Joel turned to find Leela standing in the doorway, hand to her mouth, eyes wide in amusement. She had changed—finally—into one of those oversized sweaters he’d seen her wear on colder nights, sleeves swallowing her hands. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at his chest.

Joel frowned. “What?”

Leela bit her lip, trying—failing—to smother a smile. She motioned vaguely toward him. Joel tracked her finger and glanced to the side. And felt it. Hot, damp.

Damned baby spit-up.

Maya’s little betrayal soaked through the fabric of his shirt, spreading down from his collar and shoulder to his chest in an uneven, milky stain. She smacked her lips contentedly against his collarbone, completely unaware of the mess she’d just made.

He sighed, shifting her to the other arm. He levelled her with a playful glare. “You gonna warn me next time you ruin my shirt, darlin'?”

Maya only gurgled in response, a soft, pleased little sound.

And then, following her daughter—Leela laughed.

Not the quiet, polite kind that he'd managed out of her once. Not the forced kind, either. A real laugh. Breathless, unexpected, warm. Like it had slipped out before she could stop it.

Joel felt it like a slow-moving punch to the gut. He didn’t hear that sound often. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard it before on his account. He'd finally done it.

It changed something about her, softening her face in a way that caught him off guard. Her eyes creased at the corners, the tightness in her shoulders eased, the exhaustion in her expression smoothed over—just for a moment.

It did something strange to him. Something he didn’t have the time to name. So he just exhaled sharply, muttering a curse under his breath as he adjusted Maya over to the other arm, rubbing a hand over his damp shirt.

“Yeah, real funny. Your girl just aired her paunch all over me,” he grumbled.

Leela tried to sober up, apologizing, but another chuckle slipped out in between, and Joel caught the way she bit her lip, fighting to suppress it.

She was enjoying this. And he was in big fucking trouble.

"Don't move. I'll get you a spare shirt," she said, laughing, before walking to the adjacent closet doors.

Joel didn’t even get the chance to protest before Leela slid one side of the closet doors open, revealing—sweet Jesus.

His eyes landed on the neat rows of men’s clothing hanging inside. Not just a few misplaced items, not something left behind by chance. An entire collection.

Button-downs, slacks, henleys—clothes meant for daily wear. Added into the mix, were pressed suits, the kind that cost more than a month’s worth of supplies, the kind men used to wear to skyscrapers and boardrooms, back when the world was still upright. And golf shirts. For fuck’s sake, golf shirts.

Joel’s jaw hinged back up. Golf was a rich man’s game. He’d worked jobs near country clubs in his past life, and seen the kind of people who played. Men with money. Her father, perhaps.

Leela had definitely grown up rich. And looking at this—this untouched wealth, just sitting here, long past its time—it became clear. She probably still was.

Joel’s grip on Maya shifted slightly, the warmth of the baby pressing into his chest the only real thing anchoring him as his eyes dragged over the closet once more.

For all that Leela lived like a ghost, for all that she barely let anyone near her, this place still held echoes of what she came from. A past life that didn’t match the woman he’d seen standing at her front door, exhausted and hollow-eyed, desperate for her baby to stop crying.

Leela flipped through the hangers without hesitation, fingers brushing past labels he recognized—Armani, Burberry, Hollister. Eventually, she pulled out a green pullover. Soft, fine material. A little small for him, but it’d do.

She turned, offering it wordlessly.

Joel didn’t move to take it right away.

He was still staring at the closet. Not because he gave a damn about how much a fucking sweater cost, or whether she had a trust fund hidden away somewhere, but because it told him something. Something he hadn’t really thought about before.

Leela had come from comfort. Stability. A world where things were taken care of. And yet she’d buried herself in this big, empty house, alone, fighting tooth and nail to survive—like everyone else. And she never asked for help.

Leela cleared her throat. "It should fit. My father was a tall man."

Joel managed a sigh, shifting Maya in his arms. He took the pullover with one hand, already halfway through plucking open the buttons of his flannel.

While he worked, Leela stepped closer, ready to take Maya. She was quick about it, but Joel caught the way her fingers lingered, just for a second, as she scooped the baby up from his arms. Not on Maya.

On him.

Joel really tried to push it out of his head, write it off as an illusion, already plucking open the buttons of his shirt. His fingers brushed the fabric, and he paused when he caught the tag inside. Ralph Lauren, for fuck's sake.

Leela noticed with a small smile. "I didn’t take you for a man with fancy taste," she mused.

Joel let out a dry snort. "Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it."

He pulled off his flannel, the sleeves catching briefly on his wrists before he tossed it aside. The room wasn’t cold, but the air bit at his skin anyway. The scars felt it first—every healed cut, every old wound stretched over knotted muscle, each one a reminder of what his body had been through.

"Oh, man," he couldn't help but grunt, stretching his arms.

He worked the pullover over his head in one smooth motion, the fabric soft, snug across his shoulders. Felt like something he would’ve bought for Sarah back in the day, something she’d pull from a Macy’s rack, nodding in approval before insisting, "Dad, just try it on."

It fit better than he expected, but Joel barely registered that. His body had begun to ache. Not in one place—everywhere. It was late at night, it was cold, he missed his daily dose of whiskey, and he needed sleep for tomorrow.

The exhaustion sat in his bones now, permanent and familiar. His bad knee throbbed, aggravated from the cold, from the weight he put on it patrolling for hours at a time. His back had never been the same after that one fall, a long time ago. Some mornings, he woke up and could barely stand straight, feeling every single one of his years sink into him.

And yet, his body still held. Still worked. It wasn’t much to look at anymore. Not that it ever had been.

He had no delusions about himself—he wasn’t built for admiration. Never had been. Picking up girls and fooling around; was Tommy's thing. He wasn’t the kind of man people looked at twice, not in the way that mattered. His body told a story, but not the sort anyone wanted to read or had a happy ending,

His hands were ruined things, thick with callouses from years of exertion, from gripping rifle stocks, from skinning game, from chopping wood in the dead of winter. His knuckles were perpetually split, healing just enough before the next fight, the next job, the next reason to curl his fists. Scars mapped his skin, uneven and jagged, old bullet wounds and knife cuts, hard edges, marks of a life spent fighting for something—for anything.

He wasn’t young anymore. He wasn’t some smooth-talking son of a bitch with a face that turned heads. He was always angry at something, thinking about something, readying his next step, even if it was a complete waste of his time.

But he was still formidable. He could protect. He could endure the rough-hewn demands of survival, even now. He could fight like hell. That had to count for something.

But Leela—she wasn’t staring, exactly. Wasn’t not staring, either. It was subtle. Barely there. A flicker of something implicit, something fleeting, the way her gaze traced along his arms, his shoulders, abdomen, the sharp cut of his collarbone before snapping away. As if she hadn’t meant to look, and she’d caught herself a second too late.

Joel had been around long enough to recognize when a woman was checking him out. And hell—he wasn’t gonna lie to himself. It made him feel good. Fucking fantastic, really. Like he could wake up tomorrow feeling twenty years younger. Like he could leap right out of bed and his back wouldn’t stiffen before noon. Like he still had something left in him worth looking at.

He wasn’t an idiot, though. He wasn't going to let it go to his head.

Leela adjusted Maya in her arms, moving her weight as if giving herself something to do, something to focus on that wasn’t him.

And Joel—he pretended not to notice. Didn’t say a damn word about it. Didn’t shift under her gaze, didn’t smirk at her, didn’t let her see that she’d gotten under his skin in a way he hadn’t expected.

Just muttered a quiet, "Thanks," and left it at that.

Leela hummed in response, turning away to lay Maya down, who was already dozing her little head off, into the crib with practised care. Then, just as easily, she pivoted back to her bedside dresser, fingers moving over a stack of neatly folded quadrille paper.

"Can you pass something to Tommy for me?" she asked, voice soft, controlled. "It’s really important he gets this as soon as possible."

Joel might not have paid it much mind, might’ve brushed it off as just another errand he wasn’t keen on running—but then he saw it. The way her posture stiffened, the way her hands smoothed over the edges of the papers like they were something fragile, something vital. But whatever this was—it mattered.

She flipped through the pages, and for the first time since he’d met her, he saw something rare. Excitement. A flicker of life.

"It’s a wonderful breakthrough, Joel," she said, and there was a rare enough lightness in her voice, bordering on unguarded enthusiasm.

Joel just blinked. Leela wasn’t the type to get excited. Or maybe he's just never seen it in her before.

"So, I’ve been working on…" then she went into something technical for his dense mind, talking fast in words that blurred together. It all went miles over his head. Circuits, electrical theory, conduction points—half of it might as well have been a foreign language.

Joel just stared when she finished with a deep breath.

Leela instantly caught the look and pursed her lips. "Okay, um. Let me put it this way."

She shifted toward him, gesturing as she spoke, putting it into Layman's terms. "You know how the dam stops producing enough energy in winter? When the river freezes over?"

Joel gave a slow nod.

"So we rely on fuel, but fuel’s very limited. We've got the town expanding, and people coming in. So our batteries drain. If we had an alternative energy source, something reliable—" She held up the paper, tapping a rough sketch. "And that’s where this comes in."

Her hands moved as she spoke, cutting through the air with sharp, purposeful gestures. Not just passion, not just expertise. Conviction.

"Lightning is erratic, but it’s raw power. Joules of energy. Think about it. If we can direct a strike into a controlled medium—like a graphene capacitor—we can store it."

Joel narrowed his eyes, the concept clicking into his lagging brain. "So what, you think you can catch a goddamn thunderstorm and turn it into a battery?"

Leela wheezed a quiet laugh. "More or less."

He thought about it. "Seems like a hell of a thing to gamble on."

"It’s not a gamble. It’s math. Physics. It will work, Joel, I know it."

Joel didn’t argue. He didn’t understand it, not really, but he’d seen Leela work before. He trusted her genius. The nights she couldn't sleep—he’d sometimes blink awake to the sound of chalk scraping against a blackboard, catching sight of her standing there in the dim glow of the bulb, mapping something out with surgical precision. Or hunched over a notebook, scribbling feverishly, lost in calculations that only made sense to her.

It wasn’t just her passion—it was her outlet. A relief. A tether to something greater than herself, something she could control before she lost herself completely in the demands of motherhood. And if this was what she was holding onto, then perhaps it was more than just an idea.

She tucked the paper back into the stack, leveling him with a quiet look. "I also have a prototype," she said simply.

Joel raised a brow.

Leela nodded toward the hallway. "It’s in the basement if you want to see."

Joel wasn’t big on machines. Or gear. The finer technical details weren’t for him. But—he glanced at her, at the way she stood, weight shifting from foot to foot, something unreadable behind her eyes.

She wasn’t pushing him. She was waiting.

After a beat, he sighed, tilting his head toward the door. "Lead the way, ma'am."

The stairs were steep, the kind that creaked under their weight, but Joel kept a firm hold on Leela’s elbow, steadying her as they made their way down. She was still weak. Too breakable. As far as his knowledge went, she should've gotten better by now. And how the hell was she supposed to do that when she barely ate without cringing?

Joel had half a mind to tell her that, to point out how unsteady she was, how she winced when she put too much pressure on her feet—but she’d just brush him off with a shaky smile. So instead, he let out a quiet breath through his nose and adjusted his grip, keeping her close until they reached the bottom.

"There you go. Watch that last step," he guided as gently as he could.

She glanced up at him from the fringes of a smile, letting his hands go. "Thank you."

He expected damp walls, waterlogged corners, mould creeping up the corners, and a basement that smelled like rot and rust. As what he had been always used to when he went scouring towns nearby for supplies. What he got instead stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Well, I’ll be damned," he blew out.

It was a workshop. A big-ass one. Tools lined up on the magnetic walls, neatly arranged, half-finished projects sitting on a worktable, schematics pinned up in careful rows. More of Leela's notes and markers, taped-up designs. Funny how there was life only around all this machinery. Off to the side, an old wine cellar, the glass cases still intact, though the bottles inside were coated in dust.

And then—the cars.

Joel let out a low whistle. Two of them. Just sitting there like some abandoned luxury showroom. One was a Dodge Aspen, a classic in its own right. All violet and under repair. But the other...—his eyes caught the silver emblem glinting under the dim basement light. A prancing horse on the red steel.

"Come on," he muttered in disbelief, stepping forward, barely resisting the urge to run his hand over the hood. "Is that a… Maranello?"

Leela took a deep breath, still recovering from the stairs. "Yes. Custom made. Not sure if there's any left out there anymore."

"Holy shit." His fingers flexed at his sides. He didn’t want to seem desperate, but fuck, when was the last time he’d seen something like this? Much less, been this close?

"Can I, uh…" He gestured indistinctly at the car.

Leela flashed him a small grin. "Knock yourself out. The door's unlocked."

He didn’t need to be told twice. Joel reached out, fingers brushing over cool, crimson steel before yanking the door open. The new car smell hit him right in the face—leather, polish, something untouched by time. His chest tensed at the familiarity of it.

He slid into the driver’s seat, running his hands over the wheel, the knitting around the stick shift, and the soft beige leather of the custom interior. And just for a second—he let himself imagine it. Top down. Gliding down the I-10, no speed limits, no patrols, just him and the open road, wind in his hair, sun on his face, Raybans on. That dream all felt like a lifetime ago.

A soft knock on the passenger side window startled him back to reality.

Leela’s face appeared through the glass, her lips quirked in amusement. "Should I leave you two alone?"

Joel huffed, turning slightly to mask the grin tugging at his mouth. She opened the door and drudged her way inside, moving slowly. The descent had taken more out of her than she was willing to admit.

When she shut the door, he immediately rolled down his window, straining his ears toward the stairs. The one time he wished his hearing wouldn't betray him. Had he locked the door upstairs? Could he hear Maya if she cried? What if he couldn’t? How come Leela didn't seem to think about this? God, this girl really had no clue.

Her voice broke into his thoughts. "I wish I knew how to drive it." She ran her hand absentmindedly over the dashboard, voice softer now, almost wistful. "I believe the last great invention of man was the automobile."

"You said it," he mumbled.

Joel glanced at her and did a little mental math. She must’ve been nine, maybe ten when the outbreak hit. No middle school. No high school. No road trips, no late-night drives with her friends, music blasting. No first kiss. Just one world ending, and another one starting—a crueler one.

Leela exhaled, long and slow, sinking deeper into the leather seat like she could melt into it. Her fingers drummed idly on the handlebars, tracing invisible patterns, slipping into an old rhythm—one she didn’t even seem aware of.

Then, soft as a whisper, she started humming.

It was unhurried, quiet, like something she’d sung to herself a thousand times before. But it was enough to make Joel pause, something about the tune pulling at him. A half-buried memory, something from before. He knew that song. Hadn’t heard it in years, but it was still there, lodged somewhere deep in the creases of his mind.

"That’s—" He frowned, tilting his head, listening closer. "That Patsy Cline?"

Leela glanced up, surprise flickering across her face before something warmer took its place. "Walkin’ After Midnight. Yeah."

Joel hid a grin. "That is way before your time."

"So?" She smirked, tipping her head back against the seat, fingers still tapping, moving. "I had old parents. Rubbed off on me."

A layer beneath her words made Joel tread carefully. He, of all people, knew how age could sit heavy on a person, how some things weren’t worth prying open.

"Can’t have been that old," he muttered, though he wasn’t sure why he said it.

"My mom was seventy-eight when she passed."

Joel blinked. "W-o-w." The syllables came out slow, one after the other before he could stop himself.

Leela let out a quiet laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time. She glanced down, her fingers still moving, trailing over the leather, the stitching, following some old path only she could see.

"I miss them every day," she said, voice softer now, more distant. "I’m grateful they singled me out of those photographs. Brought me here." She gestured vaguely to the house above her, her home, before exhaling, like she was letting something go. "I just hope I’m doing them proud."

Joel felt something shift, and he realized: too much sharing. It had to go both ways. And he was never going to be ready for that. So he did what he did best, avoided and threw her off the scent.

"Man," he said abruptly, with a cluck of his tongue, "if I had the keys and some fuel, I’d ride the hell outta this beauty." The words came out before he could stop them. "And die a happy old man."

Leela laughed. A loud laugh, sounding much like her daughter just then, deep in her chest, like she hadn't done it in a long time.

"It’s got fuel," she said, still grinning. "You can still ride it."

"Just sitting here like it's nothing." He shook his head, a small laugh rolling out. "Christ. This is amazing."

He glanced down at the stick shift, thumb absently tracing the edge of the gear knob, but something else caught his eye.

Her nightgown. Hitched up, ruffled around the tops of her thighs, loose fabric pooling where she sat. Bare skin. Soft, smooth, taut over lean bone—too much of it. The way she shifted, unthinking, rubbing one knee over the other, restless. He felt a rock dislodge in his throat.

Fuck. For all that he could be—a guardian, a protector—he had to be a man.

His fingers curled against his palm, an old instinct, something long-trained. Look away, don’t think about it. He turned back to the wheel, forcing his eyes forward. Dashboard. Windshield. Glove compartment. The thin layer of dust coating the steering column. Anything but the way one more inch of movement would have left too much for his mind to comprehend.

But the problem was—she hadn’t bothered to fix it. She didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t care. So why should he?

He swallowed, jaw flexing tight. Because that was the kind of man he was. Greying, frustrated, scarce on love.

His fingers twitched, itching for something to do, something to grab. Instead, he moved without thinking, across the partition—one finger. Just a light tug, barely a breath of a touch, dragging the hem of her gown down, covering her knees. A simple thing. A quiet thing. A mistake.

Her whole body jerked, a sharp intake of breath—like she’d been touched by fire. Really, Joel felt it more than he saw it. The way her muscles tensed, a shudder raced, the quick clutch of her fingers as she held the fabric in place now, suddenly conscious of it.

Shit.

He withdrew instantly, fingers curling into a fist on the steering wheel. Should’ve just minded his goddamn business. Stupid, stupid man.

For a second, the air between them felt too tight. Even with the windows rolled down and winter winds howling outside, he broke into a sweat.

"Didn't see it," she mumbled.

He just shook his head, a small, dismissive grunt, keeping his eyes straight ahead. And that was that.

But the silence that settled over them after wasn’t comfortable. Not one either of them knew how to break.

Joel exhaled through his nose, fixing his stare on the windshield., fingers tapping slowly against the wheel, like he could smooth out the moment just by waiting it out. Jesus, he should’ve never touched her. Should’ve let it be.

“So, that prototype of yours,” he attempted to distract, voice rough. “You got it nearby?”

No response.

He frowned, risked a glance at her—and stopped cold.

Leela sat stiff in the passenger seat, her posture folded in on itself. One slender hand curled at her side, gripping the hem of her nightgown tight until her knuckles went white, the other was pressed to her face, knuckles braced against her nose. Her eyes filled with tears in seconds.

A long, slow breath in, too shaky.

Joel’s stomach sank. He knew that sound. He had seen a lot of it in his time. Had seen grief in all its forms—loud, violent, shattering. But this—this was different. This was quiet, heavy, desperate.

Her shoulders hitched, her breath sucking in too sharp like she was holding something back—something about to give.

And then, just like that, as if a thread had been cut, she sucked in another sharp breath, her whole body curling forward, hands coming up to cover her face—and it hit.

That same soft, keening sound he’d heard from her room almost every night. The one that came through thin walls, muffled by pillows, engulfed by fatigue.

But this time, she wasn’t hiding.

And Joel—he didn’t know what to do. His hands flexed against the wheel, confused and useless.

She wasn’t supposed to be crying. Not because of his pathetic self. Whichever way he saw it, this was his fault. He’d crossed a line, broken through a wall he’d meant to keep standing, and now she was here—crying. Because he couldn't keep his hands to himself.

His mouth opened, and his throat worked, but nothing happened. Fuck. What the hell was he even supposed to say? Everything seemed inappropriate. There was no justification for what he'd done.

His fingers curled tighter, nails digging into his palm. He had to fix it. Before it got worse.

His voice came out too rough, uncertain. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Just go.”

It hit like a crack of thunder. A faint, clear command, strangled between a cry. His stomach twisted.

He hesitated for half a second, long enough to hear the way her breath hitched, how her fingers curled deeper into her hair, how she looked like she wanted to fold in on herself, disappear into the goddamn leather seat.

He swallowed, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He'd had seen women cry before. Ellie, Tess, hell even Maria. He’d occasionally held them while they did. But not this. Not her. And he hated—hated—that it was because of him.

His fingers flexed against his sides, fighting the instinct to reach out, to fix something he wasn’t sure could be fixed. But she’d made herself perfectly clear. To leave her alone.

So he did.

He wrenched the door open, barely registering the way it swung shut behind him. Didn’t look back, didn’t breathe until he was back up the stairs and out the door.

As he jogged down the porch stairs, the cold biting sharper now, cutting straight through the thick weave of his sweater, Joel tried to breathe. Snowflakes clung to the expensive fabric, melting fast, sinking in. He barely noticed. His inhales came long, exhales too short, not quite ragged, but uneven—like he couldn’t get enough air, like something in his chest was pressing down too hard, and no matter how deep he pulled, it wasn’t letting up.

It wasn’t panic. He knew what that felt like all too well.

This was different. A slow, creeping wrongness. A feeling that something had already slipped through his fingers, something he hadn’t even realized he was holding onto. And now it was gone, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to fix it.

He pressed a hand to his mouth, and wiped it down the scruff on his jaw, trying to steady himself, trying to shove it all back where it belonged. It wasn’t working.

His fingers curled into an aching fist. His breath fogged in the air in clouds.

He needed that fucking drink now.

The cold still lingered in the morning air, settling deep in Joel’s bones, but that wasn’t the only thing weighing him down. He hadn’t slept worth a damn. Tossed and turned all night, drifting in and out of restless half-dreams—images he didn’t want, memories he didn’t need. He woke up cold, despite the blankets, with a dull ache in his joints, and a scratch in his throat. Maybe from the weather. Maybe from something else.

Didn’t matter.

What mattered was getting out of that house. Getting up, getting moving. Keeping his hands busy, keeping his mind from straying where it wanted to go—back to last night, back to the way she had curled in on herself, hands to her face, shaking with something he couldn’t fix. He despised being around something unfixable. Made him feel incompetent.

He gripped the stack of papers tighter, the edges digging into his fingers as he stepped into the stables. Tommy was there, adjusting the saddle on one of the mares, humming some old tune under his breath. The familiar smell of hay, leather, and horse filled the space, grounding Joel in the moment. He clung to that.

“Tommy,” Joel called, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

Tommy glanced up, brow lifting in mild curiosity. “Mornin’, brother. No hard feelings from last night,” he said, giving the straps one last tug before stepping back. His gaze flickered to the papers in Joel’s hand. “What’s all this?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just extended them out. Tommy brushed his palms off before taking them, flipping through the pages absentmindedly—until he wasn’t. His fingers slowed, putting together the pieces, his brows knitting together, his mouth parting just slightly.

"What in the... I mean—I talked to her about this,” Tommy muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "Told her we'd be having trouble. That was last week.” He let out a low breath, rubbing at his mouth as he stared at the pages like they had just appeared out of thin air. "She really did all this?"

Joel exhaled with a slight grin, feeling like someone had just handed him a gold star. An odd feeling settled in his chest—one he didn’t quite know what to do with. It wasn’t his place to feel this way, no right to. But still, pride curled warm and solid in his ribs.

“She stayed up workin’ on ‘em,” Joel muttered, not quite looking at him.

Tommy let out a short whistle, shaking his head. “Christ. This little genius just saved our asses out of the red.” He waved the papers at him. “Takin' this straight to Maria.”

Joel rolled his shoulders, clearing his throat. “Not just yet. There's a page is missing.”

Tommy paused and frowned, flipping through again. “The hell you talkin’ about?”

Joel crossed his arms, tilting his head. “I’ll give it to you if you let me fix that nursery instead of that goddamn kid.”

Tommy looked up at that, blinking. Then, realization dawned, slow and amused. His mouth curved into a smirk.

“For real, Joel?”

Joel scoffed, shaking his head. “Can’t even fix shelves right.”

Tommy cocked a brow. “He's just doing his job.”

“Little shit damn near had it fallin’ apart the last time I was there,” he argued. “Look, do you want the page or not? I'll just feed it to the horse.”

Tommy let out a sharp laugh, tipping his head back slightly. “You really got a bone to pick with this poor guy, huh?”

Joel’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer. Just kept his arms crossed, eyes unwavering. He wasn't backing down just yet.

Tommy shook his head, flipping the last page with a chuckle. “Fine, fine. You can fix whatever you want.” Then, without missing a beat, he held out his hand. “Now gimme the damn page.”

Joel handed it over without another word. But the way Tommy was still looking at him—grinning like he had something to say but was letting Joel walk away with his dignity intact—had him turning on his heel before his brother could get the last word in.

[ wow you read this far! now, if you're still reading, I'd just like to know - what song crept into your mind, about Joel or Leela, as you read this chapter? For Joel, definitely: Pain and Misery by The Teskey Brothers and as for Leela, ooooh: Wasteland by Royal & the Serpent! what about you? ]

{ taglist 🫶: @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

And to those in the reblogs, I have no idea how to respond to your sweet, sweet, wondrous words, but after reading them all, I have the most fulfilling, full eight-hour sleep I've ever had in three whole months! I love all the effort you put into commenting, and sharing your thoughts, I know it doesn't seem big, but really, you've made such a difference in my life :) Thank you all so much, and I'd love to keep hearing more!!

@darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams }

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anothermindofwonder · 5 months ago

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In case anyone is having a bad night

(The best of this post and its reblogs, but with links that work)

Here is a website where you can scroll down to all the different levels of the ocean

Here is a website where you can see the future of the universe

Here is a website where you can press a ‘make everything okay’ button, over and over, until things really are okay

Here is a website that you can read if you feel like a burden

Here is a website where you can look at strobe illusions (TW strobe/flashing)

Here is a website where you can cut stuff up (TW blood/sh)

Here and here are websites where you can play with sand

Here is a website where you can draw with macaroni and other fun foods

Here is a website where you can paint someone’s nails

Here is a website where you can grow a garden with emojis

Here is a website with hundreds of videos of people hugging you (rightfully dubbed ‘the nicest place on the internet’ because it really is, y’all, it made me cry)

Here is a website that will take you to other useless websites

Here is a website where you can make a tiny cat play bongo drums (and other instruments!)

Here is a website to help give you gentle reminders <3

Here is a website where you can grow a tiny farm

Here is a website where you can take a bunch of scientific personality tests

Here is a website of calm rain noise

Take a breath. It’s going to be okay, I promise.

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anothermindofwonder · 6 months ago

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this is the most beautiful piece of art i've seen in a long time oh my god

ac: likeafunerall

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anothermindofwonder · 7 months ago

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✶ ┄ HOUNDS OF LOVE !

part one | part two

summary: you and marcus live lightyears apart within the city walls when emperor geta takes a greater liking to you than expected. you start to find a strange sense of understanding within the crazed emperor, while general acacius plots your escape. (11k)

pairing: marcus acacius / f!reader, emperor geta / f!reader

contents: established relationships, angst, hurt/comfort, cw for mentions of war, mentions of sex work, brief mentions of emotional abuse (geta has anger issues he's working on), swearing, smut 18+ (dubcon, unprotected sex, exhibitionism & voyeurism) (this is another dark fic!! please heed the warnings!!)

��Meet me in the garden,” you pant against the General’s mouth as you kiss him with a desperate sort of fervor. It’s all wet and hungry and unforgiving, like biting into an apple. “At sunset, on the morrow. Say you’ll meet me there.”

Despite your delicate touch, you cradle Marcus in a most violent hold. You keep him impossibly close with one hand wrapped around his neck, tanned and taut with the strain of war. Your other twists in his hair, dancing through the greying curls of fine silk. You embrace the General within the candlelit crypt where, before now, only death seemed to roam.

Marcus stands as still as the statues of ghosts surrounding you. You lick into his mouth like you plan to breathe life back into his lungs, even while he withers into nothingness at your feet. A thin layer of your spit coats the scruff of his chin. He balls his calloused hands into fists at his sides and pretends a part of you isn’t glittering upon him. He holds onto plausible deniability like a shield.

“It is not safe,” Marcus murmurs in a gruff whisper when you pull back to take a breath. His lidded eyes dart over your kissed face — gaze heavied, lips swollen. Beautiful devil, fallen angel. “You know this.”

Not anymore, he wants to say. Not while you belong to Them.

“Why not?” you challenge, always so girlishly gentle in your stubbornness. “Everyone will be at the feast, Marcus— No one will see us, I’m sure of it.”

Your eyes flit between his kissed mouth and dark-eyed gaze. Universes shine in your irises despite the shadows of the labyrinthine tomb. Marcus feels a white-hot knife twisting in his chest as he resists the urge to hold you.

“It’s the world we live in now, petal. There is little use in questioning it.”

“But why?” you question, anyway. “Why must we live in this world, hm? The war is over— We could make our own, somewhere far away from the city. Somewhere no one could ever find us—”

You create heavens with your naivety.

Marcus burns them down with words.

“The Emperors would not stand for losing their general. For them, the war is never finished,” the General interjects in a sorrowful deadpan, aching when your face twists with grief. “And if they misplaced you? They… They would burn cities to the ground in their hunt… They would set the world aflame before they stopped searching for you.”

Marcus knows this because he knows himself — every star in the sky would burn out before he stopped looking for you. He knows this, too, because he knows the Emperors. Perhaps better than anyone else in the entire world.

Geta and Caracalla were born with the belief that they possessed ownership over everything they touched. Anyone stealing from their Empire would meet a swift and tortuous demise. They were merciless gods who dangled life and death on their fingertips. Only those who kissed the ring would make it out of their rule alive.

And you knew it, too.

That was the worst part of it all: you knew it.

Tomorrow comes and passes like rolling summer clouds, slow and heavy and suffocating. You watch from the royal garden as the sky turns from a glittering sapphire to milky shades of peach and lavender. Another day gone by that you’ve spent grieving on your own.

Though time marches mercilessly on, threatening to untie unbreakable bonds, it changes little of how much you and Marcus have grown together. Like cherry trees kissed with the promise of spring, with your roots tangled gracelessly together. It’s a knot that cannot be undone, not even by the promise of death.

And for that, you figure you must be grateful.

Because as you sit on the stone steps of an artificial lake, twirling your fingers in the warm water of the koi pond, you wonder how dreadful it must be for the multi-colored carp. To swim in circles your whole life, to think the world is only as big as the bricks holding you hostage.

At least you know what it means to grow up in the rolling green of an infinite countryside. At least now you have gardens to roam in the greatest city in the world. At least now you get to live.

A breeze sweeps suddenly through the garden, rippling the crystalline water and rustling the bright green leaves over your head. It carries the soft sound of footsteps scraping the stone trail. Your ears perk, your heart stops, and your head whips over your shoulder. You hope to see Marcus standing at the steps below you.

Your chest tightens and deflates all at once at the sight of Emperor Geta.

He’s adorned in his white-gold cloak, with his laurels sat atop his strawberry-blonde curls, and carrying a jeweled ring on each finger. The sunlight paints the man in flaxen rays of light. The rainbow-colored flowers seem to bloom with every one of his steps. All you can think is how beautiful he is — much too pretty to be so cruel.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” the Emperor concedes, eyes wide and palms splayed in surrender. His sandals scuff the cobbles with each hesitant stride.

“No, of course not,” you blurt with a rapid shake of your head, a quickness sure to give away your choked-back terror. “I just… I only thought you’d be at the dining hall with the rest of the court.”

“I was. Until the handmaidens notified me of your absence.”

You meet his wide-eyed expression with a narrowed gaze, lips curling into an unsure smile. “How can I be absent from a place I do not belong, Your Majesty?” you quip, though your voice threatens to shake.

Geta’s brows furrow. His ringed fingers twitch at his sides. “Belong?” he echoes.

“The feast is for nobility, and I grew up in a brothel,” you answer, giggling quietly under your breath. “I am certainly the farthest thing from royalty.”

You flash him a gentle smile and playful gaze, but the Emperor only frowns.

He can hardly stomach the thought of it — of his most precious thing living in the countryside, surrounded by filth, touched by unworthy hands. He’s glad you’re now, where only he can touch you. Where he can make you clean.

“There is a place for you there, nonetheless,” Geta tells you and takes another step closer. He stands at the bottom of the stone steps and tilts his chin to his chest. His chocolate eyes harden as he presses more firmly, “And I will see that you attend.”

His sudden glacial disposition makes your stomach wrench. You’ve grown so used to him now, learned all the ways to keep him satisfied, that you’ve forgotten how quickly angered he can be. You don’t want to remember his wrath.

You nod at the invitation with a wavering smile, knowing you aren’t at liberty to turn him down, and rise from your spot by the pool.

You hold your gown in both hands as you descend the stairs, flinching slightly when Geta rushes to help you. Sometimes, you think he can sense your worry, or that he regrets snapping at you the way he does. Either way, his efforts to pivot the situation are apparent to you — like he never learned how to apologize, so he’s forced to improvise in the matter.

His warm, petaled hand engulfs you to ease you down the tricky cobbles.

“I only mean that… it is strange. Being without there… Or anywhere, really,” he admits, talking slowly like each word is foreign to him. His gaze darts from yours to the vacant path ahead. “I find that I am looking for you in places I knew you could not be. It’s foolish, I know.”

His gentleness is perhaps more striking than his rage.

“It isn’t foolish, Your Majesty,” you insist as you reach the bottom of the staircase. You peer at him through your lashes and fake another smile. “I just didn’t know you were such a poet.”

Geta doesn’t understand your meaning. Where was the poetry in his words? How did such burdensome feelings of tenderness make him a poet?

“Neither did I,” he muses, guiding you out of the garden with his hand in yours.

Though still riddled with feelings of uncertainty, Geta is strangely moved by how you’re looking at him now — with the sun sparkling in your softened gaze, more gentle than anyone deserves to be looked at. So he figures he can be a poet for you, if he must.

You bathe again in the rosehip oil Geta always insists you wear, and dress yourself in the fine silk gown you know he prefers. The pale blue fabric drapes off your shoulders and flows to your ankles, cinched at the waist with a jewel-encrusted belt of gold. Your skin and body are adorned, in this moment alone, with perhaps more money than you’ve ever seen in your life.

The thought makes your head swim as you amble to the dining hall.

The silent guards at your side make no effort to rush you for fear of the Emperors’ wrath. Still, though, the notion that they are commissioned to ensure your attendance is not lost on you. Any attempt to flee will surely be met with force — if not from the knights, then from Geta himself.

The feasting is long done by the time you arrive. Mingling bodies flit around the crowded manor in a blur. Live music swells distantly as rose petals fall from thin air to decorate the marble floor. You wring your hands nervously together as you weave through the bustling court, gravitating to the large open window at the back of the hall — where you know the Emperors rest on their plush, velvet chaises.

Caracalla notices you first.

The boy rises from his lounged position — laurels crooked on his blonde head and robe shifting up his pale thighs — and smiles at you with all his crooked teeth. His lone golden tooth glints in the sunlight.

“You showed,” he announces to no one in particular, just before his wild head swivels to his brother on the other side of the couch. “See, brother? I told you there was naught to worry about. Did I not?”

Geta does not appear happy to see you. His features remain in an emotionless scowl while his smokey eyes rake over your form. “You did,” he responds distantly, if only to appease his younger brother.

Caracalla doesn’t seem to notice the tension caging him on both sides as he flashes you another toothy grin. “He threatened to send the Praetorians after you,” he lilts like it’s some kind of silly secret.

The Emperors’ bodyguards line the wall behind them, as well as all the entrances and nearly every window. They were like your Marcus — military veterans, strong and sharp and ruthless — though you imagine the only soft side you’ll ever see of them is a fist. They are certainly not the kind of people you want sent after you.

“Well, you were right, Your Majesty,” you grin. “There was naught to worry about. I was simply making myself presentable for the court.”

Caracalla holds his ringed hand out for you as you near him. You bend at the waist to kiss the emerald on his ring finger. The motion is muscle memory to you now. “You look beautiful,” he slurs like a child. “Like a fairy, almost.”

“You flatter me, Your Majesty,” you nod politely and rise to full height again.

You feel his ocean eyes on your body as you pass him by, glassy and sparkling with a boyish sort of wonder. A stark contrast to the way his brother glares daggers at you.

“You certainly took your time,” Geta monotones in place of a greeting.

You stand obediently at his side and twist your clammy hands into knots. “I was only getting dressed, Your Majesty. I wanted to look pretty for you—”

“Nonsense,” the Emperor spits and turns away. You’re always pretty, he’d say if he could get the words out. Instead, he softens his suddenly hardened edges and flashes you a gentler glance. “I thought you’d defied me,” he confesses, as though in lieu of an apology for his fleeting hysterics.

“I couldn’t,” you murmur with a quiet smile.

Not wouldn’t, he notices. Not shouldn’t.

But couldn’t. Like your body was fated to listen to his command.

A funny feeling sparkles like gold in his chest. It makes him fidget uncomfortably on the couch. “Sit down,” he instructs with a wave of his ringed hand before slouching back in his seat, pale arms splayed along the edge of it. His brows pinch when you descend onto the empty spot beside him. “Not there.”

You freeze in place. Your eyes widen and dart to his thighs, spread out and hidden beneath the skirt of his robe. You look to Geta once more and cower beneath his expectant look. You sink hesitantly onto his lap, feeling like your heart’s in your throat as you lean into his chest.

Your unsure hands curl around his shoulders. His curls brush your cheek. He smells overwhelmingly of musk and wine and cinnamon. Something about it makes you dizzy.

You survey the room from your position in Geta’s lap. Most people aren’t looking, you find, too busy talking and flirting and dancing together. A few noblemen across the way leer incredulously at you, though, like they’re trying to gauge if they know you from somewhere. You presume you likely slept with one or more of their sons during the war, most of which are likely dead now.

A few women crowd behind the chaise — all dressed in muted shades of silk, all dripped in jewels and gold. They’re pretty, effortlessly so, as they talk into their goblets full of wine. Some looked relieved to have the Emperors’ attention off of them. Others sneer at you for it, having no idea you’d switch places with them in a heartbeat if you could.

Your eyes dart across the dining hall, almost instinctually so. They lock immediately with Marcus the moment he enters the room.

The General wears his black-gold armor and a faraway look in his eye as he leads a group of foreign gladiators into the manor. A hush lulls over the crowd, which parts for him without thinking. Marcus navigates through it with an absentminded sternness, like every step is muscle memory.

He softens only when his gaze meets yours.

His puffed-out chest deflates with a wavering exhale at the sight of you, a lamb on the lap of a man who holds a knife to your throat. He blames himself for it most of all, knowing he’s the one that brought you to slaughter.

“Finally!” Caracalla shouts into the silence, voice ringing through the hushed court. “Where have you all been— In the showers together?”

A bout of laughter rolls over the crowd as the blonde boy leans over to you. You try not to grimace at the bitter smell of wine on his breath. “Who nearly missed the games, little dove,” he croons too close to your ear.

The nickname makes you tense. You muster a smile, anyway, and remind yourself to breathe. “What a shame that would’ve been,” you lilt in response.

“The armor is tricky, Your Majesty,” Acacius confesses, voice deep like a cathedral organ. “Especially for those who have not donned it before. Such as yourself.”

There is a bite to his words despite their monotoned delivery. Caracalla pays it no mind as he lounges back on the couch, wine sloshing in the chalice he holds in a limp hand. “Get it out with it, then,” he slurs.

Each gladiator faces the other. One is tall and sturdy, like an oak tree. The other is shorter and lankier, much too young and far too pretty to fight in such gruesome battles. As Marcus’ voice booms throughout the quiet dining hall to introduce them — The Barbarian versus The Might Vincenzo — Geta presses his mouth to your ear.

“Which one shall we bet on, little dove?” he whispers to you as his hand curls tighter around your waist. His other idles over your skirt, pale and jeweled and warm, though his long fingers threaten to dip between your thighs.

You blink hard to keep your head from swimming. “Hm?”

“Which one of these imbeciles do you think will win?” Geta repeats.

“Oh, um, I— I don’t know, Your Majesty,” you stammer in response. It’s hard to think about anything other than how close Marcus is to you now. How pretty and wartorn he looks. How desperately you wish to hold him.

“Just guess,” the Emperor presses, squeezing softly at your hip. “It’s only for entertainment, anyway.”

How could certain death possibly entertain you? your mind races as your mouth blurts, “The little one, then.”

“Really?” Geta hums in amusement. His dark eyes, smudged with brown liner, squint softly at your glossy profile. They flit across your features like he’s seeing you for the very first time, though you aren’t looking back at him to notice. “Hm. I would’ve picked the oaf.”

“Well, it is the most obvious choice, Your Majesty. Though, I find it’s often the smaller ones that surprise you—”

You turn your head to look at him. Your breath catches audibly in your throat when you find the Emperor much closer than expected. He’s so close your eyes nearly cross to meet his gaze. So close, that the tip of his large nose threatens to brush the bridge of yours. So close, you get drunk on the alcohol tainting his breath.

Geta’s wine-stained mouth curls upwards in a cynical smile. “They do, indeed,” he croons quietly, raspberry breath fanning warm over your jaw.

Chills pebble along your skin accordingly. It takes great strength from you to break his magnetic chocolate gaze. You turn away from the Emperor and focus instead on the gladiators circling one another. Vincenzo moves in seemingly practiced motions, unfazed by the brutality of such duels. The nameless Barbarian houses a great sadness in his young eyes — a hardened look of regret, perhaps, for what he knows he must do.

“Let’s not entertain them for our amusement, brother,” the Barbarian mutters lowly to his opponent, blade hanging limp at his side.

The larger man charges like a rhino. A deep roar sounds in his throat as he thrusts his knife towards the younger boy’s neck. The Barbarian dodges the swing with ease, possessing all the swiftness of a snake as he ducks past his opponent and slices his muscular bicep with one fell swoop.

The crowd gasps in a mixture of horror and amusement as Vincenzo’s blood drips onto the floor like deep red wine. It stains the marble in fat droplets, blending with the rose petals littered at the gladiators’ feet.

You flinch at the sight. Your breath hitches as you turn away — eyes squeezed shut, brows tightly furrowed. Geta chuckles with merriment. You feel it rumbling in his chest as he murmurs, “Don’t be frightened, little dove. It’s only a game.”

Something in you aches when the Emperor reaches for the jeweled goblet at his side. Your fearful eyes remain fixed on his face while the hall erupts in a symphony of violence — of battle cries and laughter, of dropped blades and dull smacks.

“Here,” Geta offers with the wine in hand. “Drink. It will calm your nerves.”

He presses the rim of the chalice to your mouth. His gaze never waves from your lips as they part to welcome the bittersweet raspberry. The wine pools like blood on your tongue. It tastes like guilt going down.

Dusk falls over the city like a wounded swan. The velvet darkness outside your window makes shadows of everything it touches, only partially diminished by blinking stars and waning silver moonlight. The crescent shape of the bright white orb would fit just perfectly beneath Marcus’ jaw, you think to yourself.

The thought alone sends a warm, melancholic feeling down your spine — with such an intensity only the tenderness of twilight could elicit.

You slide from the crimson satin of your mattress with a tight chest. You migrate towards the entrance — bare feet padding faintly along the floor, thin cotton nightgown trailing behind you. You stand before your bedroom door and rap your knuckles rhythmically against the wood.

Twice, once, three times.

And then you wait.

“It’s me,” you hear Marcus murmur from the other side.

Your heart swells like sunshine in your throat. You smile wide despite yourself, with no one else around to see it. “It’s been Romulus for nearly a fortnight,” you tell him, panting slightly from where you’d held your breath in anticipation. “I was starting to think you’d been banished from your post here forever.”

“You know the Emperor likes to torture me,” he quips, though his usual monotone never wavers.

It might’ve been easier on you both, if Geta had shipped him off to lead another meaningless campaign. At least then Marcus could miss you from leagues away. Instead, he has to guard your bedroom door and miss you from the other side of it. Torture is an understatement.

“Well, I quite like it when you’re here,” you confess quietly, tracing shapes onto the doorframe with an absentminded hand. “Makes me feel safe.”

You wait patiently for a response.

“Good,” is all the General can think to reply.

Your face pinches with concern. Your chest does, too. “Are you angry with me?”

“Why should I be angry with you?”

“I don’t know… Our conversations together have grown so short— I worry you do not wish to speak with me at all.”

Though you cannot see him, Marcus flinches at your words. He stands like a statue outside your door, in the middle of the dim corridor, and glares over his shoulder into nothingness. “It isn’t true,” he insists, voice low but honeyed still. “I wish to speak with you always.”

“Then why do you not?”

“Because it isn’t safe,” he repeats, though you never seem to hear him.

“Will it ever be?”

Marcus goes silent as he ponders for a moment. Quiet engulfs the bedroom all over again, filled only by crackling candles. “No,” he answers after a few long moments. “Not for a long while.”

You feel like he’s stabbed you with a freshly sharpened blade, right between your ribcage and into your bleeding heart. It would hurt less, anyway. “Why?” you wonder aloud in a pained whimper, knowing the answer will do nothing more than twist the knife.

The answer sits ready on Marcus’ tongue, as though the question of why has plagued him long before you asked it.

“Because I… I ruined you. By bringing you here.”

“You saved me,” you correct.

“I destroyed you,” he retorts, voice heavy with choked-back emotion.

“I would be dead if it weren’t for you,” you remind him of the blatant reality, which threatens to consume you every time you see his face. You wish you were holding it now, cradling Marcus’ bearded cheeks in your supple palms, so that he might understand the weight of your words. “I would’ve lost everything if you hadn’t taken me with you. I would’ve been tortured, probably killed. But now I get to—”

The word gets caught in your throat. You swallow hard and fake a smile at nothingness. The pretending comes naturally to you now.

“Now I get to live. Both of us do.”

There is a brief moment of knowing silence. This isn’t what living is supposed to feel like — fleeting touches in dark crypts and whispered conversations through bedroom doors. Both of you know it, but it’s a truth too brutal to admit out loud.

“Marcus?”

“Yes?”

“You know… We aren’t unspectacular things, Marcus,” you speak slowly and with a strangled intention. “We’ve already come so far. We’ve survived so much— We can survive a little more, can’t we? Until it’s safe again?”

“I don’t presume we have any other choice.”

“We don’t,” you sigh. “Because I love you.”

“I know,” Marcus nods, with an air of surrender in his words. “Because I love you, too.”

You fall into the heavy wooden door as though it were your lover’s body. You did not need to see him to feel held by him. He hadn’t touched you, and he didn’t need to. His presence alone affects you in such a way that it feels like he has been caressing you for a long, long time.

Marcus’ heavy armor clunks faintly on the other side of the door as he stands up straighter. Emperor Geta enters his line of sight, a shadow slinking down the candlelight corridor. He clears his throat. “Your Majesty—” the General announces, for you and you alone.

He hears your feet pad against the floor as you scurry from the entrance.

“Dog,”the Emperor greets in a cynical deadpan.

His sandals scuff the cobbles when he stands before the taller man. The torches hanging on the walls bathe Geta’s face in flickering amber hues, highlighting his tired features where the makeup had worn throughout the day. He seems weighed down by a certain kind of grief. The kind that makes Acacius feel ten feet tall.

“Have you been guarding my Empress like a good little hound?”

Marcus nods politely, though the term of endearment catches him momentarily off guard. To be the Emperor’s whore was one thing, but it was entirely another to be referred to in such high regard. The General tries to contemplate what that must mean as he answers, “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Geta grins despite his visible fatigue. “Good boy.”

You’re already back in bed by the time the door swings open. You lounge along the expensive satin sheets and pretend you’ve done nothing but wait obediently for the Emperor, while simultaneously swallowing down any remaining feelings of longing and heartache.

Geta enters the room like a rolling storm cloud. He wears all the chaos of the day in his mussed blonde curls, smudged makeup, and wrinkled garb — a palpable sort of disarray. You scramble on the mattress to greet him, like you often do, until he dismisses you with a wave of his hand.

“No. Don’t,” he commands. “Stay there. Don’t get up.”

You obey, freezing partially upright, with your elbows holding most of your weight. Your face swirls with concern at his look of annoyance. Your heart drops to your stomach in fear.

“Are you alright?” you ask him, though the Emperor pays you little mind as he migrates to the table by the window.

He pours himself a chalice of wine. The glugging flagon fills the heavy silence. You swallow hard and stare timidly at the back of him. “Are you angry with me?” you repeat once more — a question that seems to accompany womanhood, especially when bound by the innate violence of man.

“I couldn’t be,” Geta answers like it’s obvious, sparing you a fleeting glance over his shoulder. He turns away to down the full goblet in three lengthy gulps, then wipes his stained mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s only my brother,” he confesses through labored breaths.

Your worry lessens, but only slightly.

“Is he alright?”

“He’s acting like a child,” Geta spits, angered all over again, as he pours himself another cup. “More so than usual.”

“Has something happened?”

“Nothing that should concern you.”

“Well, it’s certainly bothering you, Your Majesty,” you coo in slow and calculated measures as you rise from the many cushioned pillows. “So, forgive me, but it cannot help but concern me as well.”

Geta is unaccustomed to such tenderness. He tenses beneath it, glances hesitantly over his shoulder like he plans to find a ghost sitting in your place — as though he’d only heard the words in the wind and not from your mouth. A foreign feeling swirls again in his hollow chest, like a blizzard of snow or a flurry of rose petals.

“He’s jealous of me. Just as he always has been,” the Emperor tells you as he stalks toward the bed. He gestures mindlessly with his hands, and the wine sloshes over the rim of the gold chalice until it hits the stone floor. He raises it to his mouth, tips his head back, and down the bittersweet pomegranate.

His neck is long and milky white. His protruding adam’s apple bobs with each languid swallow. A drop of deep red trails from his mouth and down his chin once he’s finished. He rubs it away with a fist. You forget to stop staring.

“Lay down,” he commands, chest heaving.

Your body obeys without a second thought. You lie back on the velvet cushions, docile and willing, in a way that comes naturally to you now. You’ve been Geta’s thing for so long that a part of you has grown used to it. Needy for it.

The mattress dips beneath the Emperor’s wait as he kneels beside you. Your mind starts to reel.

Your brain seemingly anticipates an inevitable pleasure, which comes to you like clockwork most nights. It makes your mouth water like a drooling hound that knows when it’s feeding time. A funny feeling stirs in the pit of your belly and pools like honey in your undergarments. Your thighs clench together when a subtle throbbing begins to pound between them.

You should be grateful when Geta crawls beneath the sheets only to rest his head on your chest.

You’re shocked, most of all, by such a foreign act of tenderness.

Your breath catches when his cheek presses to your breast. He nods gently to rub his burning skin over the smooth cotton. A deep exhale fans from his nose as he rests his body weight against you.

You cradle him with hesitant hands and remind yourself to breathe. Your fingers scratch lightly over his clothed shoulder while your others comb through his strawberry-blonde locks. It’s a warmth so foreign to the two of you that it threatens to bring you both to tears.

“He says he wants someone like you— my brother,” Geta admits after a few moments of long silence.

“A whore?”

“A paramour,” the Emperor corrects, face twisted in irritation at your use of the term. He focuses on the muffled sound of your heartbeat when anger threatens to consume him. A heavy sigh deflates his chest. His anxious fingers twist in your nightgown. “I told him he could have his pick— Between us, we have plenty of women to go around, but… He insists his mind is stuck on you.”

Your bated breaths come to you in trembling inhale-exhales. You hope he doesn’t sense how frightful his words have made you.

Geta is cruel, yes, but he is at most times predictable. Though Caracalla may be kind, he is most of all volatile. And there is nothing more dangerous than an erratic, easily excitable ruler.

“And what did you tell him?” you wonder with a feigned sense of curiosity.

“That you were mine, of course,” Geta blurts like it’s obvious. “He offered to share, to which I told him that he should be grateful that I’m sharing the throne alone with him… And now he’s off with his monkey, crying like a child…”

You feel strangely comforted by his words. You breathe a sigh of relief through your nose and rake your fingers through his blonde-brunette curls. “Your brother is a fragile thing, Your Majesty,” you advise in gentle murmurs. “You must be gentle with him.”

“I don’t know how to be gentle with anything,” Geta confesses, half-muffled into your chest. “Least of all, with someone like him.”

“Shall I speak with him? Perhaps I can calm him— make him understand?”

“It’s my burden alone.”

“It is mine as well, Your Majesty. So that mustn’t be true.”

Geta turns slowly to face you, with all the hesitance of someone unused to such kindness. His chin rests on your clothed sternum and bobs with each word. “You shouldn’t have to carry it,” he whispers into the honeyed silence of the candlelit bedroom.

You muster a small smile. “I know. But I will, anyway,” you shrug. “When you care for someone, your brain has little say in the matter.”

Geta falters at your admission. A foreign emotion swims in his chocolate button eyes. He’d rather blame it on the flickering flames strewn around the room. “Is that what this is?” he mutters, almost to himself, when he finds the breath to say the words.

Your fingers in his hair slow to a stop. “What do you mean, Your Majesty?”

“This… This tenderness,” the Emperor answers, spitting the word like it’s the first time he’s ever tasted it. His face scrunches distantly, as if it were sour on his tongue. “Sometimes it overwhelms to the point of tears. It’s a… a blinding radiance, like… a knife— lodged somewhere deep in the body…”

You cup Geta’s freshly shaven face between two, gentle hands. He swears he sees the sun.

“Why do you speak of love like it hurts you, Your Majesty?”

He swallows hard. “Because it does,” he confesses before rising from your body.

You mourn his warmth as he swings his legs over the side of the mattress. He sits with his back facing you. His dove white robe hangs off one pale shoulder when he bows his head.

“I never believed in it as a child— the permanence of it all, of… love. And yet, I… I find myself longing for it anyway. Like a fool.”

You rise on one elbow and resist the urge to touch him. “Wanting to be understood by someone doesn’t make you a fool, Your Majesty.”

“I know that I… That I haven’t been the most gentle with you at times. But I am… I am sorry for it,” Geta tells you in near inaudible murmurs, flashing you a sheepish glance over his freckled shoulder. “I understand it must be difficult for you.”

“What, Your Majesty?”

“To be caught between all that was. And all that must be.”

Your stomach wrenches at his words. Your chest tightens beneath the weight of them until you have to fight for every wavering breath. You take a trembling inhale and rise so you’re sitting at his side, taking careful calculation in the following words you speak.

“We cannot… We cannot choose who we love, Your Majesty. We can fight ceaselessly against it, perhaps, but it doesn’t change fate.”

You reach out for him with one tremoring hand. You rake a rogue curl behind his ear and hope he doesn’t know Marcus�� face is the one stained permanently behind your eyelids.

“We love who we love, Your Majesty. And the rest stay ghosts.”

Geta’s eyes glitter with an emotion you’ve not seen from him before. His dark eyes flit between both of yours, as though searching for something in your gaze — sincerity, perhaps, or maybe an equal sense of longing.

You blink, and his mouth is on yours. Geta kisses you back onto the velvet-satin and settles over you once more. It’s wet. Hungry. Unforgiving.

You kiss him back with a similar intensity, clutching his robe in both hands, desperate to understand him.

Marcus remains on the other side of your door — an invisible ghost, an unwilling witness. He hears all of it, as clearly as he would if he were seeing it with his own eyes. A hollow feeling of yearning and hunger gnaws at the pit of his stomach as he tries to imagine your pleasured form. The painting behind his eyelids is blurred and distorted with time.

He wishes he could see you now, even with Emperor Geta fucking you into the mattress. He could pretend that he was the one fucking you, at least, and let the image alone bring his withered form back to life.

You’re together in his head, entwined still, with your mouths bruised in a relentless kiss.

Marcus hopes you’re still together in yours, too.

General Acacius spends most of his nights in the crypt, which he feels is rather fitting for a half-dead thing like him. When he is not surveilling your bedroom door, or being otherwise taunted by Emperor Geta, he finds a strange sanctuary in the dreary tombs. It is perhaps the only place where he is left alone.

Caracalla is petrified by thoughts of ghosts, and Geta detests history, so neither is likely to show their face in such an ancient mausoleum. Which is ideal for someone plotting an insurrection.

You find him there in the wee small hours of the late, late night. He wears a deep red cloak over his white robe, perhaps to conceal himself, as he shuffles around the room to snuff out flickering candles. You wonder who he lit them for because you know he does not need them. He’s grown too used to navigating in the shadows.

Your sandals scuff suddenly against the damp cobbles. Marcus does not seem startled by the intrusion. He knew you were there by the sweet scent of your perfumed body alone. There is nothing about you he would not immediately notice.

“What are you doing here?” he wonders with his back facing you, voice low with a timbre that bounces off the tomb walls.

“I wanted to see you,” you answer sheepishly.

Marcus says nothing in response.

You wring your hands into knots and shift your weight on your feet. He extinguishes the torch on the far wall, and shadows engulf the windowless crypt — save for one lone candle flickering atop Emperor Commodus’ cracking tomb. Your eyes flit from the flame to Marcus’ silhouette, gaze swimming with uncertainty.

“May I ask you a question?”

“I don’t see why not,” he monotones and flits across the room like a ghost.

“What do you do down here?” you ask. When your voice inevitably trembles with distant alarm, you quip, “I only mean it mustn’t be healthy— Spending so much time in the dark.”

“It’s none of your concern,” Marcus insists with a venom that makes you flinch. He hooks his pointer finger around the hook of the candle holder, and the dancing flame paints his statuesque features in shades of amber. He softens immediately at the sight of you.

“I just do not wish to incriminate you,” the wartorn man confesses.

Your chest aches with an immediate concern. “What does that mean? Please do not tell me that you’re doing something perilous—”

“No,” Marcus interjects firmly, then amends. “Not yet, at least.”

“Explain it to me, then. Help me understand.”

“It’s best you do not know, petal. It’s safer that way.”

The word alone makes you cross. You wish he’d stop using it.

“But I will tell you when the time is right, I swear,” he assures you, though his voice threatens to tremble with wavering strength. His dark eyes flit between both of yours, heavy with an emotion you cannot place. “I will keep you safe no matter what, you know that—”

“It’s not me I’m worried about, Acacius,” you murmur with a stern glint in your eye, clutching the downy fabric of his robe in your fists.

“There is naught to worry about, petal. I assure you.”

Marcus takes a step closer to you despite the voice of reason in his head telling him otherwise. He lifts his free hand and swipes a callused palm over your cheek, soft and warm with sleep. You lean into his touch like a cat. A funny feeling blossoms in his chest.

“I’ve been thinking… About what you said some days ago… Making a new world for ourselves…” He talks slowly and deeply and nearly to himself. You nod against his palm to egg him onward. “You were right. We deserve better than this— Why should we have to live like dogs?”

Marcus swipes his thumb over your jaw and takes another daring step closer. You feel the heat from the candle he holds in his free hand, though your eyes remain on his face. You couldn’t look away from him if you tried. A part of you is hesitant to blink even, for fear that you might miss him for a millisecond too long.

He angles your gently head upward with his weathered palm. You can smell the musk on his tanned skin from here, as well as the ale and mint leaves on his breath. It’s dizzying. The ground seems to sway under your feet at the dwindling proximity between you.

“We love each other, don’t we?” he murmurs in a honeyed voice.

You nod without a second thought. Your mouth waters with the hopes of tasting him.

He nods with you. “So fuck the war.”

Marcus ducks down to press his mouth to yours. His lips swallow your own in a kiss, lingering and languid and deep enough to drown in.

You melt into his touch with a heavy sigh exhaled through your nose. The warm breath fans across his unshaven cupid’s bow while your hands migrate to his hair. You twist the greying tendrils in your fingers, keeping him impossibly close against you.

When Marcus goes to grip the fabric of your nightgown in both his hands, the candle holder tumbles to the ground. The gold clatters audibly across the cobbles. The wax light falls on his side, and the flame begins to dwindle on the murky stone floor.

You wonder, briefly, if it will take fire — if the smoke will give you away, or if the tomb and all its history will burst into flames, or if the inferno will take you and Marcus with it.

Though it snuffs quickly out, bathing the two of you in a navy blue darkness, you figure you wouldn’t care if it did burn you to ash. Not as long as Marcus was there to kiss you into embers.

Marcus’ face consumes your dreams.

The details are blurred with the haze of sleep, but he was there — touching your face, asking to try again. You merged into one another like ghosts. Like drops of melted honey. Like lovers of Pompeii turned to ash. Every day, you tell yourself that it is unsafe to love him more than you do now. And yet he haunts your dreams, and yet you find more love in you for him.

And yet…

A violent hand pulls you from your gentle slumber. It jerks mercilessly at your arm, snatching you from your peaceful dreams and waking you into a nightmare.

“Wake up!” a strident and familiar voice bellows into the quiet bedroom, lit only by the faint blue of an early morning. The words are punctuated by another rough tug at your wrist. You awake to the sharp aching in your fingers.

“Wha—” you slur, trying to blink away the bleary mist as you lift your heavy head from the pillows. “What’s going on? What’s happened?”

“Up!”

You’re urged from the mattress by the unforgiving fingers digging bruises on your arm. You squint through the sleep and ebbing darkness to find Geta looming over you — blonde curls mussed on his head, swollen eyes wide and wild, velvet robe askew on his shoulder to reveal his pale chest. His skin there is flushed red with anger. You don’t know what you did to deserve his wrath.

“Geta?” you gasp through a faint whimper in your throat, trying to pull your wrist from his grip. He only holds you tighter. “What are you doing— You’re hurting me.”

“Liar!” is all he shouts in response, like he doesn’t even hear you.

The crazed Emperor drags you out of bed just to drop you to the cobbles. The thin sleeves of your nightgown slip off your shoulder; the skirt of it bunches at your thighs. You make yourself as small as possible as you shrink away from the man towering above you.

“I don’t understand,” you squeak through the heart in your throat.

“Liar!” he shouts again.

His voice rings through the shadowed bedroom. You cower in response. He sobers at the fear twisting your features, but only slightly. His heart pounds hard against his ribcage, beating red-hot rage through his veins. He can hardly hear you through the rushing in his ears.

“What have I done?” you whisper, voice trembling.

“You have made…” Geta trails off, swallowing the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away burning tears and spits, “A mockery of me.”

Fear ebbs into confusion. “I have not—”

“You lie!”

“I do not!” The volume of your voice startles even you. You blink up at him with wide, pleading eyes, searching for any ounce of mercy within him.

You find none.

Just a man made of towering orange flames, threatening to set you ablaze.

“I have given up everything to be here,” you whimper. “To be at your side. To understand you—”

“Make no mistake… Your lies no longer have an effect on me, little dove,” Geta interjects through a bout of cynical laughter. He shakes his head and grins despite the tears glittering in his eyes. “You think you are so clever. That you were brought here, to my Empire, to be cherished...”

The Emperor takes slow, daunting steps towards you. You shrink away from him and choke back a sob bubbling in your throat. Tears fall from your lashes in fat droplets down your burning cheeks.

Geta grins like it pleases him.

“Let me be clear, so there is no longer any misunderstanding…” he tells you, speaking in slow, deep murmurs as he crouches before you. You can see the flecks of gold glimmering in his deep brown eyes from here. You can see the fire swimming within them, too, as he assures you, “You were created merely for me to destroy you.”

The throne room is absent of its usual bright red roses and ornate gold decoration. The chandelier overhead has not yet been lit. Instead, the spacious room is illuminated by an ever-rising sun — which basks everything it touches in shades of melancholy blue.

The servants light torches along the wall while you and Marcus stand together before the scowling Emperor. Something about it strikes a feeling of nostalgia in your chest, though these circumstances are much different than the ones you were brought here under. Geta no longer looks at you with lust in his dark eyes. He looks at you, instead, with betrayal.

“Thanks to the civic virtue of some good men…” the eldest Emperor quavers into the silent room. “…Your insurrection has been revealed.”

Your stomach twists at his words. Your mouth falls softly agape with shock. Of any explanation you could’ve been given upon your sudden imprisonment, you couldn’t have expected this one. You thought, perhaps, that he had somehow found out about your meetings in the crypt with Marcus. You would’ve been able to stomach that, at least. Your love for Acacius is something you’d be willing to die by.

But not this.

Not something you were completely unconscious of.

Geta continues tearily. “The honor… The dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you— All this, you have forfeited by your treachery.”

“Emperor Geta, please,” Marcus sighs. His deep voice echoes through the empty throne room like a heavenly, sorrowful instrument. He bows his head and swallows hard, knowing now that he must beg for mercy. Not for himself. But for you.

“Torture me, if you wish, but let her go. She had no part in this—”

“Forgive me,” Geta spits emotionlessly. “But I have no cause to believe you, General.”

Marcus turns to you then, tired eyes wide and pleading. “Tell him. Go on, it’s alright,” he urges gently, though your silence makes his chest ache. “Petal, tell him— Tell him you were unaware.”

You say nothing.

“Tell him!”he repeats in a shout that rings through the quiet throne room. His trained apathy splinters for the first time in front of Geta. He is perhaps more fearful now than he has ever been before. No war was nearly as frightening as the thought of losing you.

“What does it matter?” you mutter in response, voice fragile like glass. “He made up his mind the moment he found out.”

“Then take me if that’s what you want,” Marcus says, pleads to the merciless Emperor. His sandals scuff the stone floor as he takes a step closer in surrender. “Put me in the Colosseum— Crucify me on the royal steps, if you must— But please, do not make her suffer for something I brought upon her. Do not punish her for my sins.”

“You are the Great General Acacius…” Geta croons bitterly. “What could one more splash of blood possibly mean to you?”

“Everything,” Marcus answers without a second thought, voice heavy with a predestined grief. “It would mean everything.”

Something in Geta shifts. You see it flickering in his dark, teary eyes. A surge of power, almost, like a stroke of bright white lightning. The corner of his pink mouth twitches as he tilts his chin upward. “Step back ten paces,” he commands suddenly.

Marcus’ brows pinch first in confusion, then relax a moment later when he inevitably obeys. His feet sound along the cobbles as he takes ten slow steps backward. He mourns the distance it puts between the two of you.

“Turn around,” Geta’s voice echoes through the vacant throne room.

You hear Marcus take a wavering breath in. He spins on the heel of his leather sandal until his back is facing you. His heavy eyes flutter shut as his chin falls to his chest. He searches for an ounce of hope within himself, knowing he’d lost all of it some time ago now.

The Emperor smirks. “Good dog.”

Acacius seethes.

Geta’s dark eyes, rimmed red with emotion, flit back to you. Something heavy settles in the pit of your stomach — dread, perhaps, or maybe acceptance for what’s surely to come.

“Was it a lie?”

“What?” you ask with bated breath.

Geta shrugs, then readjusts his robe when it falls from his shoulder. “Any of it.”

“No.”

“Tell the truth.”

“I am.”

Geta snarls at your subdued emotion. “I am the Emperor of Rome. I could have my pick of whores— You being here is a privilege. Do you understand?”

You nod once. “Yes.”

“You came from filth— to the greatest city in the world,” Geta spits the words like so many drops of venom. He waves his hands up and down your form, pale fingers now void of their usual gold rings. “You were just… some whore without a face before I made you better. I did this!”

He gestures wildly around the darkened manor, voice breaking at the volume of his shouting. His robe falls askew to reveal more of his bare chest as spit coats his bitten lips. You remain in place while the Emperor inches closer. The fear has left you, as well as any instinct to cry — your grief is too violent for that now.

“I brought you here,” Geta convinces himself. His saliva splatters on your cheek in faint droplets. Tears glitter on his cheeks like stained glass windows. A fire flickers in the deep brown of his eyes.

“I willed this— I cared for you with every bit of conscience as I was born with.” He takes a deep breath and steps back, shaking his head in disgust. “And yet…”

He turns away.

You’re able to take in a deep breath for the first time in several minutes when he parts from you. The leadened weight on your chest remains.

“If you do not wish to be here, I certainly will not make you,” Geta rambles in teary blubbers. “One whore is as good as any other— Perhaps I can find one who is capable of pretending she cares.”

You step towards his retreating form. “Geta—”

“Go!” he shouts, looking back at you with a crazed look in his sleep-worn eyes. He wipes spit from his chin and quietens, strangled by an unavoidable emotion. “Now. Walk through those doors, and I promise no harm will come to you. Just do not stand before me and patronize me in this way, I will not stand for it.”

His promise makes your chest swell with hope. You remain frozen even still, stuck at an unnavigable crossroads. Such assurances of safety mean little to you when Marcus

has a sword to his throat.

You look at the man over your shoulder. He has not moved from his spot some feet behind you. His back still faces you, though you notice his hands are balled into trembling fists.

Even if it were true — even if Geta really planned to let you go without a knight slitting your throat — it would mean little without Marcus. You would not know where to go without him. You would not be able to live with yourself if you left him here, not knowing what Geta planned for him. You would be away from the city, yes, but it would not be freedom.

Your instinctual will for survival is replaced by the primal need to keep Marcus alive.

To do that, you must reach for the bloodied hand of death.

You turn away from your lover — away from the opened cage door and the promise of freedom — and rush to the heartbroken Emperor. You clutch his cotton robe in your fists and tug at the gold trim to pull him closer. You meet him in the middle, entwining your mouth with his.

You kiss him. Hard. With enough ardor to snatch the breath from his lungs. His pink lips part for yours, almost instinctually so, and you swipe your tongue over the rough pad of his own. He tastes of sleep and honey and very distantly of wine. He gets heavy against you as he falls into your kiss. His hands cling to the skirt of your nightgown until his fists start to shake.

You pull away only when he’s melted for you all over again, when the red-hot anger has ebbed from his milky white body. A thin string of saliva keeps you connected until it splits against your chins.

“I know… I know you are hurt, Your Majesty,” you speak in slow murmurs, and through uneven breaths. Your fearful eyes dart over his face and find him utterly kissbitten — mouth swollen, eyes heavy, cheeks flushed. “And I know that it is difficult to forget pain. But I’ve found it’s harder to remember happiness. Glory.”

Each word from your mouth is stamped with intention.

You speak of glory only with the hopes that he might remember his many useless wars, all of which Marcus has won for him without complaint. There would be no Empire to rule without the Great General Acacius, who dares not to sneak a glance at the two of you over his shoulder. He, instead, keeps his heavied gaze on the torch hanging by the door. The flame sears his vision until he can see you dancing within it.

“We have no scar to show from sweetness, do we?” you quaver with a forced smile, cupping Geta’s burning cheeks between both your hands. You swipe your thumb over a fat tear clinging to his cheekbone. “How can we allow ourselves to be blinded by anger when there is still so much love?”

Geta snivels and rests his forehead against yours. His long lashes flutter against his glowing cheeks.

“I wept for you,” the Emperor confesses quietly, words weighed down by tears. “I had come to believe that… If I wanted something badly enough, the sheer strength of my desire would make it mine. I see now that it was foolish—”

“Perhaps it is true,” you whisper to him, breaths entwining and kissing both your cheeks. If he notices your voice shaking, you hope he confuses it with desire and not with fear. “Perhaps that is why I’m standing here now. Because I am yours…”

A moment of silence lulls over the blue hour. The quiet feels deafening in the large throne room, quelled only by the sound of heavy breathing. Yours hitches in your throat when Geta parts wordlessly from you. He sniffles once, then exhales hard through his mouth.

Your gaze remains fixed on his face in an unwavering stare as you try to gauge his reaction. His features are emotionless, but his heavy-lidded eyes flit back and forth between yours — as though he, too, were trying to measure your sincerity.

Your fate, in that split second, teeters on a knife’s edge. You hold your breath and wait for him to raise his hand. Not to hit you, maybe, but to sic his guards upon you like dogs — either to drag you into a cell or to be kind enough to kill you on the spot.

Geta lifts his palms only to cradle your jaw between them. His long fingers wrap around your neck like he intends to choke you there. He drags your mouth back to his instead. Your noses smush together with the intensity of his touch. It’s all teeth and tongue and spit. Desire and anger and grief. A billion things he licks into your mouth.

The weight of his hunger smothers you. Consumes you. He could kill you this way, if he wanted. There is little difference, you’ve found, between a bite and a kiss. It only matters how deep he buries his teeth into you.

Your chin shines with his spit when he parts from you. Geta’s chest heaves with labored breaths, flushed and swelling with proud. He hasn’t yet let go of your neck. You wonder if he can feel your thrumming pulse against his fingers.

“Show me, then,” he pants. “That you’re mine… Prove it to me.”

The Emperor goes to step back from you. Your hands dart for his wrists, holding him there when he threatens to pull them away. Geta’s eyes widen in shock.

“Don’t make him watch,” you plead in a delicate whisper.

His wide, chocolate eyes flit over your shoulder. He seems to forget about Marcus’ presence until that very moment. He looks back to you, at the plea swimming in your eyes, and nods once in response.

“Take him,” he calls to the knights lurking in the darkness.

Their heavy armor clinks together as they comply without complaint. They lead Marcus to the door with their hands on the hilts of their swords. You watch him leave from over your shoulder, in the very corner of your eye. You hope he understands, but you wouldn’t blame him if you didn’t. You find it hard to forgive yourself even now.

Marcus always said that people find out who they truly are during times of war. Maybe this is who you are. Maybe you cannot kiss the devil without taking some of his sin.

The door closes with a heavy thud across the room.

The weight of being alone with the Emperor washes heavily over you. Like drops of ice-cold rain. Like warm, melted honey.

Geta peers at you with a similar uncertainty. Head bowed slightly, wide eyes glittering from beneath his lashes. You do what you have always done — take care of this man the way he’s asked you to, placate his anger with your body. Giving yourself away is as natural as breathing most days.

“Sit down, Your Majesty,” you urge in a gentle whisper.

The Emperor listens as obediently as his knights.

The sound of his sandals padding along the cobbles fills the suffocating quiet. He descends upon his throne like he was made for it, spreading his legs before him and propping his arms along the golden rests. He looks like a painting upon his seat of power, bathed in the deep blue of an early morning. An angel dragged to hell.

Geta watches you with an unwavering stare as you take slow steps toward him. His brown-eyed gaze goes glassy at the sight of you, an angelic thing all dressed in white. His thighs part to welcome you between them. He tenses under your palms when they smooth over his milky white chest, past the sparse chestnut hair littered there and down to the tie of his robe.

His stomach rises and falls in heavy, uneven pants under your touch. You unknot the string with bated breath, then brush the golden trimming to his sides. He’s bare underneath it, likely from where he’d been brutally roused from his slumber. His cock is on immediate display — resting on his fuzzy thighs, half-hard and glowing red at the tip.

You descend to your knees to take care of him on instinct. His hands dart to your shoulders to stop you. “Ride me,” he commands, though it sounds more like a plea as it spills his swollen mouth.

Wordlessly, you straddle his thighs. The cotton fabric of your nightgown bunches at your hips. You spit into your palm and reach between your bodies for his cock in a single practiced motion. He feels like velvet in your fist.

Geta’s nostrils flare with a heavy exhale when your hand drags up the length of his cock. His head tips back onto his throne when your fist falls back down again. Your lips find the expanse of his long, white neck like a deep-seated compulsion. You kiss his pulse as though it were his mouth. He cradles the crown of your head and brings his lips to your ear.

“You love me,” he sighs within a moan when your thumb brushes the head of his drooling cock.

You can’t tell if it’s a command to repeat the words back to him, or an affirmation he repeats only for himself. Either way, you nod in response and line his stiff cock at your entrance. Geta’s mouth parts in a silent moan at the feeling of your silky cunt.

“I do,” you whisper just before you mount him.

There is a dull ache in your belly when he pierces you, though you’ve grown accustomed to his length with time. Your satin folds split to welcome every inch of him accordingly. Your hips rock back and forth over his supple thighs and your velvety walls pulse around him, swallowing him further inside.

Your breathy moans entwine and fill the air. You keep a white-knuckled grip on the back of the golden throne as you ride him, without break and without mercy — in spite of the burning sensation in your thighs. You tell yourself it’s to finish him quickly, though a primal part of you chases after your own pleasure.

Geta’s breaths leave his parted mouth in huffed exhales as you bounce on top of him. He mourns the sight of him disappearing in and out of your glistening pussy but fights to keep his eyes open to watch the rest of you. Your fucked-out face swirls in a mixture of concentration and pleasure as Geta lifts his hand for the collar of your gown.

He unties the dainty knot at your sternum and tugs the fabric down your chest, baring your breasts for him. His mouth waters at sight of your plush skin, moving in time with your rhythmic grinds over his lap.

A strangled moan sounds in your throat when he takes your left nipple in his mouth. You caress the back of his head, twisting your fingers in his honey hair in an effort to keep him close. He runs the rough pad of his tongue over your sensitive tit and smiles when he hears you whimpering.

“You love this,” he mutters against your chest. “You love when I fuck you. ”

You nod until the words catch up with you. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“God—” he grunts through gritted teeth, tipping his head back when one particular grind makes him twitch inside you. His hands grip your thighs over your skirt. His fingers threaten to sear bruises onto your skin. “Your pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it?”

You nod again.

His right hand parts from you only to come down a moment later. The dull smack of his palm against your clothed hip echoes through the throne room. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“Yes,” you squeak with your face scrunched, trembling when your clit drags across the thatch of pubic hair at the base of Geta’s cock.

“Who’s cunt is this?”

“Yours—”

His hand lifts again. You hear the impact of his palm against your ass before you feel it, a subtle stinging you find a strange comfort in. Geta laughs in maniacal, breathy chuckles when you keen for him.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yours!” you exclaim in a feeble gasp, clutching the Emperor to your chest. You shudder on top of him when an orgasm rakes suddenly through your body. It flows quickly and without mercy, but never quite ebbs. You’re left a whimpering, weeping mess while the aftershocks of your pleasure consume you.

“It’s yours,” you squeak in nearly inaudible blubbers, pressing your kissed mouth to the shell of Geta’s ear, repeating the phrase like it’s the only one you remember. “’S your pussy… It’s yours…”

The words alone are enough to make Geta burst inside of you.

He tenses all over. His dull nails press crescent shapes into the skin of your thighs. His rosy mouth parts to exhale a guttural moan. You feel his cock jerk with your drooling confines right before he spits several loads of cum inside you. Your cunt pulses around him, instinctually milking him for every drop of liquid pleasure, and a whimper sounds in Geta’s throat.

You feel it bloom in the pit of your belly like a flower — something soft and warm and seeping. As the two of you relax against one another with wavering exhales, you feel his cum leaking out of you like drops of summer rain. It pools on his lap and drips down to the throne underneath him, tainting the gold with a mixture of your sin.

It proves a point. Marks a territory.

Geta swells with pride.

Your back slouches as you melt into his body. You hide your burning face in his neck as his feverish grip on you loosens. Geta twitches beneath you when your cunt pulsates around his softening cock. “Mm…” you hear him hum, mixed with a laugh you feel rumbling in his chest. His head tilts back as a lopsided smile tugs deliriously at his mouth.

He runs a gentle hand up and down your spine, a reminder of his being there despite your feeble efforts to dissociate your brain from your body. You can’t ignore the warmth of his touch on your tingling skin, or the way your hearts press together and beat to the same rhythm.

A distant feeling of acceptance pools in the pit of your belly along with the Emperor’s cum. Your grief is a much more discreet thing, however, and you miss Marcus like an unstitched wound that won’t stop bleeding. Like a knife lodged somewhere deep in the body.

“I think… I think I’ve found an adequate punishment for the General,” Geta pants, the crooked grin audible in his words. “Perhaps he will learn his lesson when I’ve fucked a child into you—”

You tense when the Emperor’s palm splays over your stomach.

“—Perhaps then he’ll understand that you’re mine.”

2K notes · View notes

anothermindofwonder · 8 months ago

Text

Et tu, Brute?

Pairing: Emperor Geta x Reader x Lucius

Summary: You went by many different names: "Rome's Delight", "The Woman with the Golden Mouth", "Geta's Favorite Whore", and "Julia". None of these were your true name; all used just to dehumanize you as nothing more than a slave. When the General Acacius returns from conquering Numidia, and you meet one of the slaves that was brought from the bloodshed, you hope to reclaim not just your freedom...but power along with it.

Part 1 of 2 (Masterlist)

Warning(s): Depictions of rape and SA [not shown], slavery, cannon typical violence, minor Stockholm Syndrome, major character deaths, historical inacuracy [but I tried my best to make it somewhat accurate] and Spoilers for Gladiator II

I saw this movie once, watched Game of Thrones at the same time, and cranked out a story where you, the reader, know how to play "The Game" (but also not because let's keep it kinda realistic) I'm gonna be honest, this might be a hot mess, and I used a script I found online (but Idk how accurate it is). Also, this first part is just mainly story based with the events of the film the SECOND part will focus on reader and Lucius' relationship (including smut, you sluts {I am also slut, don't worry}.

I do want to say though that the depictions of SA are in no attempt to romanticize them. I also decided not to write out the specific scenes because I myself am a survivor, and wanted to focus more on the protagonist's growth. The trauma still affects her story, but I do not want to write rape scenes merely for shock purposes.

Also, if you name is actually "Julia"...no it's not :)

Word Count: 16.1k

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It was your own fault, that was what they tried to make you believe.

How dare you not wish to participate in the public baths, how dare you desire to bathe in the place you felt most safe.

Foolish, foolish girl. You were not even safe on your own porch in the house you grew up in.

Your father hadn’t been the wealthiest of merchants, but before he passed into the Elysian Fields after his death that year, he had made a fortune; so much as to buy a bathtub for your house.

If anything, you had bathed at night when you believed no one could see you not for your own modesty, but to prevent anyone from stealing it.

Yet, one particular night, a man had spotted you.

The Emperor Geta of Rome had watched your naked form glisten in the moonlight as you washed the most intimate areas of your body; sighing at the feeling of being clean after the day, only for your soul to feel tainted once morning broken.

Guards had nearly broken the hinges off the front door to your house, and dragged you to the palace. You had lived in that house for your entire life, the same neighbors beside you, yet as you kicked and screamed…none helped.

You had grown tired once in the palace, and the eldest of the twin emperors stood before you. He cupped your chin.

“What is your name, girl?”

You answered him, attempting to speak with venom, but the quaking of your voice betrayed anxiety.

He hummed, repeating your name. “Why are you all alone?”

You huffed. “My mother died in the battle that is childbirth, and my father was lost to an ailment in his loins.”

“You have no brothers?” Geta questioned, his eyes running down your form. “No husband?”

“They called my father strange for leaving me his possessions.”

“He mustn’t have passed on so long ago.”

“Why does the death of my father concern you if you only seek my body?” You questioned.

A smile twisted upon his lips. “Perhaps I like to know my fruit before I devour it.”

And he kissed you.

You had been kissed before, but this was the first time you hadn’t wanted to be. You hadn't expected him to be serious about devouring you. His teeth sank into your chin, then your cheeks, until they were finally upon your lips.

It was the first time, in all your life, you felt your body grow cold and freeze despite his hands wandering over you, pulling at the thin fabric of clothing that covered you.

You fell to the floor, clinging to it desperately as he tried to lead you to his chambers. You had expected him to order one of his men to kill you, or have them carry you…

Instead, he took you right there. He simply lifted his own robes then yours and stole what wasn’t his to take.

All you remembered of that was counting how many pillars were in the room.

You were one of his several concubines. Yet, despite being the newest, you were his favorite.

“Julia,” he whispered to you in the night a month after he had made you his. A month after he had decided to call you by his mother’s name instead of your own. “are you awake?”

You mewled, sitting up. “I am now, my love. What is it?”

Geta smiled, holding out a stack of parchment. “Look at what some of the men found in Carthago.”

You rubbed your eyes as the lamps in his room brightened before looking down at the crudely written words. Geta looked at you in earnest.

“Can you read them?”

A few days prior at him and his brother Caracalla’s birthday festivities, it was revealed that you spoke five languages: Latin, Phoenician, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Greek. Your father had taught you every single one of them to fend for yourself amongst all kind of people.

Now, it was nothing more than a shameless trick Geta used to his amusement.

“Rome’s Cleopatra,” he deemed you in front of the crowd. “the Woman with a Golden Mouth”.

Everyone in that room and all of Rome knew that your ability to speak so many dialects was not the only reason he gave you that title.

Still, as you lay in his bed with crumbling parchment in hands, you forced a tender smile. “Yes, I know what it says. Would you like to know?”

He laid his head in your lap without another word.

Months passed, and he had grown kinder…only when it was night, and even so, that was only when the moon was full.

There wasn’t a day where your body hadn’t ached from the turmoil he put you through. It was hard to discern when he would want you to be small and subservient to him, or confident and commanding in matters of the bed.

The handmaids that were blessed to not be in bed with him would bathe and coddle you as best as they could, for even through your suffering, you tried your best to treat them with kindness.

You didn’t even know who you were after the fourth month of being Geta’s slave.

Gone was the girl who had a peaceful life; there was now the Emperor’s Pet.

General Marcus Acacius returned to Rome after overtaking the kingdom Numidia in the emperors’ names, and it was the first time you were in his presence. It was certainly a surprise that Geta would string you alongside him on personal matters that had nothing to do with sex.

The general would glance at you every so often, and his look of pity felt more violating that any of the times Geta, or his brother, or anyone else in all of Rome had looked at you.

Upon the general’s return, a series of games at the Colosseum were to be hosted, among parties that would last for the remaining week.

The first was at Senator Thraex's home.

“My little Julia,” Geta caressed your cheek as you sat upon his lap in the makeshift throne. “might you fetch me another cup of wine?”

You nodded, taking his cup and kissing his hair. “I shall, my love.”

He ran his fingers down your neck as you got off of him and made your way to the barrels. Yet, as you passed an open door, something caught your eye. Peeking around the somewhat crack in the door, you saw a few men sat in the room, chains around their ankles and their wrists.

One of them, more muscular than the others with brown curls, held his head low. His skin wasn’t as dark as other men from Africa Propria, but not as pale as the Germanic lands.

When his eyes met yours, you saw a pale blueness only seen in the sky on a summer’s day.

Gasping, you hid behind the door for only a moment before looking again. His gaze was still on you. Deciding to end the strangeness of the situation, you spoke.

“I’m sorry.” You apologized.

He said nothing; you tried again.

“I’m sorry.” You said in Greek.

The look in his eyes changed to confusion, but he said nothing.

“Hebrew?” You questioned. “Aramaic? Phoenician?”

“You speak Phoenician?” He asked as if he hadn’t heard it in forever.

You nodded. “I speak five languages.”

“Ah,” he answered in your native tongue to your surprise. “Rome’s Cleopatra.”

Your nose scrunched as if you smelt something rotten. “You understood me the first time?”

“I did.”

“So why not say anything?”

“What am I to say to your pity?”

You hummed. “I do not pity you, I was showing respect.”

He scoffed. “Respect? Am I a man that looks as if I deserve respect?”

“I believe every man deserves respect so as long he is kind.” You glared at him.

The man shook his head, sighing. “You are a foolish child if you believe that men can be kind.”

“I haven’t for quite a while.” you stated. “I pray that it is the hope that kills me.”

He questioned. “And not one of the emperors?”

“What is your name, slave?” You crossed your arms.

He huffed, drawing his eyes away from you and clenching his fists before relaxing them. “Hanno.”

You nodded. “They call me ‘Julia’.”

“But that is not your name.”

It was blistering hot that particular day, but you felt your body run cold; the same cold you felt when Geta…when he first…

“Who says it is not my name?” You challenged.

“You are merely a concubine,” he said. “you are not a part of his lineage, and therefore, your name is not ‘Julia’.”

You do not know why you seethed with so much rage from his words. You did not even spit on him; you merely stomped away from that door, filled up the emperor’s cup, and went back to Geta.

“It took you nearly a millennium to come back, my sweet.” He scoffed yet kissed your bare shoulder. “I was beginning to worry.”

You shook your head, leaning against him as you sat on the arm of the throne. “You mustn’t over me, my love.”

“You seem distressed.” Caracalla teased beside you. “This is a festivity; you should be merry!”

All you did was smile and nod. It was a pleasant change from the parties you were forced to attend in the past; you weren’t the center of attention, and this was the first time Geta dressed you in the bright colors everyone else wore instead of white.

You could pretend you were royalty for a day.

Not so long after you came back, both Thraex and Macrinus, a stable master who traveled far and wide for new gladiators, approached with their own champions to fight.

You were not even at the Colosseum, and yet, violence still had to be played for everyone’s amusement.

Hanno entered from the door you had previously been at, and another man entered from the opposite side of the room. Both were given swords.

“Brother,” Hanno began. “let us not kill each other for their amusement-.”

The other man struck him without hesitation. You had seen fights before, but none like this. It was ruthless, quick yet drawn out. Hanno lost his sword in the middle of it all, leading to him smashing a flowerpot over his opponent’s head.

The fight was still not done, he rose up on his feet and took his sword from the ground, raising it high above him. Hanno, against all odds, knocked him back onto the ground and took the sword just as they both sood, stabbing his opponent in the chest.

A chorus of cheers and groans echoed in the room. Geta arose from his seat, laughing and applauding as you sat there, eyes as wide as they could be at the bloodied sight before you.

“Remarkable! Gladiator, which part of the Empire do you hail from?” He questioned Hanno. Hanno stood stoically, glaring at the emperors before him. Geta tutted, turning to you. “Julia, open your golden mouth and-.”

“-The gates of hell are open night and day.” Hanno interrupted in the common language. “Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.”

Geta smiled. “Ah…a poet!”

The rest of the world fell away as you could not tear your gaze away from the man laying on the floor. If he hadn’t died from his wounds, he would’ve from choking on his own blood.

“-You understand, don’t you?” Geta asked.

You sat in your own personal chambers that night for the first time in a while. You were never overjoyed to be in his bed, but being sent to your own perplexed you.

Then, he simply told you that you were to be General Acacius’ for the night.

“He’s sacrificed so much, my little Julia.” Geta combed his fingers through your hair to soothe you. “I refused him once already; I cannot do so again. Do you understand?”

The emperor had never shared you with anyone. He wasn’t delicate with you, but at least you knew what to expect.

He clenched your jaw. “I do not care to ask you a third time, girl.”

“Yes,” you squeaked. “I understand, Geta.”

Nodding, he softened his hold, leaning his head against yours. “You are still mine alone; I promise, it will only be us after tonight.”

You swallowed thickly. “Okay.”

“There she is.” He kissed your lips before pulling away and standing. “He will be in right away. Do not fret, I told him to be gentle with you.”

Geta left through your chamber doors without another word. There you were, sitting on your bed, draped in silks you should have known were given to you out of lust and not out of kindness. Your eyes trailed to the empty vase on a table beside your bed.

You didn’t know what possessed you that night, but you yanked it off the table, and smashed it on your bed. The handle of the door began to rattle. Quickly pushing the shattered pieces under your bed, you hid a shard behind your back and sat at the head of the bed.

In came General Marcus Acacius, wearing only a thin overshirt that went down to his knees. You’d done this game of seduction many times with Geta, how different could it be for him? Grabbing the bottom of your night dress, you raised it until it bunched up your thighs, revealing your bare center to him.

He took a hitched breath. “My lady-.”

“-What troubles you, general?” You asked then smiled with gritted teeth. You felt your hand begin to ache as you squeezed the vase shard.

Marcus furrowed his brow, and as if he already knew, he said. “Cover yourself and show me what is behind your back.”

Your eyes dropped along with your heart. Still, as his face turned into a scowl, you cooperated. Handing him the shard and quickly pulling your dress back down, you spoke with intensity.

“If you will not stab me before you rape my corpse, then I shall throw myself from the nearest window and allow the people of Rome to defile me. I will not lie on my back and take it anymore.”

He took a deep breath, holding the sorry excuse for a weapon in his hand. “It is unwise to tell the enemy your plans.”

…What?

“It would serve you greatly to control the faces you make before harming a man as well. Yet, above all,” He held the shard out to you. “your enemy is not afraid to kill you; you should feel the same.”

“Why do you tell me this?” You asked, still not believing it.

Marcus sat up. “I believe we can help each other, my little dove.”

“How?”

He lowered his voice. “You have heard of the gladiator Maximus, his dream of a free Rome, yes?”

“Yes.”

“A dream that cannot be obtained from the rule of two emperors.” He lamented. “My wife and I, along with several others, plan…to fulfill our shared dream.”

They were going to overthrow Geta and Caracalla.

“What gives you reason to believe I won’t say a word of this to them?” You asked.

He smiled for the first time since you’d seen him. “That freedom belongs to you.”

“I…I’m still lost. How will I be of any use?”

“Emperor Geta favors you considerably. He is a man, and not a cunning one at that. There are ways to wear foolish men down.”

You nodded, beginning to understand. “There’s always a woman.”

“There’s always a woman.” He solidified. “Gain the trust of the public; make them love you, and they will not see the emperor’s whore but a woman of the people.”

“And how will that dethrone them?

He smiled. “My wife and I will meet with the counsel tomorrow night. I will send for you.”

You scoffed. “Geta said that after tonight I am just his alone.”

“Then I’ll refuse to give him Persia and India.”

“He’ll have your head.” You berated. “Besides, I don’t think he’d believe my cunt would be worth two countries.”

Marcus shrugged. “Considering he only wants you to himself, I have no doubt that it is worth that much. But I am unable to confirm it.”

You sighed. “Even if he’ll allow it, he’ll send a guard with me.”

“I am not one to invite a third into the bedroom.”

“Then where shall-?”

“-Little dove,” he interrupted. “the city was not built in a day, therefore it cannot be emancipated in one.”

Gods help and forgive you for being impatient on wanting to be free. Still, you composed yourself. “Alright.”

He nodded, standing up. “I will be seeing you on the morrow, one way or another.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“For what, child?”

You swallowed thickly, avoiding his gaze. “Not forcing yourself upon me.”

Marcus’ face softened, and he lowered himself to your height as you sat on the bed. He took your face into his hands, and you immediately tensed when his face drew closer to yours.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “it’s not that kind of a kiss.”

With a tenderness that reminded you of your father, he placed his lips on your forehead and pulled away. Giving you one last knowing nod, he promptly left your chambers.

You wanted to do nothing more than shed tears of happiness, yet for no reason at all, you could not cry.

Your father had only taken you to the Colosseum to watch mock animal hunting. Even when your friends invited you to watch gladiator fights or other public executions, he had found ways of making you stay far away from them.

There was a strange humor in sitting in the best chair for your very first gladiator duel. That being in the front as Emperor Geta ran his hand up and down your back.

In utter honestly, you tried to stray your attention away from the fights, speaking more with Caracalla of all people. He was more erratic than Geta by far, and it was more difficult to tell when he would be kind one moment, then out for blood the next.

Yet at least he was open about being cruel, unlike his brother.

When you would watch the fights…a familiar face seemed to catch both you and the general’s wife’s, Lucilla, eye.

The man with light skin yet hailed from Numidia…Hanno.

You hadn’t recognized him at first, for it wasn’t his mere presence that drew you to finally look at the event before you. No, it was the way he fought.

Most men previously had attacked with brute force; just stabbing the beast and hoping it would die. Hanno fought with wit. Simply using the sand beneath his feet as an advantage, blinding and tricking the rhinoceros to run directly into the wall.

He was cunning…he commanded the men beside him as if it weren’t the first time he’d done so in his life.

Then, when it came to deciding his fate when all seemed lost…Geta turned to you.

“My love,” he played with a strand of your hair. “shall I show the poet mercy, or bloodshed for your entertainment?”

Even if it weren’t Hanno, your answer would have been the same. “Mercy.”

As a hush fell over the crow, Geta rose his thumb up, sparing him. As cheers erupted, Hanno shook his head.

“No, no mercy.”

Geta furrowed his brow. “Gladiator, we have spared your life. No one refuses-.”

“-I would sooner face your blade than accept Roman mercy!”

Thus, the fight continued. An act of defiance…Peculiar…Quite peculiar.

Both you and Marcus were correct about the night; Geta did indeed allow you to go to the general’s house, but only if you were escorted by a trusted guard. When you arrived, Marcus immediately draped you in a cloak, practically covering your face and had excused as not wanting the staff to tell his wife of who he was bringing into their house.

Marcus led you into his chambers, and there you saw two people. Apparently, they weren’t even apart of the counsel; simply paid to pretend to be both you and the general as the guard would listen outside, assume it was the two of you fucking.

He had certainly thought through every little detail.

Marcus pushed on a stone in his chambers, revealing a hidden door. You had only heard of these within stories, and as he led you down the darkened passage with only a torch in one hand, and the other holding yours, you had never felt more alive since your past life had been stolen.

You were welcomed to a room filled with dozens of the senate you had passed by in the palace. How strange it was to see them all huddled into a dimly lit room, plotting the demise of the men they initially swore to serve.

An arm looped through yours, and it was Lucilla. She whispered into your ear.

“Whatever you have to say, speak it to me, and I shall speak to them.”

You turned. “Why must I not speak for myself?”

“I only allowed you to be here if Marcus agreed to not let your voice be heard.”

“What?”

“I will explain more to you soon after, I vow it.”

Thus the meeting began. In all truthfulness, you were only able to understand the bare minimum: In a few days’ time, Marcus would lead five-thousand men into Rome to overtake the thrones of the empire, and thus destroy them, restoring the Roman Republic.

When the conversation turned to you, you were merely referred to as an informant who had the closest relationship to the emperor.

It still perplexed you as to why you needed to remain anonymous; there was an excellent chance they would know you as ‘Geta’s Favorite Whore’.

Yet, you did your best to inform the counsel of a plan you had simply created on the spot (they did not need to know the latter part of it).

You would gain more favor from the public, while at the same time, putting Geta’s worries to rest about any uprising or dislike from the majority of the empire.

How you would do that…it was fortunate that they didn’t ask you to give specifics.

Once the meeting ended, you were taken back up from the secret passage, yet instead of going back to the chambers, you felt Lucilla take your hand and lead you down another path.

You couldn’t even get a sound out before she said. “It is alright; he knows I want to speak with you in private. We will not take long.”

She led you up into the bath area of the house. It was quite beautiful; the tub wasn’t made of porphyry, but that did not make it any less exquisite. There was something about it being lesser of the baths you’ve had in the palace. It wasn’t entirely reminiscent of the one you had at home…

But you felt safer.

Lucilla had been gentle in pulling off your robes, and never once did it feel wrong. You were a woman and so was she. She never pulled or scratched your skin, and you knew that she only felt sorrow when she gazed upon the bruises and wounds you had received from Geta.

“How long have you been at the palace?” She questioned as she carded herbs through your hair.

You glanced at her, sighing. “I’ve stopped counting…months, I know.”

“Were you forced to leave any family? Brothers, sisters, children?”

“No. My mother died birthing me, and my father was taken half a year ago to an ailment emperor Caracalla also suffers from.”

She hummed. “Have you ever been in love?”

You laughed the most genuine laugh ever since you became a slave. “Why on earth would you ask that?!”

“I am merely curious!” She teased. “You are truly beautiful, and there is no doubt that men would throw themselves off cliffs for you; but it matters most of who you would choose.”

Her question scraped your mind. There had been times you were fond of, even lusted over, men both your age and older…but love? The only one you experienced would be storge; perhaps philia…but eros? Agape?

“I don’t think I have been.” You answered. “Have you?”

She nodded, a forlorn look in her eyes, but smile upon her mouth. “Twice.”

“Twice?” You couldn’t help the nervous giggle that left your throat. “It can happen twice?”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“And who have you willingly fell captive to?”

“Marcus is the most recent, though there are days I do not understand what he sees in me. Then…the father of my child.”

Lucilla poured water upon your head to wash out the soap in your hair, and a silence fell over both of you. One that was broken when you spoke a name.

“Lucius…”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“He-he had gone missing all those years ago, hadn’t he?”

“He had.” She ran the bar of soap over the top half of your body. “I believe he must’ve been around your age when he ran away.”

“And there hasn’t been any sign of him since?”

“No.” She answered right away.

You curled into yourself. “I apologize if I upset you my lady-.”

“-No. I…I love talking about him.”

You managed a gentle smile to soothe her. “What was he like?”

“Headstrong.” She chuckled. “Wanted to become a gladiator more than anything in the world. Yet, he was gentle, and kind as well. He…I believe he would’ve adored you.”

You shook your head. “Maybe when we were children, but I don’t think so now.”

“It’s hard to judge.”

Whilst the air between you turned into more intimate topics, the question that had weighed on your mind was brought to light. “Why did you not allow me to speak or show my face tonight?”

Lucilla stopped her ministrations. You looked up at her, and the look she wore bore an exhaustion that you had felt recently.

“I know too well the cruelties of men.” She began softly. “My brother had done everything to keep me from ever resisting him…he had done everything. I had only wished for someone to be there with me at every moment when I faced his abuse.”

Words; simple words that meant everything to you was what made you weep.

There was no warning at all. Once she was finished, tears sprang to your eyes, and you felt your sinus clog up. Even as you tried to tear yourself away from her comfort, she merely wrapped her arms around you in an embrace from a mother you had never felt.

“I don’t want to go back.” You begged. “Please don’t let me.”

She kissed your hair. “I’m so sorry.”

“No!” You sobbed. “I-I don’t want to! Please, please, you can’t make me. I-I-I-!”

Lucilla shushed you, rocking you back and forth. “Do not weep. You will be free beside all of Rome, and the past months of your life will be nothing more than a distant, horrible dream.”

You pulled away just enough to look at her. “You-you must promise me something.”

“My child-.”

“-Promise me and I shall help you overthrow them until my last dying breath!”

She stared for a moment before nodding. “Yes. What is it?”

Your lip quivered. “When I die, you must bind my legs with chains or ropes when you bury me. I have,” you whimpered. “I have been told of men who dig up the bodies of girls and…”

Lucilla kissed your forehead before holding you once more. “I vow I will honor your wishes.”

All you could do was believe her.

There were more times than not the Emperor Geta would talk about filling you with his seed as he bedded you. You never were able to discern if he was serious about wanting to give you a child (they would be his, not yours).

It all became too real when you didn’t bleed that month.

Yet, you also did not feel sick in the morning, and your breasts hadn’t swelled. You still had urinated on wheat seeds for several weeks, but they had not sprouted.

You weren’t with child…yet there was nothing stopping you from convincing Rome you were. It would certainly be a risk; for there was no telling how Geta would react. But that was a risk you were willing to take.

Once a week, you were allowed to go outside the palace during the day, and you had chosen then to venture out into the numerous markets. It was nice to speak with the merchants you knew from your childhood. Some were elders who would watch over you when your father was busy, others were friends who had grown up with you.

“Now what would a little empress want with commoner’s food?” A man’s low timbre voice asked behind you.

Turning your head, you saw Macrinus standing before you with a curious grin. You mirrored it. “That’s not an appropriate title for me.”

“Ah, you are correct.” He nodded. “My apologies, ‘Lady with The Golden Mouth’. Or do you prefer ‘Rome’s Delight?’.”

“You may call me whatever you wish if you’d like.” You forced a laugh and turned back to the merchant you had known since you were a babe. “I’ll take a sack of wheat and small bag of garlic, Gaius.”

“Of course, lady Julia.”

Not even a childhood friend could say your real name. A tight smile formed upon your lips when he turned to sack the wheat before you. Macrinus spoke again.

“You still didn’t answer me about why you’re exactly here.”

“I am not an empress.” You turned to him. “I am not a queen from another realm, I am not even a lady. I am a lowly whore that was fortunate enough to be chosen by the emperor. I like to keep my own schedule from before, so I am aloud to bake my own bread.”

He hummed. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Gaius handed you the sack of wheat and garlic, and you held out three silver coins. He shook his head. “No, just a copper-.”

“-Please.” Was all you said.

He hesitated, then took them from you, smiling. “May Fortuna rain a thousand blessings upon your head.”

“And unto you as well.” You curtsied and turned on your heel to leave.

Macrinus walked beside you. “How generous you are.”

“I try to be.” You decided to change the topic. “You are in charge of Hanno, are you not?”

“I certainly am, why do you ask?”

“Just out of interest.” You shrugged. “There is talk of him being similar to the one Maximus from years ago. Many admire him already and it has only been a day.”

Macrinus laughed. “It is my duty to entertain the people. I noticed though that you are more prudish of the games.”

“I must admit, I am not used to the violence.”

“A sheltered girl?”

“Ashamedly so.”

“There is no shame at all. So, it is the Numidian that has captured your affection?” He teased. “How scandalous for the young empress to fall for a slave.”

You chuckled. “Nothing of the sort, I just find him amusing.”

“Oh, I am more than happy to let you see him alone if you ever so desire. You don’t need to wander upon him at another party.”

Your carefree air fell once he asked that. “I don’t know what you-.”

“-It’s alright.” He interrupted. “There’s nothing wrong with being curious, I am only concerned for your own safety.”

You stood taller, a shy smile upon your lips. “I am capable of taking care of myself, sir.”

“Of course my lady, why else would you be out here in the streets of commoners without a chaperone?”

Purposefully, you turned onto one of the crowded piazzas where the music and laughter was the loudest. You grinned from ear to ear.

“Oh please, don’t tell me you volunteered yourself to keep me safe.”

He laughed. “No, just wanted to say hello.”

You didn’t have time to respond, as one of the performers had recognized you. Ah, a girl that lived in the house across from yours when you were children! You still remembered her name, and after you passed your belongings to Macrinus, she pulled you into the circle of performers, dancing with you.

You laughed the most you had that year; in fact, you swore your bruised your ribs just from the sheer joy you felt. You don’t know how long you danced and sang with those who were your neighbors and friends, but just as you felt your feet begin to give out, Macrinus put his hand on your shoulder.

“I believe you should go back to the palace and rest.”

Nodding, you said farewell to your companions and took the bag of wheat and garlic back from him. “You are right, thank you so much.”

He grinned. “Let me escort you back.”

“No,” you walked ahead of him. “I wish not to bother you anymore. Good day, Macrinus!”

You lost yourself in the crowd, purposefully making it harder for him to follow. Once you were in the palace, you rushed into the kitchen, holding the sack of wheat behind your back, you greeted the cooks and snuck into the small pantry. You set the sack down on a shelf and pocketed two single reeds, along with an onion.

That night, Geta had called you into his chambers. Before going, you had cut the onion and brought it to hover around your eyes. You were crying by the time you were at his door. Immediately, he took notice of your reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head, only crying more. It was less because of the onion now, and just everything coming down crashing onto your shoulders once more. Geta pulled you into his chambers by your shoulders, sitting you on the bed.

“Tell me now what is bothering you.” He commanded.

You shook your head. “I-I can’t-.”

“-Now, Julia!”

Taking a deep breath, you reached into the pocket of your breast, taking out the two reeds and setting it in his hand. He furrowed his brows.

“I do not understand.”

You took a deep breath. “The handmaids have given me wheat and barley seeds ever since I have arrived. If they grow, then that means…that means I am with child.”

The look on his face spoke it all. You were certain you were dead.

“I-I didn’t know how you would feel, and-and so I-.”

He crushed you in an embrace, attaching his lips to your jaw. “Jupiter has blessed me.”

It was the first time you felt happiness in his presence. Of course, not because of him, but still joy. You returned his embrace, sighing in relief. “You are happy?”

“Happy?” He pulled away, holding your face in his hands. “There is nothing in this world that could sadden me right now. I will have an heir.”

As long as it was a boy (if it were real at all).

You feigned your smile and leaned into his touch. “I am fortunate to give you one.”

“And I am most fortunate to have you.” He laid down and brought you with him.

Perhaps, in another life, he was kind to you and didn’t only value you until you gave him a child. Perhaps you would be in love with him, and he would make you empress

But you weren’t fortunate to be born into that fantasy.

You wished nothing more than to sit with Marcus and Lucilla as you made your way into the emperor’s booth of the Colosseum. The three of you had managed to speak to one another, but only about meaningless things. Still, you just enjoyed their company.

It would be more exciting that day. A naval battle, the Naumachia. The arena was filled with water and sea creatures you could never even possibly imagine. It was a wonder in and of itself how all the ships managed to fit themselves in the arena.

“Caracalla,” you said to the brother beside you as you were about to take your seat. He looked up upon hearing his name. You handed him the bag filled with garlic. “I finally found some for you.”

He grinned from ear to ear. “And you say that if I mix this with myrrh, I shall be cured?”

“It should treat the lesions on your skin.” You corrected. “This is what I did for my father.”

He died of the same ailment, but Caracalla didn’t ask; simply smiled. “Thank you, dear sister.”

You nodded, sitting down on the arm of Geta’s throne that would have put you in the middle of him and his brother. He wrapped his arm around you.

“You’ve been far kinder these days.” Geta pointed out.

“Perhaps that means I’ll be the most agreeable mother.” You jested, kissing his cheek.

He smirked, and as the man on the far end of the Colosseum began to announce the games, Geta stood up and rose his grail.

“I would like to propose a toast!” He yelled. The crowd fell silent, and you felt your skin crawl away from you. Geta continued. “To the health of wives and to mothers. Especially to my lover, Julia, who carries my son the moment as we speak!"

An eruption of applause and cheers filled the stadium. You blushed upon the praise, and genuinely wanted to hide yourself from the gaze of everyone; especially the ones closest to you. You could feel both Marcus and Lucilla’s eyes on you, attempting to hide their shock and perhaps horror. The worst was that of Macrinus.

He knew. Just from the look of him (or perhaps it was your own paranoia), but he had to have known from the moment you bought the wheat.

Still, they all applauded, and ones the excitement of your supposed pregnancy died down, the enthusiasm for the battle was born.

It was perhaps the one event you could stomach. While you could still clearly see men dying, it wasn’t as horribly bloody as the prior. Were you becoming numb to the cruelty of these games because you were pretending…or were you letting the game invade your head?

As several ships collided within the growing chaos, men would either die from their fellow man or would simply fall into the water and be devoured by beasts you had never seen until then. Your eyes had been following Hanno the whole time, whether purposefully or not.

Words could not describe the terror that had been brought upon you as you saw him aim his crossbow at the booth you sat in.

You did not think the arrow would pierce you, but it did. It longed into your right shoulder, and a cry you had no idea you were capable of making tore through your throat.

Tears blinded your vision, but the screams from the whole arena deafened your ears you could not even hear what Geta was saying to you.

You could barely make out Marcus’ in front of you as he snapped the body of the arrow and then hoisted you into his arms. You’d never been carried like this as a woman; only as a child by your father.

The heat of Rome felt hotter that day as the pain in your shoulder only grew tighter and tighter as if your skin was going to stretch away from you. The next thing you knew, you were laid upon a cold, solid surface, and sound returned to your ears.

“It’s alright, you’re alright.” Geta shushed, brushing your hair. “You’ll be okay.”

Someone stuck their fingers into your wounded shoulder, and you could only scream. A tender hand laid itself on your cheek, and just from touch alone, you knew it was Lucilla.

“Do not touch her!” Geta hissed, swatting her away.

“No, no!” You whined, reaching out and holding onto her.

Lucilla dropped to her knees, kissing every part of skin that was available, mumbling. “I know, I know. This too shall pass, you are stronger than you believe, my dear.”

Then, just like that, you felt the arrowhead leave your body. The pain was still excruciating beyond belief, but all that was left was for your arm to be wrapped in cloth, and to rest.

One of the guards in charge of the gladiators approached you when you were finally able to sit up.

“My lady,” he began. “did you happen to get a look at the man who shot you?”

“She’s only starting to recover!” Geta snapped. “How dare you. She carries my child, and-!”

“-It’s alright, Geta.” You soothed.

You could’ve done it. Told him with full confidence that it was Hanno. There would have been your chance of power; to kill the man who had nearly killed you.

Yet…you were vindictive and wanted to do it yourself.

“I have no memory.” You told him. “It happened so fast.”

How horrible it is that Geta would stop forcing you to pleasure him only when you were supposedly with his child and injured. You assumed that if you were suffering from only one of those ailments, than he still would’ve held you down and used you.

You thought nothing else would happen that night. You would simply speak to one another, pretending to be completely enamored by his existence, and then lie down to sleep.

Of course, that would be too peaceful.

You were awoken gently, to your surprise, by Geta shaking you. Humming, you rubbed your eyes. “What is it?”

“The general and his whore wife.” He gritted his teeth. “They planned to kill us.”

You shot right up, forgetting about your injured shoulder, and let out a cry. Geta helped you stand, and that was when you saw Caracalla standing before you, his monkey companion Dundus perching upon his shoulder.

“How-how do we know?” You stammered, not having to feign your terror.

Neither of them answered, and the three of you were led out into the throne room. There before you in their night clothes just as you were, Lucilla and Marcus.

Geta approached them first, seething. “The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you. All this you have forfeited by your treachery. Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Macrinus and Thraex your insurrection has been revealed-.”

“-Torture me if you want,” Marcus shook his head. “but please, don’t lecture me.”

Geta’s face turned almost as red as his hair. “Your name and deeds will be forgotten, lost to history! You are damned to oblivion!”

“You damn me?” He laughed. “I don’t care. Everything is forgotten in time. Empires fall… and so do Emperors.”

Caracalla rose from his seat, reaching for his brother’s sword. “Why wait? I'll gut him right now!”

Geta grabbed onto him. “Brother! Brother! His death must be public.”

“Public, yes. Hang his entrails from the city gates!” He pointed at Lucilla. “Crucify her!”

“No!”

All eyes fell on you after your outburst. Even you froze in place, feeling bile begin to rise up within you. Geta let go of Caracalla. “‘No?’ You say? What would you have me do then?”

Swallowing thickly, it was hard to speak as tears began to fall. You held your stomach. “Crucifixion is…it’s…”

His face dropped into a scowl. “You aren’t saying I should let them live, are you?”

“No-!”

“-Then which is it?!”

Your voice fell silent as your chest constricted, and you could barely breathe. Your mouth would move, but nothing came out; not even strangled noises of desperation.

“If I may, your grace,” Macrinus stepped forward. “I believe she means to bring equal punishments to the crimes committed.”

Geta furrowed his brow. “I do not know what you speak of.”

“Please, let the rest of them out of the room so I might explain more clearly.’

He considered his words, then turned to his guards. “The criminals to the dungeons, my brother to his chambers, and my love-.”

“-I wish to be alone tonight.” You stated.

The emperor scoffed. “What?”

“The babe.” You began. “I-I have helped many women deliver their children, and what has always caused an early birth is stress. I-I cannot take any-anymore of it, or I fear…”

Finally, he took in the sight of your fearful face. Sighing heavily, he said. “Put my lady in her chambers for tonight.”

“Thank you.” You kissed his hand.

You were led into your own chambers, and once the door was shut, you threw yourself onto your bed and wept. You wept until you were wailing into the night, you wept until your eyes were as red as the sun in the morning, you wept until it hurt to continue to do so…

It was unknown how long you had cried, but the opening of your bedroom door is what alarmed you. Snapping your head over in the direction, you were shocked to see Macrinus.

“The general and his wife’s fate has been decided.” He stated.

You held a pillow to your chest, rubbing your reddened nose. “And what is it?”

“The emperor has chosen to let the gods decide, and Acacius will fight against Hanno tomorrow in the arena.”

“You mean you convinced him to.” You glared.

Macrinus approached you. “May I try some of the bread you have baked, my lady?”

You held no confusion when he asked you that. Surprise, yes; but you knew what he asked. You took a deep breath. “I believe I don’t understand.”

“The wheat you bought only days ago.” He reminded. “You said you would bake your own bread. Surely, you didn’t use it as false proof of you carrying the emperor’s heir?”

You didn’t dare look at him. Even when he laid his hand on our back, rubbing circles over your nightdress. “I wish to help you, my child. You must be willing to help me first.”

That was why he also didn’t alert Geta of your betrayal…unless, he had no idea of your alliance with Marcus and Lucilla.

“What is it that you want?” You asked.

“All in time.” He soothed. “I wish to give you the privilege to speak to someone.”

You finally looked at him, your eyes wide. “General Acacius?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I am unable to escort you to the dungeons below the palace. Yet, I can take you to the pit of gladiators.”

“It is easier for you to take me out of the palace than below it?”

“Take you to the man who nearly overthrew the emperors?” He chuckled bitterly. “Not possible. I cannot grant you the gift to say goodbye, but I can allow you to bargain for his life.”

You blinked. “Hanno?”

“Correct.”

“How can I leave the palace at this hour, after what has just happened?”

“You underestimate the silence men will take when it is weighed in gold.” He tutted. “I can only give you ten minutes with him. Will you go or not?”

You were forced to decide quickly…This could be your chance. He had nearly took your life the other day, and the pain in your shoulder was just a growing reminder of that. If he were dead…there was no way you could overtake him.

Yet, you learned that, in a world of men, you didn’t have to be stronger than them: Only smarter, and faster.

“I will go.”

You had hidden a kitchen knife under your bed the moment you had your own chambers. Geta had gifted you several colorful ribbons he loved to see you wear in your hair. He perhaps did not expect you to tie one around your waist under your gown, securing the knife.

Macrinus led you swiftly from the palace to the gladiator pit, which was thankfully not a long walk. You ignored the stares and intrigued calls from the other men as you treaded the halls. You were stopped by a door. Macrinus didn’t even warn Hanno who stood shirtless in his cell, only opened the door and let you enter.

“I’ll rattle the door when it’s time.” That was all he said and left.

Hanno didn’t even seem alarmed. “And what is Rome’s Delight doing here?”

Your blood boiled upon seeing him, yet you remained calm. “I have come to make a bargain; a plea.”

That was when the puzzlement appeared on his face. “And what is that?”

“The man you will fight tomorrow, you must spare him.”

“Why should I?”

Your grief and despair had made itself known to everyone around you for the past few days; yet, in that cell, only with Hanno as your witness, did he see your rage.

“He is the one who saved my life when you meant to steal it!”

The only change you saw in him was his jaw clenching. Other than that, nothing. “The general?”

You only nodded.

He sighed, brushing past you and shaking the door. “Macrinus!”

“What are you doing?” You hissed.

“I will not have you waste your breath on that man.”

“I will give you anything you desire.”

Hanno faced you. “Then you can deliver his head on a platter for me.”

You gawked as he walked away. “What have I ever done to you?”

“What?”

“Do you truly hate me that much?!” You turned back to him, getting closer. “Kill the man that is the reason I am still here?”

The last thing you thought you would hear left his lips: A laugh. No, not a genuine one. One that you yourself have released on multiple occasions when you have been in disbelief.

“You truly believe everything that happens is because of you?” He taunted. “Has the emperor been filling your mind with so many delusions of grandeur, you can no longer conceive a world where you are not the center of it?”

“Is it so difficult for you to answer my question because you are a fool, or because you wish to not admit it?” You hardened your tone.

“What is your question, my empress?”

“Why did you shoot me?!”

“The arrow was not meant for you!”

You felt your shoulders drop upon the confession. Your aggression ceased only because of your bewilderment.

“Then who?” You asked.

He backed away. “The general you so wish to defend.”

“Whatever it is that he has done, it can be solved with-.”

“-He murdered my wife.”

Hanno said it so easily. No pain, no rage, nothing. It was a fact, and that was what he wanted you to know.

And how stupid you had been. No one in all of Rome was pure of heart; including Marcus. He was a war general; how could you think he wouldn’t have committed sins against the innocent?

“Why so silent, my lady?” He asked. “Are you in disbelief that he has enemies?”

“I didn’t know that.” You admitted.

“That the general is too a monster, or that he killed the only thing in my life worth living for?”

“And that is your desire?” You prodded. “Take his life so that he may die knowing his wife will be ravaged by wolves?”

When he charged at you, you barely had enough time to reach in your dress and unsheathe your knife. Hanno stopped himself just in time for the tip to kiss his chest. Nothing to cause any more harm than a scratch.

Even though you were not the one hurt, you breathed as if you were. He stared down at you as you shrunk under his gaze, and the two of you remained frozen. That is, until he grabbed both your wrists, and rose them above your head.

“I am only merciful because the general still breathes.” He spoke so only you could hear. “If your bastard of a lover had put him to the sword this night you chose to visit me, you would be dead before you could scream.”

Your nose was an inch from his, that was how close he stood to you. His breath caressed your skin, and you turned away in disgust. He let go of your empty wrist, yet still held the one with the dagger.

“Did you believe you could kill me tonight?” He asked, yet you said nothing. Hanno then brought the dagger to his breastbone, angling it upward. “Do not stab head on; stab up.”

Silence and an iron gaze was your reply.

He then hovered it to the pulse point of his neck. “If you want a quick death, right here; with a thinner blade, preferably.”

Then, he placed the tip just above his brow. “If you need information out of a rat, and you have the stomach to do so, drag it across. It will make the mightiest of men cry like a child in the night.”

“You are clever and a skilled warrior,” you finally said. “what is it you want me to tell you?”

“That you will leave it up to the gods and to me if your general lives or not.”

“But I cannot.” You dared to dig the blade just a little into his skin, and his breath hitched. “My desire for him to live is stronger than for you to die.”

Hanno finally let go of your wrist, and you immediately retracted the knife from his brow. “So do you wish to try again to kill me?”

“I wish for you to show mercy.”

“Mercy?” He questioned. “Mercy upon the man who pillaged my home and killed my wife? Mercy for the one who has made me a slave?”

“I too am a slave and-.”

“-And?!” He cried. “And there is nothing! You are draped in silks whilst I in chains and are bathed in clear waters while I in blood, yet you say we are the same?!”

You swallowed your anger, knowing it would bring you nowhere. “You entertain the horrid creatures of Rome; I am forced to pleasure the emperor. We perform differently, but we are still slaves.”

“You are with child.” He stated. “Will that child also be a slave though the emperor is quick to claim it is his heir?”

The crackling of the torches in the room only added to the fire th in your soul. If not contained correctly, you would surely burn and take him with you.

“A child…yes.” You relaxed, folding your hands. “A child that I could command to be Geta’s. Perhaps, if I wanted to have the brothers slaughter one another, I could say it belongs to Caracalla. Or, if I despised you anymore than I do at this moment…I could say that it is yours.”

Hanno’s eyes dropped in recognition, saying softly. “You carry an empty womb.”

You nodded. “It is the same as your honor.”

Moments later, the door behind you rattled, and Macrinus spoke even when you didn’t. “The time is up, my little empress.”

You bowed your head to Hanno, curtsying. “Sleep well.”

He said nothing in reply, and you turned on our heel, leaving the cell. You pulled your hood back over your head as Macrinus led you through the darkened streets of the city.

“Did you get what you came for?” He asked.

“No.” Was your immediate reply. “And I do not know truly what I wanted.”

The day was as blistering hot as the others, yet the stare Lucilla gave you as she was being led into the emperor’s viewing box made your blood turn to ice. There was not a hint of wrath upon her face; there was nothing at all.

She already looked as if her soul had been stolen.

“How does your shoulder fair, dear sister?” Caracalla brushed his fingers over your arm.

A watery smile was upon your lips like second nature. “It still aches, but it heals, thank the gods. And your overall health?”

He sighed. “I do not know how much longer I have upon this earth.”

“Do not say such things.” You squeeze his hands. “If the gods will it, you shall live for another hundred years.”

He kissed your hands that held his. “I hope so, my love.”

Your grin fell upon the title, and Geta immediately sat you down on the chair behind him that was beside Lucilla’s. He gave an apologetic look.

“He only grows more confused by the day.” He caressed your cheek. “You are well?”

You were far from it, but you could not say that. “Your son feels better now.”

Geta smiled, lowering his head down to kiss your womb. “He will need all his strength.”

The announcer on the other side of the arena yelled to gain everyone’s attention. “From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of three contests in the Colosseum, the barbarian Hanno!”

You watched as he ran up from the pit, sword in hand. On the other side, you watched at they brought in Marcus. You could barely look at his already beaten figure. The announcer continued. “Will challenge General Marcus Acacius for his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the enemy of the State!”

The two approached one another on the sandy field. Even from where you sat, so close to them, you could barely make out the look in their eyes. You assumed their was hatred, but your own eyes must have deceived you, because you swore you saw a hint of regret within Marcus’ own gaze.

You blinked and the battle between the two had begun. It was a different level of insanity at how they fought. Marcus was decades older than Hanno, and yet, there were moments where the Numidian had to keep up with him.

Than, the roles would be reversed.

Blood stained the floor of the Colosseum as they fought. Then, when all feel silent between them, and Marcus could barely stand, his lips moved as he spoke to Hanno, then raised his hand.

He yielded.

The patrons of the arena began to mumble amongst themselves, growing louder and louder. Geta rose to his feet. “Romans! What say you?”

In an instant, choruses begging him to be spared overpowered the few that wanted him to be killed. Geta shut his eyes, raising his hand, and they were silenced.

“The gods have rendered their judgement.”

His thumb pointed downward, and the crowd erupted in dissent. Your heart was forcing itself to beat out of your chest as you could only stare at the sight of Hanno glaring down at the general before him.

He tossed his sword to the side.

You hadn’t even noticed Caracalla stood until you heard him yell. “Kill him, kill him!” Like an angered child.

“Is this how Rome treats its heroes?!” Hanno shouted, staring at the audience all around him and pointing his sword. “If his life has no value, what are yours worth?”

Geta stepped up onto the barrier, balancing between the viewing box and a fifteen-foot drop into the arena. He held his arms out to his side, his sleeves dropping to the ground, and his pale face was red. “The gods have spoken! Kill him!”

From all sides of the stadium, hundreds of archers aimed their bows at the center of the battleground. Yet, none fired. Caracalla jeered.

“In the name of Jupiter, kill him!”

The arrows were released, and they screamed like none other as they fired into the center. As they pierced Marcus’ body, you did not know you had been wailing in fright until Geta had slapped you.

“You mewling cunt!” He cursed. “You wish to weep over the man who nearly had you killed?”

Blood fell upon your tongue from your bruised lip, and you did not dare to look at him nor Lucilla.

“Death will be too good for you!” She cried with all of her heart.

The noise from the crowd died as if the people themselves had done so. Then, just like the confused murmurs when Marcus yielded, the same began to grow and grow into a call of rebellion.

It was all in your ears. Lucilla’s weeping, the curses from the crowd, the panic of the emperors…but you stood absolutely still.

With hooded eyes, they drifted up to see that Geta stood just on the edge of the barrier, his back turned to you. Your gaze fell to the ground below you, and it was only then you realized how high up you truly were.

You do not know who or what willed you to, but you then looked at Hanno still the center, covered in blood. As if he knew what you would do, he shook his head.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Macrinus grabbed your arm roughly when you took one step towards Geta.

The emperors turned to him upon his appearance, and Macrinus loosened his grip on you before saying. “For our safety’s sake, we should leave.”

“Yes.” Geta stepped down, wrapping his arms around you. “We should.”

You never knew there was a safe house in Rome until you were forced into it. Perhaps that was the reason for it being a safe house, so that no one knew of it. Yet, apparently, almost all of the roman citizens found it that night. Or, they were simply rioting wherever a free patch of land was.

The cries played in your ears despite them being behind heavy walls of the safe house, and you dared not to peek out the windows as the several fires would temporarily blind you. In the house was you, Macrinus, Dondus (Caracalla’s pet monkey, although he’d call him his other half), and the twin emperors.

“How is the babe?” Geta asked as you sat with your head hanging low.

Of course he would ask that. You didn’t look at him. “He is in fear for his life.”

“I understand,” he sighed. “but there-.”

“-But what?” You finally looked at him, hissing. “Chaos has fallen upon the city because of your actions.”

“There was nothing else to do.” Geta glared at you. “He and his bitch were plotting to kill us! If I’d let him live-.”

“-Don’t you hear them?” Caracalla cried out from his seat, holding Dondus. “They’re calling for our heads! She is right, you brought this upon us!”

Geta placed his hands on him. “Calm yourself, brother. The Praetorians will put down this crowd like they have others-.” The money upon Caracalla’s shoulder chirped out in anxiousness from the people outside. “Keep the ape still!”

“Beware of how you speak to Dondus!” His brother berated.

“Perhaps,” Macrinus finally intervened. “you should take Dondus and Julia elsewhere. The noise outside is too much for them; you should comfort one another someplace quieter.”

Caracalla nodded, gathering up Dondus and moving to help you stand, but Macrinus reached his hand out first. You took it, and as you stood, he said into your ear.

“I will find you on the right side of the hall.”

This was not the time nor place for riddles, but you could not react in any sort of way. You looped our arm through Caracalla’s and walked out of the room, hoping to find somewhere quieter.

“I’m afraid,” you confided in him, truthfully.

“I am as well.” Was all he could say.

You stopped in the middle of the hall once he found an open door. “I…I need time with my own thoughts. Please.”

He nodded, cradling Dondus closer to his chest before entering the room, shutting the door tightly. Within the minute, you watched as Macrinus approached you from the other side of the hall.

You spat. “What do you want?”

“I know I stole your moment of vengeance, and for that, I apologize.” He stood before you. “But let me make it up to you.”

“How could you possibly?”

From his cloak, he brandished a knife, holding the handle out to you. You took it without hesitation, yet question was still upon your face. “I do it myself?”

“You could,” he shrugged. “or, you could have his own brother do so.”

“Caracalla? He is senile.”

“Then I have a proposition for you.” Macrinus pointed to the door Caracalla was behind. “Convince him that Geta will destroy all of you if he is not disposed of. Convince him that, as the new emperor of Rome, he will need more trusting subjects. I shall be his second in command, and you shall be free.”

You furrowed your brow. “Who shall be first?”

“The monkey.” He smirked. “Do you believe he would put me above him?”

It sounded so simple; too simple. Yet, as the crowd began to die down, and you could no longer hear their protests from outside, the quietness brought to you what you had always known: You would never be your own person again so long as Geta breathed.

You held the dagger to your heart, saluting him. “I shall do my duty.”

He nodded. “May the gods be with you when you do, Brutus.”

An insult to most, and while it shocked you, you took it in stride as you stood outside the door. You made yourself look smaller, more afraid, and hid the dagger within your cloak as you entered the room.

There, sitting upon the floor, was Caracalla and Dondus. Like a scared child, he held the monkey close to him, grooming one another as if it was the only thing to bring comfort.

“Caracalla?” You whispered.

He stared up at you, and you noticed he had been crying. Immediately, you sat before him, bringing him into your arms.

“Nothing was ever mine.” He cried, embracing you. “Everything was ‘ours’, always. Even in the womb, he gripped the umbilicus in his tiny fist to deprive me of air.”

“He did?”

“Certainly, one cannot forget.”

You pulled away only to hold his face tenderly in your hands. “You must listen to me, for what I tell you is dire. Your brother wishes to blame you before the Senate; for what happened, for the chaos in the streets-.”

“-That is a lie!” He tore himself from you. “I didn’t do it!”

“I know that, but they don’t. No testimony is more damning than that of a brother against another.”

“He lies! He always lies!” He sobbed.

“He’s very persuasive.”

“What will they do to me?”

“I don’t dare imagine, but…gods above, I don’t wish to know what they will do to Dondus.”

His jaw quivered with the rest of his body. “What-what shall we do?"

You sighed. “I…I have a proposition, but it is most outrageous and-.”

“-Julia,” he begged, grabbing your hands. “dear, sweet sister, please tell me.”

Breath shuttering, you reached into your cloak and held the blade out to him. “Slay your brother tonight. You shall be crowned the sole emperor of Rome when morning comes, and Dondus, the child I carry, and I will be safe.'

He took it, yet still had that look of terror. “This…It has always been he who led everything. I do not know who to trust or-or who to command.”

“Then let me-.” You stopped yourself, eyeing the monkey that lay at his legs. You held your hand out to him, and Dondus climbed into your arms. “Let us help you. Claim Dondus as your first in command, and I your second.”

You wished the same as Lucilla and Marcus; to have Rome be a free empire. Yet, you would have to free Lucilla yourself before that happened.

Caracalla nodded yet said. “You-you are with child. You will become delirious as time progresses.”

And he was the epitome of having a clear mind.

“I will need a third.” He settled.

You shook your head. “That has never been done before-.”

“-I will be emperor!” He screamed. “If it is to be done, it shall be done!”

Raising your hands in surrender, you pleaded. “It shall, it shall! For a third…Macrinus. He has been loyal and informed us of the general’s betrayal.”

“Yes, yes Macrinus will do.” He grabbed your face and pressed his lips against yours. It didn’t even truly feel like a kiss, yet it shocked you nonetheless. “You are the wisest woman I have ever met, dear sister.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. With that, he stood on his feet and left the room. IT would have been easy to stay in there and wait for his return…

Yet, you wanted to be the last thing Emperor Geta saw.

No fear toiled within your body as you approached the throne room, not even when you hear the cries that you knew belonged to Geta. You walked through the doors, watching as Geta held his hands up in fear, begging his brother to spare his life as he was forced onto his knees, trying to stop the knife in Caracalla’s hand.

“I love you!” Geta squealed, staring up at him through tears “You are my brother, I love you!”

You moved to stand behind the younger twin, glaring at the man before you. Geta’s eyes dropped in relief.

“My love, my love, please help me!”

There was nothing uncertain about how you grabbed Caracalla’s hand that held the dagger. With eyes unblinking, you guided the blade into Geta’s throat, pushing it further and further as blood drained from his mouth.

The emperor was dead, and you would sleep like a child once more that night.

There was something inside of you when you awoke that morning. Not the child you had lied to all of Rome about; it felt like a parasite. You threw up an hour after you woke up, but when you checked with the healers, they said that there was nothing ailing you.

Was it…guilt? No, no it could not be.

Was it possible to feel guilt for the act of killing someone, but not feeling it for who was killed?

You had no time to debate these issues as if you were a philosopher.

Dressed in your finest silks, you made way into the room where the hundreds of senators met, carrying a hefty sack beside you. You sat in a chair next to Macrinus.

“You have done well.” He said softly.

You smiled. “Only because of you.”

Your gaze turned to Caracalla, who sat in one of the two thrones that were there for him and Geta. He looked like the worst you had ever seen him be. A blood rag had been placed at his feet.

“Now I am the only one.” He began, voice low. “I was the true us, and he was the false me. We were always ‘we,’ all our lives, but now I am only I, me, alone.”

The senators look at one another in silent terror. The only ones to not feel fear were you and Macrinus.

Caracalla continued. “My hand held the blade, but my father’s hand guided mine. I was the puppet, dancing on his string. As Emperor, I have convened the Senate to appoint my First Consul and bestow upon him the power to administer the military and civic functions of the Empire.”

He tossed his hand to the second thrown, revealing his fury companion. “I name Citizen Dondus!”

Where the senators were beyond terrified, they were now confused. Macrinus was the first to rise, applauding. “Hail Dondus!”

You repeated his sentiment, clapping with vigor. Caracalla and the rest of the mortified senators applauded all repeating ‘Hail Dondus!’.

Once the excitement died down, Caracalla resumed. “As is custom, I am naming a Second Consul to advise the First and to assure his integrity. Though you will find that Dondus is incorruptible! As Second Consul, I name…”

Macrinus took one step forward.

“The mother of the future heir to the throne, Julia!”

All eyes fell upon you, standing taller than you ever had done in your life. How strange it was though, that the same reaction to a monkey being assigned first in command, was to you, a woman.

Utter silence, until Caracalla applauded enthusiastically. Like sheep, the senators followed; all but Macrinus.

“Yet, as mother to the heir,” the emperor said after finishing. “it is apparent she shall be incompetent for majority of her advising. So, for the first time in the history of Rome, I name Citizen Macrinus as my third!”

Even with this third twist in a counsel, the senators seemed more so relieved at the decision. Macrinus did not smile or even acknowledge the honor, simply stared ahead. Caracalla gathered Dondus in his arms.

“There will be a triumphal parade to celebrate. There will be games and mass executions! Long live the Empire!”

“Long live the Emperor!” You and the senators all yelled.

The Emperor Caracalla carried the First Consul Dondus sweepingly out of the hall, to the Senate’s terrified silence. You picked up the sack that had been beside you this whole time, then making your way to the center of the room.

You opened the sack, and out fell Geta’s decapitated head. The Senate gasped and gagged at the sight of the former emperor’s head. You almost felt sorry for the horror they felt that whole time. Yet, there horror is what would bring you fortune.

“This is what befell your emperor.” You pointed to the head at your feet. “He was slaughtered by the one who shared a womb with him. Tell me, senators, is this who we must trust to maintain the greatness of the Roman Empire?”

They did not glance at one another in uncertainty; no, no they were listening to you.

You continued, your heart stammering. “I am not the one who will stand with you for the rest of my days, it is the son I carry within me. And if it is my son who will become emperor, then there must still be an empire for him once he is born. Hysteria has poisoned the streets for decades now, it is time to put an end to it!”

Murmurs and nods of approval began to echo amongst the counsel.

“Every single one of Rome’s children matters; from the beggars to the emperor himself. If one falls, so shall the rest of the Empire. I have walked beside the lay people of the city, and they feel betrayed by the former emperor for the murder of their beloved general. To right this wrong, I call for the release of Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.”

Not one of the hundreds of senators made a sound. Deep within you, you knew that there wouldn’t be much rejoicing over Lucilla’s freedom, but you still had to try.

“The people adored her for far longer than they adored the general!” You pleaded. “If we kill her only for the amusement of the elites, then the children of Rome-!”

“-Shall live.”

You turned to Macrinus, who finally stepped all the way forward.

“Forgive me,” He bowed mockingly. “my lady, but for a woman complimented to have a golden mouth, you have no idea what you are saying.”

A few of the senators chuckled.

“You wish to free the woman who mean to have you, and the emperors killed?” He questioned.

You refuted. “I wish to show the world that Rome is capable of forgiveness.”

“A desire so foolish, only the emperor’s favorite whore could have it.”

“Another word of slander out of your mouth, and I will have your tongue removed!” You stood toe-to-toe with him.

He grinned like the devil, and just from your outburst alone, no matter how warranted it had been, he had you. Macrinus stepped away, looking around at the senators.

“Me thinks the little girl believes she is Marcus Aurelius himself born again.” He straightened his tone. “What say you, senators? All in favor of releasing a traitor to the Empire, speak.”

Not one of them said ‘aye’. If you weren’t under a sheer amount of duress, you would’ve seen perhaps a few faces of inner turmoil, debating on calling for Lucilla’s release.

Yet, no one said a word because they shared the one thing that will contribute to the death of humanity: Cowardice.

Macrinus tutted. “Now, dear Julia and I happen to have, through good fortune and not a little skill, the remaining emperor’s ear. We can speak reason in it and tame the madness in the street. Yet, I will leave the domestic work of calming the emperor to his second in command. As for myself, to restore order to Rome, I will need power over the affairs of the state. Including command of the Praetorian Guard. The decision is in your hands. Ballot or hand?”

One hand rose immediately. Another followed, then ten, then thirty, and then, all of them. He provided no evidence for his cause…yet there was a unanimous decision.

Macrinus held his hand out to you, and you could only stare up at him in question.

“I believe we shall take the seats that are rightfully ours.” He said lowly.

Carefully, you slipped your hand into his, and he led you up the stairs to sit upon the chair that belonged to Geta, while he took Caracalla’s.

This would be the first and the last time a woman ever sat upon the emperor’s throne.

After being embarrassed that morning, you paced around your chambers. Perhaps you could have found Caracalla and gave him the same reasonings the senate did not listen to. Perhaps he could somehow see to the logic that would be in setting Lucilla free.

No, of course he wouldn’t. Even if his mind was sound, he still knew she was apart of the coup to try and have him dethroned; killed in his mind’s eye.

As your mind grew heavy with existential possibilities towards the future, the door to your chambers opened. Stopping where you stood, you watched as Macrinus entered.

“Now, try to make me understand this," he shook his head. "I let you have your vengeance on the man who used you as a slave, I promised you freedom, and yet you wasted it.”

You clenched your jaw. "How dare you-."

“-How dare I?” He tensed his voice. “How dare I keep silent about your lie? How dare I give you the privilege to take your revenge? I have saved you more than you believe I have harmed you, lady Julia."

The name had always bothered you, but with one emperor dead and the other incapacitated, you assumed it would stop.

Now, it only enraged you more; or perhaps that was just because it was Macrinus saying it.

You glared. “It was your own mistake to believe you were the only one who desired power.”

He took a deep breath, then moving to sit on your bed. “Sit beside me, Rome’s Delight; I have a story to tell you.”

“I am not a child, you may tell me in short.”

“You are not the only slave wishing to be free.” He pulled back the collar of his clothing, revealing a branded ‘M.A’ “You are lucky enough to not carry your master’s mark, but were a slave nonetheless. Marcus Aurelius spoke of peace while still using violence against those who served him.”

Swallowing your pride thickly, you said. “I’m sorry.”

“You have learned now, that is all that matters.”

“But Lucilla will still be dead.” You tried to keep your voice steady. “She wanted the emperors to be gone as much as you, but she will-."

“-Her father enslaved me.”

“Her father is dead; and if taking his empire wasn’t enough, than killing his last child will satisfy you?"

Macrinus clutched your arm, fingers tightening with every word. “I would be careful with how you speak to me. I wish to offer you one last ounce of kindness before I regret it. Now tell me, Brutus, will you accept me as Rome’s new emperor?”

You had all the right to say it was Caracalla, but you thought better of it. So, with the softening of your entire person, you nodded. “I accept you.”

He dropped your arm. “I’ll let you say goodbye this time.”

Macrinus led you down into the dungeons of the palace, and he was right; somehow it was more heavily guarded than the gladiator pit. Even when the worst of the worst prisoners sneered or jeered at you, your sorrow and anger could not stir your fear.

The door to one of the cells was open, and you ran in just as Lucilla turned to see you.

“Five minutes.” Was all Macrinus said before locking the door and leaving.

You embraced one another when he left. Neither of you said anything, just clung to each other as if the world itself would tear you apart.

“Forgive me, mother Lucilla.” You choked up.

Lucilla pulled away, taking your face into her hands. “Sweet child, there is nothing to forgive.”

“I failed you.” The tears finally came. “I was right there in the senate’s room, I-I told them the chaos that would befell Rome if-.”

“-You were in the senate’s room?” She sounded as if her breath had been stolen.

You nodded. “Yes, but they wouldn’t listen!”

“My dear girl,” she smiled. “if you were able to even get half a sentence in, than they listened! My father but sixteen years ago said that it was a shame I had been born a women, for I would have been a magnificent emperor. Yet, here you stand; you who had been once a slave, rose above into having a sear in the senate council.”

Still, no matter how much pride she held, your own shame outweighed it. “I still have failed you.”

“I have already accepted my fate.” She whispered. “I must take care of those who matter to me before I leave this earth.”

“Do not say such things!” You cried. “I’ll still find a way to save you.”

“Hanno is my son.”

You expected her to deny your attempts at rescuing her, you even expected her to coddle you, curse you…but this?

“What?” You uttered.

“He is Lucius Verus Aurulius,” she said gently. “second of his name, but the first son of Maximus Decimus Meridius.”

“The-the gladiator?” Was somehow the first question you asked.

“Yes.” She nodded. “Lucius didn’t run away, I sent him. With him as heir to the empire, I know many would not rest until he was dead. How was he to fight for a claim he knew nothing about? Now, he is here; and I am no longer frightened of dying.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to!”

She shushed you, combing her fingers through your hair. “I can speak to you until the earth is burnt by the sun of how I have made peace, but I know that will not work. So, I have two final requests for you.”

“Anything.”

Lucilla walked to the small desk she had in her cell, then picking up a scroll loosely wrapped in twine. She handed it to you. “My first is to give this to my son before tomorrow. It…explains a great deal of things I do not have the time to say to him.”

You took it, holding it to your heart. “And the second?”

She smiled, wrapping her arms around you and kissing the side of your head. “To take care of him as I intend him to take care of you.”

It was not the first time that day your eyes had grown. “He despises me.”

“If the gods are merciful, then I truly believe you will both come to see eye to eye as the only two who remain.”

“I nearly killed him.” You admitted. “The night before his duel with Acacius, I brought a knife with me and stabbed him; well…not enough to harm him.”

Lucilla shook her head, giggling. “He will need someone who disagrees with him.”

You found yourself laughing along with her, even through your sobs. She pulled away from you, wiping your tears. “He is a good man. He may deny it but believe me when I tell you.”

“I trust you.” You nodded.

She took a deep breath. “I will be with you, even when I’m gone.”

“I…I know.”

“Now go before I beg you to stay.”

You forced yourself away from her before you could change your mind. You could not even look at her as you left her cell and went up the hall. Just in time, you remembered to hide the scroll as Macrinus approached you.

“Leaving so soon?” He asked.

Sighing, you said. “She’s…inconsolable. I couldn’t bear another moment with her.”

Macrinus nodded. “You should rest for the remainder of the day. It has been quite exhausting.”

“Yes,” you agreed. “it certainly has.”

It was the first time that night you were forced to sneak out of the palace on your own. Fortunately, you remembered the route you took to the Gladiator pit and managed to dodge any of the guards on patrol that night.

The pit proved to be more difficult as the overseers of it had less space to watch over, yet you still somehow managed to maneuver them.

Perhaps the gods were on your side.

“Hanno.” You whispered once you found his cell.

The man turned over his shoulder once he heard your voice and approached with a scowl. “What are you doing here?”

You wasted no time, holding out the scroll. “Your mother told me to give you this.”

He paused for only half a beat. “My mother died when-.”

“-Your mother is Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.” You whispered fiercely. “And you are Lucius, the lost son.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours as he reached down to the latch of the door, and cracked it opened. “Get inside.”

Though you wished to, you didn’t question how he had unlocked it and only walked in. He shut the door tightly, then took the scroll from you. You stood there as he unraveled it to read. His face changed every few seconds, ranging from distress to downright confusion. When he was finished, he looked at you.

“She gave this to you?” You nodded. “Why?”

“I was allowed to say goodbye to her.”

“From Macrinus?” He tested. “Was this before or after you attempted to steal his power?”

“I was cruel to you.” You admitted. “Even after discovering Acacius had pillaged your home and murdered your wife, I expected you to show mercy. I am astounded you did, but as I look back, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t. My desire for the general to live extends to your mother; if not more. She did not give up my name at any moment despite the fact I too was apart of the coup to try and overthrow the emperors. I cannot simply let her die.”

Lucius stared at you, his gaze intimidating yet at ease. He approached you. “You wish to save her life?”

“More than anything.”

“It is a rumor that Macrinus was the one to puppeteer Caracalla in slaying his brother. But…it wasn’t him, was it?”

Breathing deeply, you looked at the floor. “It was I.”

“Look at me.” He commanded softly, and you did. “Would you kill again if it meant protecting her?”

Your mind said ‘yes’ without a moment’s hesitation, but your heart only sunk into your stomach at the thought. It must have been apparent on your face, for he said.

“There is no shame if you are unable to.”

“I will be with him in the emperor’s box.” You said, determination in your eyes. “I will simply need you to buy me time in the arena. It shall be done.”

Lucius nodded, and released along breath before saying. "I treated you harshly. I...I don't believe I would have survived what you have been put through."

You picked at your fingers. "I think you would have."

"No." He solidified. "I wouldn't."

A silence fell between the two of you. There wasn't a hint of discomfort; as if, for the first time, you felt seen.

“You never told me your name.” Lucius uttered.

You pressed your lips together, shrugging. “It was never important.”

“It has been,” he said. “and it is now. You know my true name, if I am to understand you as how my mother wishes I do, then I must know yours.”

Your mouth parted to speak the first syllable, but even that had felt foreign. You instead lied. “I do not remember it.”

As he looked at you, the steely gaze you always knew began to disappear. “You must remember how it sounded from your mother’s mouth.”

“She died before she could hold me.”

“Then your father.” He walked closer to you, yet you felt no fear. “It does not matter if he was wretched or kind, he spoke your name and your name alone. What did it sound like?”

Like he loved you. Even when he was cross, he never raised his voice. You hated more than ever how tears started to build within your eyes.

“Geta had beaten me until I could no longer use it.” you confessed. “It will feel like poison upon my lips.”

“Then whisper it to me so you will scarcely have to move them.”

You had been lain down on a bed and had every bit of a man touch and invade your body. Even before the emperor, you had lain with people in the past of your choosing…

But none of that amounted to the intimacy you felt in that cell as Lucius stood nearly chest-to-chest with you, hovering his ear over your mouth as you finally (finally) spoke your name aloud.

If the heat of his body lingering over yours did not set your entire being aflame, it was the breath he released once he said.

“It’s a kind name.”

It was all too much for you, so you pulled away from him, drying your eyes. “I…I will pray for your safety.”

He outheld his hand to you. “Strength and honor.”

A saying you had overheard people use as they entered the stadium. You shook his hand. “Strength and honor.”

You didn’t expect to be in the parade Caracalla raved about the day prior. Yet, there you were, draped in the finest and most colorful silks with jewelry in your hair. Inside your sleeve, you’d hidden the same kitchen knife you attempted to stab Lucius with.

You were sat beside Caracalla, who had Dundus upon his shoulder, and who had only grown more delusional since the day prior.

“Where is my brother?” He pulled on your sleeve like a child as you were escorted from the float and into the Colosseum.

A watery smiled pulled upon your lips, and you soothed him. “He feels most unwell today.”

“He should be here.” He sulked as you walked. “He would be happy for me.”

“And he is.” You lied. “You will see him again shortly.”

That managed to ease him, and you both were seated in the emperor’s box with Macrinus. It didn’t escape your vision how hundreds of Praetorians also circled the entire arena. As the time to the match grew closer, you did your best to calm your own nerves. This would be for the good of Rome. Once it was done, you would be able to rest easily again.

It was then you watched as, on one side of the Colosseum, a wagon was rolled out into the center of it. Tied to a pole, dressed up as if she were Venus herself, was Lucilla. All that attempt at soothing yourself was gone once you saw her eyes.

“Must we kill Lucilla?” Caracalla questioned.

You couldn’t even snidely repeat his question to Macrinus you were in such a state of anxiety. Macrinus responded.

“Until she is dead, you will never know peace.”

Thus, the event commenced. The announcer himself even sounded guilt-ridden as he spoke of the crimes Lucilla was being charged with. Treason, betrayal, all of it only anguished the spectators even more to see her being prepared for execution.

“Let it not be said that the Emperor is not merciful!” He yelled. “The queen will be granted a champion to defend her!”

Out from the other side of the arena came Lucius. Half of the Praetorians held their weapons to the man, while the other half faced the civilians as if expecting them to riot. Once again, at the sight of the scene before them, it would not surprise you.

You had been taught one a many myths by your father, mainly belonging to the Greeks. You were Cassandra; blessed by Apollo to speak of prophecies but cursed to not be believed.

When it seemed that hope was gone…Lucius rose his sword, and hundreds of gladiators sprinted from all sides.

The crowd and Caracalla were in an uproar at the excitement. Pandemonium ensued as the gladiators began to climb the barriers and civilians were attempting to enter the arena. The sound of arrows screaming entered your ears; so much so you could not hear what Macrinus was saying to another man, and why Caracalla was screaming.

You simply blinked, and once your eyes were open, you watched as Macrinus dove a needle into the side of Caracalla’s neck, killing him.

Only a gasp tore through your throat, having no ability to scream. Your body soon found reason to move, and you rose to your feet, remembering your duty. Macrinus had acquired a crossbow, aiming it towards Lucilla and Lucius now at the center of the arena.

You rose the knife from your sleeve, charging towards the man. The arrow was fired, and you leapt upon his shoulders.

He moved wildly, trying to force you off of him. You made attempt to slash his throat, but it made contact with his eye instead.

Still…he overpowered you. Flipping you over him, you dropped down into the arena, your head colliding with the ground.

The sky was orange above you when you opened your eyes. Your head had never felt so awful before, and you were surprised you could even sit up. All around you, bodies littered the Colosseum floor. If there was not blood laid before you, there were swords and shields.

Your eyes drifted to the center, and now sunken to the floor, was Lucilla on her wagon. You forced yourself to stand and walk towards her.

When you could see the arrow sticking in her chest, you began to run.

Climbing atop the wagon, you untied the ropes around her hurriedly.

“Mother,” you begged. “mother, can you hear me?”

“I am still here, sweet child.” She whispered weakly.

“Save your energy now.” You managed to free her, and then pulled her to your lap.

“I will be seeing my beloveds now.” She smiled.

“No,” you hissed. “you are going to live.”

She reassured. “It is alright. I have fulfilled everything that was asked of me, and what I wished for.”

“Mother-!”

“-You will look after him, won’t you?”

You wanted to cry; you wished that sadness was the first thing you felt. But no, it was anger. Still, you nodded. “I will, but you will be there to make sure he takes care of me too!”

“He shall.” Was all she said.

“You will live, just please stop talking.”

“I love you.”

“Lucilla…” Your voice broke.

“Tell Lucius I would do this all again for him.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Lucilla rose her hand to your cheek, brushing it tenderly one last time.

Her eyes were held open as she went limp in your arms. You closed her eyelids, knowing her gaze would haunt you.

You did not move for the first hour, nor did you cry out in despair. It was when the sun was completely gone, and you tore yourself away from her corpse did you collapse into a fit of sobs.

The ugliest sounds were released from your mouth as you could barely stand. You do not know how long you cried, but when you could finally move again, you crawled to the nearest sword, and trailed it behind you before climbing back up onto the wagon.

You tied the rope from her body around her legs, and brought her back into your lap, sword in hand.

There was no rest for you that night. You would nearly drift off into sleep, but you couldn’t bring yourself to give in until you could bury her properly. You also couldn’t bring yourself to bury her at the same time.

When you had lost time altogether, and the sky was purple as dawn broke, a gentle hand shook you.

Raising the sword in surprise, you felt your body relax once you saw Lucius. You should have asked how he survived, what happened to Macrinus, anything else…but all you said was.

“I wouldn’t let anyone touch her.”

He nodded, tears threatening to fall as he gazed upon his dead mother. He took a deep breath. “May I take her?”

You handed her to him, and he took her into his arms. You scooted off the wagon, your eyes reddened and exhausted.

“Where,” you cleared your throat. “Where should she be buried?”

“I…” He heaved. “I know where my father’s grave is.”empt

“Okay.” Was all you managed.

And you walked by his side, neither of you knowing what your fate would befall in Rome.

Yet…once both slaves, you were now free.

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