#it felt freeing. like she could be herself again. without the weight that jonathan put on her

[biillys]

was rereading a doc i had (titled christmas!!!!!!!!!) of neil inviting billy back home for christmas after not speaking with him for years cos billy told him he was fucking a dude in a going steady kinda way, but then neil had some health scares (cancer) and susan missed the kids, so next thing u know, neil's begrudgingly on the phone, gritting out a 'we're having christmas day here. if u care. sure. ur fag boyfriend can come too.' and then was like. well what happens BEFORE all that.

and for some reason my brain decided it was gonna be billysteeve but make it shitty. anyway.

steve cheating on billy becos i can. and i love to give billy attention in the form of everyone else.

anyway. warning for cheating and steve//nancy ??? is that a warning?

billy hears them before he sees them, but still can’t stop himself from walking up the stairs and pushing their bedroom door open anyway.

meets the sight of nancy fucking wheeler’s bare back sitting upright on his bed, steve's voice carrying from somewhere underneath her, and turns around and walks straight back out, slamming every single door he touches behind him. 

loses himself at the bar two blocks over before somehow carol’s manhandling him into an uber, her getting in after him, then loses the rest of the night to hers and tommy’s couch, only vaguely aware of where he is. 

he wakes up to a kick to the thigh, then a jab to the ribs.

grabbing the pillow from under his head, he shoves it on top and groans.

“wake up, asshole. it’s 2pm.”

“fuck you,” he mumbles, gripping the pillow tight when carol tries to pull it away.

“fuck you too for waking me up at 1:36am and making me get out of bed. you know how much work your drunk ass is?” carol bitches, resorting to sitting in him and tugging at his hair, before turning gentle, running her fingers through it instead.

billy relaxes into her touch for a moment before her words catch up with him and he remembers what happened the night before, and after his mind flashes him an image of nancy wheeler riding his fiancé’s dick, he shoves himself up and stumbles to the bathroom. 

finds himself on his knees and spewing into the toilet bowl, fighting for his fucking life just to get a breath.

“you wanna talk about it?” carol asks from the doorway, leaning against the frame.

billy spits in the toilet bowl. “not fucking really.”

“steve called,” she says airily, smirking at him when he snaps his head up, only to groan from the way it makes his stomach spin.

billy glares at her, his insides slowly settling. 

out of everyone, carol’s probably the one who doesn’t care for steve’s shit the most. billy wishes she could teach him how to do it. 

wishes he could tell her.

“yeah?” he croaks, pushing himself up to standing so he can brush his teeth. “what’d he want?”

“just wanted to see where you were,” she replies casually, all the power in her fucking hands.

billy brushes his teeth, spits, gargles some fresh water, then spits again, before turning around to face her, his breath squeaky clean. “and what’d you tell him?”

carol shrugs. “said i hadn’t heard from you.”

billy feels his inner growing panic start to recede. at least steve won’t look for him here.

“tommy texted though, said steve turned up at eddie’s place looking for you.”

she’s watching him closely, looking for any give. any weakness. she’s smart like that. 

billy usually loves it about her. right now, though, she can fuck right off.

“yeah, well,” he sighs, done with this entire mess, “he can keep looking.”

she smirks at him again before reaching a hand out and tugging him over, pulling him out of the bathroom. “c’mon, i stocked up on alcohol on sunday. whatever happened, let’s get wasted.”

billy stays at carol’s and tommy’s for two more nights. 

tommy comes home the second day, looking at them both on the couch, completely faded and fucked up; billy three sheets to the wind, carol at least slightly steadier than him on her feet; with worry written all over his face, but he’s a good sport about it and instead of asking questions, he picks up a joint and joins in, lacing his fingers with carol’s when he comes over to sit beside her.

by the time billy makes it home three days later, he’s mostly got his shit in check.

he makes it through the front door, having spotted steve's car in the driveway, and prepares himself for whatever’s about to happen.

gets through the kitchen next, then past the living room, walks up the stairs again, and braces himself.

he finds steve sitting on their bed, the sheets and pillows all done up and neat, like he went to the effort to wash it and make it, but billy’s not actually that stupid or naive, and steve’s never been able to work their stupid fucking washing machine, no matter how many times billy’s told him which dials to turn and what buttons to press. guesses he’s just covering up the evidence.

billy doesn’t say anything. 

steve seems speechless.

billy waits. wants to see where he takes this. 

if he’s even gonna apologise or beg for forgiveness.

if he’s gonna end it.

“listen…” steve starts, and just that one word alone has reality hitting billy like a fist to the face.

whatever he hoped would come of this, if it ever came to a head–whatever fucking unrealistic dreams he had of steve tripping over himself to patch things up, running back to him–disappear before his eyes, and he realises steve’s never gonna give a shit about him enough to care. 

billy’s never gonna be worth it.

he looks at him sitting on the bed, looking like he’s barely slept, except he knows it’s not guilt that’s kept him awake but instead his fucking decade long insomnia, childhood and teenagehood trauma that billy has no hope of fixing taking it's toll, and he can see clearly how this is gonna play out. 

there’s gonna be no i’m sorry’s, no i’ll do better’s; nothing’s gonna fucking change. 

steve’s just gonna excuse his shit life choices, like he always does, and billy’s either gonna accept it and live with it, or he’s gonna be alone, and everyone in the entire goddamn world is gonna know he can’t keep someone interested. that he’s not worth loving. 

“it was just…a one time thing,” steve bullshits, looking at him the same way he always looks at him. like he’s a million miles away. “and i promise, it won’t happen again.”

billy swallows. feels like he’s just swallowed acid and his insides are swimming with it.

“so this only happened the once?” billy checks, his voice flat. he already knows the answer. he’s seen the text messages. has read the business trip itineraries. 

“yeah,” steve promises–lies–eyes so fucking big and brown. 

billy used to love them. 

“yeah, it was only one time, billy. i swear.”

billy lets the few feelings he had left go numb. finds it in his muscle memory to nod his head then turns around and walks straight back out. 

“i need to sort my head out. gonna crash somewhere for a few days.”

steve catches up to him quickly, grabbing him by the arm.

billy flinches.

steve barely notices. 

“you’re coming back, right?” he asks, and this is the most emotion billy’s seen from him in months. since that first year they dated, back in high school, probably. he’s spent just over three years of his life with him and can’t remember the last time steve actually looked at him. “i have a business trip on friday, so you’re gonna like, come back and feed the cat, right?”

billy’s gonna choke. “you have a business trip on friday?”

steve looks cagey. “well, yeah? i still have to work, billy.”

billy’s pretty sure he’s gonna punch something. he clenches his hands into fists instead, letting his nails dig in until he fucking bleeds.

“yeah, steve,” he says, voice as even as he can get it. ”i’m coming back. how about–you leave friday 2pm, and i’ll come back friday 2:05pm, and i’ll feed your damn cat.”

steve nods at him, looking relieved, like the cat he convinced billy into letting him get was his biggest concern about today, and not their entire fucking relationship.

steve comes back on a tuesday.

“how was your trip?” billy asks, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching steve’s every move.

steve shrugs, leaning down to stroke his cat’s back. “fine.”

billy clenches his jaw. nods to himself and pushes himself off the counter, making his way out the back to lounge on one of the backyard chairs, cracking open a beer. 

thinks about walking out. 

stays.

maybe his dad was right, all those times he blamed him for everything in their life going wrong. for his mom leaving. for fucking everything up. 

billy knows, now.

he takes a sip of his beer and thinks, this is as good as it’s ever gonna get.

they’ve been together for 3 years and 4 months when eddie and tommy corner him in an alleyway before a show, looking at him with guilt written all over their faces.

“we need to talk to you, man,” tommy says quietly, looking around and making sure they’re alone.

eddie’s face looks serious. billy feels his stomach drop. 

whatever they’ve got to say, billy doesn’t want to hear it. he’s hanging on by a fucking thread these days as it is.

“listen, man,” eddie steps in close, resting a hand on his shoulder, and billy can’t handle that right now. 

he shrugs him off. 

eddie takes it in his stride and lets his hand drop back to his side, but still stays standing where he is, bowing his head in close. 

billy doesn't know what they've got to say, but can feel it like a lead weight in his stomach already. whatever it is, it’s gonna be fucked, and billy straight up can't handle that right now. 

he thinks about pushing past them and walking away but knows it won’t work. knows he’s not getting out of this little heart-to-heart, no matter what move he pulls. 

raises his stare to meet them both head on and straightens out his shoulders. 

waits for them to spit out whatever it is that they’ve got to say and get it over with.

“it’s about steve,” tommy steps in, looking between them both, hesitating when he looks at him.

shakily pulling out a lighter and a cigarette, billy lights up, shoving the stick in his mouth and taking a deep inhale. “what about steve?” he says, cigarette dangling from his lips.

doesn't think about the million and one different things it could be from that sentence alone, ‘cause if he does, he knows whatever grip he’s got on his life right now will shatter. 

eddie takes a deep breath, and billy clocks the way his face is full of regret. 

“he’s cheating on you, man,” he says quietly.

billy’s ears start ringing. feels his fingertips and toes go numb, his blood run cold. 

no one was meant to know. 

he was meant to live in denial and settle for whatever steve could be bothered to give him, and no one was meant to fucking know that he wasn’t enough.

“what?” he says back numbly, his voice flat. 

can’t show emotion, ‘cause if he does, he’ll break.

“he’s seeing nancy,” tommy says, looking like he regrets every word. “we don’t know how long for, but we caught them together when we played that show in new york last week.”

“seriously, man, we just found out, and we fucking flipped on him, but he’s like, trying to fucking deny it, which–how. we literally caught them fucking–” eddie word vomits, looking at him like he’s waiting for him to fly off the handle.

billy can’t react. can feel the fragile hold he’s had on every single part of his life slowly start to unravel, like someone's pulled the string and let the ball of yarn roll along the floor, and knows he’s got minutes at best to pull himself together. to save face.

doesn’t know how to live in denial, though, when the people closest to him are trying to shove the truth in his face. 

his mind races in a million different directions as he tries to figure out how to play this. how to make it out the other side unscathed, without ripping out his heart and leaving himself a bloody open mess. 

can’t find a single path that doesn’t lead in that direction, or a variation of.

he takes another inhale of nicotine then exhales it out, preparing himself for what comes next. 

they’re gonna know. 

everyone’s gonna know. 

billy’s nothing worth staying for. there’ll always be someone better, someone worth risking it all for, even if for just a weekend, and it’ll never be him.

“you okay, man?” tommy checks, taking a step forward, seeming to realise he’s seconds away from falling apart.

billy sniffs and swipes at his nose, gathering every last bit of strength he can muster and pulls himself together. “fine,” he clips back, voice tight.

“you’re uh–you’re taking this surprisingly well,” eddie points out, and when billy looks at him, he sees the wheels turning in his head, then watches it click into place. 

eddie stares at him, his mouth dropped open slightly. “you knew.”

“it’s fine,” he says back automatically, ‘cause that’s what he’s been telling himself for months. for over a year. for almost two. 

it’s fucking fine.

“it’s not fucking fine, it’s fucking bullshit,” tommy cuts in, and he sounds pissed. 

billy doesn’t know what to make of it. tommy and steve have been best friends since diapers, long before he came on the scene, and if you don’t count their little high school fallout, they’ve been going strong for almost twenty years. 

billy can’t compete with that. 

“how in the world is it fine?” eddie adds as he gives him an disbelieving look, searching his face like he’s waiting for the punchline.

billy closes his eyes. knows in their own twisted way, they're doing this because they care, but it doesn't feel like fucking care right now. it feels like a fucking knife.

opening his eyes again and blinking away the tears, he thinks about how steve and eddie were friends first. how, technically, steve was the one who introduced them, both the guys having teamed up for some random shit billy doesn’t even remember just before he rolled into town, and when he sucked up his pride and went to make peace with steve after the shitshow that was his first week in hawkins, then asked where the best place to get green was around here, steve offered to lead the way, and less than 15 minutes later they were pulling up in front of munson’s trailer, and billy’s never really looked back.

realises only now how fucked it is that the only friends he’s made were actually steve’s first, and at the end of the day, he’s gonna lose them in the break up. 

billy’s been a part of their lives for barely 5 years. he’s got nothing on a lifetime of memories. definitely hasn’t earnt their loyalty.

his chest squeezes painfully and he struggles to take in a breath as he looks out in front of him and forces himself to face facts. 

this might be one of the last times he sees them. 

the bands probably over, billy’s definitely kicked out, and they're never gonna stay up for 34 hours straight because they want to finish recording just one more song again.

when he thinks about it, he probably won’t even miss steve that much when he leaves, but he doesn’t know how he’s gonna cope when he loses the guys. 

the band. 

the girls. 

shudders out a breath and tries not to fucking break down.

chrissy; who runs her hands through his hair whenever he lays his head on her lap, always just as drunk as he is and so goddamn happy to see him, and carol; who stays up ‘til 7am drinking with him and watching real housewives and fucking love island, and is the first person to call whenever billy sends out an sos.

shit, he’s gonna fucking cry.

he clenches his jaw and refuses to make eye contact. “show’s gonna start soon, we should get inside.”

“billy, steve’s fucking his ex,” eddie spells out, sounding pissed.

billy wishes he didn’t flinch.

tommy pushes himself front and center then, standing in front of eddie and getting right up in billy’s space.

resting his hands on billy’s shoulders, he forces eye contact.

“how long?” he asks quietly.

billy tries to look anywhere but straight ahead. feels his eyes watering, the tears he blinked away earlier coming back to the surface. can feel the weight of tommy’s hands on his shoulders grounding him, keeping him tethered.

“bill’s, man. how long?” eddie repeats, and billy’s gotta give him credit. he sounds calmer. gentler.

he sucks in a deep breath before throwing his cigarette on the ground, wishing he didn’t need to be handled gently right now as he stomps it out.

this is exactly why he wasn’t enough for steve.

“how long with nancy?” billy pushes past the lump in his throat, his voice catching and wishing the ground would swallow him whole, “or how long with all the other girls?”

“how many girls was he fucking?” eddie yells, giving up on being calm.

tommy elbows him but says nothing, giving billy space to talk.

billy can’t, so he shrugs. doesn’t know what’s more embarrassing now that he’s been interrogated about it. 

steve cheating, or him letting it happen.

“dude, what the fuck?” tommy asks after a moment, looking at him in disbelief.

the judgement gets too heavy to bear and he feels himself cracking. he looks at their faces, the way they’re waiting patiently for some sort of explanation, like this is all billy’s life dream and he’s completely on track for his 10 year plan, and not stuck on a ride spinning out of control, no one in the driver's seat to guide the way, and feels whatever grip he’s got just–slip.

he can’t take it anymore. can feel his anxiety and humiliation turning to anger, ‘cause it’s the safest place to hide.

“what?” he growls, wiping at his eyes and stepping forward, making himself tall–big–just like neil taught him. “you think i can do better? you think i can fucking ask for more?”

“better than steve–” ”–yes!” they yell simultaneously, eddie sounding just as mad, tommy sounding exasperated.

“jesus, then you’re stupider than me!” billy yells back, throwing his arms out wide. he hopes to god no one comes out anytime soon and witnesses this, ‘cause this is already too much to handle. “yeah, steve cheating fucking sucks, but hey! at least he comes home to me! at least he puts up with my shit. at least he still agreed to marry me!”

“dude, that’s like–” tommy tries, but he doesn’t want to hear it.

“and i know i’m a lot, okay? i know i’m hard to fucking deal with,” he lists, counting off in his fingers, “so, if the best i’m ever gonna get is every other weekend and the occasional christmas, then so be it!” 

he steps back, suddenly exhausted. hears the way his voice cracks and hates himself.

jesus, he’d fucking leave him, too. 

“what–you want me to ask someone to love me for fucking life? you think there’s a single person in the entire goddamn world who could commit to me, and only me, and never stray?” he’s begs, aiming for mean, but he hears how he misses the mark by a mile and just sounds desperate. looks at the guys he’s called his best friends for years now and pathetically wishes they'd answer him, that they’d tell him. that they’d be honest and give him what he needs to hear.

needs somebody, just one person, to tell him he’s worth something.

he pushes that need down deep and lets his voice give out, feeling fucking ruined. “don’t be delusional.”

they stare at him silently for a beat, then another, before eddie breaks the peace.

“jesus, man. what the fuck’s steve done to you?” he asks quietly, and when billy meets his eyes, he’s not mad anymore, instead is just looking at him like he cares.

uhhh and then heather comes back in the picture after drifting away, living her best college life, except it wasn't really her best college life, and that dick boyfriend that billy and carol told her to dump actually turned out to be a real dick, but his brother was worse, and suddenly she's picking up the phone and calling billy, asking if she can hide out at his for the night, and if he can pick her up from hospital, and he's barely been in georgia for a month when he gets the call, so he makes the drive back to california then drives them both back, and they send a selfie to the group chat like 'hoes in georiga do it better' and suddenly carol and chrissy are turning up on his door step like what the fuck? heathers back? after not returning our calls for months? years? let me the fuck in?

and then theyre getting spectacularly drunk and recounting their worst hits, and billy's fessing up his Feelings about everything that went down with steve, trying to be Nice about it cos he's aware who he's in a room with, and carol's like 'you know we chose you, right? like you know you won us in the divorce?' and billy's like. too drunk to process that elequantly, and is like. well obviously you're saying that to make me feel better but i Know steve's always gonna be more important to you. and carol and chrissy are like. we may have known him longer, but we love you better.

carol: who offered to be designated driver to my planned parenthood appointment when we were seventeen and me and tommy were scared shitless of what was gonna happen if we didn't make it. who shoved four weeks worth of pay in my hand as they pushed me out the car door. not fucking steve.

chrissy: you squared up with my dad the day i got kicked out of home while eddie helped me pack and carol caused bodily harm to my mom. you sat with me for every meal i ever ate all through my last year of school, no matter how long i took to eat it.

heather: i never fucking liked him. thank fuck he's out of your life. me and max gonna be poppin the biggest bottles when we see each other next.

tommy and eddie when they find out: bro you literally made this band. if it weren't for you, we'd still hate each other. you changed our lives, bro.

and lots of other stuff but. billy having FRIENDS that love him dearly and he loves dearly back and living his best life.

then like. 4 years later:

billy pulls the phone away from his ear to stare at it in shock before lifting it back up. “i’m sorry–what?” 

neil clears his throat, and billy’s pretty sure there’s a gun pointed at his head. there's no fuckin' way his dad just invited him and daryl home for christmas. 

“i said–he can come, too,” neil says after another minute of silence. he sounds like he’s talking through clenched teeth.

holy fuck. 

so he didn't hear him wrong. he’s officially invited back home, after three years of radio silence. neil didn't even reply to the birthday text he sent him that first year, and now he’s being invited to christmas? daryl, too? something’s fucked.

“you dying?” he blurts out, ‘cause that's probably the only realistic option.

his dad sighs, sounding burdened. tired. billy feels his heart start to race. 

“no, son,” neil responds, letting the silence hang.

“okay, then. what?” he presses, ‘cause shit’s not making sense. why now? why’s he been a homophobic piece of shit his entire life only to suddenly now decide to not care? 

“me and susie just want our kids home for christmas,” neil explains.

billy’s not buying it.

billy eventually tells his dad he’ll get back to him, he’s just gotta discuss holiday plans with his partner first, and neil replies that him and sue would really like them to join them. 

billy feels like he’s talking to a stranger. 

says he’ll text when he knows what the plan is.

texts max to see if she's got any similar phone calls recently, then tries to forget about it.

gets home from work that afternoon and he attempts to start dinner, but doesn't take long to get distracted and burn it, deciding to give up halfway through. 

daryl comes home just as he's throwing the towel in, lydia in tow, and finds him sitting on the kitchen counter eating chocolate from the packet, food burnt on the stove.

“my turn to cook,” billy states, offering lydia some chocolate, eyes focused on daryl. “so, takeaway?”

daryl eyes the mess on the stove and sink and sighs, grabbing the pamphlets from the top drawer.

“don’t care, you’s pick,” he hands them over to lydia, lydia jumping on the counter beside billy. billy looks at their choices over her shoulder before his eyes catch on daryl starting to walk away. “ring and order, i’mma go shower.”

billy nods, focusing back on the task at hand, pushing all thoughts of his dad and christmas out of mind.

lydia holds up the thai food pamphlet.

“fuck yeah,” billy says, picking his phone up from the bench.

while he calls and orders, lydia and daryl switch. her in the shower, and daryl coming out to lean against the kitchen bench.

“you good?” he asks, watching billy try and scrub the pan he burnt.

“what are we doing this christmas?” billy replies, dropping the pan back in the sink and turning to him, completely changing the subject.

daryl shrugs. it’s november, he’s barely thought about christmas beyond trying to figure out what to get lydia. 

“usual, i guess,” he answers, picking up a tea towel and wiping the few dishes billy washed before he got stuck on the pan. “might go to rick’s for lunch, might go there boxing day instead, or the greenes. might just hang out here.”

“so, nothing’s planned,” billy summarises, picking the pan back up. he scrubs a bit before giving up again, putting more hot water in the sink before turning to him. “my dad called.”

daryl snorts. him and billy haven't sat down and painted detailed pictures of their childhoods, but they've shared the broad strokes, and he’s not stupid, or an idiot. has enough experience in the shitty childhood department to fill in the blanks.

neil wasn't good people.

will wasn't a saint either, but something about the way billy talked about neil, especially about the years after he moved out, and the way neil treated him that one time daryl met him, made him more slimy–more manipulative–in his opinion. 

at least will never pretended with him. he always had his own principles and morals, and he stuck with them. daryl always knew where he stood. 

neil, on the other hand, seemed like all his principles and morals depended on public perception, and could change at the drop of the hat. was a wishy-washy bastard, always too busy caring about everyone else's opinion rather than his own, which meant if billy was never good enough to get every single person's approval, he never got neil's.

daryl hates him.

“yeah?” he says, throwing the tea towel down on the bench. “what’d he want?”

billy chews his cheek. 

“invited me home for christmas,” he admits, then corrects, “us. he invited us home for christmas.”

daryl raises an eyebrow at him. 

“he invited us to fuckin’ hawkins?”

billy shrugs this time, testing out the pan again before giving up and letting it soak. “yep.”

daryl stays silent, letting billy get his head straight. the only reason he would be bringing it up is if he had something to say about it.

“asked him if he was dying, he said him and susan just wanted to see their kids for christmas,” he explains, looking at him out of the corner of his eye like he’s too scared to turn to face him properly, but still wants to see his face. daryl gets it.

“what’chu wanna do?” he asks after another few minutes of silence.

billy shrugs.

“going there would be stupid,” he finally says, turning to him properly. “it’d be awkward and rough and it’d be a shit christmas. he’d probably hate you, he definitely hates me, fuck knows lydia doesn't need to be subjected to him, and max probably won't even be there.”

“so we don’t go,” daryl says, then waits.

billy cracks less than a minute later. “but why did he call? why’d he invite us? why now, when for the past few years, i’ve been as good as dead to him?” 

daryl let's him talk it out. knows he’s not asking him anyway.

“surely he must be dying, right? like, cancer or some shit? there's no way he woke up this morning like hey, let’s reach out to my greatest failure and make amends–”

“you ain’t a failure,” he cuts him off.

“no, i’m just his failure,” billy rolls his eyes before rubbing a hand down his face.

daryl knocks his arm into his, nudging him with his shoulder. billy grips the counter behind him tighter.

“i don't even know why i care so fucking much,” he whispers, so fucking confused his head hurts. “if he’s dying, then, like. so what. who gives a shit, right?”

“ain’t that simple,” daryl says back, and billy slides his hand over until their pinkies overlap. daryl knocks his elbow into his again. “it’s fucked up, what parents do to their kids. even more fucked up how we still treat them like parents. expect them to love us, ‘cause we fuckin’ blindly love them.”

billy blinks at him and daryl realises his eyes are wet. 

“ain’t blindly,” billy states, voice firm.

daryl nods. “that's why it’s fucked up.”

and then the idea of them going home for christmas and introducing his boyfriend and kid to neil, finding out about the cancer, and neil being like. it's physically killing me to pretend to be okay with this. and billy being like. cancer's a bitch, huh. bet you never saw this side effect coming, did u, dad? who knew liver cancer said bi rights.

[flutteringphalanges]

                                   Caught in a Riptide

Summary: After the infamous Count Dracula is discovered and taken into custody by the Jonathan Harker Foundation, former nun and now guardian to her young niece, Zoe, Agatha Van Helsing is tasked with keeping tabs on the vampire after a mishap leads to his release into modern day society. Can Agatha remain levelheaded, or will fate turn her onto a new path?

Pairing: Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing

Rated: M

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: I’m back!! Finally, after dealing with some health issues I managed to get a chapter out! I hope you enjoy! Feedback/Reblogs/Likes are greatly loved and appreciated! -Jen

                                              Chapter Seven

It's funny how just a few seconds can seem like an entire lifetime. At least, in Agatha's case, that's how she felt. Her eyes flickered between the two men, mind reeling as she tried to come to some set conclusion as to why both were present. Or if she should go into the defensive or offensive mode-not that she had much of a weapon on her besides her silly, cheap cross. It took Dracula calmly clearing his throat to snap her back into her senses.

"You look rather alarmed, Agatha." Dracula stated with a smile. "Like you've seen a ghost-or," his smile widened to a grin. "Are witnessing someone committing the act of murder."

She watched with bated breath as he moved to the table. From where she stood, Agatha could just make out a small, square object that rested on the surface. The vampire picked it up and examined it carefully before pulling out a few crisp dollar bills. A wallet. He looked from the still stunned woman to his other guest.

"Jimmy was just here dropping off my meal. Weren't you, Jimmy?" The vampire held out the money towards the young man. "I invited him in seeing as I didn't have the cash on me. I didn't want to be rude." Dracula let out a long exhale. "Keep the change. I know your profession doesn't pay you fairly. It is the least I can do," he paused. "All things considered." And once again that familiar flicker of mischievousness glimmered in his eyes. "If you'd leave now, I'd much appreciate it. I've kept Ms. Van Helsing waiting long enough."

The man-or "Jimmy" as he was so called, managed to stutter out a thank you. He gave Agatha a nod before pushing past her to escape out the door. Whether he knew of Dracula's true origin was unclear, but it was evident enough the vampire gave him some form of uneasy. Though it held no weight, the cross felt oddly heavy in her back pocket as the man motioned for her to step forward.

"I assure you I am very well aware of the terms and conditions involving my freedom." He commented, pulling out a chair for her to sit in. "And while I do have my urges, the idea of not being locked in a cage and used for experimental purposes quells those...desires."

Reluctantly, Agatha took a seat ignoring the Count's smile. She knew he was watching her, observing her every move externally and perhaps even internally. The woman knew she needed to keep her heartbeat steady, pulse regular. Any sign that could be regarded as fear would only play to his amusement. Keeping her guard down, especially now, was the utmost of importance.

"If you don't mind, I'm going to pour myself a drink." Dracula said, grabbing the paper bag and pulling out its contents. A wine bottle shaped flask filled with a dark liquid. Agatha knew what it was, but she didn't like to think about it. After filling his cup, he set it down.

"So," he continued. "Can I get you anything?"

"I'm fine." Agatha said currently, trying to keep her voice level. "I'm not thirsty."

"I thought you'd say that." The vampire exhaled, shaking his head. "But I thought I'd ask to be polite." He took a small sip, the contents lightly sloshing as he did. "I want to apologize about the night before. I acted like…"

"A monster?" The former nun said curtly with a frown. "A mad man?"

Dracule smirked, chuckling at her remarks. "I was going to say rash, but I suppose those would fall under the same category." He left her side once again to retrieve what appeared to be a file folder resting neatly on the table. "Anyway, I'd like to move past it. Put it behind us. Even beasts make mistakes."

"You could've killed me," Agatha replied, eyes following his every move. "Why didn't you?"

"You're right," the Count nodded. "I very well could've. Even with that ridiculously cheap excuse of a cross you have in your pocket." Her eyebrows raised in surprise as he continued. "But having you dead would've served no use to me. I'm a calculated man, Agatha. While your blood is very, very tempting, getting it from a slip up like that would be...undesirable." The Count smiled as he finally took a seat across from her. "And again, we have that contract to think about."

Before she could comment, the vampire slid the collection of papers over to her. Meeting his stare, Agatha hesitantly took the folder and opened it. Though she didn't exactly want to break eye contact, the woman glanced down at the sheets below. Photos. A birth certificate. License. An entire history made up of a made up person-sort of. His new background. A perfect gateway into modern society that was virtually untraceable to who he really was. Renfield had done well.

"Vlad Balaur," she mumbled.

"Dracula seemed to be a stretch unfortunately, so this was the second choice." The Count replied simply. "Do you like it?"

"26 May 1967." Agatha continued, ignoring his question. After a moment, she looked up. "You're lucky you can pull off looking 53 and not 530." Exhaling, Agatha pushed the pile back over to the man. "Your lawyer did well. I certainly hope you are paying him for all of this work."

Dracula merely chuckled as he took the thick folder. "I'm not an unreasonable man. I pay Frank accordingly. Based, of course, on the service he provides." He lifted his glass of blood, the rim stained with dark crimson from where he sipped. "I can have copies for you made, if you so desire. I know how important it is for your precious Foundation to know about my whereabouts." For a brief moment, his dark eyes flickered playfully. "For you to know."

The woman's stomach churned as the vampire took a large swig of his drink. Why did he have to feed in front of her? Probably because he knew it made her squirm. When he set the cup down, he smiled widely, teeth seeming sharper than a moment before. She prayed it was merely a trick of her imagination.

"What are your plans now that you are free to roam around England on your own accord?" Agatha inquired, straightening in her chair. "Surely you must have something in mind?"

"Believe it or not, after being asleep for over a hundred years, there is quite a lot to take in." Dracula nudged his now empty glass aside. "So many advances in technology. Science. History. I've done quite a lot of reading myself, but the modern world is very enriched. However," he held up his index finger. "It's quite hard when you're only limited to the night hours. My body doesn't exactly fair well in the sun. Call it an extreme allergy if you will."

"As I am very well aware," Agatha huffed. "But that doesn't exactly answer my question. What are your plans, Count Dracula?"

"I think you mean our plans," the vampire smirked. The look on the woman's face said it all and his smile only widened. "You honestly didn't think our interactions would just be the two of us discussing our adventures over tea did you?" His fingers laced together, tips ending in sharp, talon line nails. "You, Agatha Van Helsing, are going to be my escort. And what an honor, I might add, that is."

Agatha's jaw dropped. "Your...your what?!"

"Escort, tour guide, chaperone...whatever you wish to call it." He dismissively waved his hand. "In other words, you and I will be spending a lot of nights together under the starry skies of England. Or cloudy? I have reason to believe it rains a lot, or am I mistaken?"

"The only thing you're mistaken of is the preposterous idea of me ever agreeing to this!" The woman snapped. "My understanding was that we would meet face to face occasionally at your flat! Not that I'd spend quality time with you out and about!"

"Well if that's the case, it would seem that our two overseers have decided our fates without consulting us." Dracula smirked as he met Agatha's cold stare. "Both Mr. Renfield and Dr. Bloxham have come to the conclusion that this seems like a fair and fit decision and who am I to argue?"

She'd committed. Told Bloxham she'd do whatever the scientist wanted. But this...this wasn't what she had in mind. Agatha silently cursed at herself, mentally berated her brain for being so stupid. Of course these interactions wouldn't be just mere meetings. No...no the Harker Foundation wanted more than that. Immersing herself was one thing. This was the equivalent of being tied to a stone and thrown into a river like a woman during a witch trial. Count Dracula was to be a part of her life no matter how hard she kicked and screamed to swim back to the surface.

""I will completely and utterly immerse myself into Count Dracula's life…"

Agatha's own words replayed in her mind like a broken record as she sat there grinding her teeth. She could feel the vampire watching her expectantly, waiting to hear what she had to say. He seemed cool. Collected. Of all people, shouldn't he be against the idea of being watched like a hawk? But there he sat seemingly without a care in the world. Secretly, she was sure, reveling in her misfortune.

"I'd say you're rather exhausted, Agatha." Dracula exclaimed, breaking the silence. "Perhaps you should go home and rest. I'd offer up my flat, but I think that little Zoe would worry."

"Don't say her name," the woman muttered. "You don't get to say her name."

The vampire gave a half smile. "Get some rest, Ms. Van Helsing. I have quite the itinerary planned for tomorrow." His movements almost gave off the impression of gliding as he corked the bottle of blood he'd been consuming and strode over to the refrigerator. "Shall I walk you to your car or-"

But Agatha had already snatched up her keys and stormed towards the door before he could finish. Dracula snorted softly, shaking his head. She was certainly turning out to be much more interesting than he had initially suspected. Perhaps whatever the Foundation had planned for him would be more in his favor than they'd ever begin to realize. Games were always more enticing when both sides were competitive. And Agatha Van Helsing was the perfect prize.

                                                           XXX

Agatha didn't even acknowledge the box of biscuits that fell onto the floor as Jack jumped in surprise as she swung the front door wide open. Flinging her semi closed purse onto the counter, she stormed over to the couch and collapsed. She was tired, but not exhausted enough to feel furious.

"How did it go?" There was hesitation in Jack's voice as he asked. A sense of fear that one gets when staring at a poisonous viper head on. "Did he have anything important to say?"

"Did Zoe behave for you?" Agatha replied in a monotone, eyes fixed on the television screen. Some adult cartoon was on that she vaguely recognized but didn't care enough to remember the name. "I hope she didn't give you a hard time."

"She caused absolutely no issues," the doctor assured her. "It was like she wasn't even there. Well," he paused. "I did read her two bedtime stories-her request, but other than that, she went to bed without a fuss. She did want to hang out though so maybe the three of us could go out to do something together sometime to distract your mind from…"

"They have me babysitting him!" The woman declared sharply, finally turning to face her friend. "He's talking like we're going on some date tomorrow. Bloxham has me taking him around wherever he wants to go as it is a part of this bloody contract I didn't read the fine print of!" Agatha groaned, massaging her temples. "When I started...I didn't think…Honestly, I don't know what I thought."

She chewed absentmindedly on her bottom lip as Jack sat beside her. He stared at her with those big blue eyes of his. It was a familiar look. Innocent. Sheltered. The young man had witnessed much in his short life and yet there was an aura of goodness to him. Loyalty. Something Agatha personality believed she didn't deserve. A friend whose companionship she'd never be able to match.

"I don't think any of us knew what to expect when we found him." Jack commented, resting a hand on her knee. "Especially you given your family's...history." He paused only to reach the clicker to turn off the show. "If I'm to be honest, Agatha, at first, I didn't actually think he existed. Maybe some part of me did-I worked at the bloody Harker Foundation. But when he actually showed up...I guess what I'm trying to say is Bloxham has no right to do what she's doing."

"Right or not, I don't exactly have a choice in the matter," Agatha frowned. "When I wanted to study him, learn about who he was and what he was, I didn't exactly think that meant I was going to be forced to spend every waking minute with him-well, every his waking minute. But I have to do this for my sake and Zoe's."

Jack cocked a brow in confusion. "What does this have to do with Zoe?"

"I made a commitment." She admitted, running a hand through her hair. "...Moreso Bloxham has me backed into a corner. If I don't go through with this, then she can make my life a living Hell." Agatha held up her hand as the man tried to interject. "If I could get out of this, I already would've, but I don't have a choice, Jack. It'll be like that movie Interview with a Vampire, but instead of an eager biographer wanting to learn Louis de Pointe du Lac's story, I'm forced to take my vampire on a railway trip."

Jack started to chuckle into his hand earning him a curious look from Agatha. A small smile graced his features as he straightened up, clearing his throat before speaking.

"Sorry," he grinned. "Didn't take you for a movie buff."

"I suppose I can sometimes be unpredictable." Agatha admitted with a small smile. "Anyway, the fact of the matter is, I wanted to learn about Dracula on my terms, not someone else's. Especially since he's a bigger prick than I imagined."

"He murdered people," the man stated. "How big of an ass were you expecting?!"

"Someone whose ego wasn't so large it'd overtake all of Europe and then some." She said folding her arms over her chest. "He's unbearable, Jack, and he knows it. Relishes in it. And I'm stuck with him like gum on the bottom of a shoe." Agatha let out a long exhale. "Curiosity killed the cat, and I already feel like I'm on my eighth life. Why of all things did I have to be a Van Helsing? Smith is a nice last name. Or Wilson. I'd go as far as Bigglesworth."

"You are not a Bigglesworth," Jack laughed. "Besides, Van Helsing is pretty bad ass. It has its perks."

Agatha let out a soft chuckled before her mouth curved into a genuine smile. Gently she rested her head on Jack's shoulder, her eyes fixed on the blank screen of the television.

"What am I going to do, Jack?" She mumbled.

"What you always do," he replied softly. "Take what's thrown at you into your own hands and make it work. At least, that's what the Agatha I know would do."

"I'm taking the window seat," Agatha yawned, closing her eyes.

"The window seat?" The doctor inquired, his brows knitting in confusion. "What window seat?"

"The window seat," she repeated. "If I'm taking that beast on a train, I'm taking the window seat."

Jack grinned over at the former nun as she began to nod off. "Agatha Van Helsing, you never cease to amaze me."

"Good," she answered. "I plan to keep it that way."

And without another word, she drifted off into the dark world of unconsciousness. Far, far away from her worries and troubles that would live to see another day.

[voidwaren]

#StoncyWeek2020

so I am very, very, very late to Stoncy week (I completely forgot what week it was happening, lockdown brain is a doozy), but I outlined a road trip AU for the prompts back when I decided I wanted to take part, and I’ll be damned if I let an actual outline, something I usually don’t do, go to waste.

the prompts won’t be in order for the fic, though, so maybe being late was for the best! much like my Whumptober2019 fic, I took the prompts and made a plot out of them. only, this time, it was intentional.

we’ll be starting off with Day 2′s prompt:  Having a bad day and the other(s) noticing

“Maybe we could have a joint thing for graduation,” Nancy said one morning from her bed, pulling the curlers from her hair as she got ready for the day, Jonathan on the other end of the phone she had pressed to her cheek with her shoulder. “Meet up halfway between the states and just do our own thing before college, like old times.”

“I guess,” Jonathan replied, sounding like he wanted to do anything but be on the phone with her right then. She frowned at the receiver. 

“Am I keeping you from something more important than this conversation?” she said, annoyed. The curler she’d been in the process of unwinding hung limp by her cheek, forgotten.

“What?” said Jonathan, suddenly surprised. Nancy rolled her eyes. “No, no, shit. Sorry. I’m just—” He stopped. Nancy waited for him to continue, and, after a moment, he said, tiredly, “I hate being away from Hawkins. I miss it.”

Nancy felt her mouth go dry. They’d talked a bunch of times about how different Montauk, New York was from Hawkins, how everyone was handling the move, how strange his new school was in comparison to the tiny, intimate one Hawkins housed, how much easier it was to keep to himself when no one cared who he was, new or not. How glad he was they didn’t move all the way to Maine like his mom had wanted, but how Montauk was still way too far away. But he’d never said he missed where he’d come from. 

He’d talked about missing Nancy, missing all the annoying kids and their antics, missing the nights where the sky was so clear that he could see stars that didn’t show up in Montauk because of the way the sea fogged up the night—but he never explicitly said he missed Hawkins. Not until now.

And that’s how Nancy suddenly knew Jonathan was not okay.

-

She went to the movie rental store. She didn’t know where else to go. Steve was the only other person left in Hawkins who knew Jonathan to a degree she needed, and she didn’t have anyone else to turn to that wasn’t her little brother and his friends. She’d wouldn’t have ever exactly called Steve and Jonathan close friends, not so readily, but Steve cared about Jonathan enough to check up on him occasionally via Nancy when they saw each other, and she knew he’d care enough to help her decide what to do.

Steve looked surprised when she pushed through the doors of the movie rental he worked at now with that girl he’d been with at the mall—Robin? —and immediately slid off his perch of the counter to greet her.

“Nancy?” he said, like he wasn’t sure if she was here for a movie or because something had gone terribly wrong in a town where nothing could stay right for very long.

“Hey,” she greeted quietly, trying to sound normal. It was the wrong thing to do, because Steve’s back straightened to a ramrod position. 

His head swiveled on his neck as he looked back and forth around the store, and then, once he decided the coast was clear, he ducked his head and said, “What’s going on, Nance?”

And Nancy just about slumped over with the weight of it. Steve had never exactly been the most perceptive of guys, but he had loved her, possibly more than anyone in the world ever had, and she knew he would never abandon her when she needed him. Not really. She couldn’t exactly say she was the same.

Steve didn’t move towards her like he might have in another life, in a world where monsters weren’t real and Barb hadn’t been lost to a dark unknown, and she was thankful for that, because she didn’t know what she would have done with herself if he had.

“It’s Jonathan,” she started, then hesitated, her gaze flashing to Robin for a second before realizing her presence didn’t matter. She might not have been around as long as the rest of them, but she knew the baseline of what happened in the shadows of Hawkins, and Steve obviously trusted her. That had to count for something.

A deep wrinkle formed between Steve’s eyebrows. “Jonathan?” he repeated quickly. “What’s wrong with Jonathan? Is he okay?”

“He’s— No. He’s depressed, I guess.” She dropped her head and shook it once, the grungy store carpet beneath her feet taking up all her line of sight. “He misses Hawkins, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Never thought someone could miss something like Hawkins,” Robin muttered, and Nancy was surprised she had to agree with her.

“Is Montauk that terrible?” Steve asked.

Nancy sighed and lifted her hands up, her thumbs pressing hard into the corners of her eyes. She was tired underneath it all. Worn, weary, and so, so fucking tired. “I think he just wants to come home.”

She knew that was the moment Steve understood, because he made that soft, startled sound in the back of his throat, almost inaudible. It was a familiar sound, one she’d become so attuned to in the short time they’d been seeing one another. He made it whenever something clicked in his head, just before he made whatever reaction he wanted to portray. 

Sure enough, when she removed her hands, she found him with his hands splayed flat on the counter as he leaned towards her, his expression solemn. Robin watched attentively from the other side, her eyes darting between Steve and Nancy.

“So, we’ll bring him home,” Steve declared, like it was that easy. He reached for the phone that sat to his right, half-buried under old flyers for the reopening of a store nearby, like the town wasn’t small enough for word to spread faster by mouth alone. 

He lifted the receiver from the cradle and held it Nancy’s way expectantly. Nancy glanced down at it like she didn’t know what it was. Steve gave it a little shake.

Nancy looked up with a frown. “Now?” she asked skeptically. “Here?”

“I don’t get off for another few hours and I want to be there for this. Just dial him, Nance. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Keith’s not going to like that,” Robin warned without moving an inch to stop him. She was smiling from where she leaned her hip against the counter, and Nancy felt the resurging, petty urge to ask just who she was—again. She quickly squashed it. She’d let Steve go, willingly left him when he’d still wanted her, and that was not Robin’s fault.

“Keith’s a dick,” was apparently Steve’s reasoning for why it was okay. He watched Nancy without blinking until Nancy took the phone from his grip and held it in both of her hands. Once Steve’s hand was free, he used it to twist the cradle around until it faced Nancy, and then he returned to his stare-and-wait tactic.

Nancy sighed, and then she reached a hand out and dialed Jonathan’s number. The phone only rang twice.

“Hello?” a voice that could have been either Jonathan or Will if you were going by tone alone answered, but was very obviously Jonathan by the way the voice sounded like it wanted to be doing anything but answering the phone right then.

“Hey, Jonathan,” she replied, more timid than she’d intended.

“Nancy?”

“And Steve,” Steve added helpfully before Nancy could say anything, pulling the phone towards him with three fingers hooked around her wrist.

“Steve?” Jonathan parroted, his voice suddenly an octave higher in surprise.

“Plus Robin,” said Robin, slowly, in a voice like she’d expected Nancy or Steve to mention her and they’d done the situation a great injustice by not doing such, “because you’re being called from Hawkins’ one and only video rental.”

Jonathan’s confusion was palpable. “Okay?” he tried, sounding anything but okay with the call. “Would one of you mind explaining to me why any of this is happening?”

That was one of his Mrs. Byers-isms, which told Nancy he was not only confused, but immediately frustrated. He only spoke like his mom when Will was either defying him and doing something stupid (rarely), or he wanted some sort of command over what was happening to him (more common).

Steve glanced at Nancy. Nancy raised her eyebrows at him. 

“You busy this weekend?” asked Steve after a beat.

“This feels less like an actual question and more like you’re about to demand I do something,” Jonathan replied warily. “You and Nancy only team up when you want something.”

Nancy frowned at the phone. Then, she turned the frown on Steve. Steve only shrugged, making a “I don’t know, either” kind of face. Robin was paying neither of them any attention; her focus was zeroed in on the phone like she could see Jonathan through it, her eyes narrowed and a wrinkle formed between her eyebrows.

“All right, yeah,” Steve relented. “We want you to come home, man.”

Silence met Steve’s admittance. Steve winced and added on, “Just for the weekend. We won’t kidnap you or anything.”

“Did you put him up to this, Nancy?” Jonathan asked suddenly, and he sounded almost angry.

“What?” Nancy cried, offended he’d jump to such a conclusion. “No! We miss you, Jonathan. I’m not making Steve do, or say, anything.”

A spluttering sound came across the line, broken and almost too quiet to hear properly. Identical smiles sprung to Nancy and Steve’s faces, just for a second, before then vanished as Jonathan said hesitantly, “That’s—almost a fourteen-hour drive.”

It wasn’t a no, and Nancy could tell Steve was riding on that fact by the way he started leaning farther over the counter in anticipation. Robin’s eyes flashed from Steve, to Nancy, and then down to the phone before making a second round.

“We’ll come to you, then,” Steve blurted out. Nancy turned to Steve in shock, and Robin’s mouth popped open, looking more delighted at the sudden turn of events than upset. “We can take turns driving.” He finally dared a look at Nancy. “Spring Break is coming up. We’ll go then.”

Nancy stared at Steve, all her words lost in astonishment. It wasn’t a bad idea, exactly, but she’d never thought he’d agree to something like that.

Silence filtered across the line, tinny and slightly static-y in the way only a call from across almost nine-hundred miles can be. Then, “Okay.”

That was all. Just, “Okay.”

He was never that easy with Nancy, and the surprised, slightly suspicious look Steve gave Nancy told her he’d been expecting more of a fight, too. Even Robin blinked in astonishment, first at the phone, and then at Steve, like he was some kind of alien lifeform posing as the guy she worked with (and was apparently closer friends with than Nancy realized, actually).

“Okay,” Steve repeated slowly, half-surprised and half-resolute. He nodded his head, even though Jonathan couldn’t see the action, and said, again, “Okay!”

“I’ll—see you on Spring Break, then?” Nancy said hesitantly, turning away from Steve, who now had his arms crossed and was looking too pleased with himself for how easily the conversation had gone. 

“Yeah,” Jonathan agreed softly. “I’ll see you guys then.”

And then he hung up. All three of them stared at the phone as it started to croon obnoxiously with the tone that told them the line was dead.

“Well,” Robin finally said, only after Steve had taken the phone from Nancy and replaced it on the cradle, “that didn’t go as planned.”

“So we’re taking home to him instead,” said Steve, sounding less like he understood what had just happened than Nancy thought he should. “We can manage.”

Nancy frowned, looking up from the phone, where she’d been staring to Steve, who was frowning at some point in the distance, obviously still processing. He’d said “we”, and something about it told her that Robin was going, too.

When Nancy looked over at Robin, though, she found Robin already looking at her, a light in her eye that told Nancy she’d heard it, too. She shrugged. “I’ve never been out of Indiana before, but I can drive.”

And Nancy was surprised to realize the fact Robin was now saddled in didn’t bother her like it might have had this conspired under different circumstances. She hardly knew Robin, but something about the way Steve seemed so resolute to have Robin in without saying anything eased Nancy’s wariness of the other girl.

And, honestly, Nancy was okay with that, because she was damn tired of unexpected things turning out sour for her.

“Guess this means I’d better gas up the car,” Steve said, bringing the attention back to him. “We’ll have a long way to go.”

“You did this to yourself, Stevie Boy,” Robin told him sweetly, reaching out and smacking him on the shoulder.

Steve shook his head, glowering at her as he leaned away from her hands. “I’m doing it for Jonathan,” he corrected, and something warm and unnameable bloomed in Nancy’s chest at his words.

He was doing this for Jonathan. He hadn’t given up on them—hadn’t replaced them with Robin. Hadn’t replaced her with Robin.

He hadn’t given up on either of them.

And that, Nancy realized, was the thing she’d really been afraid of.

[all-my-novels]

Carlotta’s Lament / Tool Scene

JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure fanfiction: OC/fankids focused

Words: 1,481

Read on the Ao3 here

Carlotta Brando sees herself as a tool to be used, and assumes Kokoro Kujo sees her the same way. She couldn't be more wrong, though.

---

This is a scene from my fanchild fanpart for JoJo, called "Heartbreak Hotel Heartbreakers." As I'm notorious for never finishing things, I'm writing out scenes from my fanparts so you guys can read them in case they never get written. For more updates on these characters and more, you can find their works here:

My Writeblr -- Fankids Ask Blog -- Fankids Discord (open to anyone, I'm not the only one who posts content there)

Did you like this? THEN COMMENT. Seriously. Leave kudos too, and if you really liked it, bookmark! Creators won't create if there's nothing to create for!!! It's not hard to leave a comment saying "I liked this!" so please do if you liked it!

Carlotta’s Lament / Tool Scene

"Carlotta -- hey, Carla, slow the hell down!"

Kokoro's voice is uncharacteristically loud and somewhat emotional as she chases down her wayward cousin. The blonde stalked off after managing to defeat Hephaestus, a stormy expression on her face and sour parting words hanging in the air:

"I'll be making my own way from here on out."

Kokoro knows it's an illogical decision. The Artemis House is far from defeated, and if Carlotta goes off on her own, she'll most certainly be killed by them. It's what she's been trying to avoid...

So why is she moving faster while Kokoro tries to catch up?

Catching the other girl on the shoulder with her hand, Kokoro whirls her around to face her. Her expression is still stormy, but now there's an undeniable pain on her face as well and in her eyes.

"What's wrong with you?" Kokoro says quickly. "You know going off on your own puts us all in danger, right? Not just you? Making impulsive decisions will drag this whole team down --"

"It's always like this," Carlotta murmurs. Her voice may be quiet, but she absolutely sounds hurt. "I'm always -- always -- doin' shit for other people. Been that way since I was a kid." She bites her lip. Kokoro decides to keep her mouth shut for now, instead watching and listening while Carlotta continues. "Now, nobody asked me t' do that, t' be fair. I took up the mantle on my own, of my own free will. I'm always shoulderin' my own shit to deal with other people's. For their good, instead of mine. Y'know why I do that, Miss Psychologist?" Carlotta jabs a finger into Kokoro's chest, but the red-head doesn't respond.

"Not even gonna guess? Damn, yer borin' as always." Carlotta turns her head to the side and spits, then looks back at Kokoro, in the eyes. Kokoro's uncomfortable with the direct eye contact, but maintains it. "Well, fine. I'll take the fun outta it n' just tell ya: it's cause I think that, mebbe, if I keep helpin' people, even when they don't like me? Maybe they'll start t' like me."

A period of silence stretches between the two, and Carlotta snorts, removes her finger from Kokoro's chest and lets her hand fall back to her side. "I mean, I get it. I get this whole Artemis House deal, I get why people don't trust me or anybody else with th' name "Brando." My Pops did some bad shit back in th' day. I mean... how many folks d'you know who had their brother's body copied t' use as a backup in case somethin' happened to theirs?" She chuckles bitterly, but there's absolutely no happiness behind it. "Course, Uncle Jonathan forgave 'im for that, 'cause he's got a soft heart, y'know? Like me." She curls her hand into a fist over her chest, her fangs sinking deeper into her lower lip. Kokoro can tell that she's drawn blood, but she keeps speaking anyway.

"But the damage 's done. Nobody trusts me when I say I'm not a bad person. So I got to thinkin'... mebbe, if I just... stopped worryin' 'bout myself, how I felt, n' just let myself be a tool for others to use... mebbe I could fix us. Mebbe I could fix my family." Carlotta sniffs, her blue eyes shimmering with tears now as she rubs furiously at her face.

She may be eighteen, and legally an adult, but in reality, she's still just a child. A child with a burden far too heavy to bear on her own.

"Mebbe I could rewrite the Brando story, y'know? So that -- so that we ain't always just moochers on th' Joestar line." She sighs, looks down at her feet and kicks half-heartedly at a rock lying next to her foot. "But that was naive, n' stupid. We ain't never gonna be nothin' but a footnote in somebody else's story at best. At worst... we're the villains." She swallows, wipes away some of the blood trailing down her chin from where she split her lip earlier with her fangs.

"Pa n' Pops always wanted better fer us than what they got in life. 's why I never... told 'em about any o' this. Thinkin' about how Pops'd feel if I told 'im I was depressed after everythin' he's done for me? 's too much. 'sides, he don't need to worry 'bout me when we've got all the little ones, already." Carlotta wraps her arms around herself. She's long since looked away from Kokoro, instead turning her focus towards the ground as she shuffles her feet.

"Don'tcha get it, Kokoro? I'm -- I'm a fake. A fuckin' fake. Everythin' I've ever done is for somebody else, to make somebody else happy, so somebody else'll like me, or at the least, y'know, find some kinda use for me. My Pops used other folks as tools for his own gain..."

And here, Carlotta's hands curl into fists at her sides as her shoulders tremble with the weight of the world; she's become her own Atlas.

"... so I became everyone else's tool t' fix it. But even then -- even then, I couldn't win ya' over. An' not the Avdols either -- sure, J.P loves me, n' I'd die for him like I'd die for August or Teddy, or any of the others, but he's his own brand o' crazy. The others ain't gonna trust me. Even if I did die for 'im, I doubt they'd care enough to leave flowers at my grave. Yer different, though, Koku-chan. I think..." She furrows her brow and sniffs as tears roll down her cheeks. "... I think I wanted t' be friends with ya' so bad 'cause I wanted t' prove we -- the Brandos n' Joestars -- ain't gotta fight all the time. We can be friends, y'know?"

She starts to cry harder now, hiccupping sobs breaking through her words here and there. "But -- but I was -- I was wrong, again. Like a dumb lil' kid, I -- just don't learn my fuckin' lesson. It's my fault. I'm -- I'm not th' cousin ya' deserve, or th' friend ya' deserve either. I'm not good enough for nobody."

She ends her final word with a choked little whimper, curling in on herself before sitting down on the forest floor. Without thinking, Kokoro kneels down in front of her and puts her arms around her cousin, pulling her head in close to rest on her chest -- cheek pressed just above her heart -- just as her father Noriaki had done so many times when she would get overstimulated and panicked as a young child, so she could hear her heartbeat.

"You're wrong, Carla," Kokoro finally murmurs. Carlotta stops crying for a moment, curls her hands into the fabric of Kokoro's coat and goes still against her chest. "I don't hate you. I never have. I kept pushing you away because I figured you would be better off without me. I'm... not very good with showing emotions. I do a better job at analyzing other people's emotions and feelings, and talking them through it. Until you came looking for me, no one had ever tried to be my friend before, besides Axel." Kokoro sighs heavily, rests her cheek against the top of Carlotta's head as a few wet drops fall from her own eyes onto her hair. "I didn't know what to do. I'm sorry that I hurt you. But I don't -- I don't hate you. Not for anything you did, and not for anything your father did. That doesn't concern me -- or either of us -- anyway."

She squeezes Carlotta tight, presses a platonic kiss to her scalp. "Just promise me you'll do your best to live for yourself, and stay alive for yourself, and nobody else? You're not a tool to be used. You've got a path all of your own that's just as important as anyone else's. That's why I agreed to help you with Artemis House, anyway. I did it for you, and your family, not because I wanted anything out of any of you. I just believe living things have the right to live. Even if they are smelly vampires."

Carlotta snorts out a little laugh, pulls her head away from Kokoro's chest to look her in the eyes. She slides her glasses off, and Kokoro removes her shades for a moment, and they both rub at their eyes at the same time before putting their eyewear back on in tandem.

"We're gonna fight this battle together. As friends and equals. Got it?" Kokoro says, extending a hand to Carlotta for her to shake.

Carlotta gives a wry grin, takes Kokoro's hand in hers and shakes it. "Yeah. Got it. Thanks Koku-chan."

They return back to the others, hand-in-hand as cousins, not knowing just how important their bond is for the future of the Joestar family line and for each other.

[just-jordie-things]

Plus One - Peter Parker (part one)

word count: 5123 warnings: swearing summary: (y/n’s) sister is getting married, and has high expectations that she’ll bring her boyfriend with her to the wedding.  The boyfriend that doesn’t exist.  Unlike Peter Parker, who very much does exist, and just happens to be free the day of the wedding to play the role. song: Say It Right - Nelly Furtado

PART ONE: Scott’s Noodles and Thor’s Gossip

[ oh you don’t mean nothing at all to me // oh you could mean everything to me] ___

With great joy, Alina (y/l/n) and Jonathan Davis cordially invite you to their wedding celebration on the twenty-first of June.  The ceremony and celebration will be held at the Villa Barone Manor.  RSVP with your choice of Chicken, Steak, or Fish.

(y/n) stared at the beautifully crafted invite in her hand, reading and re-reading the fine scripted words printed on it.  She’d known of her sister’s wedding for months, a year even.  She’d known that it was at the end of June, and she knew that she was the maid of honor since the day Jonathan had proposed to her sister, Alina.

She picked up her phone from where it was sat on her desk, reading the message her sister had sent regarding the wedding, (which was one week from today).

[ Ali ] : hey sis! you better have gotten your dress in the mail, i sent it a few days ago.  Send me a picture of you in it!

Her eyes darted to her closet, where her dress hung in it’s protective plastic bag, untouched.

This wasn’t the text from Alina that troubled (y/n).  It was the following one that had been sent just moments after the first, and dumped a weight onto the girl’s shoulders.

[ Ali ] : and babe you have a plus one! bring your boyfriend !! i’ve been dying to meet him!!

(y/n) set both her phone and the invite down on her desktop, and hung her head in her hands.

When she’d been recruited to the Avengers by Tony Stark himself, as an esteemed mechanical and technical engineer, and a certified genius, she’d moved away from home in NYC, and into the compound in upstate New York to pursue her talents.

Her parents and big sister were more than supportive of her achievements, but besides texting and a few Skype calls, they rarely were able to talk.  Much less see each other.  (y/n) hadn’t visited since Christmas, and was only in town for two days.  Being a part of a team like the Avengers became her life, and a top priority.

However, being so far and barely having enough time to keep in touch meant that it was hard for her to send updates back home.  Such as the update that the guy she’d been dating at Christmastime, had dumped her.

Besides, how do you send news like that in a casual text to your big sister?

(y/n) groaned, reading the texts again.  She could always respond right now, with a picture of the dress and a quick message saying that she wouldn’t be bringing a plus one, because he hadn’t gotten enough attention from her and gave up on trying.

But she didn’t want to sound like she wanted Alina’s pity.

Alina was a loving, and protective big sister, as most older siblings turn out to be.  And the older they got, the more this became apparent.  While she respected (y/n) and all any of the things she chooses to do with her life, Alina was always pushing for (y/n) to have a significant other.  At first (y/n) had laughed it off, treating it nonchalantly.  But now she felt this pressure of pleasing her sister’s expectations.

[ (y/n) ] : trying on the dress now

She settled on something short and sweet instead, and took her special dress off of it’s hanger and pulled down the plastic covering it.  She’d only seen it in pictures, and hadn’t taken it out of it’s wrap since it had arrived yesterday.  Her guilt about not wanting to go to the wedding overshadowed her curiosity and excitement about such a gorgeous dress.

And it truly was gorgeous.  A dark crimson color that Wanda Maximoff would wear well, (y/n) thought to herself as she slipped it on.  The silky material pooled at the floor around her bare feet, but with the black strappy heels she’d be wearing to the wedding, it wouldn’t go any further than her ankles.

With the spaghetti straps and the deep v-neck that came to an end right at the middle of the valley of her breasts, she exposed just enough skin to feel a little scandalous and yet still appropriately dressed for the occasion.

I could always just go without a date and explain there, (y/n) thought as she admired the dress in her mirror.  Her hands ran down the sides, softly stroking the silk.  After spinning around a few times to view it at all angles, she decided that this might be the most beautiful thing she’s ever worn.

She snapped a picture in the mirror and sent it to her sister with a heart eyes emoji.

[ (y/n) ] : this is your best work yet, i’ve never worn something so beautiful

[ Ali ] : oh sis you’ve never LOOKED so beautiful [ Ali ] : drop dead GORGEOUS !!

(y/n) chuckled fondly at the incoming messages with countless compliments, and sent back a heart before finally taking the dress off to hang it back up in it’s plastic.  From here on out she was going to be hellbent on keeping the fine material protected.

All she had to figure out now was how the hell she was going to find a date to the wedding in a week. ___

Scott Lang didn’t live at the compound like a few of the other Avengers did.  But he sure was around a lot to not be staying there permanently.

(y/n) had told him this when she’d walked into the kitchen to see him making a cup of noodles in the microwave.

“If I didn’t have Cassie, and I guess my fiance, then I would live here” He’d told her animatedly.

“Fiance?” Peter Parker asked from where he sat at the kitchen table, with a burrito and a busted web shooter.

(y/n) would easily call Peter her best friend.  Since the first day she’d moved into the building, she’d been thankful to have him around.  He was her age, and just as nervous about living with the ‘actual freakin’ Avengers’ as he’d put it, as she was.  They’d hit it off fast and spent a lot of their time, both working and casually, together.

Right now she’d planned to meet him in the kitchen for lunch and to give him a hand with figuring out what was wrong with his shooter.

“You proposed to Hope?” (y/n) asked Scott, a bit surprised.  She knew Scott loved Hope Van Dyne in a way that a soulmate loves a soulmate, she just couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea of him proposing to anybody.

“Well, she proposed to me,” He said bashfully, grinning widely and fondly at the memory.  “Got down on one knee and everything.  We were tiny at the time.  I wanted to take her for a ride around on Cassie’s train set so she’d finally understand how fun it was, and she just… did it”

“Awe” Peter cooed.

“That’s really sweet Scott, I’m happy for you both,” (y/n) told him kindly, and squeezed his arm as she walked past him to sit with Peter at the table.  “However, you’re not allowed to have any sort of wedding drama.  I’m up to my knees in it already”

Peter seemed to sit up straighter, focusing his attention on her as he pushed his now empty plate aside.

“Oh my god I can’t believe I forgot, when’s your sister’s wedding?” He asked, and (y/n) sighed, wincing a bit.

“Next week,” She told him defeatedly.  “And I’ve been awful.  I only just tried on my dress this morning, bought my bus ticket down there a couple days ago… I’m so thoroughly fucked for this wedding-”

“Don’t let Steve here you talk like that” Scott teased, shoveling noodles into his mouth as he listened to (y/n) complain.

“Alina thinks I’m still dating Seth” (y/n) added reluctantly, and Peter’s eyes blew wide with surprise, only making the girl wince more.

“What? But you guys broke up before New Years”

“Who’s Seth?” Scott pried.

“We broke up at New Years.  Like, literally at the party.  Thirty seconds before the ball dropped” (y/n) groaned, squeezing her eyes shut tight and trying to burn the memory out of her mind.

“Who’s Seth?” Scott asked again, and he’d probably keep asking until he got an answer.

“A guy I dated, for like, a month.  But just long enough that we were official when I was home for Christmas, so my family knew about him.  And then when he broke up with me…”

“You just never told them?” Peter asked, and (y/n) nodded guiltily.  “How? Don’t you and Alina talk about everything?”

“Sure, when I see her.  But she’s so pushy about me having a boyfriend.  She turns into a full psycho about my love life, and can’t help herself but meddle with it”

“Woah, back up,” Scott said with his mouth full, and swallowed before speaking again.  “He broke up with you?”

(y/n) nodded, furrowing her brows as he seemed to be confused by this.

“But you’re an Avenger”

Peter ducked his head as he giggled at the statement, and (y/n’s) cheeks turned pink with embarrassment.

“That’s uh… that’s kinda why he broke up with me,” She said.  “I was too focused on working here that I didn’t give him my full attention and… he left” She explained with a shrug of her shoulders.  Scott frowned, but she waved a dismissive hand.  “It was months ago, and we were barely even together.  I’m more than over it” She assured him.

Scott seemed to accept that as an answer, and continued to eat while eavesdropping on her and Peter.

“Are you gonna tell her that you aren’t dating him anymore?” Peter asked curiously, while (y/n) took his web shooter and began to tinker around with it.

“I don’t know what to do, she was so excited for me when I told her about him at Christmas,” (y/n) sighed, and popped open the cartridge that holds the web fluid.  “I mean, more excited than when I became an Avenger, Peter.  That’s some serious happiness”

He chuckled and smiled at her while she was totally focused on his gadget.  He always thought she looked prettiest when she was tinkering with something, it’s why he always worked in the lab at the same times that she did.

Scott coughed, gaining Peter’s attention while (y/n) ignored it.  The man gave Peter a suggestive wink and a grin, pointing his chopsticks towards (y/n).  Peter just rolled his eyes and looked away.

“Do you have any ideas on what to do?” Peter asked, and she shook her head, not even looking up at him.

“She sent me a reminder with my invitation, and in a seperate text that I have a plus one, and that I better be using it,” She told him.  “Basically threatened me” She added in a mutter.

“How much did you tell her about Seth?” Scott asked, wandering over to the table.  It was clear that he was already working up a plan in his mind.

“That I had a boyfriend, and some exaggerated details about the kissing” (y/n) answered, shooting a smile towards Peter, who laughed quietly.

“You never showed her any pictures?” Scott asked, getting a bit more bubbly as he continued his questioning.

“We didn’t have any pictures” (y/n) replied.

“Did she even know his name?”

“I don’t know, maybe? I don’t think I was able to get a word out after, ‘I have a boyfriend, we made out a couple times’-”

“So she doesn’t know any details about him other than that he exists?” Scott asked.

“Yes, Lang.  Now just spit it out-”

“Just bring Peter.  Problem solved” Scott said, eating the last of his noodles, and tossing the cup into the garbage.

It bounced off the rim so he had to go pick it up and put it in the trash, dampening his moment a bit.

“What?” (y/n) let out a nervous laugh.  “I’m not doing that,” She said shaking her head at both Peter and Scott.  “That’s not fair to either of them”

Peter didn’t know what to say, and he tried his best to keep his expression neutral, but he figured his cheeks and neck were turning pink the longer he thought about it.  Going to a wedding with (y/n), as her date, as her boyfriend.  He’d do it in a heartbeat, obviously, but he could tell that the idea made (y/n) uncomfortable, so he stayed safe and opted to say nothing about it.

“Not fair? It wasn’t fair of- Elena, was it?”

“Alina”

“Right, it wasn’t fair of Alina to scare you into having and bringing a boyfriend anyways.  And Peter doesn’t have anything better to do, right, Peter?” Scott turned to Peter, raising his brows and widening his eyes to make his point.  His expression screamed play along.  

“I mean- I- no I don’t but-”

“Scott, cut it out,” (y/n) said while Peter was stuttering.  “I’ll just find a time to call her and explain myself”

“But it’s an easy solution to your problem!” Scott whined, earning glare from (y/n), before she went back to prodding at the web shooter, trying her best to avoid this situation.

“But the right solution would be to be honest- oh my god!”

While she was muttering to Scott, she got too aggressive with her tinkering, and the web fluid cartridge busted open, spilling the sticky substance all over her hands and wrists, and webbing them stuck together.

She groaned, and Peter was quick to shove his hands in his pockets in search of the dissolver he’d created, pretty much just for these situations.

“Don’t worry,” He said, taking her hands and pouring it over the web fluid.  “It just peels off when this stuff activates with it”

“Thanks” (y/n) said, already starting to peel off the pieces she could, Peter helping her with it.  Scott watched with a weird look on his face as the two interacted intimately while pulling the web fluid off (y/n’s) hands like dried glue.

“You guys are close enough already, you’d be convincing”

(y/n) narrowed her eyes at the man, threatening him with just a look.

“If my hands weren’t bound together right now, I’d wrap them both around your neck” She threatened him verbally too, for safe measure.

Scott gave her a thumbs up, and left the room without another word.

“I could always fake my death,” (y/n) joked, trying to get rid of the weird tension Scott had left in the room.  “Then I wouldn’t even have to go” Peter laughed with her as he got rid of the last of the webbing on her hand.

“You’ll figure it out,” Peter shrugged.  “You’re a genius remember?” She giggled at how kindly he’d reminded her, and shook her head.

“Yeah, well, I’m off to disappoint my sister and fix your web shooters again,” (y/n) said, giving him an ironically large smile as she got up from the table and headed off to the lab.  “Common room for a movie tonight?” She asked before she left the kitchen.  “I’ll order pizza” She added with a grin, like she even needed to bribe him to hang out with her.

“It’s my turn to pick the movie” He agreed, and she nodded before heading out of the kitchen.

“No Star Wars!” She called from the hallway, leaving Peter to chuckle to himself.

He’d never get her to watch Star Wars with him. ___

“I don’t understand your dilemma,” Thor said, tossing Mjolnir from hand to hand like it were a football.  “Why don’t you just take the Parker boy to the wedding?”

(y/n) sighed, and halted her soldering, looking up to Thor and setting down the tool so that she could explain it more clearly to him.

“Alina, my sister, thinks I’m dating a guy, because last time I saw her, I was dating Seth”

“Okay” Thor nodded for her to go on, signaling he understood so far.

“And Scott Lang, the guy that drives a kidnapper van and was on house arrest until last year, wants me to bring Peter and pretend he’s my boyfriend” She moved her hands erratically every time she put emphasis on a word.

Thor pursed his lips and nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as he thought about it all together.

“Sorry.  You lost me again,” He told her, and the girl hung her head in defeat.  “What is your reasoning for not bringing Parker? He’s a fine young man, isn’t he?”

“Of course, sure,” You agreed as casually as you could, shrugging and nodding.  “But I’m not gonna ask him to pretend to be my boyfriend, that’s ridiculous! Like anyone would believe it anyways-”

“Oh, I’m sure they’d believe it Miss (y/l/n)” Thor chuckled suggestively, earning a quirked brow from (y/n) as she suspiciously watched him.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” She asked, crossing her arms, and abandoning her project on Peter’s web shooters for now.

“It means that I thought you two were an uh… item, when I met you both” Thor told her honestly.

“What?” She scoffed, thinking he was lying.  “How? How did you think that?”

“I walked into the room and you were being all, you know,” Thor shrugged.  “Romantic”

“Romantic?” (y/n) repeated disbelievingly.

“Yes!” Thor answered delightedly, swinging his arms open wide, and making her jump a bit.  She hated that he swung his hammer around so nonchalantly.  Thor set it down on the ground to avoid any further jump scares.

“Remind me, what part of our meeting led you to believe that Peter and I were being romantic?” She asked, cocking her head to the side as though challenging him.  “Pretty sure we were watching a movie… that’s pretty casual stuff”

“You were sat on the floor between his legs, Miss (y/l/n), what else was I to believe?” Thor said smugly.  (y/n) furrowed her brows, and parted her lips to say something, but nothing came to mind other than weak arguments.

“So?”

“He was also braiding your hair,” Thor added, a smirk tugging on his lips.  “Ah, I remember the warm summer nights where Jane and I would make love all evening, and I would braid her hair as well.  If that isn’t damn romance at it’s finest…”

“Okay, okay I get it” (y/n) grumbled, and decided to just go back to finishing up the web shooter.  The sooner she finished, the sooner she could get out of here and forget any of this ever happened.  

Thor frowned at her actions, puzzled yet again by (y/n’s) strange actions.

“You’ll have to forgive me Miss (y/l/n) if I’ve upset you.  I’d thought that you would enjoy the idea” He told her genuinely.  Thor was a being of eternal kindness, and always intended the best for those he cared about.  He just wasn’t great at displaying that in a more… human way.

“Why the hell would I enjoy the idea?” (y/n) asked, eyes trained on the soldering device as she precisely sealed the gadget back together.

“I had thought that your feelings for Parker would lead you to-”

Thor stopped speaking when (y/n’s) head snapped up at his words, almost soldering her finger had she not been paying attention.

“What?” She spoke harshly, but softly.  “What gave you that delusion?”

Thor just smiled at her, and shook his head.  He didn’t have to give her the evidence for that one, because she had it herself.

“You look at him with love,” He said simply.  “It’s very sweet”

(y/n) blinked, at a loss for words completely now.  If you’d told her three years ago that one day she would be working in a Stark lab and arguing with Thor the God of Thunder about whether or not she has a crush on Spider-Man, she would’ve laughed in your face.  But here she was now, trying to come up with a way to shut the idea down in his brain before he could go spouting off this information to the others.

Thor liked to gossip about ‘office crushes’ as he called them, more than one might think.

“I…” She started, but failed to find a train of thought to finish.  “Thor… you can’t… I don’t…”

With a groan, she sat down on the workbench and ran her hands through her hair, before tying it back rather aggressively.  

“You’re worked up,” Thor noted, and she gave him a no shit, look.  “I’ll leave you be, seems you have a lot to work on here tonight”

Thor stood to leave, giving her an appreciative nod for her time, and summoned Mjolnir to his hand on his way out.

“Goodnight” (y/n) mumbled after he’d already left.

She knew he was right, and she knew that he knew he was right.  It didn’t take much for anyone to notice that (y/n) harbored some pretty serious and not so platonic feelings for Peter Parker.  But you couldn’t blame her.  Not when he was always so kind and loving and his his stupid dopey smile-

She shook her head and went back to her work, deciding that she needed the distraction.

Inviting Peter to be her fake boyfriend? No way, that was cheesy, it was lame.  She didn’t need to pretend to have a boyfriend to get her sister’s approval.  She worked with the Avengers, she lived in the same building as Iron Man and Captain America and Black Widow, she didn’t need a love life to show off when she had this lifestyle.

Right? ___

She’d burst into Peter’s bedroom without warning, and it was clear to him that she’d sprinted from the elevator and down the hall, because she was panting, and her hair was a mess.

“You alright?” He asked, standing up from his desk and looking her up and down.  (y/n) had spent plenty of time in his room, but she always knocked first, or gave him a warning that she was coming in.

“Okay, hear me out” She said, waving her hands around.  She was holding her phone and a pizza box, and Peter took them both before she’d throw them somewhere by mistake.

“I’m listening” He said curiously, and took a slice of the pizza while he waited for (y/n) to explain this little outburst.

“So I know it’s crazy, and I wanted Scott to shut up earlier so bad I was about to slap him,” She rambled, and Peter chuckled, but still seemed a bit confused.  “But look I- I can’t tell my sister that I don’t have a boyfriend, okay? Like it’s the only thing she’s ever wanted for me, ever.  It doesn’t matter that I graduated top of my class and that I’m working here now? Who cares that I personally know Carol Danvers if I don’t have a boyfriend, right?”

“Uh-”

“And I swear I tried, alright? I drafted a few texts, wrote out a few ideas even before typing it, I was very serious about being honest with her, okay?”

“Okay?” Peter answered, mouth full of pizza, and a cute crease between his brows.  He thought he’d known where this was going when she started, but now she was on a rant about trust and honesty and the boy was lost, so he just kept eating the pizza.

“- okay, I’m getting off track.  My question is…” (y/n) wrung her hands together as she looked back to Peter nervously.  “Willyoubemyfakeboyfriendnextweek?”

He grinned at her, having heard every word despite her forcing them out in one clump of slurs.

“Awe, (y/n/n),” He mocked, placing a hand over his heart.  He stuck out his bottom lip just to mess with her, watching her fumble and anxiously wait for his answer.  “I thought you’d never ask”

“Shut up,” She hit his arm and shook her head.  “Will you?”

“Yeah of course,” Peter shrugged like it was a totally normal occurrence.  “Gonna need to get a suit though”

“I’ll text Tony,” (y/n) answered quickly.  If he was going to be doing this huge favor for her, she’d get whatever he needed for the rest of his life.  “Anything else?”

“I mean, you’ll have to tell me what ticket you bought so I can get the same one, you know, so I can actually be there” Peter thought aloud.  

(y/n) nodded, and grabbed her phone, starting a new notepad so that she could plan out what they’d need to do for the next week.  Suit.  Bus ticket.

“We’ll have to come up with a story, too,” She said, and sat down on his bed, taking a piece of pizza as she brainstormed something believable.  “Something cheesy”

“Why does it have to be cheesy?”

“Because it’s you, and it’ll be more realistic that way” She shrugged, and typed backstory into her phone.

“You think I’m cheesy?” Peter asked, taking another slice and leaning against his dresser.

“Pete,” (y/n) giggled.  “For my birthday, you took me on a swing around the city, and we wined and dined on the rooftop and watched the sunset”

His face went pink at the memory, and (y/n) laughed more.

“It was sweet, don’t get me wrong, I loved every minute of it.  But that’s the cheesiest that it gets”

“Okay, okay.  So we got together in a cheesy way.  Did I ask you out?” He thought, and (y/n) nodded in agreement.

“It just has to be before Christmas” She told him.

“Wow, we’ve been together for seven months? Time flies when you’re in love” He teased, and her face lit up.

“Oh my god! Boundaries!”

“Sorry-!” Peter panicked, but she shook her head.

“No, not that, what I mean is technically we’ll have been together for half a year, you know?” She explained.  “You’re gonna have to remember to tell me you love me all the time,” She said, and Peter nodded.  

That shouldn’t be too hard.

“And we’ll be staying with my sister at my parents’ house.  Jonathan is taking over their apartment before the wedding, and they can’t see each other before the ceremony- anyways, so we’ll have to be like…”

“Touchy?” Peter asked, a bit unsure.  (y/n) nodded, eating her pizza so she didn’t have to say anything right away.

“It’s just a couple of days,” She reminded him.  “And if at any point it gets weird then we’ll just… stop,” She finished quietly, a part of her hoping that he wouldn’t be uncomfortable about it.  “We’ll be really honest, right?” She asked, “Like, we have to dial communication up to eleven, because if I do something that-”

“We’ll be alright,” Peter chuckled.  “But yeah, communication”

He was fairly certain that he was going to have no problem with this.

“So, what was my grand gesture?” Peter asked.  “Was it love at first sight, or did you string me along and watch me pine?” (y/n) giggled and shook her head.

“Whatever you want Pete”

“Stringing me along it is” He decided, and watched her smile at him delightedly.

“I said ‘I love you’ first though, I call dibs”

“You call dibs on saying I love you first?” Peter asked, and she nodded eagerly.  “Fine, but I still made the first move”

“Deal”

They laughed to themselves at how crazy this was, crafting a story of their relationship.

“This is kind of fun” (y/n) said after they’d gone through every detail they possibly could.  It was probably too much, but it was easy to get off track.  It was like writing a romance novel, as both of them shared ideas that they’d daydreamed about and thought would be a romantic tidbit to add, if anyone were to ask them about it.

“It is,” Peter agreed, giving her a soft smile.  “I feel like that makes us manipulative, but,” He shrugged, and (y/n) chuckled, ripping the last pizza slice in half and sharing it with him.  “Thanks,” He mumbled, and he tapped his slice against hers.  “Cheers”

“Cheers,” She repeated.  “To our beautiful relationship, full of love and romance” She giggled as she took a bite, and Peter forced a small laugh.

It was comfortably quiet between them both as their brains ran wild with how they pictured next weekend going.  (y/n) figured it’d be simple.  On Friday, they would bus down, and get into town late, pretty much going to bed as soon as they got to her parents’ house.  Saturday morning would be brunch with the whole family, and likely some last minute plan changing on her sister’s part.  She’d probably get to give Peter a little tour of her hometown if she wasn’t needed for maid of honor duties, and they’d have a relaxing dinner the night before the wedding with her parents and sister.  Sunday would probably be hectic, hair, makeup, dresses, suits, and a one hundred percent chance of tears as well.  But the ceremony would be beautiful, and once they made it to the party afterwards, everything would be easy.  Everyone would dance and have some drinks and reminisce and mingle, it’ll be fun.

It’ll be fun, she repeated in her head.

“Hey, (y/n/n)?” Peter called out, and the nerves were clear in his tone.

“Hm?” She hummed, and laid back on his bed after finishing her pizza.

“Are we gonna have to… um… kiss?”

She looked over at him, appearing just as surprised as he’d felt when the thought crossed his mind.  How had they not thought of that?

“Oh” She said softly.

“Did I make it weird?” Peter asked, regretting ever mentioning it.  “Oh my god, I made it weird already-”

“No, you didn’t,” She reassured.  “I just… hadn’t thought about it.  I guess we could always just not kiss…” (y/n) trailed off, and gauged Peter for his reaction.  He shrugged his shoulders awkwardly.

“I’ll just kiss your cheek if the moment comes up”

“Good plan” She replied quickly, probably too quickly, and they both nodded their heads rapidly.

“Yeah, yeah that is a good plan” Peter mumbled to himself.

It was quiet again, and they were reimagining the whole trip now.  What if the moment did come up where they were expected to kiss? (y/n) knew she was overthinking this whole thing and taking it way too far, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Want to go watch a movie now?” Peter asked, and she nodded, quickly following him out of his room and towards the elevator so they could go to the common room.

Suit. Bus ticket. Backstory. Pull it off.

___

taglist:  @writings-and-stuff @rofromtheashes @tomshufflepuff @steve-avengers-rogers @vibhati123 @dark-night-sky-99  @hollandhours @drakonwild @imofficiallyobsessed

xoxo ~ jordie

[faejilly]

Malec, 10

10. Anniversary Celebration [X] I am uh, really sorry about this very loose interpretation of ‘celebration’. aka the exact opposite of one. 

#MCD warning (before the fic starts, but also the only thing this is about) 

I’m mostly ignoring the whole Inquisitor/Alicante thing from the finale because… well, because I can? They lived in NYC.

Except for the first one, still busy putting out metaphorical fires as the Shadow World adjusted after Valentine and Lilith and Jonathan, helping the Clave rebuild into something at least a bit better than the last few times, they’d always taken time off for their anniversary, always celebrated it in New York, always made sure to be home. 

This was the first anniversary, after, and Alec couldn’t bear the thought of it, of NYC’s bright lights and loud voices surrounding him now that he was alone.

He’d always known he might lose Magnus because he couldn’t keep the balance of their private lives steady against the pressure of their public ones, always knew he might fall down and fail Magnus one too many times… he’d never once let himself consider simply out-surviving him. 

Warlocks didn’t age, could barely get sick, and Magnus was too bright and powerful to be easy to kill by violence or accident.

But no one was invulnerable.

Not even Magnus Lightwood-Bane. 

It hadn’t even been a Greater Demon or anything, just bad luck and bad timing and a scuffle between a panicked Warlock and a young Nephilim and one too many uridezus in the shadows.

Alec moved to Alicante after the funeral, somewhere as different as possible, somewhere close to what family he had left; Izzy was head of the Clave’s R&D departments, and Clary was still arguing with every single Clave policy that she hadn’t yet managed to drag into the 21st Century.

(Clary reminded him a bit of Imogen at her best, right before she’d died, steel and spark and a well-hidden heart; he was never going to tell anyone that thought. He might not even have told Magnus, if he could…)

Clary and Izzy had both been worried, when he said he’d be going ‘out’ for the day, but they hadn’t said anything.

Izzy especially hadn’t needed to, he could see it in her eyes, the fear that he wouldn’t come back, now that he didn’t have an anchor anymore, didn’t have Jace or Magnus; she still didn’t realize that she had always been just as important to him, so important he hadn’t needed any extra ties to bind them together, to make it some sort of “official” for other people.

He didn’t know of any other way to tell her that she’d believe, anything beyond the way they’d lived their lives, so he just kissed the top of her head, her hair catching against his lips. She was dyeing it a lovely purple-blue this month, but for all she could stop the natural grey from showing, it felt different, thicker, coarser, in contrast to the way the skin around her eyes was softer, thinner and fragile.

Magnus’ hair and skin had never changed, not in almost forty years.

Nothing about him had changed, except his smile, which only got warmer and softer, except his eyes, which got darker as he watched Alec age, as he knew their time was growing shorter.

Neither of them had ever planned for this.

Well. Magnus had planned, they’d both planned, they had updated wills and everything, but neither of them had ever really believed… 

Alec sighed, and let himself relax into his chair, his toes digging into the sand as he stared up at the stars scattered through the sky above him, listened to the sound of the ocean rolling in and out only a few yards past his feet. 

They’d always loved this beach, for whenever they got a few days free. Some tiny little island off most of the shipping routes in Indonesia. Not near where Magnus had grown up, but still almost home, or what home could have been in a better world.

Clary had taught Alec the portal rune, after Magnus…

She taught him bits at a time, spread it out over about a week, so she never actually drew the whole rune herself. It was a method she’d mastered over the years, until almost every Nephilim who’d come through the New York Institute knew the half of the Alliance Rune that they’d need to draw on themselves.

(She’d taught the other half to the Downworlders directly, so it would always be their choice, never up to only a Shadowhunter.)

She never shared the Portal rune though, said she wanted to keep the Clave at least a little humble, make them pay the Warlocks for their trouble.

Magnus had laughed, and kissed her cheek… and talked most of the Warlocks around the world into adding a commission charge to their Portals, and giving the total to Clary each year on her birthday. 

(The first year her eyes had widened and she’d missed the chair trying to sit down, landing on the floor with her hand over her mouth. Alec was pretty sure it was the only time he’d ever seen her speechless.)

She’d used it to set up a referral network, safe houses and foster parents, counselors and doctors and cops who knew about the Shadow World. She spent most of her time on it now, (in-between her daily arguments with the current Counsel and Inquisitor), now that she’d retired from field work.

Alec huffed out a breath, and closed his eyes. He couldn’t focus. Didn’t really want to, didn’t want to… 

He opened them up again, rather than let himself remember Magnus again, how he’d looked when…

It was better to remember him from before.

“I miss you.” Alec blinked until the stars came back into focus. “I don’t know how to do this. Don’t know how to be, anything, without you here.”

Especially today. 

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the small box that had been poking into his side. He traced the edges, but didn’t open it. He couldn’t decide if it was a comfort or not, that the present he’d ordered for their anniversary had arrived right on time, as if he still had someone to give it to, still had…

As if he still had Magnus.

He’d always still have Magnus in his heart, but on days like today that didn’t help. He put the box back in his pocket. It was just a charm for Magnus’ collection, a silver and gold lucky cat waving its paw. Their anniversary had always been more about spending time together than presents.

“How terrible of me is it that for all I’d never wanted to leave you, to make you feel like this, I was glad I wouldn’t have to do the very thing I kept asking you to do, would never have to learn how to live on without you?” Alec watched the sky blur as tears welled up, didn’t even bother to try and wipe them away. “I wanted you to learn how to be happy again, but I can’t… I can’t imagine ever doing that myself.” It had been a bit of a guilty comfort over the years, in fact, knowing that he wouldn’t have to try.

Showed what he’d known. 

At least I won’t have to try for as long as you would have, Magnus. 

He snorted. That was awful, and the only person who would have laughed at the desperate dark humor of it all with him was dead. 

He swallowed, closed his eyes and leaned forward, trying to keep the ache in his chest from spreading so far he’d break apart from it. 

He’d promised, and he was trying, he was, but he didn’t know how. 

‘You don’t have to know, darling.’ He could still hear Magnus’ voice every time he closed his eyes, knew what his hand would feel like as he rubbed Alec’s spine to try and soothe him, still almost felt the weight of him on the other side of the bed when he tried to sleep. ‘You just have to keep trying. You’re better at that than anyone I’ve ever known.’ 

“Only when I had you to help,” Alec whispered. It was probably a bad sign he kept having one-sided conversations with his dead husband, but at least he’d managed to only have them in private. 

At least he knew they weren’t real.

“I’m a mess, but not that much of a disaster.”

Yet.

“I’m afraid, Magnus.” He didn’t want to let anyone down, the people who were still around, or the ones that were already gone, but. “There’s only so many times I’ll be able to pick myself back up again on my own.”

‘That’s fine. As many as you can is good enough.’ 

Alec smiled. He sighed, and leaned back again. He let his hand fall, swiped down the leg of the chair until he found his bottle of beer. He lifted it up, a toast to the sky, to everything beyond it. 

To everyone he missed. 

“As long as I can.” He took a sip. “You always were nicer to me than I ever managed to be to myself. Nicer than I deserved.”

His lips twitched as he pictured Magnus rolling his eyes. ‘No such thing, Alexander.’

“To another year of your memory, of my life.” He sighed. “I’ve got a few more tries in me, I guess. For Izzy, for you. Even for Clary.”

‘Not for yourself?’ 

Alec didn’t bother to answer that one, not even in his own head. “I love you.”

‘I love you, too.’

He lifted the bottle and tilted his head all the way back, finished the last of his drink. Until next year. 

[bloodkingdomrp]

♚SILAS.JAMES.MONROE-DUMONT

“ Where does seeking justice end and seeking vengeance begin? “

✚ AGE & DOB: Thirty-Four & September 19th, 1986 ✚ OCCUPATION: Emergency Room Doctor ✚ AFFILIATION: Unaffiliated

♛THE HISTORY♛

            Before he was Dr. Monroe-Dumont (Dr. MD, as his colleagues like to tease him), he was just a Monroe. One of three, actually; always linked with his siblings by  teachers and neighbors who neither took the time to get to know the family nor raise a finger to help them. Yet they never failed to shoot the pitiful trio sorrowful glances and whisper to each other about how terrible things must be for those poor, pinched Monroe children.

             Roe was the eldest, and, therefore, the only one who remembered what their mother had been like before.  He still had memories of a mother who patiently showed him over and over again how to tie his shoes, who would hum while she cleaned the house, and cut his sandwich into four perfect triangles if he asked nicely. A mother who’d remember she had three young children waiting for her and hurry home in order to tuck them into bed with a kiss, no matter how late she got off work. But that was all before she had become a walking list of tragic statistics: battered girlfriend, single mother; deadbeat, drug addict. No family, no education, and three kids under the age of ten, Miranda Monroe self-medicated herself out of a sea of anxiety until she was too fucked up to remember how to be stressed about anything at all. Dose after toxic dose, drugs became her only comfort, her entire identity. Eventually taking hold of her completely, leaving no room for trivial things like tenderness or parental instinct. So those became responsibilities Roe took on.

              Barely more than a child himself, Roe was a poor substitute for a parent, but he tried his best. Long nights spent tucked against Annie and Parker, whispering endless, made-up stories in their ears until they fell asleep. Anything to distract their minds and keep them from asking about where their mother was  or when she’d be coming home. The days were longer still, helping his siblings with their homework while his own sat in the bottom of his backpack, encouraging them to “eat up,” even as the powder-cheap mac n cheese stuck to the roof of his mouth as he tried to swallow it down for the fifth time that week. Good days were few and far between, but he had Annie and he had Parker, and in the end,  he would have traded anything to get that back, because far too soon the Monroe three became two.

Case number: 371209. Patient: Monroe, Parker. Age: 7. Cause of death: Arrhythmia resulting in ventricular fibrillation. Drug screening: positive screening for cocaine [benzoyl-methyl-ecgonine] and heroin [diacetylmorphine].

              Miranda lands herself with charges for felony homicide, abuse, and neglect of a child. The cruelest factor at all being that the withdrawal she faces in prison somehow ended up being a bigger demon to her than the loss of her youngest child. The neighborhood is a flurry of rumors and rehearsed sympathy—what a tragedy, if only we had known, if only we could have done something. A blessing in disguise, others dare to assume, for at least the two other children can be helped now. Roe and Annie did not take as kindly to their supposed rescue.

              Roe doesn’t want to like the Dumonts. Their smiles are too kind, their house too big, and their lifestyle too perfect to be real. But they’re equal measures persistent and patient, whisking Roe to and from court-mandated therapy sessions, giving him space on his bad days, and tactfully pressing in during those brief moments when his walls begin to drop and he forgets that he doesn’t want to be a part of this family. It becomes hard to not want to be there. It’s the little things that start to break him; Peggy asking him what he wants to eat every time she goes to make a shopping list, Jonathan bringing home a new pair of shoes when he notices Roe’s are looking a little worn. Roe had forgotten what it felt like to be the one being taken care of, and no matter how much it felt like weaknesses to admit it, he didn’t want to lose that. He did not know if he could handle losing the first people, aside from his siblings, who looked at him like he was something more than a walking tragedy. And for a reason, that Roe still has trouble fathoming, the Dumonts did not want to lose him either. Three hundred and seventy-two days after being placed in their home, they finally broached the topic of adoption. Though, Peggy would later confess that it only took a week for her to be sure that Roe was meant to stay with them. And yet, that was still too soon. At that time, Roe was still a child grieving for a brother lost, mourning a family that would never be reunited, and it would be another year before any legal decisions were made to change his custody.

              Compared to the life Roe had lived within his first fourteen years, the Dumont’s home was near perfect. In all ways but one: Annie wasn’t there. Judges and family social workers all kept promising the same thing, “It’s only a temporary.” But temporary was a heavy weight on his shoulders as days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and nearly two years had passed with the siblings only getting to see each other every few weeks. Roe had fought against the decision, questioning the courts on why his sister couldn’t be placed where he was, attempting to force them to see reason and put them back together, pleading with them when nothing else had worked. But they remained unmoved. It had been deemed that Annalise Monroe required a certain level of care that her older brother did not. Where Roe had taken his upbringing as a cautionary tale—every decision a conscious effort to distance himself from his parents and the path they had walked—Annie was tragically and undeniably a product of her early home environment. Rebellious and chaotic, she was moved through several therapeutic foster homes before landing herself in a residential facility. Her case managers hoped that the structure would provide a safe environment for her to start to work through her trauma, but with Annie things were often one step forward and a fierce and destructive leap backwards. The Dumonts had offered to serve as a potential step down for Annie after she completed her treatment, but with a series of self-sabotaging behaviors, discharge was seeming farther and farther away.

              In the end, it was the move that forced the decision. Jonathan’s work transferred him from Chicago to St. Louis, and though Roe had already, inadvertently, come to think of the couple as his family, legally he was still in the state’s custody. As such his placement with the Dumonts would have been disrupted by their move to a new state. At this point it was no longer a question. The Dumonts calmly explained to Roe that they were going to adopt him so he could stay with them. Though some might have mistaken their actions as controlling, or inconsiderate not to ask Roe his opinion, it was a merciful decision. It offered Roe exactly what he wanted without having to say it out loud, lest he have to taste words coated with a sickening layer of betrayal towards the sister he was leaving behind. Guilt was a familiar companion and it travelled with him still, and  yet, though Roe would not admit it aloud, his first night in Missouri—over three hundred miles away from every terrible and cruel thing that had ever happened to him—he slept a little easier.

              Roe thrived in this new environment. Never bold or boisterous, his mark was one of quiet excellence. Given the time to actually focus on schoolwork, with the Dumont’s constant encouragement and praise, Roe developed a love of learning that promised nothing less than success when paired with his uninhibited determination. Supported and cherished, Roe learned what contentment truly felt like. If it was not for his steadfast communication with his sister, he could have written off his early life experiences as nothing more than an extended nightmare. He had finally seen what the world could be like, away from the pernicious streets of Chicago, and it was something he longed to share with his sister. To finally, finally, give her a new start as well.

              In the summer of 2008, Roe had just graduated with his degree is pre-med and was eagerly awaiting the start of his graduate classes at Washington University in St. Louis. Despite his excitement for his continuing education,  frankly, the only countdown that was on his radar was Annie’s eighteenth birthday. Released from the state’s custody at that point, she would be free to go where she wanted, and the Dumonts had already agreed to allow her to move into their spare bedroom while she figured out her next steps. He had expected his sister to share his elation, to turn away from the city that had practically held her captive all these years and never look back. But when he shared his plan with Annie she had simply shrugged and resolutely declared that she thought she would stay in Chicago for a while longer, and when Annie made up her mind about something there was no changing it.

              That was not to say Roe did not try. He spent the next four years of medical school and first three years of his residency periodically sending his sister different job opportunities or school possibilities; all of which were far outside the radius of the windy city. Occasionally Annie would feign interest, going as far as to apply for one of the jobs. At least that is what she would tell Roe whenever he pestered her on the subject, though somehow none of them ever seemed to work out.

              It was a Tuesday in May when Roe had called Annie, telling her about a secretary position that had opened up at a private practice where one of his friends from school was now working. The following Thursday he received an incoming call from an unknown number. The woman on the other end of the line explained that she was calling because he was listed as the emergency contact for Annalise Monroe, who was being rushed into surgery after receiving a gunshot wound to the head.  He’s later told it’s a miracle his sister survived the surgery and that they were able to get the bullet out. Unfortunately, said miracle did little to counter the bleeding that had already led to severe swelling inside of her brain. In a cruel form of irony, ultimately, Roe gets his wish and gets Annie out of Chicago. She’s transferred to an ICU in a Missouri hospital, only an hour away from the Dumont’s home. The hospital there is smaller, vastly different from the bustling hospitals in Chicago’s city limits, giving them more time to dedicate to monitoring and caring for coma patients.

              Unable now to call Annie, Roe instead spends the last year of his residency on the phone with her doctors and the investigators in charge of her case, her attacker never having been identified. No matter which he ends up calling the responses are always the same: there are no new updates. Annie remains alive—if you could call her pitiful state of existence that—and any leads towards finding who shot her remain dead and cold. Upon finishing his residency, St. Luke’s Hospital offers to hire Roe on as full-time staff. Much to the surprise, and clear dismay, of his adopted parents, Roe declines the position. Instead taking a job at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, putting himself back in the heart of the very city he had spent over a decade avoiding.

              Roes never been the best with using his words, and he has none to verbalize why he had to go back. He doesn’t think he has the answers even within himself. Perhaps he was desperate to gaze upon the city in a new light, attempt to see whatever Annie must have saw in it, that kept her resisting all of his efforts pull her away. Or perhaps it was just the inescapable noose of fate, that there must always be a Monroe suffering in Chicago’s streets. And some days he did suffer; especially in the beginning, moving around the city with a haunted look in his eye. Every nerve in his body on edge, the entire city serving as one large trauma reminder for the child he once was and the trials that he faced. Peggy calls him often; tells him he sounds tired and that she wishes he would take some time off work. It’s the only line she uses with him now, after the one time she had been bold enough to tell Roe he should move back, which resulted in the only true fight they’ve ever had.

He doesn’t take time off, instead he rides it out and faces the sense of foreboding headfirst, drives through his old neighborhood every day after work until his hand doesn’t tremble against the wheel anymore. It’s not great, and it doesn’t feel like home. After all, Parker and Annie were the only reasons Chicago ever felt like home. But Roe survives. He makes a handful of friends and invests deeply in his job at the hospital. He’s  just started to find some new semblance of normal when he receives the phone call that he’s been anticipating—dreading—for nearly three years.

They bury Annie on the Dumont’s family plot. “Your family is our family,” Jonathan tells him. And Roe knows that they believe that. The way Peggy cries, sorrow down to her very soul, is nothing less than a woman grieving the daughter that she never had a chance to take  in. She cups his face after the service, and whispers, so sincere that it breaks his heart a little, that she prays he can find peace now. But peace is not what Roe feels. Annie may be at rest, but his soul rages on— a flicker of something dark deep inside of himself that he had tried so hard to ignore. “Death can be a time for healing”, the pastor had said, black suit pressed to perfection, worn leather bible clutched in his hand, a picture of poetic reverie. Roe agrees with him, more than any of them will ever know. He knows it’s true. It’s death that will bring him comfort. It’s just not Annie’s death that he needs. He has no name, no face, barely any clues to go on, but it doesn’t matter. He knows he’ll find them. And when he does, they’ll pay for they did.

♜ THE DETAILS♜

(+): conscientious, +resourceful, +compassionate

(-): critical, -reticent, -penitent  

Face claim: Hugh Dancy

written by Bev | CST&EST

[nancykali]

Smoke and Mirrors

rated NC-17/Explicit

chapter 3 of my Stoncy season 2 canon compliant fic

a.k.a. Nancy and Jonathan ship each other with Steve really hard

chapter 1 (will make this chapter make a lot more sense) . chapter 2 (not necessary reading but helpful for understanding Jonathan’s POV in chapter 3)

read on ao3

my lines about Nancy and Mike are heavily inspired by this fic which is one of my favorite ST fics

It had been two days since El closed the gate.

Nancy hadn’t seen Steve or Jonathan in that time. The morning after, they all left the Byers in various states of dishevelment. Jonathan had driven Nancy and Mike home, while Steve drove Dustin and Lucas. Max stayed with Hopper and El, so Hopper could help explain to Mrs. Hargrove what had happened to her step-son the night before. And Max had given fair warning that her step-father was no picnic to deal with, under any circumstances. Hopper had gotten the hint and promised to be with her when they took her home.

Nancy had had some small hope that El had warmed toward the other girl, when she’d seen the two walking next to each other toward Hopper’s truck that morning, their breath rising together in the early morning cold. She’d heard all the kids whispering together in the living room late into the night, from where she’d settled in Jonathan’s bed, the bedroom door wide open by her own choice. It had given her the smallest comfort, that after so much pain and horror, at least these kids could still be together. Whole.

Jonathan had chosen to sleep with Will in his brother’s room that night. Nancy hadn’t been able to sleep at all. It was nothing new for her. She’d met Mike in the Byers’ kitchen around 3am, and they’d made hot cocoa. It had been the first time in a long time she’d talked to Mike, just talked to him.

Steve had been asleep on the couch in the living room, and Nancy had thought perhaps fifty times whether or not she should go wake him, talk to him. Tell him everything she’d been pushing down, not only since the Halloween party, but for months. Nearly a year. Seeing Mike’s tears and knowing yet another’s pain, knowing she had contributed to it, it had weighed her down. Made her just want to lie down and never get up. But even after she’d hugged Mike tight to her, felt his tears soak her shirt, seen him back to his sleeping place in the living room, still she didn’t sleep.

Now Nancy sat with Jonathan in his room, marijuana smoke hovering toward the ceiling, her head on his chest, his fingers running through her hair.

They’d just finished catching up on a good portion of their homework, from missing the past two and a half days of school. Jonathan had decided they should reward themselves by sharing a joint.

Nancy had slept for nearly thirteen hours the night before returning to school, and still she felt exhausted to her bones. She took another hit off the joint, closing her eyes, letting the waves of the high hit her. Part of her wanted so much to just take Jonathan’s hand and guide it to the heat between her legs, to let him take off all her clothes and make her forget everything. But the stronger part of her wouldn’t allow it. Still, she took Jonathan’s hand, deftly untangling it from her hair.

His hand was warm and pliant in hers. She kissed his fingertips, pressed his palm to her collarbone.

“Steve avoided us today,” she said, her mouth dry, her voice strained.

Jonathan’s fingertips skated over her chest and up her neck, then back down. The pleasurable chills helped counteract the sinking feeling in her heart.

“I talked to him that night, after we took Billy home,” Jonathan said, taking the joint from between her fingers with his other hand. She heard him take another hit, his fingers still light and soothing against her skin.

“What did he say?” she asked, the weed making her speak quickly, excitedly, surges of warmth running through her limbs.

Jonathan’s hand stopped moving, and his palm came to rest flat against her chest, over her heart. She sighed, feeling her heart beat against his hand, the heavy weight of it one of the most comforting things she’d felt for days. She ran her hand up and down his thigh, fighting the urge to just turn around and kiss him.

“I think he feels guilty,” Jonathan said, handing the joint back to her.

Her heart pounded faster. Jonathan bent his head and began pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses over her neck and shoulder, his free hand pulling the collar of her shirt aside to reach her skin. She gave an involuntary whimper at the sensual contact, her hand squeezing his thigh.

“You think?” Nancy said, honestly surprised at Jonathan’s statement. She kept her eyes closed, trying to hold onto something. Jonathan’s hand was so warm. She put her hand on top of his, still holding the joint awkwardly. “Did he say why?”

“He said he told you it was okay,” Jonathan said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. A near indiscernible strain in his words made her freeze. She turned to look at him, his hand shifting to rest at the nape of her neck.

It took her a few seconds longer than it should have to process his words. So she took one last hit from the joint, before reaching across Jonathan and setting it aside in one of Joyce’s ashtrays on the nightstand.

Then she moved to frame Jonathan’s hips with her thighs, sitting in his lap. She then framed Jonathan’s face in her hands, looking straight into his bloodshot eyes. It felt so important to hold him like this, in this exact moment.

“He’s wrong,” she said, making her voice soft. “It’s not okay. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him so bad, Jonathan.” Tears wanted to break through but even while high she could hold them back.

“But we had to help Will, and I was so afraid we would lose him, I didn’t, I didn’t know—” Nancy cut herself off, her thoughts becoming too jumbled for her to continue. She bit her bottom lip, watching Jonathan’s eyes glaze over with tears. He cried so much more readily than her, it made her want to protect him, hurt whatever was hurting him. But usually the things hurting him were intangible. She couldn’t fight intangible things.

“I will make this right,” she said, her voice louder. Her head felt light, she didn’t know quite how loud she’d actually been.

Jonathan’s hands were now at her waist. She brushed his bangs off his forehead, and he closed his eyes. She kissed his closed eyelids, first the left, then the right. His breath quickened.

“I know you miss him, too,” she said, her voice cracking.

He swallowed, still keeping his eyes closed. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low with the effort to keep his tears hidden. Held down. He couldn’t hold them back as easily as she could. He hadn’t had as much practice.

She didn’t want him to hold them back. She’d seen him cry about his asshole of a father, about his guilt over Will, about Joyce’s pain after Bob’s death, being unable to do anything to help. And now, over Steve, over her mistake. She wouldn’t let him hold them back.

“Jonathan,” she whispered, leaning closer to his face. “Open your eyes. Please.”

Two, three, then four fraught seconds passed before he opened them. The tears overflowed, and she swept them gently away, licked the salty wetness from one thumb, then the other. Jonathan stared at her the whole time, his hands gripping tighter at her waist. His eyes moved down to her lips, but neither of them moved.

She knew another reason behind why the tears were there. He’d told her a few days ago, how before Halloween, Steve and he had gotten drunk together at Steve’s house. Nancy couldn’t be there because she’d had to babysit Holly.

Jonathan had told Steve he’d loved him and Steve hadn’t answered. She’s wouldn’t make Jonathan hurt more by bringing it up. The memory was passed between them without either saying a word.

“Whatever happens, I know you and Steve belong together,” she said, now staring at his mouth, too. She only then noticed she was running her hand through his hair. He loved it just as much as Steve, she knew. Jonathan was just less vocal, about everything he was feeling. She knew this, knew she had to tell him things he needed to hear. He didn’t even know what he needed to hear sometimes.

“How do you know?” he said, a note of wonder in his voice. He pulled her closer and kissed her collarbone, and she held the back of his head in her palm, trying not to hold too tight. His lips trailed up her neck, kissing and biting and kissing again, his tongue teasing the skin he was bruising.

“Because I see the way he looks at you,” she said on a gasp, then smiled to herself, biting her lip against the pleasure trying to overwhelm her.

Jonathan’s hands moved beneath her shirt, his palms spreading over her back, fingers splayed wide as if he wanted to hold all of her at once. She pressed herself against him, trying to measure her breaths around her pounding heart.

“Like he’s starving…but happy about it,” she added, the words coming out in a loud whisper near his ear, her hand unconsciously pulling his hair with her need.

He leaned back to look at her. Their eyes locked, dilated with desire, Jonathan still on the edge of tears. She knew part of it was the weed, the high still coursing through both of them.

“You’re not just saying that?” he said, skeptical and hopeful at once. Nancy shook her head adamantly. She ran her fingertips down the side of his neck, feeling him shudder at the sensation. Her pleasure spiked at the knowledge, and she bit her lip again, staring at his mouth. His lips were slightly parted, and so were hers. She had to fight to refocus on what he’d said.

“I saw him today in the hallway. He was looking at you, not me. I knew that look so well,” she said, a laugh bubbling up unexpectedly. The giggles kept coming even as she tried to speak. She lost her train of thought again.

Jonathan was unclasping her bra, before even taking her shirt off. He had a small smile on his face, watching her laugh. She framed his face in her hands again, her love for him, for Steve, overwhelming her for a moment. She looked straight into Jonathan’s eyes and thought they were the most beautiful eyes in the most beautiful face she had ever seen.

“Steve loves you, I know he does,” she said, and felt a pressure in her chest. It took a few seconds to realize it was tears trying to break through again. She didn’t let them. She lifted one of her hands and let the back of her fingers sweep over Jonathan’s cheek. He was looking intently at her, his eyes traveling over her face, likely trying to read her expression. She didn’t even know what she felt in that moment.

He lifted his hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, saying nothing. But somehow she knew he understood what she couldn’t say. That Steve used to look at her like that. And she’d known it, but had been hurting too much to really see.

She pushed the thoughts away, literally shaking her head, pressing her cheek into Jonathan’s palm. Then she kissed him.

It started as a sloppy, hurried kiss, both of them so high and so eager for each other. Her bra was unclasped but still hanging from her shoulders by the straps. Jonathan pressed her hard to him, deepening the kiss, their tongues meeting, both tasting the weed they’d smoked.

She finally pulled away for breath, gasping, “Jonathan, take my shirt off.”

They both pulled at the hem of her shirt, lifting at the same time. Her bra came off awkwardly with the shirt, and as soon as her arms were free from the shirt and bra she was kissing him again. She reveled at the sensation of his t-shirt against her nipples, the way his arms wrapped around her shoulders and waist, holding her just as tightly as she held him. Her nails dug into his shoulder through his t-shirt, her other hand going beneath his shirt, running her nails over his stomach, teasing the hem of his jeans.

Jonathan moaned into her mouth, and she teasingly bit his lower lip before leaning away. Both of them were breathing hard, their hands digging into each other’s skin, too aroused to let go, too high to rush anything.

Jonathan moved one hand to loosely grasp her breast, teasing the nipple between thumb and forefinger. She closed her lips tight, breathing hard through her nose, trying not to make any sound. His other hand was running up and down her back, his nails gentle against her skin, sending chills through her and making it even harder to stay quiet.

“I kissed Steve that night, before we went back inside,” Jonathan said, his hand moving from her breast down her stomach, to unbutton her jeans. She gripped his shoulders, biting down a gasp as his hand dipped beneath her panties and touched her.

At the same moment his other hand pressed against her lower back, he pushed a finger inside her. Her entire body shuddered and she pressed her face into his neck, biting the skin to keep from crying out. She was rewarded with a gasp from Jonathan, his nails digging into her back. His fingers began to tease her clit until she could barely breathe.

“I kissed him because I was afraid he would just leave. But he kissed me back,” Jonathan whispered into her ear, before kissing her neck, his fingers rubbing harder against her now. She gripped his shoulders even tighter, barely able to focus on anything but Jonathan’s fingers against her, tears threatening to spill over and she didn’t even know why.

“I know he still loves you, Nancy. I could feel it,” he said, kissing her neck, her jaw, her cheek. She shuddered again as his fingers teased her clit, pressing hard and then gently, torturing her. She whimpered, pressing her forehead into his shoulder, her arms wrapping around his neck, burying her fingers in his hair.

Then she felt his other hand on her face, tilting her chin up so he could look into her eyes, watch her face as she came. The pain and love she saw there overwhelmed her, so she kissed him, closing her eyes tight. Her climax tore through her, making her buck against his hand, thighs shaking. He kissed her fiercely, swallowing her cries as he pressed hard against her clit, wringing pleasure from her until dry sobs shook her entire body, until she was begging him, to keep going or to stop she didn’t know.

When he finally took his hand from her she immediately went limp, hugging him as tight as she could in her exhausted state. He ran his hand up and down her back, in slow, soothing strokes, and only then did she notice the draft against her bare skin, realizing she was shirtless while he remained fully clothed. It was a thrilling role reversal for her—she was so used to her boyfriends being shirtless while she kept all her clothes on.

As soon as she caught her breath, she gave him a light kiss on the lips, smiling at him. “You’re beautiful,” she said, cupping his cheek in her hand. Her high wasn’t as intense as before, but she knew it was important to say that to him, no matter that he didn’t take her seriously.

Proving her point, he smiled back at her dubiously. His eyes were still sad. But they were also warm, soft with satisfaction, like they always were after they’d been intimate. It had been hard for him to talk about Steve. She understood why he’d done it while she’d been too crazed with pleasure to give his words her full attention. Jonathan didn’t like too much attention focused on him, he never had.

But Nancy knew when he made an exception to such attention. Her smile turned impish and she lifted herself off him, only to recline beside him and begin unzipping his jeans.

[lynyrdwrites]

In the Stacks

I was in a Nessian mood and remembered that @accidental-rambler had sent me a prompt of Highschool/college au + “how do we finish this joint assignment without killing each other”  + “oh how come you love the same books as me, damn, now you’ve just become annoyingly attracttive”.  I don’t really state HS or college, so choose your poison. Hope you enjoy!

---

The sun was being blocked.

              Cassian had stayed up late the previous night playing video games with Azriel and Rhys, and he was regretting it now. He had a free class, and figured he’d use it to catch some sleep on the bleachers by the track field. But now his sun was being blocked and he liked the sun.

              It made him feel warm and cozy.

              He let one eye drift open  lazily, and the other quickly followed when he saw who it was.

              Nesta Archeron, with her slim frame and high cheekbones, always deserved his full attention. Even if she always seemed to scowl whenever he gave it to her.  He knew she was capable of smiling, he had seen it before – an elusive quirking of her lips, one he sighted when she was with her sisters.

              “We need to work on our English assignment,” she said shortly. Cassian levered himself up and pushed to his feet while Nesta took a quick step away from him.   Nesta was tall, but Cassian was even taller, and he often found himself thinking that it would be  so easy to tilt her chin  up and kiss her tempting, full lips.

              He had done it once, when he had found her amongst the stacks  of the library.  She had made a comment about him reading, and Cassian had found her impossible to resist, with that glint of fire in her eyes.

              Her lips had been  soft beneath his, and she had tasted like the chocolate mints he knew she loved, because Cassian knew far more about Nesta  than he would ever admit.

              “Nervous, Sweetheart?” Cassian asked, a smirk quirking her lips. “Remembering the last time we were in the library? I am.”

              “You’re a prick,” Nesta murmured, reminding Cassian of her sister, Feyre, for a moment.  She looked away from him, red flushing high on her cheekbones.  “As for…previous meetings in  the library – they’re irrelevant.”

              Cassian narrowed his eyes on Nesta as she primly turned her back on him, carefully making her way down the bleachers. Nesta favored long, flowing sundresses that were quick to catch the wind and show off the shape of her legs.  It did so now, and Cassian was distracted, but not so much that he failed to react when her sandal caught  on her dress and sent her tilting.

              She let out an exhale of air that blew into  his face when he caught her, his arm around her lower back. It was ridiculously easy – almost natural, really – to stretch his other arm beneath her legs and heft her up. She was warm against his chest, and the hand she braced against him, her fingers   grazing the skin bared around his neck by his tank top, made goosebumps rise along his arms.

              “Put me down, you  barbarian!” Nesta snapped, her nails digging into his skin slightly as he began to carry her down the bleachers.  Her other hand grasped his shoulder, turning her body into his. Cassian was very, very aware of her, as her breasts pressed into his chest.  

              “No, I’m good,” Cassian replied cheerfully.  He reached the ground and headed in the direction of the library, his grin widening when Nesta slapped her palm against his shoulder.

              “Cassian, I swear if you don’t be down I’ll-”

              Cassian raised a brow at her as Nesta cut herself off. She wrinkled nose in frustration, and Cassian wasn’t sure he had ever seen a more adorable sight.  Nesta was usually so very cool – when  he gave a set down, the burn was from ice, not fire – but right now she was… flustered.

              He liked her flustered.

              “You know, you’d probably be more comfortable if you wrapped your arms around my neck. Go on, give it a try.”

              Nesta’s expression was anything but impressed, and when she dug her fingernails into his skin again, it was on purpose and made him yelp and nearly drop her.

              In response, her arms went around his neck, her body tense.

              “Well,” he mused, unable to scowl at her over the pain when it had gotten him exactly what he had wanted. “I think you just played yourself, Miss Archeron.”

              “I hate you.”

              Succinct. No one would accuse Nesta of speaking too much.

              They reached the library, and Cassian set her down, missing the warm weight of her as she quickly put what she viewed as an acceptable distance between them, her hands smoothing down the front of her dress.

              “After that, if you even try to suggest something lame for our project, I’ll punch you.”

              “Oh? Do you even know how to throw a punch, Miss Archeron?”

              “Stop calling me that,” she replied, and it was almost a disappointment, that the ice was back in her voice, in the stiff way she held herself, turned away from him as though she couldn’t be bothered to look at him, now that he no longer held her.  But then he caught the quirk of her lips, before she made sure he was unable to see any of her face. “I’d get Feyre to punch you for me.”

              Cassian watched her retreat into the library, his eyes narrowed on her back.  Had Nesta Archeron made a joke?

              He was pretty sure she’d made a joke.

              It made his heart soar.

              “What does lame mean, in the literary world of Miss Nesta Archeron?”

              “Anything by a man,” Nesta replied promptly, moving through the  stacks in a way that said she knew this building.  She stroked a hand along the spines of the books, her expression softening into a look he’d only ever really seen her wear around Elain.  It vanished when she looked up at him and realized exactly how close he was, that faint flush coloring her cheeks again.  “And stop calling me Miss. You make it sound dirty.”

              “It could be,” Cassian replied thoughtfully. “I’ve always had this fantasy where you’re wearing gla – oomph!”

              Air escaped him as she shoved a book into his chest. He looked down at it, and then looked at her again.

              “Now, I may not have your love of books, Sweetheart” – she scowled, but if he couldn’t call her Miss Archeron, then she’d have to put up with it – “but I’m pretty sure Bram Stoker is a man.”

              “He is, but if we’re going to do a comparison of horror novels of the 19th century, then  sadly men have to be involved.”

              “Horror novels?” while Cassian had been delighted to be assigned to be Nesta’s partner, he truly hadn’t anticipated actually enjoying their literature project.  Not when he’d already heard other students talking about The Great Gatsby or Moby Dick –both favorites of their asshole teacher, Beron.

              Beron hated anything he viewed as “frivolous” – which meant anything involving magic or science outside the realm of belief.

              “Beron will hate it,” Cassian pointed out. He loved the idea, of course, but he also knew Nesta had, and was proud of, a flawless GPA.

              “If I cared what Beron liked, I would be doing a project on how Jonathan Franzen is truly the voice of our generation.” Her scathing tone said exactly what  she thought of that notion, and Cassian reached past her, his grin genuine.

              “Well, we can’t talk horror without The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”  He placed the book on top of Dracula while Nesta blinked in surprise.

              “Well… no, we can’t. We’ll need Frankenstein, of course. And Carmilla.”

              “Lesbian vampire,  why Miss Archeron, are you trying to give Beron a heart attack.”

              Nesta held the book in question to her chest, her knuckles clinging so tightly they turned white.  She looked at Cassian as though she’d never seen him before, and he began to feel a little self-conscious.

              “I mean-”

              “You’ve read Carmilla?” she asked, cutting him off.  Cassian rubbed the back of his neck a little sheepishly, because no one outside the Inner Circle – his tight group of friends – knew about his little horror novel addiction, and he wasn’t sure if the way Nesta was looking at him was good or not.

              “Yeah.  Just once. I mean, I liked it, but it wasn’t quite Jekyll and Hyde for me.”

              “What about The Witch of Ravensworth?”

              “Sure. Rhys and Az didn’t get the humor of it, but they’re weird like that.”

              Again, he wasn’t sure if Nesta’s expression was good… but she did take a step closer.

              “Wagner the Werewolf?”

              “Yes. Look, Nesta, if it’s horror written by someone who’s dead now, I’ve probably-”

              “Clermont?” Cassian didn’t understand it, but there was something almost desperate in her voice as she took another step closer.

              “That’s technically 18th century, but yes, I ha-”

              He suddenly found his arms full of Nesta, the books scattering to the floor.  She buried her hands in the hair just above his ears, not caring that it loosened the bun he’d pulled it into, and pulled his lips down to hers.

              She tasted like mint and chocolate again, and if Cassian could get her a lifetime supply of the stuff, he would. Those flavors would always scream Nesta to him, and this kiss was even better than the last, because this time he knew she was every bit as desperate as he was.

              He walked her back into the stack behind them, and one of her hands released him to cling to a shelf above  her.  The other remained buried in his hair, kept his lips firmly attached to hers.   Not that Cassian needed her help to keep kissing her. He could kiss her  forever, if she’d let him.

              She  felt so good, her body pressed against his, his hands holding her hips.  He would have never pulled back, except that he was desperate for air and starting to get light-headed.

              They both breathed hard as they pulled  apart, and it was incredibly difficult, not to admire Nesta’s chest as she breathed deeply.

              “I’ve read Bungay Castle, too,” he offered when his breathing calmed somewhat.

              “You fight dirty,” she informed him, and pulled him in for another kiss. Cassian tilted his head, Took her bottom lip between his and nipped it lightly with his teeth. She tugged on his hair in return, which made Cassian run  his hands up her sides, so he could wrap her in his arms, and lift her slightly, so she was on her tiptoes.  Her hands came to land on his shoulders for support, and when her nails dug in this time it just made him purr into her mouth.

              There was a coughing – light, and just to their right.

              Nesta ran her tongue along his bottom lips, and then changed the angle of her head so their kiss became somehow, impossibly, even deeper.

              ”Ahem!”

              They  stopped kissing, but didn’t break apart.  Instead, Cassian continued to hold Nesta while they both looked to the left, where Rhys was leaning against the stacks, his expression amused, while Feyre stood in front of them, her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

              “What are you doing here?” Nesta asked, her voice somewhat dazed.  “You don’t even like reading.”

              “I’m dyslexic and suck at it,” Feyre corrected dryly.  “There’s a difference. It’s not quite…. Carmilla?  But it’s progress.”

              She held up a  book, some generic paperback romance, even as she bent down to pick up one of their discarded books.

              “We were really coming here for the same reason as you,” Rhys offered brightly.  “But you distracted us.”

              Feyre elbowed him sharply in the ribs, while Nesta stepped quickly away from Cassian, as she realized how they’d been found. She tried to  smooth back her hair, and Cassian realized that, at some point, he must have ran his fingers through it, because her usually immaculate braid  crown was tumbling loose.

              “We were discussing our literature topic,” she said primly. “It turns out we have similar tastes.”

              Feyre stared at her sister, and Nesta just stared back, raising a brow. It was the silent communication that came from a lifetime of knowing someone.  Cas could do the same with Az, Rhys, and Mor, and sometimes even Amren, when she wasn’t being difficult.  Whatever Feyre was seeing from Nesta had her shaking her head.

              “You have the same taste in books.  Of course. I shouldn’t even be surprised.”

              “Go away,” Nesta responded.

              “Now,” Rhys interrupted. “That’s not very-”

              “Nesta’s right,” Cassian agreed. “Go away.”

              It was their turn for that silent communication, and Rhys’ chuckle was pure amusement as he turned away.

              “Fine. We’re going.”

              “Good – stay gone!” Cassian called after them, and then sighed heavily, because of course they would have to ruin this.

              “We should start on the project,” Nesta stated, not looking at him as she gathered the books.  Cassian sighed again, and bent down to help.  Their fingers grazed as she handed Jekyll and Hyde to him while they straightened, and it sent a shiver of awareness through them both. Nesta stilled, her fingers still on his hand, and their gazes met.

              She didn’t move away.

              “Th-there” – there was a tremor in her voice, and she cleared her throat, looking away briefly, before meeting his eyes once more in that direct, Nesta way – “there are web series about some of these.  Have you ever watched them?”

              “No,” Cassian replied. “Are they good?”

              “I like them.”  She bit her lip thoughtfully, as though in an internal battle. She probably was – this was Nesta.  Frustrating, cold as ice, stubborn, contradictory Nesta.  “Would you like to watch them?  With me?”

              “For the class?” Cassian asked. Because as much as he liked to tease Nesta, he would be damn sure of what she was asking him right now. Nesta rolled her eyes at the question.

              “No, obviously not for the class. I want to make out with you again, you idiot.  And I’d rather not do where my sister or, God forbid, your other friends, can come observe us.”

              “Oh,” Cassian hadn’t expected her to be quite that blunt, which did make him an idiot, because he should have.  “Okay… yeah. But I do also want to watch the episodes.”

              Nesta tapped her lip thoughtfully.

              “We’ll figure it out,” she said at last. Then she turned her back and headed for a table.  When Cassian just stayed in place, staring after her, she turned around with a scowl.  “Well, get moving.  We need to get this project outlined.”

              Cassian chuckled to himself and got moving.

[fivenightsatfreddysfanfiction]

Start Again

Sometimes to make any sort of progress, one would have to start over from the beginning....

"Figuring that guy out is harder than I originally thought it would be," Vincent muttered under his breath. He lay stretched out on the floor of the strange house that Damien often dreamed of since his nightmares were dispelled, a home that neither Damien nor his soul recognized.

That soul currently was snuggled up beside him, humming softly in contentment as he rested his head against Vincent's shoulder. "Well, maybe you're approaching it the wrong way," Jonathan replied. He rubbed his cheek against the other man's shirt, then sighed in relaxation. "You're still going in expecting the man to behave just like he did when we faced him with the trinity of guards. But you said yourself he's positive aligned, like us. So that should be a pretty big flag that he's different."

"But why? I don't see how he's different just because he doesn't have the experiences of what happened in 1987 and afterwards," Vincent grumbled even as he carefully threaded his fingers through Jonathan's hair, stroking and petting the silky strands.

"Might be something to do with him being digital and not a real spirit like us. Fragment of a soul?" the smaller man mused aloud. "And experiences change people, so wouldn't it make sense that missing experiences means there's changes that were never made? And since he experienced something completely different with Afton, then he'd be changed according to that, without any input from what happened at Freddy's."

Vincent huffed, lower lip jutting out in a pout. "I hate when you apply logic like that," he sulked, squeezing his eyes almost shut. Jonathan pushed himself up, pressing a kiss to Vincent's cheek.

"One of us has to, Vin. You're the emotional one," he teased and settled back down to rest.

That conversation led to the dream guard once again stepping foot in Meera Corbett's apartment. He tilted his head at the sound of conversation in Spanish being held in the kitchen nearby. Vincent could only assume Meera and Lucian were speaking, he recognized their voices and only a few words. Something about dinner and a movie?

There was laughter suddenly and Vincent blinked, surprised by how light and pleasant the male voice sounded. He almost didn't recognize that laugh. It didn't sound anything like the laughter he remembered from Lucian in the past, mocking and cruel and twisted. But seeing the blond man walk out of the kitchen, still laughing and with a happy expression on his face, it was confirmation that the voice was still his all the same.

And then Lucian noticed him at the entrance to the apartment and the laugh abruptly cut off, smile disappearing as the mask of cold distance slammed into place. Vincent almost shivered at that, flinching back at how absolute the wall felt between him and whoever Lucian was now.

A clatter of silverware sounded and Meera stuck her head out of the kitchen, concerned expression on her face as she called out. "Que paso, ti-oh?" She cut herself off at the sight of Vincent still standing there and he gave her a sheepish smile and hesitant wave. The young woman only scowled at him. "I don't remember inviting you to our movie night," Meera told him with a huff, then waved at him dismissively. "I'm still cleaning up. Don't make any more of a mess in there, though personally I'd like for you to get the fuck out of our home." With that she retreated to the kitchen again, leaving Vincent to stand in awkward silence with the blond still watching him impassively.

There was a few minutes where the only sounds were dishes clattering in the background. Vincent fidgeted a bit under Lucian's stare, rubbing at the back of his neck. "So... you were laughing...." he began uncertainly. Lucian raised an eyebrow at him. "And... smiling...."

"I was. Sorry, didn't realize I wasn't allowed to do that," Lucian bit out frostily, folding his arms over his chest as he walked away to the couch.

"That's not what I meant!" Vincent protested in frustration, cheeks flushing as his hands clenched briefly. He relaxed them, rubbing them together to work out the sudden stress. "It was..." Unusual. Unlike him. "...nice." His face felt warmer, especially at Lucian pausing to give him a suspicious look. Thinking back to the earlier expression of carefree smiling and laughter, Vincent swallowed at the lump in his throat in an attempt to clear it. "You have a nice smile... not murdery, regular smile. It's nice," he amended lamely.

Uncertainty flickered in the other man's eyes even as Lucian remained guarded in his expression, if a bit on the confused side. "Thank you... I think," he returned carefully and took a seat on one end of the sofa.

"I didn't come to start a fight," Vincent told him and quietly sighed as the look of distrust returned to Lucian's expression.

"You say that every time you come and we end up fighting anyway. Spare me," Lucian huffed, sitting back, arms still folded protectively over himself. "Just hurry up, say whatever it is you want to say to put me in place, and then leave so I can get on with my day."

"It's evening," Vincent corrected inanely and Lucian threw his arms up in exasperation.

"Siempre estas peleando conmigo! No puedo dicer nada cuando estás aquí!"

"I'm not fighting with you!"

"Then stop making me feel like you're trying to goad me into attacking you again just so you have an excuse to end me!" Lucian snapped back, "Believe me, between you showing up nearly every day to make me regret existing and the nothingness of the void that is deletion, I'd pick getting erased as a mercy kill!"

Silence again. Meera leaned out of the kitchen, just enough for Vincent to see the murderous look on her face that long ago fit Lucian instead. He held up his hands, swallowing hard in hopes that the gesture of peace would help. She simply narrowed her eyes at him and then slid silently back into the kitchen, the clatter of dishes resuming. He was really pushing his limit then.

Well, this was very rapidly going down a path that Vincent didn't want, not with Jonathan's words still in his head and conflicting ideas of who the murderous man once was and who he is now. Slowly, so as to give Lucian ample warning of his movements, he took a seat near him on the same sofa. The other man was back to being defensive, shoulders curling inward, arms folded over his chest, legs pressed tightly together; Vincent had seen similar posing from abused children, heartbreaking on them and troubling from Lucian.

Why was he acting like he'd been physically abused?

Vincent held out a hand towards him in offering, a spark of an idea coming to mind. Lucian glanced from his hand to his face and back with an uneasy expression, part confusion and part curiosity mixed in the way his eyebrow lifted at the gesture.

"Hello. My name is Vincent Heliotrope. It's nice to meet you," Vincent introduced himself. Maybe if he treated this as a new meeting, a separate encounter to the fight in the alley nearly sixty years ago, he'd have an easier time figuring the guy out?

The blond looked at him like he'd gone insane, -and maybe he had-, but eventually he pulled one hand free to consider it, looking it over as if questioning himself. Then, slowly, hesitantly, Lucian reached back and lightly placed his hand in Vincent's.

A small electric thrill ran up his spine at the contact. Thinking on it now, this was the first time Vincent was able to touch the man voluntarily, a peaceful and willing touch. Soft skin, slightly rough, and warm; he barely resisted the urge to rub his thumb over the hand in his and instead focused on listening to Lucian's words.

"Digitized Duplication of Lucian Master File, Version One One," Lucian recited easily. "Digi, for short."

"Um... I'm sorry?" Vincent asked in confusion, staring blankly at the other man. What the hell kind of introduction was that? Lucian shrugged.

"Well, considering the amount of damaged data I have and then having the Baby Front End software interface directly compiled into me to repair me, I guess I'd actually be Version Two?" he tried explaining, cheeks flushing. "Either way, 'Digi' is acceptable as a shortened designation."

"But, that's not a name," Vincent told him, concerned by the wording, and Lucian frowned in return.

"Names are for people. I'm an artificial entity, property of Afton Robotics," he corrected, then tilted his head thoughtfully. "But now I belong to Meera, so I guess that part isn't quite right anymore."

A sickly weight settled in the pit of Vincent's stomach at hearing him. "Lu-!" he began and Lucian glared sharply at him, green eye glowing brighter.

"Meera can call me by that name since it's the only name she knows me by. You call me Digi or don't bother talking to me at all." He tried to pull his hand away but Vincent held on.

"All right, all right! Digi, then. Okay?" he amended quickly, desperate to not lose the fragile contact between them. This was going a different direction and he wanted to follow that path, see where it went.

Lucian eyed him, then gave their hands a pointed look, as though trying to remind him that the handshake hadn't ended. Vincent half hoped that ignoring the look would let him hold on a little longer. Lucian's hand in his was strangely nice. But the man gave a little tug and he reluctantly let go, closing up his own hand to try and retain the warmth.

"So, what was that all about?" Lucian asked suspiciously, shifting in place and looking just a little less on guard. Vincent felt a bit more hopeful that the other man was already opening up a bit more, though using whatever designation that was -did Afton call him that?- instead of his name was dehumanizing. Why would Lucian prefer to be referred to as an object when he remembered him as being so proud and arrogant that he thought of himself as a demon or superior to the guards?

"Thought we could... start new?" Vincent replied with a hopeful grin, rubbing at his neck nervously. Lucian narrowed his eyes at him.

"But... I murdered you," he said slowly, watching him carefully. Vincent raised a finger, taking note of the slight flinch on Lucian's face.

"You remember murdering me," he corrected.

"Yeah... because... I... did," Lucian agreed slowly, though there was a slightly questioning lilt to his tone.

"Well, the other Lucian also remembered murdering me, and I already kicked the ass of the Lucian that did murder me, so that's... that's that, I suppose," Vincent explained with a sheepish smile. Lucian squinted at him.

"What are you saying?" he asked carefully. Vincent shrugged, reaching back up to rub at his neck again.

"Well, if we look at it like that, then technically I don't have to forgive you for my death 'cause it wouldn't have been you that killed me. And if we both know that I know that it wasn't technically you that killed me, then....," he rambled, hoping he was making some kind of sense. "Well, then I don't have any real beef with you."

Lucian gave him that distrusting look again, and Vincent hated that, hated knowing that all the fighting and arguing he had instigated before now made it so much harder to gain Lucian's trust. How much of Lucian's low sense of self-worth was his fault? How much was Afton's doing?

"Could I... have another chance... with you?" Vincent asked somberly. Lucian's expression didn't change, even as he rubbed the fingers of his left hand together nervously. "Please?"

Part of him was sure that Lucian would refuse. Why wouldn't he? Vincent had rejected Lucian's apology back at the cemetery, it would only be fitting that this time the blond would reject him.

The idea of it hurt, oddly enough. More than from the understanding that he'd lose the chance to make amends with the digital ghost.

"I'll think about it," Lucian finally replied, giving him an odd look, "all right?"

Vincent let out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding in, shoulders dropping. "Oh. Y-yeah, yes, of course." Not a rejection, but not acceptance either. A 'maybe' at best. He'd have to settle for that, in light of everything at least.

As Meera finally emerged from the kitchen with a big bowl of popcorn drizzled with butter, Vincent stood up from the couch and moved to give her space to settle down.

"Oh? Leaving? 'Bout time," the woman muttered, taking his spot immediately and positioning herself as a barrier between him and Lucian.

"Puede mirar con nosotros?" Lucian asked without looking at her. Vincent assumed it was something uncharacteristic, as Meera's eyes widened and she inhaled sharply, whipping around to stare at him intensely.

"Seguro? 'Tás seguro?" she grilled him sharply and Lucian only shrugged as if his response made no difference. Meera grimaced, blowing air through pursed lips so as to flip her bangs upward before giving Vincent a dirty look. "You can stay and watch the movie with us, if you want," she offered, gesturing to a nearby recliner.

"Oh... thank you?" Vincent returned uncertainly, accepting the seat and wondering if Lucian's words had been the cause of the sudden invitation.

"You say anything I consider stupid and I reserve the right to kick you out," she added, shaking the television remote at him before clicking it on and settling back, popcorn bowl in her lap.

As the movie began, Vincent stole a quick look over at the digital ghost. It didn't look like anything about him had changed, but the atmosphere didn't feel as tense as before. Maybe things would work out after all?

"Hey, hey! Eyes on the screen, not on my roommate!" Meera declared, "Goddamn flirty ass ghost in my apartment...."

Vincent made very sure to keep as much focus as he could on the movie, face hot and probably very red.

END

[draculalive]

Dr. Seward's Diary

11 October, Evening. -- Jonathan Harker has asked me to note this, as he says he is hardly equal to the task, and he wants an exact record kept.

I think that none of us were surprised when we were asked to see Mrs. Harker a little before the time of sunset. We have of late come to understand that sunrise and sunset are to her times of peculiar freedom; when her old self can be manifest without any controlling force subduing or restraining her, or inciting her to action. This mood or condition begins some half hour or more before actual sunrise or sunset, and lasts till either the sun is high, or whilst the clouds are still aglow with the rays streaming above the horizon. At first there is a sort of negative condition, as if some tie were loosened, and then the absolute freedom quickly follows; when, however, the freedom ceases the change-back or relapse comes quickly, preceded only by a spell of warning silence.

To-night, when we met, she was somewhat constrained, and bore all the signs of an internal struggle. I put it down myself to her making a violent effort at the earliest instant she could do so. A very few minutes, however, gave her complete control of herself; then, motioning her husband to sit beside her on the sofa where she was half reclining, she made the rest of us bring chairs up close. Taking her husband's hand in hers began:---

"We are all here together in freedom, for perhaps the last time! I know, dear; I know that you will always be with me to the end." This was to her husband whose hand had, as we could see, tightened upon hers. "In the morning we go out upon our task, and God alone knows what may be in store for any of us. You are going to be so good to me as to take me with you. I know that all that brave earnest men can do for a poor weak woman, whose soul perhaps is lost -- no, no, not yet, but is at any rate at stake -- you will do. But you must remember that I am not as you are. There is a poison in my blood, in my soul, which may destroy me; which must destroy me, unless some relief comes to us. Oh, my friends, you know as well as I do, that my soul is at stake; and though I know there is one way out for me, you must not and I must not take it!" She looked appealingly to us all in turn, beginning and ending with her husband.

"What is that way?" asked Van Helsing in a hoarse voice. "What is that way, which we must not -- may not -- take?"

"That I may die now, either by my own hand or that of another, before the greater evil is entirely wrought. I know, and you know, that were I once dead you could and would set free my immortal spirit, even as you did my poor Lucy's. Were death, or the fear of death, the only thing that stood in the way I would not shrink to die here, now, amidst the friends who love me. But death is not all. I cannot believe that to die in such a case, when there is hope before us and a bitter task to be done, is God's will. Therefore, I, on my part, give up here the certainty of eternal rest, and go out into the dark where may be the blackest things that the world or the nether world holds!" We were all silent, for we knew instinctively that this was only a prelude. The faces of the others were set and Harker's grew ashen grey; perhaps he guessed better than any of us what was coming. She continued:---

"This is what I can give into the hotch-pot." I could not but note the quaint legal phrase which she used in such a place, and with all seriousness. "What will each of you give? Your lives I know," she went on quickly, "that is easy for brave men. Your lives are God's, and you can give them back to Him; but what will you give to me?" She looked again questioningly, but this time avoided her husband's face. Quincey seemed to understand; he nodded, and her face lit up. "Then I shall tell you plainly what I want, for there must be no doubtful matter in this connection between us now. You must promise me, one and all -- even you, my beloved husband -- that, should the time come, you will kill me."

"What is that time?" The voice was Quincey's, but it was low and strained.

"When you shall be convinced that I am so changed that it is better that I die that I may live. When I am thus dead in the flesh, then you will, without a moment's delay, drive a stake through me and cut off my head; or do whatever else may be wanting to give me rest!"

Quincey was the first to rise after the pause. He knelt down before her and taking her hand in his said solemnly:---

"I'm only a rough fellow, who hasn't, perhaps, lived as a man should to win such a distinction, but I swear to you by all that I hold sacred and dear that, should the time ever come, I shall not flinch from the duty that you have set us. And I promise you, too, that I shall make all certain, for if I am only doubtful I shall take it that the time has come!"

"My true friend!" was all she could say amid her fast-falling tears, as, bending over, she kissed his hand.

"I swear the same, my dear Madam Mina!" said Van Helsing.

"And I!" said Lord Godalming, each of them in turn kneeling to her to take the oath. I followed, myself. Then her husband turned to her wan-eyed and with a greenish pallor which subdued the snowy whiteness of his hair, and asked:---

"And must I, too, make such a promise, oh, my wife?"

"You too, my dearest," she said, with infinite yearning of pity in her voice and eyes. "You must not shrink. You are nearest and dearest and all the world to me; our souls are knit into one, for all life and all time. Think, dear, that there have been times when brave men have killed their wives and their womenkind, to keep them from falling into the hands of the enemy. Their hands did not falter any the more because those that they loved implored them to slay them. It is men's duty towards those whom they love, in such times of sore trial! And oh, my dear, if it is to be that I must meet death at any hand, let it be at the hand of him that loves me best. Dr. Van Helsing, I have not forgotten your mercy in poor Lucy's case to him who loved" -- she stopped with a flying blush, and changed her phrase -- "to him who had best right to give her peace. If that time shall come again, I look to you to make it a happy memory of my husband's life that it was his loving hand which set me free from the awful thrall upon me."

"Again I swear!" came the Professor's resonant voice. Mrs. Harker smiled, positively smiled, as with a sigh of relief she leaned back and said:---

"And now one word of warning, a warning which you must never forget: this time, if it ever come, may come quickly and unexpectedly, and in such case you must lose no time in using your opportunity. At such a time I myself might be -- nay! if the time ever comes, shall be -- leagued with your enemy against you."

"One more request;" she became very solemn as she said this, "it is not vital and necessary like the other, but I want you to do one thing for me, if you will." We all acquiesced, but no one spoke; there was no need to speak:---

"I want you to read the Burial Service." She was interrupted by a deep groan from her husband; taking his hand in hers, she held it over her heart, and continued: "You must read it over me some day. Whatever may be the issue of all this fearful state of things, it will be a sweet thought to all or some of us. You, my dearest, will I hope read it, for then it will be in your voice in my memory for ever -- come what may!"

"But oh, my dear one," he pleaded, "death is afar off from you."

"Nay," she said, holding up a warning hand. "I am deeper in death at this moment than if the weight of an earthly grave lay heavy upon me!"

"Oh, my wife, must I read it?" he said, before he began.

"It would comfort me, my husband!" was all she said; and he began to read when she had got the book ready.

"How can I -- how could any one -- tell of that strange scene, its solemnity, its gloom, its sadness, its horror; and, withal, its sweetness. Even a sceptic, who can see nothing but a travesty of bitter truth in anything holy or emotional, would have been melted to the heart had he seen that little group of loving and devoted friends kneeling round that stricken and sorrowing lady; or heard the tender passion of her husband's voice, as in tones so broken with emotion that often he had to pause, he read the simple and beautiful service from the Burial of the Dead. I -- I cannot go on -- words -- and -- v-voice -- f-fail m-me!"

She was right in her instinct. Strange as it all was, bizarre as it may hereafter seem even to us who felt its potent influence at the time, it comforted us much; and the silence, which showed Mrs. Harker's coming relapse from her freedom of soul, did not seem so full of despair to any of us as we had dreaded.

Dracula Live is brought to you by Wallachia. Read or listen to the ongoing vampire serial.

[readbookywooks]

DR SEWARD'S DIARY

11 October, Evening. - Jonathan Harker has asked me to note this, as he says he is hardly equal to the task, and he wants an exact record kept. I think that none of us were surprised when we were asked to see Mrs. Harker a little before the time of sunset. We have of late come to understand that sunrise and sunset are to her times of peculiar freedom. When her old self can be manifest without any controlling force subduing or restraining her, or inciting her to action. This mood or condition begins some half hour or more before actual sunrise or sunset, and lasts till either the sun is high, or whilst the clouds are still aglow with the rays streaming above the horizon. At first there is a sort of negative condition, as if some tie were loosened, and then the absolute freedom quickly follows. When, however, the freedom ceases the change back or relapse comes quickly, preceeded only by a spell of warning silence. Tonight, when we met, she was somewhat constrained, and bore all the signs of an internal struggle. I put it down myself to her making a violent effort at the earliest instant she could do so. A very few minutes, however, gave her complete control of herself. Then, motioning her husband to sit beside her on the sofa where she was half reclining, she made the rest of us bring chairs up close. Taking her husband's hand in hers, she began, "We are all here together in freedom, for perhaps the last time! I know that you will always be with me to the end." This was to her husband whose hand had, as we could see, tightened upon her. "In the morning we go out upon our task, and God alone knows what may be in store for any of us. You are going to be so good to me to take me with you. I know that all that brave earnest men can do for a poor weak woman, whose soul perhaps is lost, no, no, not yet, but is at any rate at stake, you will do. But you must remember that I am not as you are. There is a poison in my blood, in my soul, which may destroy me, which must destroy me, unless some relief comes to us. Oh, my friends, you know as well as I do, that my soul is at stake. And though I know there is one way out for me, you must not and I must not take it!" She looked appealingly to us all in turn, beginning and ending with her husband. "What is that way?" asked Van Helsing in a hoarse voice. "What is that way, which we must not, may not, take?" "That I may die now, either by my own hand or that of another, before the greater evil is entirely wrought. I know, and you know, that were I once dead you could and would set free my immortal spirit, even as you did my poor Lucy's. Were death, or the fear of death, the only thing that stood in the way I would not shrink to die here now, amidst the friends who love me. But death is not all. I cannot believe that to die in such a case, when there is hope before us and a bitter task to be done, is God's will. Therefore, I on my part, give up here the certainty of eternal rest, and go out into the dark where may be the blackest things that the world or the nether world holds!" We were all silent, for we knew instinctively that this was only a prelude. The faces of the others were set, and Harker's grew ashen grey. Perhaps, he guessed better than any of us what was coming. She continued, "This is what I can give into the hotch-pot." I could not but note the quaint legal phrase which she used in such a place, and with all seriousness. "What will each of you give? Your lives I know," she went on quickly, "that is easy for brave men. Your lives are God's, and you can give them back to Him, but what will you give to me?" She looked again questionly, but this time avoided her husband's face. Quincey seemed to understand, he nodded, and her face lit up. "Then I shall tell you plainly what I want, for there must be no doubtful matter in this connection between us now. You must promise me, one and all, even you, my beloved husband, that should the time come, you will kill me." "What is that time?" The voice was Quincey's, but it was low and strained. "When you shall be convinced that I am so changed that it is better that I die that I may live. When I am thus dead in the flesh, then you will, without a moment's delay, drive a stake through me and cut off my head, or do whatever else may be wanting to give me rest!" Quincey was the first to rise after the pause. He knelt down before her and taking her hand in his said solemnly, "I'm only a rough fellow, who hasn't, perhaps, lived as a man should to win such a distinction, but I swear to you by all that I hold sacred and dear that, should the time ever come, I shall not flinch from the duty that you have set us. And I promise you, too, that I shall make all certain, for if I am only doubtful I shall take it that the time has come!" "My true friend!" was all she could say amid her fast-falling tears, as bending over, she kissed his hand. "I swear the same, my dear Madam Mina!"said Van Helsing. "And I!" said Lord Godalming, each of them in turn kneeling to her to take the oath. I followed, myself. Then her husband turned to her wan-eyed and with a greenish pallor which subdued the snowy whiteness of his hair, and asked, "And must I, too, make such a promise, oh, my wife?" "You too, my dearest," she said, with infinite yearning of pity in her voice and eyes. "You must not shrink. You are nearest and dearest and all the world to me. Our souls are knit into one, for all life and all time. Think, dear, that there have been times when brave men have killed their wives and their womenkind, to keep them from falling into the hands of the enemy. Their hands did not falter any the more because those that they loved implored them to slay them. It is men's duty towards those whom they love, in such times of sore trial! And oh, my dear, if it is to be that I must meet death at any hand, let it be at the hand of him that loves me best. Dr. Van Helsing, I have not forgotten your mercy in poor Lucy's case to him who loved." She stopped with a flying blush, and changed her phrase, "to him who had best right to give her peace. If that time shall come again, I look to you to make it a happy memory of my husband's life that it was his loving hand which set me free from the awful thrall upon me." "Again I swear!" came the Professor's resonant voice. Mrs. Harker smiled, positively smiled, as with a sigh of relief she leaned back and said, "And now one word of warning, a warning which you must never forget. This time, if it ever come, may come quickly and unexpectedly, and in such case you must lose no time in using your opportunity. At such a time I myself might be. . .nay! If the time ever come, shall be, leagued with your enemy against you. "One more request," she became very solemn as she said this, "it is not vital and necessary like the other, but I want you to do one thing for me, if you will." We all acquiesced, but no one spoke. There was no need to speak. "I want you to read the Burial Service." She was interrupted by a deep groan from her husband. Taking his hand in hers, she held it over her heart, and continued. "You must read it over me some day. Whatever may be the issue of all this fearful state of things, it will be a sweet thought to all or some of us. You, my dearest, will I hope read it, for then it will be in your voice in my memory forever, come what may!" "But oh, my dear one," he pleaded, "death is afar off from you." "Nay," she said, holding up a warning hand. "I am deeper in death at this moment than if the weight of an earthly grave lay heavy upon me!" "Oh, my wife, must I read it?" he said, before he began. "It would comfort me, my husband!" was all she said, and he began to read when she had got the book ready. How can I, how could anyone, tell of that strange scene, its solemnity, its gloom, its sadness, its horror, and withal, its sweetness. Even a sceptic, who can see nothing but a travesty of bitter truth in anything holy or emotional, would have been melted to the heart had he seen that little group of loving and devoted friends kneeling round that stricken and sorrowing lady. Or heard the tender passion of her husband's voice, as in tones so broken and emotional that often he had to pause, he read the simple and beautiful service from the Burial of the Dead. I cannot go on. . . words. . .and v-voices. . .f-fail m-me! She was right in her instinct. Strange as it was, bizarre as it may hereafter seem even to us who felt its potent influence at the time, it comforted us much. And the silence, which showed Mrs. Harker's coming relapse from her freedom of soul, did not seem so full of despair to any of us as we had dreaded. JONATHAN HARKER'S JOURNAL 15 October, Varna. - We left Charing Cross on the morning of the 12th, got to Paris the same night, and took the places secured for us in the Orient Express. We traveled night and day, arriving here at about five o'clock. Lord Godalming went to the Consulate to see if any telegram had arrived for him, whilst the rest of us came on to this hotel, "the Odessus." The journey may have had incidents. I was, however, too eager to get on, to care for them. Until the Czarina Catherine comes into port there will be no interest for me in anything in the wide world. Thank God! Mina is well, and looks to be getting stronger. Her color is coming back. She sleeps a great deal. Throughout the journey she slept nearly all the time. Before sunrise and sunset, however, she is very wakeful and alert. And it has become a habit for Van Helsing to hypnotize her at such times. At first, some effort was needed, and he had to make many passes. But now, she seems to yield at once, as if by habit, and scarcely any action is needed. He seems to have power at these particular moments to simply will, and her thoughts obey him. He always asks her what she can see and hear. She answers to the first, "Nothing, all is dark." And to the second, "I can hear the waves lapping against the ship, and the water rushing by. Canvas and cordage strain and masts and yards creak. The wind is high. . .I can hear it in the shrouds, and the bow throws back the foam." It is evident that the Czarina Catherine is still at sea, hastening on her way to Varna. Lord Godalming has just returned. He had four telegrams, one each day since we started, and all to the same effect. That the Czarina Catherine had not been reported to Lloyd's from anywhere. He had arranged before leaving London that his agent should send him every day a telegram saying if the ship had been reported. He was to have a message even if she were not reported, so that he might be sure that there was a watch being kept at the other end of the wire. We had dinner and went to bed early. Tomorrow we are to see the Vice Consul, and to arrange, if we can, about getting on board the ship as soon as she arrives. Van Helsing says that our chance will be to get on the boat between sunrise and sunset. The Count, even if he takes the form of a bat, cannot cross the running water of his own volition, and so cannot leave the ship. As he dare not change to man's form without suspicion, which he evidently wishes to avoid, he must remain in the box. If, then, we can come on board after sunrise, he is at our mercy, for we can open the box and make sure of him, as we did of poor Lucy, before he wakes. What mercy he shall get from us all will not count for much. We think that we shall not have much trouble with officials or the seamen. Thank God! This is the country where bribery can do anything, and we are well supplied with money. We have only to make sure that the ship cannot come into port between sunset and sunrise without our being warned, and we shall be safe. Judge Moneybag will settle this case, I think! 16 October. - Mina's report still the same. Lapping waves and rushing water, darkness and favoring winds. We are evidently in good time, and when we hear of the Czarina Catherine we shall be ready. As she must pass the Dardanelles we are sure to have some report. 17 October. - Everything is pretty well fixed now, I think, to welcome the Count on his return from his tour. Godalming told the shippers that he fancied that the box sent aboard might contain something stolen from a friend of his, and got a half consent that he might open it at his own risk. The owner gave him a paper telling the Captain to give him every facility in doing whatever he chose on board the ship, and also a similar authorization to his agent at Varna. We have seen the agent, who was much impressed with Godalming's kindly manner to him, and we are all satisfied that whatever he can do to aid our wishes will be done. We have already arranged what to do in case we get the box open. If the Count is there, Van Helsing and Seward will cut off his head at once and drive a stake through his heart. Morris and Godalming and I shall prevent interference, even if we have to use the arms which we shall have ready. The Professor says that if we can so treat the Count's body, it will soon after fall into dust. In such case there would be no evidence against us, in case any suspicion of murder were aroused. But even if it were not, we should stand or fall by our act, and perhaps some day this very script may be evidence to come between some of us and a rope. For myself, I should take the chance only too thankfully if it were to come. We mean to leave no stone unturned to carry out our intent. We have arranged with certain officials that the instant the Czarina Catherine is seen, we are to be informed by a special messenger. 24 October. - A whole week of waiting. Daily telegrams to Godalming, but only the same story. "Not yet reported." Mina's morning and evening hypnotic answer is unvaried. Lapping waves, rushing water, and creaking masts. TELEGRAM, OCTOBER 24TH RUFUS SMITH, LLOYD'S, LONDON, TO LORD GODALMING, CARE OF H. B. M. VICE CONSUL, VARNA "Czarina Catherine reported this morning from Dardanelles." DR. SEWARD'S DIARY 25 October. - How I miss my phonograph! To write a diary with a pen is irksome to me! But Van Helsing says I must. We were all wild with excitement yesterday when Godalming got his telegram from Lloyd's. I know now what men feel in battle when the call to action is heard. Mrs. Harker, alone of our party, did not show any signs of emotion. After all, it is not strange that she did not, for we took special care not to let her know anything about it, and we all tried not to show any excitement when we were in her presence. In old days she would, I am sure, have noticed, no matter how we might have tried to conceal it. But in this way she is greatly changed during the past three weeks. The lethargy grows upon her, and though she seems strong and well, and is getting back some of her color, Van Helsing and I are not satisfied. We talk of her often. We have not, however, said a word to the others. It would break poor Harker's heart, certainly his nerve, if he knew that we had even a suspicion on the subject. Van Helsing examines, he tells me, her teeth very carefully, whilst she is in the hypnotic condition, for he says that so long as they do not begin to sharpen there is no active danger of a change in her. If this change should come, it would be necessary to take steps! We both know what those steps would have to be, though we do not mention our thoughts to each other. We should neither of us shrink from the task, awful though it be to contemplate. "Euthanasia" is an excellent and a comforting word! I am grateful to whoever invented it. It is only about 24 hours' sail from the Dardanelles to here, at the rate the Czarina Catherine has come from London. She should therefore arrive some time in the morning, but as she cannot possibly get in before noon, we are all about to retire early. We shall get up at one o'clock, so as to be ready. 25 October, Noon. - No news yet of the ship's arrival. Mrs. Harker's hypnotic report this morning was the same as usual, so it is possible that we may get news at any moment. We men are all in a fever of excitement, except Harker, who is calm. His hands are cold as ice, and an hour ago I found him whetting the edge of the great Ghoorka knife which he now always carries with him. It will be a bad lookout for the Count if the edge of that "Kukri" ever touches his throat, driven by that stern, ice-cold hand! Van Helsing and I were a little alarmed about Mrs. Harker today. About noon she got into a sort of lethargy which we did not like. Although we kept silence to the others, we were neither of us happy about it. She had been restless all the morning, so that we were at first glad to know that she was sleeping. When, however, her husband mentioned casually that she was sleeping so soundly that he could not wake her, we went to her room to see for ourselves. She was breathing naturally and looked so well and peaceful that we agreed that the sleep was better for her than anything else. Poor girl, she has so much to forget that it is no wonder that sleep, if it brings oblivion to her, does her good. Later. - Our opinion was justified, for when after a refreshing sleep of some hours she woke up, she seemed brighter and better than she had been for days. At sunset she made the usual hypnotic report. Wherever he may be in the Black Sea, the Count is hurrying to his destination. To his doom, I trust! 26 October. - Another day and no tidings of the Czarina Catherine. She ought to be here by now. That she is still journeying somewhere is apparent, for Mrs. Harker's hypnotic report at sunrise was still the same. It is possible that the vessel may be lying by, at times, for fog. Some of the steamers which came in last evening reported patches of fog both to north and south of the port. We must continue our watching, as the ship may now be signalled any moment. 27 October, Noon. - Most strange. No news yet of the ship we wait for. Mrs. Harker reported last night and this morning as usual. "Lapping waves and rushing water," though she added that "the waves were very faint." The telegrams from London have been the same, "no further report." Van Helsing is terribly anxious, and told me just now that he fears the Count is escaping us. He added significantly, "I did not like that lethargy of Madam Mina's. Souls and memories can do strange things during trance." I was about to as k him more, but Harker just then came in, and he held up a warning hand. We must try tonight at sunset to make her speak more fully when in her hypnotic state. 28 October. - Telegram. Rufus Smith, London, to Lord Godalming, care H. B. M. Vice Consul, Varna "Czarina Catherine reported entering Galatz at one o'clock today." DR. SEWARD'S DIARY 28 October. - When the telegram came announcing the arrival in Galatz I do not think it was such a shock to any of us as might have been expected. True, we did not know whence, or how, or when, the bolt would come. But I think we all expected that something strange would happen. The day of arrival at Varna made us individually satisfied that things would not be just as we had expected. We only waited to learn where the change would occur. None the less, however, it was a surprise. I suppose that nature works on such a hopeful basis that we believe against ourselves that things will be as they ought to be, not as we should know that they will be. Transcendentalism is a beacon to the angels, even if it be a will-o'-the-wisp to man. Van Helsing raised his hand over his head for a moment, as though in remonstrance with the Almighty. But he said not a word, and in a few seconds stood up with his face sternly set. Lord Godalming grew very pale, and sat breathing heavily. I was myself half stunned and looked in wonder at one after another. Quincey Morris tightened his belt with that quick movement which I knew so well. In our old wandering days it meant "action." Mrs. Harker grew ghastly white, so that the scar on her forehead seemed to burn, but she folded her hands meekly and looked up in prayer. Harker smiled, actually smiled, the dark, bitter smile of one who is without hope, but at the same time his action belied his words, for his hands instinctively sought the hilt of the great Kukri knife and rested there. "When does the next train start for Galatz?" said Van Helsing to us generally. "At 6:30 tomorrow morning!" We all started, for the answer came from Mrs. Harker. "How on earth do you know?" said Art. "You forget, or perhaps you do not know, though Jonathan does and so does Dr. Van Helsing, that I am the train fiend. At home in Exeter I always used to make up the time tables, so as to be helpful to my husband. I found it so useful sometimes, that I always make a study of the time tables now. I knew that if anything were to take us to Castle Dracula we should go by Galatz, or at any rate through Bucharest, so I learned the times very carefully. Unhappily there are not many to learn, as the only train tomorrow leaves as I say." "Wonderful woman!" murmured the Professor. "Can't we get a special?" asked Lord Godalming. Van Helsing shook his head, "I fear not. This land is very different from yours or mine. Even if we did have a special, it would probably not arrive as soon as our regular train. Moreover, we have something to prepare. We must think. Now let us organize. You, friend Arthur, go to the train and get the tickets and arrange that all be ready for us to go in the morning. Do you, friend Jonathan, go to the agent of the ship and get from him letters to the agent in Galatz, with authority to make a search of the ship just as it was here. Quincey Morris, you see the Vice Consul, and get his aid with his fellow in Galatz and all he can do to make our way smooth, so that no times be lost when over the Danube. John will stay with Madam Mina and me, and we shall consult. For so if time be long you may be delayed. And it will not matter when the sun set, since I am here with Madam to make report." "And I," said Mrs. Harker brightly, and more like her old self than she had been for many a long day, "shall try to be of use in all ways, and shall think and write for you as I used to do. Something is shifting from me in some strange way, and I feel freer than I have been of late!" The three younger men looked happier at the moment as they seemed to realize the significance of her words. But Van Helsing and I, turning to each other, met each a grave and troubled glance. We said nothing at the time, however. When the three men had gone out to their tasks Van Helsing asked Mrs. Harker to look up the copy of the diaries and find him the part of Harker's journal at the Castle. She went away to get it. When the door was shut upon her he said to me, "We mean the same! Speak out!" "Here is some change. It is a hope that makes me sick, for it may deceive us." "Quite so. Do you know why I asked her to get the manuscript?" "No!" said I, "unless it was to get an opportunity of seeing me alone." "You are in part right, friend John, but only in part. I want to tell you something. And oh, my friend, I am taking a great, a terrible, risk. But I believe it is right. In the moment when Madam Mina said those words that arrest both our understanding, an inspiration came to me. In the trance of three days ago the Count sent her his spirit to read her mind. Or more like he took her to see him in his earth box in the ship with water rushing, just as it go free at rise and set of sun. He learn then that we are here, for she have more to tell in her open life with eyes to see ears to hear than he, shut as he is, in his coffin box. Now he make his most effort to escape us. At present he want her not. "He is sure with his so great knowledge that she will come at his call. But he cut her off, take her, as he can do, out of his own power, that so she come not to him. Ah! There I have hope that our man brains that have been of man so long and that have not lost the grace of God, will come higher than his child-brain that lie in his tomb for centuries, that grow not yet to our stature, and that do only work selfish and therefore small. Here comes Madam Mina. Not a word to her of her trance! She knows it not, and it would overwhelm her and make despair just when we want all her hope, all her courage, when most we want all her great brain which is trained like man's brain, but is of sweet woman and have a special power which the Count give her, and which he may not take away altogether, though he think not so. Hush! Let me speak, and you shall learn. Oh, John, my friend, we are in awful straits. I fear, as I never feared before. We can only trust the good God. Silence! Here she comes!" I thought that the Professor was going to break down and have hysterics, just as he had when Lucy died, but with a great effort he controlled himself and was at perfect nervous poise when Mrs. Harker tripped into the room, bright and happy looking and, in the doing of work, seemingly forgetful of her misery. As she came in, she handed a number of sheets of typewriting to Van Helsing. He looked over them gravely, his face brightening up as he read. Then holding the pages between his finger and thumb he said, "Friend John, to you with so much experience already, and you too, dear Madam Mina, that are young, here is a lesson. Do not fear ever to think. A half thought has been buzzing often in my brain, but I fear to let him loose his wings. Here now, with more knowledge, I go back to where that half thought come from and I find that he be no half thought at all. That be a whole thought, though so young that he is not yet strong to use his little wings. Nay, like the `Ugly Duck' of my friend Hans Andersen, he be no duck thought at all, but a big swan thought that sail nobly on big wings, when the time come for him to try them. See I read here what Jonathan have written. "That other of his race who, in a later age, again and again, brought his forces over The Great River into Turkey Land, who when he was beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph. "What does this tell us? Not much? No! The Count's child thought see nothing, therefore he speak so free. Your man thought see nothing. My man thought see nothing, till just now. No! But there comes another word from some one who speak without thought because she, too, know not what it mean, what it might mean. Just as there are elements which rest, yet when in nature's course they move on their way and they touch, the pouf! And there comes a flash of light, heaven wide, that blind and kill and destroy some. But that show up all earth below for leagues and leagues. Is it not so? Well, I shall explain. To begin, hav e you ever study the philosophy of crime? `Yes' and `No.' You, John, yes, for it is a study of insanity. You, no, Madam Mina, for crime touch you not, not but once. Still, your mind works true, and argues not a particulari ad universale. There is this peculiarity in criminals. It is so constant, in all countries and at all times, that even police, who know not much from philosophy, come to know it empirically, that it is. That is to be empiric. The criminal always work at one crime, that is the true criminal who seems predestinate to crime, and who will of none other. This criminal has not full man brain. He is clever and cunning and resourceful, but he be not of man stature as to brain. He be of child brain in much. Now this criminal of ours is predestinate to crime also. He, too, have child brain, and it is of the child to do what he have done. The little bird, the little fish, the little animal learn not by principle, but empirically. And when he learn to do, then there is to him the ground to start from to do more. `Dos pou sto,' said Archimedes. `Give me a fulcrum, and I shall move the world!' To do once, is the fulcrum whereby child brain become man brain. And until he have the purpose to do more, he continue to do the same again every time, just as he have done before! Oh, my dear, I see that your eyes are opened, and that to you the lightning flash show all the leagues, "for Mrs. Harker began to clap her hands and her eyes sparkled. He went on, "Now you shall speak. Tell us two dry men of science what you see with those so bright eyes." He took her hand and held it whilst he spoke. His finger and thumb closed on her pulse, as I thought instinctively and unconsciously, as she spoke. "The Count is a criminal and of criminal type. Nordau and Lombroso would so classify him, and qua criminal he is of an imperfectly formed mind. Thus, in a difficulty he has to seek resource in habit. His past is a clue, and the one page of it that we know, and that from his own lips, tells that once before, when in what Mr. Morris would call a`tight place,' he went back to his own country from the land he had tried to invade, and thence, without losing purpose, prepared himself for a new effort. He came again better equipped for his work, and won. So he came to London to invade a new land. He was beaten, and when all hope of success was lost, and his existence in danger, he fled back over the sea to his home. Just as formerly he had fled back over the Danube from Turkey Land." "Good, good! Oh, you so clever lady!" said Van Helsing, enthusiastically, as he stooped and kissed her hand. A moment later he said to me, as calmly as though we had been having a sick room consultation, "Seventy-two only, and in all this excitement. I have hope." Turning to her again, he said with keen expectation, "But go on. Go on! There is more to tell if you will. Be not afraid. John and I know. I do in any case, and shall tell you if you are right. Speak, without fear!" "I will try to. But you will forgive me if I seem too egotistical." "Nay! Fear not, you must be egotist, for it is of you that we think." "Then, as he is criminal he is selfish. And as his intellect is small and his action is based on selfishness, he confines himself to one purpose. That purpose is remorseless. As he fled back over the Danube, leaving his forces to be cut to pieces, so now he is intent on being safe, careless of all. So his own selfishness frees my soul somewhat from the terrible power which he acquired over me on that dreadful night. I felt it! Oh, I felt it! Thank God, for His great mercy! My soul is freer than it has been since that awful hour. And all that haunts me is a fear lest in some trance or dream he may have used my knowledge for his ends." The Professor stood up, "He has so used your mind, and by it he has left us here in Varna, whilst the ship that carried him rushed through enveloping fog up to Galatz, where, doubtless, he had made preparation for escaping from us. But his child mind only saw so far. And it may be that as ever is in God's Providence, the very thing that the evil doer most reckoned on for his selfish good, turns out to be his chiefest harm. The hunter is taken in his own snare, as the great Psalmist says. For now that he think he is free from every trace of us all, and that he has escaped us with so many hours to him, then his selfish child brain will whisper him to sleep. He think, too, that as he cut himself off from knowing your mind, there can be no knowledge of him to you. There is where he fail! That terrible baptism of blood which he give you makes you free to go to him in spirit, as you have as yet done in your times of freedom, when the sun rise and set. At such times you go by my volition and not by his. And this power to good of you and others, you have won from your suffering at his hands. This is now all more precious that he know it not, and to guard himself have even cut himself off from his knowledge of our where. We, however, are not selfish, and we believe that God is with us through all this blackness, and these many dark hours. We shall follow him, and we shall not flinch. Even if we peril ourselves that we become like him. Friend John, this has been a great hour, and it have done much to advance us on our way. You must be scribe and write him all down, so that when the others return from their work you can give it to them, then they shall know as we do." And so I have written it whilst we wait their return, and Mrs. Harker has written with the typewriter all since she brought the MS to us.