#thread: copper and owen

[cyberneticatoms]

WHERE: University of the Metroplex WHO: Owen Bowen (@miketroplex)

"Hey dude, got you a boba tea," Copper said setting one in front of Owen before sitting across from him at the picnic table. He set his textbook down and took a sip of his own drink. "Remind me again why I choose to go into therapy? Feel like my eyes are gonna melt out of my head."

[athenagc94]

Written in Rose Quartz

Chapter 6 - Unsuur/Builder Fic - Amethyst

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You can also keep up with it on my AO3 here.

~~~

Robbie watched Unsuur as he strung beads through copper thread from her perch in the small kitchen that stemmed off her living area. He teetered on the edge of his chair with one leg folded under the other. He’d been working on his project for two days straight now. She asked him what he was trying to make, but he only smiled and said, “It’s a surprise.” So far, he had used varying shades of jade.

“Do you drink?” She couldn’t recall him drinking anything stronger than a glass of yakmel milk when he visited the saloon. “Liquor,” she clarified.

He glanced up from his project and blinked rapidly—like he’d forgotten to blink that whole time. “Sometimes. Why?”

She raised a bottle of sandthorn juice. “It’s been a long week for me.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s Tuesday.”

“Like I said, long week. Do you want me to pour you a glass?”

“What is it?”

She plopped down in the seat across from him with two empty glasses. “Sandthorn juice. It’s super potent shit.” She poured the hazy green liquid into the glasses. “I have Owen special order this stuff for me.”

Unsuur sniffed it curiously, his lip curling. “It smells bad.”

“Uh, yeah.” Robbie sipped hers. “You’re not supposed to smell it.”

He knocked it back in one fell swoop—like a child taking a dose of medicine. His face turned an impressive shade of purple as he fought through the burn and the fit of coughs that followed. She clapped him lightly on the back, shaking her head—rookie mistake.

“That’s so bad,” he croaked, “How can you like that?”

“It’s a sipping liquor,” she said as she poured him another glass, “I never said you had to shotgun it to look cool.”

He made a face. “I wasn’t trying to look cool.”

“Sure, ya weren’t.” She settled back in her seat. “The burn is what makes it worth it.”

He cleared his throat and took a more reserved sip this time. “I don’t want it to burn.”

“You get used to it.” The burn barely registered for her. Drinking was probably another mistake—especially with Unsuur.  She knew what happened the last time she drank too much, but she did need to take the edge off and, just maybe, she wanted to see what happened when Unsuur loosened up a little bit.

Liquor tended to do that to people.

He hissed through his teeth, which she knew only made the burn worse. “Well, what do we do now?”

She chuckled. “We drink. We talk. It’s not that complicated.”

“I’m not so great at talking.”

“What makes you say that?”

He watched the sediment swirl around the bottom of his glass. “No one ever really listens when I talk.”

There he was again, beating himself down. He did it in a subtle, matter-of-fact way to try to convince others that it didn’t bother him. But it did bother him. It had to, right? How could he say such awful things about himself? It was almost like he was parroting a phrase someone had used on him—like the words weren’t really his own.

Didn’t he know how likable he was? How endearing? She used to think he was uptight, but really, he was just awkward. Once you peeled all that back, there was a decent man under all that social ineptitude.

She leaned across the table and said gently, “Well, I’m listening, aren’t I?”

He met her gaze and held it a second longer than he probably intended. His eyes were so dark, so guarded. As if sensing that, he lowered his gaze back to his drink. “I guess you’re the exception there too.”

That killed the conversation and a heavy silence settled over them. Unsuur, against her advice, tucked away another glass of sandthorn and silently asked for another by offering her his glass. She poured it for him and watched as he downed half of it in one go. It seemed the burn no longer affected him. She might have been impressed by his tenacity if she wasn’t so disappointed to see their conversation putter off.

“Have you ever tried to quietly watch a sunset?”

The question came right out of left field and left her with a terrible case of whiplash. He went red in the face, though she couldn’t decide if it was because he was flustered or starting to feel the effects of the sandthorn juice.

She picked at the dirt and sand caked beneath her fingernails. “I’ve seen my fair share of sunsets.”

“Everyone has.” He took another drink with a less prominent grimace. “But I mean, have you ever sat down and watched the light fade? No work, no talk, just a quiet moment between you and the Light.” His expression softened. “It’s one of my favorite things to do.”

She smiled to herself. “That sounds really nice.”

“Would you want to join me sometime?”

Absolutely. She caught the word before it burst out of her. She didn’t want to sound too eager. “Doesn’t that completely defeat the purpose of quietly watching the sunset if I’m there too?”

“Not if you’re quiet too.” He winked and it hit her like a strike through the chest. He’d never winked before. It was borderline flirtatious, but that would be ridiculous. Unsuur would never flirt with her. She was fairly certain he had no concept of the word. “And I wouldn’t mind the company…” He looked like he wanted to add something to that thought, but he drowned whatever it was with more sandthorn juice. “No one has ever taken me up on the offer, which is fine. Even if they did, I doubt they’d show up. I’m forgettable.”

Her smile fell. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Why do you tear yourself down like that?” She passed her glass idly between her hands. He followed the motion with a sway of his head, back and forth, mesmerized. “You talk as if no one ever gives you a passing thought.”

“People don’t.” There was no malice in his tone. He spoke as if he were overviewing a Civil Corps regulation with her. There wasn’t any emotion in his tone. “I’ve been told that no one notices—”

“I noticed you.”

His breath hitched.

She noticed him often. He was Unsuur—the friendly, neighborhood Civil Corps deputy in training. The one you could depend on to pick up your commission for more supplies, then helped you unload it when he brought it to your shop. The one who put others safety before his own. The only one who asked you with genuine concern if you were alright when you stumbled into him, covered head to toe in yakamel shit.

The only person she should have never kissed because a kiss from him actually meant something to her.

He was impossible for her to ignore. Every move, every breath, she fixated on it like it was her only lifeline. Which would make her life more difficult when she finally decided to move on from this place. Unsuur would never leave this place and she couldn’t stay. Their vibrations were out of sync. It would never work.

“I don’t like when you tear yourself down.” She poked him between the eyes to unfurrow his brow. “You’re a fucking delight. Start acting like it.”

His eyes brightened. “Is that your best go at a pep talk?”

“That’s all I got.” She finished off the rest of her drink and poured herself another. He held out his empty glass and she topped it off. “Talking isn’t really my thing either. I’d much rather my actions speak for me.”

“I can tell. Why do you always do that?”

It was her turn to be confused. “What?”

“Jump headfirst into danger with little regard for your safety.”

She crossed her arm, then uncrossed them, unsure what to do with them. When had they gotten so cumbersome. “One could say you do the same thing.” 

She was deflecting. He knew it too.

“It’s my job to do that.” He leaned across the table and she smelled the sandthorn on his breath. She swallowed thickly. “I don’t want to believe it’s thoughtlessness on your part. You’re too smart for that.”

She really wasn’t. She’d made it this far on spite and pure dumb luck. With all the stupid shit she did, it was a wonder how she lived this long. She liked to boast that it was her crystals that kept her out of harm's way, but really, some higher power probably just found her antics a little amusing and decided to keep her alive for their entertainment.

“And what if I told you I’m really not all that smart?” 

Case and point, she was here, drinking with him.

“Then I wouldn’t believe you.” His voice dropped low in his chest and that pesky bout of heaviness settled back between her thighs.

“I don’t know why I’m so reckless.”

Well, she did, but she didn’t want to get into all that with him—not tonight. No one needed to hear her little sob story. Oh, because of a whacky, old fortune teller, I never really felt at home anywhere so I cut off ties with everyone and everywhere to find myself and all that bullshit. With no place to call home and no one left to care about me, I don’t find much of a reason to play it safe. The whole thing was pitiful to even think about, let alone to say out loud, and it’s not like Unsuur would ever understand.

“Life’s too short to hold back.”

That’s why she couldn’t stay in Sandrock. There was still so much of the world to see and she’d only scratched the surface. She needed to keep searching for the words written with stone. For all she knew, she had already found it and she was too stupid to see it. 

“I have no one to be careful for,” she admitted softly, “and I don’t really care.”

“Would you be careful for me?”

Robbie straightened in her seat. She must have misheard him. “What?”

“I mean, uh, for me and Justice and Heidi and—” His knee bounced beneath the table, rattling their glasses. “And everyone, really. You’re one of our resident builders. Your work is important. We can’t have you getting hurt.”

She deflated. Oh. That was what he meant. “Right. I’ll try.”

“But I would rest a little easier knowing you weren’t running headfirst into the geegler den.” He cleared his throat pointedly. “And if you fixed that fence of yours.”

The clouds hanging over their head parted and Robbie smiled. “If it bothers you that much, you’re more than welcome to fix my fence, Unsuur.”

“Maybe I will.” His knee bumped hers under the table. “Don’t tempt me.”

Was he flirting? Were they flirting? She couldn’t tell, but now she had the image of Unsuur bent over her fence—shirtless, of course, because she now knew what that looked like—burned into the back of her mind like an iron brand. 

“I won’t stop you.” No, in fact, she would watch him get his hands dirty with a cold glass of sand tea and a pair of tinted shades to hide the fact that she was definitely staring at his ass every time he bent over.

“I can set you up with some tools tomorrow.” She may have sounded a bit too eager, but she didn’t care. She was riding on a wave of sandthorn-made confidence. “If you’re feeling up to it, that is.”

“We’ll see about that. I’m still healing.” He made a show of flinching when he adjusted in his seat. It was a little too exaggerated to convince her, but she didn’t call him out on it. She didn’t dare hope he might be stalling to stay with her a little while longer.

“But about that sunset…” He looked hopeful. “Did you want to join me next time?”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes.”

“Then it’s a date.”

A date. Was he asking her out on a date?

His eyes rounded at his own statement. “I mean…” He peered between her and his glass with a look of utter betrayal playing on his features. She understood that betrayal all too well. Sandthorn turned on everyone eventually. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, I guess—let’s set a date.”

“This weekend?” she offered as she squashed that flicker of disappointment in her chest, “I’m almost done with Qi’s machine and you’re on the mend. We can celebrate with a sunset?”

“I would like that. It would be nice to have company for once.” He shifted his legs again until her knee slotted between hers. Instead of drawing back like someone with something as ridiculous as boundaries, she traced up the length of his calf with her foot until she reached the crook of his knee. He stretched out his leg to encourage it. 

This was a dangerous game they were playing.

But she didn’t want to stop.

His obsidian eyes bore into her—the stone of truth. What truth, she wondered, was he trying to glean off her?

“You’ve got dirt on your face.”

Her foot dropped back to the floor, the pit in her stomach swelling. “Hazard of the job, I’m afraid.” She tried to play it off, but she heard the disappointment in her tone. “I was going to grab a quick bath before I—”

His chair scraped against the hardwood as he stood and cupped her jaw.

Her brain short-circuited. Every thought just went poof—gone—not a thought to be had except for Unsuur and the sensation of his thumb brushing over the curve of her chin. He held her face, half-risen out of his seat, and a strange intensity in his gaze as he traced the seam of her lips with his eyes. They were so close—it would be so easy to just…

She leaned in. It was a barely discernible movement, but it was enough to gauge his response. He didn’t push her off, but didn’t move to close the gap either. They stayed there, tasting the breath between them. The bitter edge of sandthorn juice fanned across her face and shook her from her daze.

Unsuur was drunk, or at the very least, well on his way to it. He had no idea what he was doing.

Entertaining this, no matter how much she wanted to, would only lead to more mistakes and she refused to let that happen. Not this way. Not again.

She removed his hand from her face and pushed away from the table. “I’m going to take a quick bath before I head to bed because it’s been a few days, and I need it.” She laughed, but it sounded forced, even to her. “Do you need anything from me? Tea? Pain medicine?”

“No.” His expression was hard to read, but that wasn’t anything new. She thought she figured out how to read the nuanced changes in his face, but it was impossible to tell what was running through his mind as he settled back in his seat. “I’m going to finish this row and head to bed too. Looks like it might be an early morning if I’m going to be fixing that fence for you.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She lingered with one hand on the doorknob. “Good night.”

He glanced up with a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She slipped into the bathroom and fell back against the door with a heavy sigh. This was getting harder—ending a conversation with him when she really wanted to spend the rest of the night talking with him. A flimsy wall separated them, but it felt like the distance that stretched between was much greater. 

What would she do when she left for good…if she left for good?

She buried her face in her hands and slid to the ground.

She never batted an eye when she left places in the past. When she didn’t have people to worry about. She didn’t do attachments. But the idea of leaving this place—these people—well, it made her stomach churn.

Maybe Heidi was right.

This place had grown on her. 

And maybe, just maybe, the idea of setting down roots wasn’t so bad after all.

[passivenovember]

Walking Home (v)., the  Tourniquet

For you @thursday-knight. Lysm

They’re going to let Billy out of that horrible, gray padded room on Tuesday, which Steve snorts at over the phone. 

“What, you think that’s fuckin’ funny or something?”

“No, It’s just.” It’s kind of funny. Steve wraps the phone chord around his hand. Nice and tight, like a tourniquet. “Tuesday’s weird.”

“Tuesday’s...weird?”

“Yeah.”

Steve can hear something, like. The clack of a pen. It’s a common nervous tick, a way to cope, but. Steve’s never seen any one hold a bic the way Billy does. 

Barrel in his palm. Clicking the register with his pointer finger, like. He’s pressing Reagan’s Big Red Button. The one to blow up the world.

“What’s so weird about a Tuesday release, man?”

“Ruining the start of a week by spending it in the hospital and then having to use the rest of it adjusting to life outside?”  Steve shrugs, remembering that Billy can’t see him. “They could at least give you a Friday. Then you’d have the weekend, right?”

Billy’s grin is somehow manifested in the honey drip of his voice. “Been locked up for six months, Harrington, what’s two more days?”

And that could be true.

Steve doesn’t feel like so much time has passed. The rise and fall of the moon, the turn of the seasons, the way Billy has to wear fuzzy socks with those little grips on them to stay warm in beige corridors, have been lost on Steve. 

Tainted. Wrapped in paper the exact shade of survival. Surgeries and afternoons carpooling the kids to Hawkins general, paying Barry Mildred to do Billy’s algebra homework for him, and. 

Convincing everyone.

Himself, too.

That Billy would be alright. Steve had to do everything he could to get Billy ready for the world, or.

The world ready for him.

“Has it really been that long?” Steve wonders.

And Billy laughs. “Maybe not for you, King Steve. Some of us had to spend the whole of it in one room.” It doesn’t sound as painful as it usually does.

Steve just nods again. To himself.

He remembers the leaves changing around the time Billy learned to walk again. Halloween. Bringing left-over contraband to spoil Billy’s strict diet of organic bullshit while his body healed itself. Amber leaves complimenting blue eyes as they made unsteady laps around the courtyard together. 

Steve holding his arm out time and time again, and. Billy taking it. 

Christmas. Snowball fights with the kids, crystals on long blonde eyelashes while that stubborn mouth fought to return every smile Max threw his way. Those very same lashes, wet with tears, when Billy opened a vintage copy of Cider House Rules, on Christmas Eve. 

All, you really shouldn’t be spending the holiday in a psych ward, Harrington.

But they held hands for the first time that night. Steve said, where else would I want to be?

And Billy, just. Took what he could get--nothing more.

Steve remembers a lot of things. Happiness. Rocky, at first, unearned, a slide into friendship which turned into peachy cheeks that rivaled the setting sun.

Summer, Fall, Winter, and.

February.

Steve must have missed it. All of it, while he was busy being grateful that Billy was alive. 

He checks the calendar.

“You’ll be out in time for Valentines,” He says. Because that’s important, somehow. “Got any big plans?”

“Oh, for sure.” Billy clicks his pen. One-two-three. “Got a girl waiting for me on the outside, thought we could catch a movie.”

Steve knows. 

He knows it isn’t true, that Billy’s just yanking his ridiculously short chain, but. Steve’s heart beats in time with the click of a pen. Advancing and overtaking the tempo to orchestrate a symphony of worry.

Of fear.

It used to taste like copper. Black slime and dirty snow, but now it tastes like mashed potatoes served on a hospital lunch tray. Contraband sweets. Change and forced endings and--

Steve chokes on something. A laugh that falls wrong halfway through, like a sob colored to fit summer days. “What are you doing after?”

The clacking stops. “Just fucking with you, Harrington.”

“I know.”

“Was a joke, I’m not.” Billy clears his throat. “Everyone who matters came to see me while I was here.” 

Steve just nods. Frantically, because he hears words that aren’t there. Meaning that couldn’t possibly color his life in broad strokes. He thinks about what Billy’s saying, what he really means. 

Everyone who matters.

“Where are you staying? Like, when you get out,.” Steve mutters. The chord is wrapped around his hand again. He leans against the wall, wincing as the pins from his bulletin board pinch his shoulder blades. “You got a place to crash?”

Billy doesn’t say anything. 

Steve clears his throat. “You aren’t going back, right? You’re not going. Home?”

“To Neil’s?” 

And Steve gets the distinction. Feels it settle like an axe between his first three ribs. “Yeah.”

Billy sighs. “No, fuck that. Figured I’d ask around. See if there are any beds open at RCA.” Recovery Centers of America, that’s. 

“That’s in Indianapolis.”

“Yeah,” Billy says flatly. Steve thinks, distantly, that he sounds almost. Annoyed. “Owens says there’s a car. It’ll take me wherever I want, long as I stay in State.”

“You want to go away?”

“Sure,” Billy says bluntly. “Wouldn’t hurt to leave this place behind, you know. Maybe go somewhere new--”

“Stay with me.”

Steve’s heart is beating in his eyeballs.

The world falls silent. Only for a moment, for as long as it takes for Billy to drop something on the ground and then swear under his breath. His voice shakes, like strands in the wind. “What?”

“At my apartment,” Steve clarifies. He untangles the phone chord which has somehow worked its way to his elbow. “It’s small and shitty, and the couch only has three legs, but.”

Steve closes his eyes and hopes against hope, praying to every god who has ever existed since the beginning of time and everyone who will come after, that Billy can hear every meaning, every hidden word.

“You could.” Steve says softly. “If you wanted to.”

The clacking starts up again, slow and measured. Steve can hear Billy’s breath. The ragged intake of air that sounds painful, like a boy clinging to life in smoke filled memories. Holding on to his hand, saying, I don’t want to die, Steve, please.

It plants Steve’s feet in an ambulance. It tips the string of a tourniquet, bloody and wet with slime in his hands. It makes him remember. 

Pull it tighter, kid, come on.

And.

He’s losing a lot of blood.

And.

Steve, we’re losing him. 

And.

Kid, step away from the body.

Billy clears his throat. “You mean it?” He asks, and.

Steve lets go of a breath. “Of course I do.”

“You’ll get tired of me.” Billy’s voice, it sounds like shattering windows. Steve doesn’t say anything. Can’t respond, because. Nothing in life is more impossible. 

The world falls silent.

Only for a moment, as long as it takes for Steve to close his eyes. “I can’t watch you get in that car and walk away, Billy.”

It’s nothing. Only a part of how he feels. Only a drop of what he wants, but. It sets things in motion again. 

Billy clears his throat. “Alright,” He says. “Give me the address.”

--

Steve wants it to be something other than what it is.

He buys new sheets. Fern green satin, five-hundred thread count and worth a third of what he has in savings. 

They aren’t what he’d usually go for, color or texture, but. The lady at the department store says muted colors are good for preventing overstimulation after trauma and satin is gentle on the skin. Warm, too, which is always a good thing.

Billy says it feels like winter, now. All, I’m a goddamn human snow globe.

Buying sheets on Valentines, it.

Makes Steve hope that this is something else. 

That Billy will insist on putting his new sheets on Steve’s bed instead of the couch in the living room. That they’ll sleep together here, just how they always did in Billy’s hospital bed. 

Chest to chest. 

Billy’s head tucked under Steve’s chin, but.

Mostly Steve being eaten alive by the guilt.

For feeling like this is the start of their lives. That everything before now--living with his parents, fighting monsters, feeling useless in every sense of the word...

All of it was a dream. 

Preparation for the day he would open the front door and find Billy there, waiting.

Steve takes the sheets back to his apartment. He makes up the living room, rearranging the furniture so Billy can have his own space. The couch as a bed and the coffee table as a book shelf.

Billy has a lot of books.

More than anyone Steve’s ever met, more than Robin and Nancy Wheeler combined and Steve doesn’t own any books himself, or. A place to put them. His apartment is the size of a shoebox.

He’ll get rid of the stuff he doesn’t use anymore. 

He’ll make room. 

In his apartment, in his miniscule life, so that Billy has something of his own. 

And maybe after they’re settled in and the bills are paid for the month, Steve will pick up extra shifts at the video store until he can afford buy one. 

A nice, big oak bookshelf for Billy to house his favorites. 

--

He locks himself in the bathroom an hour after moving in.

Which, you know. Throws the evening for a loop. 

He seems happy when Steve opens the front door, dropping his box of books by the shoe rack and toeing his boots off with a grin. 

His body is loose, and. Open, Like he’s comfortable. Billy pokes around the apartment, making fun of the weird shit hanging up on the walls while Steve cooks dinner.

“You gotta get some real art in here, man.” Billy says. It sounds like he’s by the record player, digging through the stack of vinyl's Steve keeps in a shoe box by the T.V. “And some real music, holy shit. How have you been living like this?”

“I’ve been living just fine, fuck you very much.” 

“You have three copies of Waterloo,” Billy snorts. As if that proves something.

He’s crouched by the mosaic of finger paintings left by Holly Wheeler, studying a particularly abstract piece when Steve hands him a glass of sparkling cider.

“Everyone’s gotta have their backup copies of Waterloo, you know, extra in case you gotta dole them out to strangers.” Steve clinks their glasses together. “Cheers.”

Billy swishes the drink around with a lift of his eyebrow. “You trying to get in my pants, Harrington?”

“It’s not alcohol.”

“Why is it bubbly?” Billy accuses, lifting the glass to sniff at it suspiciously. His nose wrinkles, like a bunny rabbit. 

Steve laughs. “It’s sparkling cider. Cherry flavored.”

“Cherry?” Billy snorts, his cheeks glowing pink like little love hearts. “That’s definitely a sex flavor.” 

“It’s a celebration flavor, you dick.” Steve chuckles again. He files through the records he does have, selecting one he thinks Billy can tolerate. “What do you think of Rumours?”

Billy’s wandered to the kitchen. “Hate the activity, dig the album.” He calls.

The sound of cabinets opening and slamming shut echo through the space while Steve figures out the settings for this vinyl, fiddling with the tiny knobs until Songbird filters through at a pace that seems right.

“Ice is in the freezer,” Steve announces, and.

Billy rounds the corner with a bag of chips, happy little smirk on his face. Steve frowns.

“I’m fixing dinner--”

“I haven’t had Doritos in almost a year, Harrington.” Billy says roughly. He rips open the bag, collapsing next to Steve on the floor by the music stand. Billy takes one and licks the cheese dust off the chip, holding the bag out, like. “Want one?”

Steve face hurts from smiling so much. “Nah, I’m good.”

Billy leans back against the wall, rolling his eyes. “What, don’t eat carbs after four p.m. or something?”

And Steve filters through a million answers, all of which make it sound like he’s trying to get laid, so. He settles in next to Billy, letting his eyes fall closed with the sway of the music.

“No, just. Don’t wanna ruin my dinner.”

Billy snorts, bag crinkling loudly as he dives in for another handful. “I could eat twelve bags of this shit and still go ape on whatever rich boy thing you whipped up.” Billy asses him, head cocked to the side. “Bet the cheese makes you fart.” He concludes.

Steve blinks at him. “You’re disgusting--”

“Processed cheese makes everyone shit their pants, man, that’s like.” Billy wipes his hands on Steve’s leg. “Common knowledge.”

Steve makes a noise like a runover chicken, wiping frantically at the trousers he bought at the Goodwill, just for tonight. 

He wets his fingers with spit, wincing and scrubbing at the bright line of orange nacho cheese that stains his corduroy flares. 

The shape of Billy’s fingers is unmistakable. “I’m starting to regret asking you to move in.”

“Thought I was just crashing here until--”

“Now that you’re here I’m no letting you leave,” Steve smiles at him, the weight of it softening when Billy’s cheeks glow pink again. He knocks their shoulders together. “You’re stuck with me.”

Billy falls silent after that.

Shoveling in handful after handful of Doritos and crunching so loudly that Steve can’t get wrapped up in the bass line on the Chain. 

“Dude, you gotta chew so loud?” Steve asks, shoving Billy’s hand away when he reaches to smear nacho dust down the length of Steve’s neck. “My god, you’re a menace.”

“You love it,” Billy giggles, and.

They stare at each other for a moment. Sort of watching the brush of eyelashes against cheekbones while the music plays. 

A backdrop to the start of something Steve doesn’t have a name for.

--

Night falls and Billy doesn’t come out of the bathroom.

The food has been stored, the dishes put away, but the light which escapes like neon strips of gold to kiss the mouth of the hall carpet never flicks off. Never giving way to rest.

Steve thinks about waiting for him. 

He thinks about going to bed, jiggling the handle to make sure Billy’s okay, breaking the door down when two hours turns to three but that seems intrusive. 

If Billy wanted company he would ask. And if he wanted to come out he would, right?

Steve feels like an idiot. 

Pacing back and forth between the living room and the hallway, trying not to make it obvious that he’s right in the thick of gut-wrenching worry. Violent, intrusive images of brain splattered tile fill his mind. 

Billy could be hurt, or. Asleep in the bathtub. Maybe he slipped out the bathroom window while Steve was turning down the couch for him, making the space comfortable.

Maybe he was never here to begin with. Maybe Steve dreamt him up.

Steve paces back and forth, back and forth, wrestling with the urge to call Dr. Owens and ask what he should do, until the clock above the stove reads 11:34 pm and he has no choice but to call it a night.

His knuckles sound like a machine gun when he taps on the door. 

From behind the oak barrier, Billy makes a noise like he was startled out of sleep. Steve can hear him moving around, when he asks, “You okay? Been in there for a few hours.”

Billy opens the door.

His eyes are red and puffy, cheeks a little flushed, like.

“Have you been crying?” Steve doesn’t want him to cry. Tears and hallow feelings, they have no place in the stretch of nightfall that Steve has built for them. 

He feels himself reaching for Billy on impulse, trying to pull their bodies together, but Billy steps back. 

Away. 

To make room for Steve in the bathroom or to make a run for it, Steve isn’t sure. He knots his fingers together for safe keeping. 

“Of course not, don’t be fucking.” Billy’s voice cracks right down the middle, like. A loaf of bread that has been in the oven for far too long. His eyes are glassy when he looks up, and.

Distant.

Steve feels like an asshole. He leans against the door jam. “I can call Dr. Owens, if you want.” 

Billy stares at him. “Why would I want that?”

“You just seem--”

“I seem like what, Steve?” Billy spits. “You gonna psychoanalyze me too, huh?”

Steve grits his teeth against the urge to. Fight back. “It’s just when I started getting the couch ready, you seemed.” Steve runs a hand through his hair, choosing his next words carefully. “Nervous? Afraid, maybe, just a little. Which is alright. It can be scary sleeping alone in a new place, and--”

“I’m not five years old, Harrington, I can handle a sleepover at my friends house.” Billy snarls. He pushes against Steve’s chest until there are rivers between them. Mountains and oceans.

It’s the first time since Starcourt that Billy seems.

Like himself.

The old self, the one that used his fists to keep wandering eyes from getting too close. Figuring him out. If Steve were a younger man he’d fall for it, hook and line, but. 

He knows better.

Six months and a lifetime with Billy Hargrove have taught him a thing or two. He nods, stepping back down the hallway. 

Billy’s eyes track him. Wide and nervous and so, so blue. 

“‘M going to sleep, dude.”  Steve waves a thumb over his shoulder, taking a deep, needed breath. He calls over his shoulder to give Billy some space. “Come to bed when you’re ready. I’ll leave the light on.”

Billy’s footsteps don’t pass his bedroom door until Steve is settled under the covers.

--

He’s starting to think Billy won’t show.

The t.v. is on in the living room, tinny sounds of Yogi Bear filtering through the wall and Steve wonders if he made a mistake in assuming, that.

Look.

Just because they slept together, like, actually slept together  while Billy was in the hospital doesn’t mean anything. 

Maybe Billy is just scraping the bottom of his energy reserves. Maybe he’s getting to the end of the rope when it comes to his friendship with Steve, and didn’t want to move in but had to.

For lack of better options, and like. 

Income and shit--

“Scoot over.” Billy says.

Steve jumps, poking his head out from under the covers to glare wildly at him. “When did you--”

“Move over.” Billy insists, eyes burning like flame in the darkness.

Steve does, all, “Jesus Christ, you’re just a little ray of sunshine, aren’t ya?” But there are butterflies in his tummy. Gently flapping wings that turn into stinging wasps when Billy manhandles his way into the bed, yanking one of the extra pillows out from under Steve’s legs to punch into shape on his side of the bed.

Steve squawks. “I was using that.”

“It was under your knee caps, dork.” Billy mutters, bullying his way into Steve’s space like he did so many times on warm summer nights at Hawkins General, stiff as a board on his government issued mattress.

Steve’s bed isn’t anything like that, it’s like. A marshmallow. Swallowing the two of them whole when Billy presses his face into the length of Steve’s neck, legs coming up to pin him in place.

“I got weak ankles.” Steve pouts. 

Billy doesn’t say anything as he goes limp and heavy on top of his human pillow. Steve instantly feels like he’s over heating; the guy’s a fucking furnace, but.

Billy’s eyelashes are tickling his collar bones.

His breath fans out over Steve’s skin, like cool breezes on summer nights, and. When he starts crying Steve is there.

Like always, Steve sings him to sleep.

[rivieraestateshq]

Event 003: Blind Date Event!

To celebrate the upcoming Valentine’s Day Holiday, the Estates has set up a blind date event! All dates will be randomly assigned by Estates Staff. Dates will be able to do whatever they want, the full island available to them with all drinks, food and activities on the house for the daters!

The event is set on Saturday February 8th. A kick off party held at the Blue Temptation Nightclub. All daters will be given a number 1-13, at the beginning of the activity, setting them up with their date, finding the person who has your matching number to find your date for the night. You can choose to hang out at the Club and get to know each other or go to any activity or place on the island for your date. 

Have fun and get to know each other! Who knows, maybe love will blossom!

If you choose to stay at the Night Club for the evening, Valentine’s themed drinks will be flowing all night. Stay safe and have fun!

You have an entire week  to participate as much as you like! All starters for this event should be posted between February 3rd - 8th, but feel free to play them out for as long as you desire. Your starters and threads can be at any point in the night. You don’t have to start them all just finding out you’re each others blind date, you can be at any point in your night together that you desire.

Make sure to tag your event starters #RivieraEstatesEvent: 003 and #RivieraEstatesOpen

Below you will find the list of blind dates. Reach out to each other, plot and plan, have fun and get those starters/threads going so that you can get the threads going, we look forward to seeing the new pairs and connections on the dash!

The Dates

The Grotto restaurant has closed for dining, just for a couple of hours until the couples are sorted and the Blind Date Night begins. Tables for two are spread out with a number on each one. Every participant of the event has been given a stub with a number on it, and all they have to do is sit at their table and wait until their partner arrives. From there, each couple can decide how to spend their evening together! Here are your dates!

Dexter Archibald - Sebastian Morgan

Wyatt McKenzie - Elijah Hart

Casey Ellison - Dante Lovett

Lark Alejandro Rosales - John Martin

Matt Bettenhaus -  Gage Weston-Alexander

Carter Hall - Noah Alexander

Emilio Bonaparte - Ocean Samuels

Cade Riviera - Grayson Hall

Oliver McKenzie - Merrick Dalton

Nevada Saunders - Aleki Mala

Tamsen Sites - Aki Fujita

Eliah Kaufman - Copper McIntyre

Connor Owen -  Ricky Gallego

Dashiel Lockert - Monet Portier

Samuel Fox -  Soren Nieves

Theodore Tremblay - Jonathan Knox

Zach Meadows - Xavier Knox

Yadriel Garcia - Alfie West

[goldenboybones-edgar]

The Basics

Full Name: Edgar Gideon Bones

Nickname(s): Ed, Eddie

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Zodiac: Taurus (Birthday: May 8th)

Chinese Zodiac: Rat

Family

Parents: Benjamin & Priscilla – who are respected both in the Wizarding World as a Pure-Blood family and within the Ministry of Magic.

Relationship with Parents: While immensely loving and fantastic role-models, as the eldest, there was a certain pressure for Edgar growing up. Since they were so ideal, he had to strive to make them proud. To show he was worth their efforts.

Sibling(s): Amelia and Owen

Relationship with Sibling(s): Typical bickering while growing up, but incredibly close. Amelia tended to be the peace-maker between the boys. Edgar wishes to protect them both in any way that he can.

Who are they closest to: Back when they were kids, Edgar would say Amelia. However, now, they aren’t as due to their occupations, or him traveling. He wishes to do better and will try his best.

How as their childhood: Overall, good. Edgar had plenty of fun with his siblings and his parents were wonderful to them. Although, now that he’s older, he gets to have adventures alone and prefers that from time to time.

Appearance

Hair Color: Copper with a golden hue during the summertime from spending so much time outside that it lightens it.

Hairstyle: A bit like this right now since he’s growing it out. A bit longer in the front and the sides, overall.

Eye Color: Blue

Height: 6’2

Scar(s): Above his left eyebrow – which comes from an accident while playing with his younger brother Owen.

Piercing(s): None

Tattoo(s): None as of right now, but is considering.

Preferred Hand: Right

Posture: He ha good posture when standing – straight and tall to show off his height / confidence – but slouches when sitting to remain relaxed.

How do they dress: Usually Edgar dresses very simple, but tailored so that he looks well-dressed, but also ready for any adventure that may await him. Similar to this or this. He tend to wear lots of Earth-tones and lacks to attribute to his House colors, but does love his blue jacket.

Is there something they always wear: After Edgar had gotten Amelia her silver chain that she always wears around her wrist, the next year she gave him a silver chain to wear his neck in return of the Deathly Hallows – since it was his favorite tale growing up.

Magic Related

Wand: English Oak, 11’, with a slick, golden handle for easy gripping, and has a Phoenix feather core.

Boggart: The image of dead family members.

Patronus: Marsh Harrier

“Those with the Marsh Harrier patronus are quick thinking and smart. Those with the Marsh Harrier patronus are very thoughtful. Those with this patronus are reflective and often have profound ideas. However, those with the Marsh Harrier do not have their heads in the clouds. Those with this patronus are very level headed. Those with the Marsh Harrier patronus often have an individualistic or creative side. If the Marsh Harrier is your patronus, you are friendly and warm. People feel welcome in your presence.”

Owl: A light, golden-brown barn owl named Freya.

Pet(s): None at the moment, but thinking of getting one.

Other

Prized Possession: The guitar he had gotten on his trip to Arizona, with which the vaquero that taught him how to play, had his wife sew the strap for him, the threads and colors telling of his adventures there, and a Thunderbird feather at the end.

Where do they call home: Wherever Amelia and Owen are.

Dream Occupation: He’s living it as a Curse Breaker and traveling.

Favorite Color: Gold

Favorite Creature in the Wizarding World: Niffler

[ivoryribcage]

Story + 21

@devilishlyclever | Send “Story + #” | ACCEPTING

PROMPT. The first time my muse missed your muse.

TITLE. Dead SeaSETTING. Dragon AgeCHARACTERS. Owen Trevelyan (@devilishlyclever), Veata Aydelotte (@ivoryribcage)

SUMMARY. Quiet isn’t what she thought it would be.

In these most recent months of her life Veata had thought nothing more could overwhelm her. Yet their circumstances only continued to worsen with each development – proof that she had been wrong to hope the worst had passed. It seemed that for each slight flicker of hope, a storm gathered on the horizon to snuff it out of existence. The dissolution of the Circles had come at the cost of peace in their lands, and the price of negotiation had robbed them of the Divine and the few individuals of influence willing to cease the bloodshed. From their ashes had emerged the Herald of Andraste, and a tidal wave of demonic beasts that poured through The Fade. In hindsight shouldn’t they have known that on the eve of a night for celebration yet another storm would come for them?

The whispers – whispers of The Fade beckoning her to its false promises of salvation – she could almost ignore in the deafening caterwaul of battle that surrounded her. She had been here once before, hadn’t she? On the night that she and the other mages learned of the Circle of Magi’s decision to disband most had jumped at the chance to flee the stronghold, and on the few that had chosen to remain the Knight-Commander had enacted the Right of Annulment. Rather than the tincture of aged pine, she breathed the sharp briskness of the cold, but the taste of copper that tainted the air remained the same. She listened to the singing of steel – the battle cries of desperate men, the savageries of primal anger – and it mattered not that she was neither here nor there.

Her eyes wild and afraid, Veata struggled to breathe against the growing weight in her chest. She had only meant to be gone from Haven less than an hour. It shouldn’t have been dangerous as Owen and the mages he’d recruited had succeeded in sealing the breach. Yet here she stood divided from her people by the crimson tide of battle for the second time in her life. Though she cowered on the shore she kept enough sense of mind to search for an opening. It hurt to be so near to Haven that she could see its towering gates, but to be unable to reach their promised refuge. In the chaos descending upon their home no one could spare the minute to realize her absence. She wouldn’t want them to under such dire circumstances.

The bitter cold that pierced her veins began to melt as her blood quickened. She thought of the heat of the hearth that warmed their home – pictured a seed of it unfurling in her stomach like the petals of a flower in bloom. It began in her chest, and as she breathed it began to spread. Steam began to collect in her mouth. One of the better permissions granted to her in Haven had been the approval to practice her craft. The Circle had seen thorough restrictions placed on its wards. Haven had been her first chance to hone herself, albeit in select, private sessions of her choosing, without the need to adhere to such rigorous control. It came easier to her than it had before, and as she brought her focus to the center of the training grounds she didn’t hold back.

She would only flinch once as she felt her ethereal thread to the inferno fragment into a hundred pieces, triggering a sudden devour of scalding flame that swallowed the center of the grounds. Her breath released in a stuttered convulsion as the heat of the inferno that had warmed her bones vanished without a single trace. The screams remained. Veata stumbled from the shores and onto the training grounds, her feet quick to warm in the smoldering embers of the devastation she’d caused. She had seen the changing tide of the battle. Her people were being forced into Haven, and if the path wasn’t one she forged herself then she would be left stranded from them. It wasn’t like before. There would be no chance encounter for rescue.

The scream wrenched from her mouth was as much fear as it was anger. She grasped her burning forearm as she tumbled to the ground, her ankle rolling beneath her weight. Barring her path stood a horror for which man had coined no name. If it once were a man, it had not been for some time. Its grotesque figure bore on its bent back hardened, blood red stones, and the plates of steel fused with its shrunken skin seemed to pulsate. His veins – for once she thought this creature had been male – seemed to emit a faint, traceable luminescence through its paper thin skin. Nothing horrified her more though than the cloying scent of sickness that crawled inside her skin in its towering process. Her stomach lurched.

It was a feeling familiar and unfamiliar at once – as if she were listening to a song for which the words were known but not the tune. Then the world cut into silence as she watched as it – lyrium – gather in its palms. She knew the words, but not the tune. Lyrium: corrupt and maimed. Thoughts of Haven were forgotten as she scrambled to her feet in a blind panic. It wasn’t pain alone that caused her shortness of breath as she fled from the horror. Veata had brushed with corruption in The Fade before, but she had never seen it so mutilated before. She sprinted through the snowbanks and into the darkness of the trees, thinking of nothing more than escaping the abomination. It screamed after her. But she did not turn to see if it followed. 

On the mage ran until the sounds of battle faded into silence and the air felt clean of the taint that had poisoned it before. Veata collapsed underneath the shelter of the nearest tree. Sweat gathered on her forehead as she laid with her cheek pressed to the ground, her shoulders heaving from exhaustion. She tried to soothe the pounding of her frightened heart. Without the numbness of fear though to keep the cold from touching her Veata found that she trembled regardless. She sobbed once and only once. Under these unsafe conditions she couldn’t afford to feel more than that. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes then curled into a seated position. The night remained quiet and the trees without movement. Her head turned in the direction she’d come.

She couldn’t remember a single time in her life that she’d been alone. From the minute of her birth through the years of adolescence she had never been without the presence of another near. Even in the months after the Mage-Templar War forced her from the stronghold she hadn’t been alone. Her noble templar had been with her, and in the night she’d been lulled to sleep countless times by the sound of his hands working the steel of his greatsword. Then Haven. Her world – once no larger than the standard keep – unfolded across an entire land and ended in the warmth of a bustling village nestled in the mountains. It’d been arranged for them to board in a house thrice the size of her former quarters with an alchemist, and her life she had shared with a hundred other refugees.

But here she felt alone. Veata sniffled once before she hugged her knees to her chest. She searched her thoughts for any inkling of what she ought to do next. Nothing emerged from the tangle. Her eyes opened and she squeeze her knees tighter. She thought of Owen. If it had been him in her position he wouldn’t have lost his ground to the horror she’d faced. He’d seen much worse. Shame crept up her throat, but it didn’t hold a candle to the overwhelming longing she felt in that moment for the claimed herald. He considered her a piece of Haven, and in such dire times he would protect her like such. Such a selfish thought when so much rested on his shoulders – burdens that were worth more than she had the right to be.

Veata pressed her mouth into the sleeves of her soft, thick furs. At least she had dressed for the weather before she’d slipped from Haven. She had only wanted to retrieve the herbs she would need for a rejuvenating poultice. Though he celebrated with the same enthusiastic cheer as the others she had worried that the sealing of the breach had left Owen more drained than he appeared to be. She had wanted to help, and in the process of doing so had damned herself. Toes curling in their boots she began to call on The Fade’s songs. The calling was gentler than before. Soon she held enough heat to her heart to warm her bones, the immediate area around her cracking with minute bursts of embers. Nothing though that could cause harm.

Thoughts, at least, came easier to her in the calm that accompanied warmth. She would need to return to Haven. There was no other choice. It was the only civilized location she knew how to reach in the mountain range, and even if it weren’t too much waited for her there to be left behind. So much of her life she owed to Templar Grant, and so much more of it to Owen Trevelyan. Not to mention the alchemist that had taught her how to heal with the physical rather than the ethereal, and the countless others that had accepted her as theirs. The thought of returning terrified her. She didn’t want to face the creatures waiting there, but the others that were had had as little choice in it as she. Holding fast to the heat that pooled in her stomach she stood on trembling feet.

Fear had numbed her to the pains of her person, but as she trudged through the night she felt each one. Blood pooled in trickles into the heels of her boots, and the torn meat of her forearm throbbed with a dull ache. Yet on through the night Veata marched until a sound – deafening and horrendous – brought her to a halt. In the distance a massive, winged beast circled the skies, and she watched in horror as it breathed a tirade of fire. Veata knew in her heart the intended victim of its flames – knew the harbinger of their fate. She remembered whispered tales of The Fifth Blight, and her heart climbed into her throat. But it couldn’t be. Horrendous as the creatures she’d seen were none had carried the taint of the blight.

It couldn’t be denied though that the scaled horror had come for Haven. She felt the threads that connected her to the heart of an ethereal inferno begin to waver, but none of that mattered as she forged a frantic path through the snow laden embankments. Too late it seemed as she reached the trodden footpath leading to Haven’s entrance. Though it was the dead of night the skies burned bright as flames swallowed her home. Veata pressed her hand against her mouth, her eyes wide with unshed tears. She should have been there. It wouldn’t have made a difference, but her place had been with the others that had died in Haven. She could see in the distance the abominations that walked through the ruins of her crumbling home unaffected by the scorching fires.

How long she stood there Veata didn’t know. It took time though before she felt the pain of the wind biting her cheeks, and the chilling numbness that had since settled into her bones. She almost considered ignoring the pains of her person. It would be easier if she allowed the night to swallow her whole – to stand there until one of those horrific abominations took notice of her presence. But there was a cowardice bred into her that didn’t yet want to rest. It carried her stumbling feet into the trees as she choked on her tears, and for each time she collapsed to the ground it forced her to continue until dawn – true dawn – began to bleed into the skies. It was only then with cracked, bloodied palms that the last of her primal instinct to survive drained from her.

On her knees she curled, boneless and placid, into herself, her keening made gentle by her coat. There she remained until the bliss of unconsciousness robbed her of her awareness. It was mid-afternoon before she woke again, and the silence that greeted her contained nothing of the horrors that had taken place in the night. But where the freezing temperatures had left her numb in person, her thoughts eased in a fresh tide of pain as the memories trickled into her consciousness. She nestled her cheek in closer to the furred hood of her coat. Owen had bought it for her from the merchant that had taken keep in Haven. She remembered how gentle his hands had been as he’d lifted the hood to frame her face, the scent of him as his head leaned forward towards her.

Tears glassed her eyes. He wouldn’t be coming for her again, and that thought as much angered her as it did pain her. Quite unlike Veata herself Owen had embraced the life that waited him after the circles had disbanded though it’d been fraught with countless dangers. In her eyes he had been fearless, compassionate, and independent. He’d been what she wished she could be. Even after she had been granted her freedom she’d relied on another to guide her hand. But on the nights he’d answered her curious inquiries about what he intended to do after the breach had been sealed she’d stolen her first taste of what it meant to want something that could be hers and hers alone. She had never known something so simple and so grandiose as that before him. 

It wasn’t fair that he had comes so far only to be taken before he could reap his wants into fruition, and that anger burned low and muted in her chest as she wiped the corners of her eyes. The cold had severely dulled her emotions, and she remained too drained to feel them as a whole, but it burned there regardless as a phantom. No less so than her aching longing for Owen to emerge through the trees with a quick-witted tease. It wouldn’t have shamed Veata in the slightest to burst into tears as he shrugged off his coat to wrap around her shoulders. But he wasn’t coming. Veata sniffed hard once more before she coaxed herself into sitting from the ground. It almost surprised her as she looked at her hands to find them discolored and trembling.

Her eyes closed as she called the flame into her blood through gentle whispers. It was, for the moment, a very poor decision that woke the pains in her person that she had been too numb to feel before, but it almost felt better than the yawning void that occupied her skin otherwise. She heaved a quiet sigh to herself as her eyes opened. This time there wasn't the slightest hint of shock when she looked into the trees to find that an armored figure stood watching her in the trees. Its armor was that of a templar, but she could feel the corruption that had poisoned it heavy in the air. Had this -- this war, this violence, this bloodshed -- truly come into fruit because of fear? Her chin lowered to rest against her chest as the figure stepped towards her.

The instinctual need to survive that had taken Veata the night before didn’t reemerge as she listened to its approach. Even if it had had the time to recover there was nothing she could do in this situation. After the stunts she’d pulled the night before she didn’t have the reserves she needed to cast another spell, and her muscles were too stiff and damaged from her night spent in the cold to flee the creature. She cradled her hands, and called forth a flickering flame to hold tight against her chest as the tears began to fall from her eyes. It was these abilities that had driven an entire order to such cruel lengths. Part of her wanted to laugh in hatred at the understanding as the creature began to raise its blade high into the air. 

Her breath hitched and no more than that as the blade came down on her neck. She crumpled lifeless to the ground at the creature’s feet, her eyes seeing nothing more than the red that slowly stained the snow as the blade was raised into the air again. The palms of her hands were vacant of the flame, but the warmth remained in her blood. She almost smiled. So much hatred had been born from a gift for The Fade that her people -- that she herself -- had never wanted for. Yet in a moment of need the people had flocked to Owen, claiming him to be a Herald of Andraste though Owen had no love for the religion. How could he after what it had done to them? She remembered how he’d laughed bitterly at the notion as the blade struck one last time.

[carmhoff]

I just added this listing on Poshmark: LARGE BETSEY JOHNSON VINTAGE BAG LIGHT GREEN. #poshmark #fashion #shopping #shopmycloset

[crossedbeams]

History - Trinity Ch. 9

Genre: Casefile | Fandom: The X-Files x The Fall x Sreetcar | Rating: Mature | Setting: Circa 2012. Canon compliant | Chapters: 2/6 of Part 2

Trinity Part I

Chapter 1 - Perfume || Chapter 2 - Impression || Chapter 3 - Connection Chapter 4 - Delusion || Chapter 5-  Confrontation || Chapter 6 - Post Mortem

Trinity Part I

Prologue - Purgatory || Chapter 2 - Animosity

TRINITY: PART II CHAPTER II - History

Blanche Dubois sways slightly in her seat, so frail in the halogen brightness that it seems that an especially assertive huff from the air-conditioner might blow her away. Scully tries not to let her feelings show on her face, trying to retain her bedside manner, but seated next to the marble-composure of Stella Gibson, she feels like an open book. Scully has expressed concern to both the officer-in-charge and to Blanche herself that this interview is too much, too soon, that the post-nightmare sedation received has barely left her system, but it seems Blanche’s mind is made up. There’s a set to her jaw that stills the usual nervous flutter of her hands, as if her determination to verbalise the perceived threat gives her the power to escape it. Yesterday they were treated to a flurry of words, images and half-truths about her past but today is different; today she flits between periods of haunted silence and scuds of hard words, heavy with exhaustion and bitter with truth.

‘I met him in Miami one Christmas.

I had to get out of Laurel. I couldn’t breathe for the rumours and the boiler was as played out as I, so I figured why not fly south with the birds. I had a friend in Miami, Mrs. Meghan Sands, a girl from school who still sent pretty letters and empty invitations from time to time, and was far enough away that she wouldn’t know any better than to let me stay a while. The first few days were golden, like in that song. The fates allowed us to get along and I didn’t need to go out looking for someone like I’d planned to… I didn’t even need the bourbon I’d stowed in my suitcase. I thought my luck might be changing, she had a bachelor friend who was kind and attentive and the climate suited me well. It was my little Christmas miracle... until the night Meg had a headache and went up early, and Mr. Sands poured us both one too many drinks and then tried to kiss me. I screamed and that was the end of it. Women don’t like to keep other women that their husbands think of kissing under their roofs, regardless of who started it.’

Blanche smiles wanly at her sad philosophy, threading her fingers through her hair to push it off her face, searching Scully’s face for some flicker of understanding and ignoring Stella completely. Normally Stella commands the room, a cold clear light of absolute certainty, but Blanche’s narrative is a firelight flicker, unpredictable and prone to flare or fail. After yesterday’s experience, the British detective seems reluctant to push her witness to the point of hysteria, so she simply sits, waiting for Blanche to arrive at her destination and leaves Scully alone in the half-light of half-truth. 

Nodding her encouragement, Scully squeezes her hands together under the table, trying desperately not to fidget and betray her discomfort to either her witness or her colleague. The grey areas between belief and proof have always belonged to Mulder and his absence makes her feel both incomplete and an imposter. Her relief shakes past her lips on a long-held breath when Blanche finally breaks the silence to continue; claiming back the spotlight before it can reveal too much of her questioner.

‘There's something about me that makes people think I’m trying to seduce, even when I’m not, some scarlet letter that burns through my purest intentions and draws down the worst of men. It seems Hester Prynne and I both wear clothes cut from the same cloth. Maybe she was forced and I bought mine, but nobody made me stay in Miami. Nobody forced me into that hotel, through those bars, into those dresses that covered less than they ought. There were men, some of them as rich as I’d dreamed they would be, but all just window shopping while they waited on a younger model, and as the New Year rocketed in my money was gone and all hopes of finding that elusive millionaire dwindled with the fireworks.

I’d decided I was washed up, that I’d have to go to my sister, when he slid into my booth and paid off my tab. He was younger than me, not exactly handsome but somehow imposing, and he took my hand with the gentleness of a child and kissed it.’

The thin white hand on the table shakes at the memory, at the hard bones of truth hiding just under the fragile skin of her memory.

‘I asked if he was a knight in shining armour and he said no. His voice was caught between accents and soft. I could hardly hear him over the music in the bar but his body curved round like a shield and I thought perhaps I could be safe there.

I asked him if he was a millionaire and he said he could be and smiled.

I knew he wasn’t. After two more drinks I knew he wasn’t there to rescue me, but in his smile, in his hand and his eyes, there was something more intoxicating than liquor or wealth; he needed me. Not in the way that all men need a woman when their libido is high and their morals low, but on some deeper level. He looked at me like a baby looks at its mama holding it, like a man looks at his wife at the altar, as if I were the only one who could give him what he needed and he would die without it. Without me.

I went with him willingly, legs unsteady enough that I leaned on his shoulder even after we got in the cab. He held my face in the crook of his shoulder and neck, hiding me from the world, and I didn’t think anything of it when he pressed his handkerchief into the gap between my face and his neck. At first I was pleasantly surprised he carried a handkerchief, I thought they died out with chivalry, so when I found I was getting dizzy I assumed it was the drinking. I tried to move, to get some fresh air, but he shushed me and held me still until everything dissolved to nothing.

I woke up in an unfamiliar place, naked, cold and tied to a mattress with plastic sheets on it by my pantyhose and underwear. He was standing at the end of the bed and crying. He still looked young, but no longer innocent, the blankness in his eyes frightened me more than the surroundings and I cried out. He didn’t move, just kept staring; not at my body but at my face, so I screamed until he did move. An alarm went off somewhere out of sight and it seemed to break the spell. He forced another cloth against my mouth and held my nose closed so I had to breathe through the copper-sour fabic. It choked me, stealing my sound and my air until I passed out again.

The next time I woke up I was alone and the whole place stank like cooking. Something greasy and burned, a poor man’s hell. I stayed quiet a few minutes, until I was sure I couldn’t hear anyone around so I started trying to get free. My arms were tied to a grille over the window and when I pulled it bent before my arms did, but it was loud, the metal screaming or maybe it was me. Either way I panicked, freeing my hands as fast as I could so I could at least scratch and hit when the moment came. Except nobody came. Only quiet.

The room had a door but it was locked and when I threw myself at it, the whole placed swayed and creaked. I realised then I must be in a trailer, there was no sound of the sea for it to be a boat but I was just as marooned as if it had been. I couldn’t shift the door, the windows were boarded tight, so all I could do while I sat in this trap was look for a weapon. The little kitchen was almost empty, plastic over everything but the oven door which was leaking the acrid burning smell. I wondered if I was being poisoned while I looked for the knives, you know the poem? “An ecstasy of fumbling,” and I had Wilfred Owen but no knives. No nothing but the built in furniture and something blackened and unrecognisable smoking in the oven.

Perhaps he meant to burn me. but there was no flame, just as there was no gas...no sign of his intentions at all. I was the mouse in his humane trap, captured and waiting for some other, undecided death. The trailer was small but I never felt so exposed as I did then, shut in this empty living, dying space with no protection and no way out.’

Blanche has shrunk in her chair, muscles contracting her down to her smallest self as though she can hide now as she couldn’t then, and Scully fights the urge to try and comfort her, to try and heal. But they need their truth and from the sounds of overzealous punctuation and seat shifting to her her left, Scully suspects Stella’s patience is wearing thin.

‘I shut myself in the bathroom. The door was barely solid but it locked from the inside and I felt safer in the tiny space, there was less room for fear especially when I found an old shirt stuffed between the shower and the toilet. I had clothes, I had a locked door, I was still alive and there was a cold, clean draft that helped me to clear my head. I sat there until I started shivering, wishing I could dissolve into atoms and escape with the air rattling through the vent. It took me much too long to realise that maybe I could, that cold air meant outside and outside might mean escape. When I stood on the toilet I could see stars around the ventilation hatch, just a few spots of light where things didn’t fit together properly, I can’t count how many times stars have showed me my way, but I caught Orion by his belt and followed one hunter away from another…

I don’t remember jumping down, but I must have because I do remember running; my feet shredding on the rough ground, losing myself in the night time under the stars with no plan or direction in mind other than other than away. Far away. I didn’t even look back. That’s the first thing they teach you when running track you know? Looking back slows you down. So I ran until I saw lights besides the stars, and then the lights were a road and the road had cars and I tried to stop them but nobody would help me until the police came.

I tried to tell them, tried to explain who I was and what had happened but they thought I was drunk. And then they took me into the station and looked me up and my record made them think I was really drunk.’

Scully interrupts then,

‘They didn’t take a statement? Or make any attempt to corroborate your story?’

Blanche regards the table with unnecessary interest.

‘They called the bar where I was and the barman said I’d left willingly with a guy. Just like the last few nights. I said that was true but what happened after was different. And they said I’d only been gone a few hours. And I said a few hours that I didn’t want to be gone! And then… they said they could do a test... To find out if I’d been… forced... because then there was a crime.’

She starts making nervous circles on the table with one slim, white finger.

‘I told them no. I told them…. I told them… I hadn’t. I knew I hadn’t. I know what - and then they said that there was no crime to investigate, that what people did in their bedrooms was their business, that maybe I should drink less and be more careful about who I “kept company” with.’ Blanche ceases making the circles and replaces them with sharp, slashing lines across the grain of the wood. Scully’s stomach has hollowed out and she glances sideways to see Stella’s lips set in a thin, furious line, the first time they have both responded to their witness in the same way.

‘I got angry then.’ Blanche admits, though her fury is written in every line of her pposture and the bitter strikes she is marking on the table. ‘And I shouted at them, told them that I might have started out drunk but that they were the ones who weren’t seeing clearly. They were the deluded ones! They laughed at that until I called them some very vulgar things. Then they put me in a cell and in the morning they gave me some pants out of lost property and let me go. I went back to Laurel that night.’

The fight drains out of her then, remembered anger giving way to resignation as Blanche finally widens her focus to include Stella, and then leans in a little, voice low with something not far from exhaustion and laced with the shame of defeat.

‘I thought about staying... about trying to prove myself. But I thought I was more likely to be found by the boy with the dead eyes than to find the truth and get anyone to believe me. You know it as well as I do Detective Gibson, all stories have power, but there’s danger in the telling. My love of magic, of fairytale colours in a bleak world makes me an “unreliable witness.” In this man’s world people are supposed to be one thing or another, beauty or a bitch, a wife or a wastrel. I tell stories, drink cocktails with strangers, dance alone until last orders and therefore I am judged a liar, a drunk and a floozy. There’s no place for those women in the witness stand so instead I ran.

I’ve always run. I’d like to run now but I’m so very, very tired.’ She looks to the door as if it leads to some far-flung escape and not just another corridor, her body leaning towards the imagined escape before retreating with a sigh. ‘Everything looks better when it’s moving fast, and the bad things pass sooner. Sometimes they even hurt less.’

‘Did the bad things pass?’ Stella’s voice is the calm after the storm of the story and Blanche looks up and laughs, though the sound holds no humour.

‘Detective Gibson… Stella... in your line of work you must know that people like me are never far from disaster. If I were a ship, my anchor would be calamity, weighing the end of a long chain that sometimes I can lift enough to move a little but that always pulls me back. But yes, for the purpose of this meeting, the bad thing passed. I never saw that person again. That bad thing became one more shadow in my past and other things, some of them better, took over my days. A little colour in all the whiteness, a little warmth to hold back the dark...’

‘Until last night?’ Stella clarifies, and Blanche nods.

‘He’s older now, not much but there are deeper lines and a scar where there didn’t used to be. He burned his face into my nightmares when he stood and watched me scream. I’d know him anywhere.’

‘I hope she’s right,’ Stella mutters absently as they go over their notes in an empty interview room. Next door, Blanche Dubois is sitting with a police sketch artist.

‘About what?’ Scully can’t quite keep the incredulity out of her voice. She’s still haunted by the desperate hold of Blanche’s gaze across the table, by the unspoken plea in her voice that cut straight through the veneer of police detachment Scully had painted on in preparation. That story, half-hidden though it was behind poetic embellishments, had connected with both her doctor’s need to heal and the long dormant hunger for justice, truth and fairness that Mulder had always appealed to to convince her of a tenuous case. Blanche Dubois has made her believe, and the idea that Stella can remain unmoved, unaffected by the scars laid bare before them...

Stella looks up, confused by the harsh edge to Scully’s words and somehow sees and understands all that she cannot verbalise in the shared space of a conflicted blue gaze.

‘I was talking about being able to recognise her attacker’s face anywhere. Not the rest of it. I…’ Stella pauses, caught between instinctively presenting her most resilient self and sharing an honest moment.

Screw it.

Dana Scully has forgiven several misreadings, has proved herself invaluable to the investigation and she doesn’t seem the type to exploit a crack in another woman’s armour. Her trust is worth the risk, and so Stella sighs, leans forward to massage her temples and lets her words fall softly into the quiet of the room.

‘I wish that I didn’t think the rest of it was true. It would be much, much easier to squeeze Ms. Dubois for information if I hadn’t seen that same face in a thousand interviews. But I have, I’ve seen it all, I’d recognise that truth anywhere; the eyes pleading to be believed, the hands holding the tension of the trauma, legs pressed tight together as if it weren’t already too late to protect what has been taken. And the voices… I’m halfway across the world but it’s always the same. Fear and anger, sadness, hurt and shame... that’s the worst, the fact that any woman anywhere could blame herself for what an assailant took from her. That chord of desperation, denial and survival? That victim symphony? You can’t fake it.’

She looks up, cate sight of the personal question forming on Scully’s lips and folds her arms to fed off any further intrusion.

‘Blanche Dubois is a victim, I know that that much is true, though I still don’t know of whom. But even if I did, I have to force that knowledge to the back of my mind to do my job. I have to separate the woman from the witness, the same way you pathologists view a cadaver as a case and not a person. Perhaps at times I go too far in that separation, when the stakes are high…’ Stella stops, head bowed, and tries to push away a memory of Blanche Dubois’ agonised face when confronted with an identity parade of the dead, to stop herself feeling the disappointed blaze of Dana Scully’s protective instinct.

And then there’s a small hand on her elbow, a note of forgiveness at her side.

‘Sometimes we all go too far trying to do the right thing.’ Scully’s words are heavy with years of experience and her smile is sad. For a brief but binding moment the air in the room is one of sisterhood, and then a wash of boisterous male voices swings past in the corridor and reality crashes back into the foreground.

Stella shakes herself and turns her smile professional while Scully’s hand retreats to close up her notes.

‘I think you should be looking for your possible first victim in Miami’s Jane Does,’ she says, as if nothing has happened. ‘Your perp had a kill room set up, and I think it’s unlikely he walked away from it. With that timeframe, we may be looking further back than we thought.’

Stella nods her agreement.

‘Let’s go tell Stanning,’ she says. ‘That should give him something to be petty and pissed-off about in the afternoon briefing.’

<< Previous Chapter || Next Chapter >>

Thank you as always to @therobbinsnest @stellagibsonisalifeforce and @carrie11 without whom this would be an utter mess.

[delicatefury]

TDPL Snippet - While Obi-Wan’s on Mandalore

Yesterday I said I was gonna post an Evil Author Day response or a snippet. I did neither. So have another NaNo snippet cleaned up for your enjoyment.

It’s Skywalker twin fluff.

Leia returns to their shared quarters half an hour after their last class ends.

“Where were you? I had to face Master Denar alone,” Luke says as soon as she shuts the door.

“You weren’t alone,” Leia’s voice is subdued, distracted. She’s not fully in the present moment yet, mind still dwelling on the conversation from the afternoon. “Caleb’s in that class.”

Luke pokes his tongue out at that idea.

“Caleb’s not the one I need backing me up in Interstellar Comparative Politics.” Leia winces because, yes, she agrees with Luke on that one. Caleb is great; he knows the temple and always looks at things a little sideways. But that means his diplomatic ideas are unorthodox at the best of times and completely unfeasible most of the rest. The remaining times they were simply insane.

“So what was so important that you missed one of Master’s favorite diplomacy courses?”

Leia sighs and trudges further into the room before sinking into the sofa cushions next to her brother. Without prompting, he gets an arm around her shoulder and his cheek pressed to her hair. Unconsciously, her hand goes up. She grabs onto her padawan braid, still unadorned except for the thread at the end and the blond and copper hair strands woven throughout.

“That bad?”

“I was talking to Anakin” Her brother tenses up. If anyone in the temple knows of her fear of that particular confrontation it’s her other half, although she is fairly certain Master Obi-Wan suspects. “And he told me stuff… it was private, and I’m not sure he’d want me to tell you, but he’s… he was… he might still be…”

“Our father.”

“Yeah.” She snuggles deeper into her brother’s side and wishes it was not just them tonight. The rooms feel empty in a way she hasn’t known since her days in the Alderaanian Palace. But Han’s busy being a courier for either Dex or Master Obi-Wan, Ahsoka’s quarters are only big enough for her, and Anakin’s already on his way to Mandalore. “Why is basic so bad at time travel?

Luke doesn’t answer. It was a rhetorical question anyway. Instead, he lifts a hand and summons the deep blue, patchy blanket draped over the back of one of the chairs.

“Frivilous,” Leia mutters, but she kicks off her boots and helps him arrange the blanket around them regardless.

“So, Lea, are you gonna tell me?” Luke asks once they’re settled in.

“Hmmm,” Leia pretends to think about it, but she knows her answer. Luke is her other half, her missing pieces. “Did you know he was a slave?”” She can feel his thoughtfulness through the Force, but no shock. “Did you?”

“I guessed. Not right away, not until after Father died. But Grandma Shmi was a slave when Grandpa Cliegg met her. When I learned Father and Uncle Owen didn’t actually grow up together,” he shrugs, “it wasn’t exactly a hard leap to make.”

Leia hums. “I didn’t know. We were comparing horror stories. He told me that he saw a slave’s control chip detonate when he was only two. Saw the explosion rip the man’s head apart.” She knows Luke’s thinking about Jabba and the collar put around her neck. Never was she more grateful for the Hutt’s haste to kill her brother and Han, than when she realized how badly and how quickly it could have all ended.

“I told him our father tortured me.” Luke tightens his arms around her. “He was… he was mad. At our father. Can you imagine? Furious. Said he couldn’t imagine anyone doing that to their own children.”

“What did you say?”

“I said no one should do that to anyone.” She sniffs, a move she knows Luke secretly labels a princess quirk. “It doesn’t matter, really. What kind of excuse is ‘If I’d known you were my child, I wouldn’t have done it’? It didn’t save you! He knew exactly who you were and he still hurt you!”

“Leia…” He squeezes her tighter with his right hand, still flesh and bone.

“I know. ‘Can’t blame him for stuff that hasn’t happened yet.’” She sighs and turns her head so she is looking Luke in the eye. “Do you know what he said when I told him he reminded me of our father? He swore, gave his solemn word as a Jedi, that he would never be like Vader.”

“The we’ll just have to hold him to that won’t we?” is Luke’s cheerful reply. Leia smiles. Well, if Luke thinks it’s possible…

They stay on the couch like that for a while. Luke tells her all about the classes she missed and gets her caught up on course work. They grab dinner from the leftovers Master Obi-Wan left for them in the cooling unit and generally don’t leave the sofa. It’s nice, spending time together, just the two of them. But when evening meditation comes around, the rooms feel empty again.

“It’s okay,” her twin cuts the silence as they go about arranging their meditation cushions. “I miss him too,” he says, tucking his own braid behind his ear. Leia loves the short little braid sticking out from under his mop, the way the brown and copper stand out so strongly against the still sun-bleached blond.

Still, she frowns. “Am I that obvious?”

Luke shrugs. “Just to me. Han too, maybe. If he was here.”

Leia pouts, but settles onto her cushions. “Master Obi-Wan’s not like Papa, you know.”

“He’s not anything like Uncle Owen either.”

“He is certainly nothing like our father.”

“Definitely not. But he’s family. He’s our family. He’s Ben.” Like always, for Luke, that was all that needeed to be said.

Leia nods. Sometimes that argument really was enough. “So it’s perfectly natural if we miss him.”

“Absolutely. It’d be weird if we didn’t.” He grins at her. “Wanna try talking to him?”

“We already commed Master this morning.” Where is her brother going with this?

Luke’s grin grows impossibly wider. “I wasn’t talking about just comming him. I wanted to try using the bond. Think we can reach him on Madalore?”

“Luke, that’s a third of the galaxy away!”

“So? ‘Size matters not,’ remember?”

Leia wants to roll her eyes so badly, but she refuses to let Luke see he is getting to her.

“Master Yoda was referring to small things being powerful, not absurd distances.”

Luke just shrugs again and flops onto his own cushion. “What’ll it hurt to try?”

“Plenty, I’m certain. You’re not gonna give up until we try this, huh?”

“It’s me and you, Leia. We can do pretty much anything together.” He grins again and hold his hands out. She smiles back. So much of the Force is overwhelming to her, but Luke’s right. Together, she feels like they can do anything.

[junipersynth]

Not sure what this is. Character bits?

“Chess” - Redline. The roar of a deep and somewhat violent engine. Neon blue and green and pink on a sea of black velvet. A grin that glows in the darkness. Laughter that echoes when it shouldn’t. Black hair and eyes to match. A network of burn scars from the top of his throat down into his shirt.

“Zed” - The smell of salt spray and leather. Hair and eyes of deep, rich blue. Clothes of rags and tatters, held together by confident stitches and patches. Well loved iron and steel jewelry, charms threaded through his hair and on his neck and wrists. Blue silk to keep the hair back as he scales the rigging like he was born to it. Broad and big and booming and boisterous, but clearly a friend

Luca - Friend of the city. Burning with sodium lights and power line energy. Green, green eyes that always hold a joke no one else knows. Silver tongue and copper hair and a way with people. Knowledge of the secrets and shortcuts and alleypaths no one else sees. Welcome in every bar, club, and parlor

“Piston” - always moving always laughing always talking. No end to his energy and no stopping him when he starts rolling. Fiery temper and power to match. Daredevil and thrill seeker. Orange and black hair like a caution sign from the outset. Never turns down a challenge or a dare or a drink

Owen - sleepy and mournful eyes that see more than the surface. A drawling voice spoken around a toothpick. Well acquainted with loss and lament, but pushing forward in spite of it…or possibly to spite it. Flannel that always smells of woodsmoke and pine. The taste of bourbon and blood

Chance - slick suit, slick hair, slicker attitude. A way with money, lady luck’s favorite flame. Gin and ginger and cigarette smoke. Big band brass and a roulette wheel’s click. The Joker in the deck, the wild card that wins the pot.

[carmhoff]

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[carmhoff]

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[carmhoff]

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[cyberneticatoms]

Copper stiffened for a brief second thinking of someone else, before shaking out of it. A full flush covering his face as he nodded, "Um..yeah. We should go...together, like you and me. We should do that," he rambled nervously, "My band is gonna play too, so you could come see me play or we could just go eat, that be cool too."

With how much he'd rambled Copper had been nervous to actually be at the fair with Owen. It was just friends hanging out right? It wasn't a date, even if his hands were sweaty and his heart kept racing whenever he looked at him for too long. "So did you like the show? I know Dewey and Banks are running off for rides, but I told them I was grabbing food with you. So I'm cool to hang out for as long as you want."

Owen Bowen

Owen's nose crinkled a bit at the mention of the corporations. He didn't harbor much love for them, since they were the ones whose 'quality assurance' failed enough to leave a major physical flaw in his brain. This was a kind of mindset that was actively discouraged by most support groups he'd been to, but it was comforting in a dark way to have a hypothetical series of other people he could blame his problems on. At Copper's question, Owen barely looked up from his textbook, oblivious to his nervousness. "I was thinking… about it. N-no one else has as… asked me yet. Do you wan-nt to g… go with me?"

[carmhoff]

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[carmhoff]

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