#I swear that sunset was all i was paying attention to during that whole conversation | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

marmaligne · 3 years

Note

Hey yo! :D For the requests: how about a vld post-canon fanfic in which the reader helps Lance to move on, while still remembering Allura with respect and fond memories, which ends up in a sweet love confession? :3 If you need more details, please don’t hesitate to ask. Thanks, and have a good day!

[Lance McClain] “Under The Sun”

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“It’s been quite awhile now, I wonder when Lance is coming home?”

You pondered without so much as a doubt that he’d be back eventually, but you were a bit worried about your long-time best friend. It was late into the summer evening now, and the gradient dark blue was only just beginning to peek over the horizon. He was out late far more often now, though you supposed it was because Allura’s death had hit him hard, but you were in disbelief in seeing the usually peppy and flirtatious boy so…. depressed. It was heartbreaking to witness.

Staring out the farmhouse window, you watched the tall grass sway in the fields beyond and the slight breeze ruffle through the distant image of an apple orchard. The sun was nearly set by now, and soon the stars would be clear in the sky—a constant reminder of the paladins journey across the galaxy.

Knowing that there was so much life out there beyond the Earth you knew, you could barely comprehend just how significantly small your life was in comparison. You hadn’t travelled with the paladins or engaged in conversation with Allura beyond briefings during the Galran invasion, but you understood that the universe they witnessed was oh-so-incredibly vast and endless.

And now you felt oh-so-incredibly lonely in it. You weren’t close with many of the other paladins, besides Hunk and Pidge of course. Shiro had his new husband, Coran was too iffy for your tastes, and Keith…. well he was always off and away. With Altea restored to its rightful glory, commerce and politics between itself and Earth were bustling and swell, never better, and many of the paladins, including Lance from time-to-time, were busy making deals and new friends.

And you felt left out and abandoned because of that. It wasn’t fair that you hadn’t been accepted into the space academy, only because there was a limit to the number of accepted students, and it wasn’t fair Lance left without a single word to you, on some grand adventure for years on end without so much as a word, and it wasn’t fair that you were helpless in all things besides cooking or cleaning or feeding the animals out in the barn, or giving Lance a hug when he needed one, or looking after his siblings while his parents were gone or just—being there. It just wasn’t fair that they’d all experienced so much of life, and you hadn’t done anything in the meantime. Your meagre living was nothing in comparison to their heroism and praise. You felt selfish for thinking this way, so you never voiced your concerns to anybody, especially Lance.

“I wonder what he’d think of me, thinking this way,” you looked out unto the glimmer of stars appearing beyond the clouds, “he’d look at me and think ‘Life is never fair, you should deal with it.’ What a joke.”

You suppose you were satisfied for now with just being able to be near Lance, as a friend and support for when he needed you most, even if he didn’t know it.

“Oh Allura,” stepping outside, your eyes had an even clearer view of the skyline, and the sunset appearing within your vision, and you could almost feel the expanse of the universe looking down upon you, Allura among the vast amount of stars blazing within it, “tell me what I should do to help him. Tell me how I should be there for him, in the same way you were and in ways otherwise. How can I make him happy now you’re gone?”

Of course, you would never receive an answer beyond a pregnant silence, and the echo of your own voice over the hills and through the house where the children were asleep. You kept your eyes on the stars, hoping they’d give you some form of sign, an astrological message that could guide you, a vision of some kind, but there was only emptiness, the soft yet visible twinkle of each individual sun, burning lightyears away.

Sigh. You really should’ve expected this you suppose.

“Speaking to the sky, I’m selfish and an idiot!”

You gripped your [H/c] hair and yanked it downwards, chanting ‘idiot’ over and over again, like a mantra or a prayer, hoping it would relieve some of your many frustrations, until you heard a small sound from a hay bale around the side of the house, near an old trough used to store feed.

“Hello? Anybody there?”

Silence was all that answered at first, but then a small series of whimpers came from the area. You grabbed a pitchfork and slowly made your way over to the bale, creeping closer and bringing the pitchfork up to your chest, ready to strike.

“AAAAAAAAAAH!”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

A terrified Lance dunked himself into the trough, getting his backside stuck before tipping it over and having it land on top of him while attempting to crawl away.

“Dios mío [Y/n], you scared me!” Lance stood up and dusted off his jacket and pants, rubbing at his eyes and making an awful attempt at hiding his face away from your sight.

“Well I’m sorry, oh merciful Lord Lance, but you being secretive and not answering me when I asked has a lot to do with that.”

He looked away from you for a further moment before responding.

“Well, I uh…. just wanted to be alone for a minute y’know? All my siblings and family n’ stuff, kind of makes my back stiff and mind numb from time-to-time.”

You watched solemnly as he tried to laugh it off, sitting back down on the edge of the trough, head leaning in his hands and staring off into the distance, obviously bothered by something. You were curious, but you didn’t have any right to pry if he didn’t want to tell you first. You’d respect his wishes if he really did just want to be alone.

“Well, alright then,” you smiled softly at him, forcing yourself off your knees and turning around to head back inside, “if you want to talk, I’ll be back inside. I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

You began to walk away, adamant on getting back upstairs to the comfort of your bed and laying awake all night, when you felt a small weight on the back of your shirt. Lance’s hand had managed to grasp the fabric while you were walking away, and though you turned around to ask him why, he had barely moved from his position on the trough, only gazing at you with unshed tears in his eyes.

“Can you stay for a moment,” he pleaded, “please? It’ll only take a minute [Y/n], I swear.”

‘Allura give me strength’ you thought, letting out an exasperated sigh and seating yourself beside him on the ledge, barely glancing at him again, preferring to turn your sights to the horizon once more. You knew it’d be another nightly session of listening to his fears and sorrows, meanwhile drowning in your own self-doubt and anxieties. This also meant that tomorrow you’d wake up questioning your worth again, comparing yourself to the woman you’d come to respect and admire, and a woman who was now gone off to the afterlife, long before you.

“Tell me what’s up Lance. What’s eating away at you this time tonight, huh? Lemme guess, is it your girlfriend again?”

You watched as Lance fiddled with a piece of straw, rolling it back and forth between his palms, keeping his gaze on the sunset ahead.

“No,” he muttered, “more of an apology really.”

You nearly did a spit take, staring at him like he was a chicken with two heads. You never thought you’d be hearing an apology from the Casanova himself, let alone one aimed at you. Usually he was too cocky to have second thoughts.

“Sheesh Lance, what’s gotten into you? Did your mom finally drill some manners into that peabrain of yours?”

You jokingly put him in a headlock and started ruffling his hair, Lance desperately trying to remove your arm so he could fix his ruined part.

“[Y/n] c’mon! I styled my hair hours ago, I nearly kept it perfect for the whole day!”

He began running his fingers through his hair to put it back in place. Concentrating on perfecting it once more.

“Oh Lance, what kind of farmer like you needs styling gel? It gets greasy in a couple minutes anyways so why even bother.”

“It’s the thought that counts [Y/n]!”

You snorted as he huffed at you, the two of you quipping at each other reminded you of the days before he left off to the academy. Then you remembered,

“Oh right, the apology. Glad to see you learned some common courtesy, but what’s this all about Lance?”

You really needed answers. He suddenly went quiet and seemed to contemplate something for a moment. He worried you, and he knew it too, that you were expecting an explanation for an apology he probably wasn’t ready to give.

“Well you see [Y/n],” he stared directly at you, “I know that I’ve been down recently, and that you’ve always been…. there, I guess, for me when I needed you to be. And I know that I’ve never even thanked you or given you something in return, and that by using you as a way to escape my own problems, I’ve given you some of your own,”

He stopped for a moment to see if you were still paying attention, and seeing you looking at him with encouragement, he continued,

“I’m so sorry, [Y/n]. Really, I am. I was being dumb like always and pouring out my feelings onto someone who had difficulties of their own to deal with, and I never really thought about how I was hurting you…. I’m sorry. When Allura was here, and I was back out in space, battling alien hordes and saving the galaxy…. I felt like everything was right in the world, and that I was living my best life, being beside all the people I cared about, with friends I could trust. I didn’t realize until later that I completely forgot about you in the process, the best friend I left behind, who mattered maybe even more to me than I thought. I never meant to forget you, and I never meant to hurt you.”

He began to get nervous, losing the cocky persona he developed over the years completely, turning downtrodden and forcing out a final “I hope you can forgive me.”

Then he went quiet.

“….I never hated you, y’know,” you began, finally responding, “I never once despised you for leaving without me. I knew you’d come back someday, when I heard a lion took off from the desert that day, I just didn’t know when.”

You kept going, “If anything, I hated myself sometimes, for being selfish and wanting you to come back sooner, or blaming you in my mind for not taking me with you. It always felt unfair to me, that I was stuck here in a constant cycle of boring life, while you were out patrolling the universe, fighting Galra and going on cool missions-”

“-and nearly dying, like, 50 times!” Lance interrupted.

“….and nearly dying 50 times, yes.”

The sun was nearly gone now, disappearing quickly before you, clocking the time you’d been outside conversing in the summer heat—the pale moon climbing the sky behind you.

The stars shone ever-brighter, and the breeze had settled down, the grass at your feet stamped in and no longer swaying, and the crickets in the field were chirping, with the cows grazing in the meadow below, almost ready to head in for the night.

“I’m jealous Lance. And frustrated. But I never spoke a word of anything to you, because I loved you too much to bother you with any more problems than you already had. Nothings your fault, I was only emotional, and I have no disrespect for any of your friends or partners, including Allura. I only wish that you could’ve been happier.”

Ending your rant, you faced Lance again and shrugged, acting nonchalant, like nothing you said mattered at the moment. But he knew that whatever he said next would make a large impact on you.

“You loved me?”

You relaxed a little, “Still do Lance, never stopped even after you left. But, you came back with a space alien girlfriend, I knew I had to let you go.”

Allura was the light of his life, and he was the happiest you’d ever seen him in the weeks before her death. If she hadn’t needed to make a sacrifice, they would’ve probably grown old and had a life together, a family too, and he would have become the Altean King, with you far out of the picture. The little markings on the ridge of his cheekbones still detailed just how loving of a relationship the two were in. Even after her passing, you wouldn’t make a move when Lance only thought of you as a friend.

Both yourself and Lance were gazing at the sky now, completely silent, and yet there was an underlying comfort in the stillness, one which permeated through the air around you and invited a conversation to be had. Lance seemed to wish to speak in order to break it, scratching at the markings whilst trying to find the words to talk to you.

“Oh quiznak, words are too hard!”

Lance reaches across the trough to grasp the hand you’re using to stable yourself on the ledge, bringing it up to the space between the two of you and wearing the most serious expression you’ve ever seen on his face.

“When I was in third grade, I ran into a small child in the hallway and accidentally spilled their thermos of soup all over the floor. That tiny [H/c] kid became my desk-mate for all of third and fourth grade, and I remember having to give them my baloney sandwich because they wouldn’t stop crying till I did. In fifth grade, that same kid switched our lunchboxes because I had the better pizza pops, and in sixth grade, while taking a math test, they threw up all over the floor and I laughed like crazy; ended up going with them to the office because the teacher ‘didn’t like my attitude’. In seventh grade, I went to their birthday party and popped all the balloons, I stole half the cake and made off with three goodie bags before anyone could catch me. In eighth grade we became friends, and played pranks together on the other students during April fools, tipped an outhouse, and did each others homework because we both sucked at school. When I was in ninth grade, I gave them a Burger King crown and told them they ruled my world…. I know you know who I’m talking about.”

You began laughing the hardest you had in years, looking back on all the memories you and Lance had built up over the years, times when neither of you knew what would happen, and had big dreams and hopes for the future. The future had turned out to be far different from what both of you had expected.

“To be fair Lance, you were the one who threw up during that math test, not me. You cried for your mom all the way through the school and passed out on a couch in the lobby.”

“Shut up [Y/n], I’m attempting to be sentimental!”

When the laughter died down, and the world was quiet again, you gazed down at the entwined hands that rested between you two, and lazily swung them back and forth to see if he’d let go. When he didn’t, you smiled a bit,

“So what, this means your willing to try? To move on from Allura just like that? Forget everything you had with her and stick with me for awhile?”

He smiled brightly at you, as bright as the sun that could barely be seen, the final slivers fading away over the prairie.

“Allura’s not entirely gone,” he taps his markings, “these babies are a constant reminder of that. I’ll never forget the happiness she gave me, but I don’t want to keep dwelling on the fact that she’s gone. You’re here with me, more than anything, and I hope that we could stay this way for as long as we can.”

“I’d like that.”

It’s far too late to keep outside you realize, and the night brings with it a chilling cold that practically freezes your clothes to your skin, and tinges the air with frost. The fall season is coming, and summer is nearly over, and with it comes the colourful leaves, and the frosted grass, and the wilting flowers. You stand up, dragging Lance with you, and dust off the seat of your pants, preparing to head inside to bed.

Now the darkness has settled, the sun is gone. You take your hands and guide Lance around the house to the doorway. The door creaks open and shuts behind the two of you, and as you say your goodnights, you head off to your room. And as the glow of the moon enters through your window, enshrouding the walls in a pale light, you lay there and ponder.

Truly, you hope that you can spend many more days with Lance down in the fields, and with the cows and the tall grass, and out in the apple orchard, where the two of you will lie, down in the top soil, under the sun.

———————————————————————

BONUS:

“[Y/n], know that you’ll always be my Burger Queen.”

“Lance please. Shut the fu*k up.”

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✨ Hope you enjoyed ✨

#lance mcclain #voltron #vld #vld lance #vld fandom #vld allura #vld x reader #voltron x reader #lance x allura #lance x reader #reader insert #x reader #writing

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artxyra · 4 years

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If you're still taking requests, I got another one! So, Marinette was out getting icecream, but got chased by a guy for a mile. Nobody was near until she reached a park. Damian is by a tree when he saw her. Marinette goes up to him and acts like they're dating and makes an excuse. While pretending to clean his face she explains and Damian decides to play along, but his brothers hear and see everything. After the guy is gone Mari asks to get coffee, they start dating, then explain to the fam.

Note: Alright school is no officially over. Stress levels are down and now I’m battling the mindset of wanting to do nothing when I want to do something (yay summer brain). I hope you enjoy. Might make small changes here and there.

Have anyone told Marinette that she would find her forever by running away from a stalker, she would have awkwardly laughed in their face and run off into the distant. Well, that is exactly what happened.

Her day was simple, she had a commission that was due any day now, a paper to write for a class assignment, and had to help her parents with the bakery. So, when she began to feel accomplished for the day, she decided that getting ice cream would be the best reward during this nice day. Originally, she was going to invite her closet friends to join her but knowing them they always have plans when she needed them the most, so that made her decision clear.

Walking down the familiar path to the nearest ice cream parlor, Marinette hums the latest Jagged Stone hit song. Had she paid attention to her surrounding, she would have seen a large silhouette off to the distant following her for the past block.

Paying for her strawberry ice cream cone, Marinette was on cloud nine. The cold dessert in her mouth felt like all she did today was worth it. Sadly, that ice cream cone only stayed in her hands for a moment before following to ground.

The ice dessert melts away as a shadow looms in the background.

Had someone told Damian al Ghul Wayne that he would meet is forever by pretending to be her boyfriend, he would have slit someone’s throat and told them to never talk to him again. If only that was the case.

The Wayne family decided to come to Paris, France to talk about expanding the business overseas. Bruce had been in meetings all day alongside Tim which left Damian at the mercy of the most annoying of active brothers, Dick, and Jason. He wishes that his sister would join them, but they opted to stay in Gotham in case their active villains decided to run rapid with the Bats temporarily gone.

Damian also wishes that they had brought Titus, as the Great Dane would have loved the open park to enjoy, but instead, the dog is in the hands of Alfred back at the manor.

Everything was fine until a hand touch on his shoulder causing him to reach for his hidden knife.

“Please pretend to be dating me, someone has been following for that last mile.” A voice told him in French. He turns to see a panic teen around his age looking at him with pleading eyes. Side glancing to the side, he sees a silhouette looming over the fence staring in his direction. Tsking, Damian lowers to her ear and whisper, “Qui.” The girl’s eyes widen, and she grips onto his arm tighter.

“I’m so glad I found you, mon amour. You should have come with me to get ice cream; you would have loved it.” She said loud enough for her voice to carry across the park.

“I’m sure I would have, Angel.” He replies before guiding her over to the picnic set up that Dick had made before chasing Jason when the anti-hero made crude jokes. He glances back over to the fencing; the silhouette is still lingering causing Damian to tsk again.

Picking up a sandwich, he hands it over to the mysterious girl, who takes it with a smile before ripping it apart and pretends to feed Damian. Begrudgingly, Damian takes a bite and pulls the girl closure in the process. Her eyes widen at the sudden gesture, but she relaxes as if it was second nature for her.

“We should do this more often; you know I love a romantic picnic in the park.” She says leaning into his chest. Oh, how much Damian hopes this doesn’t become a public outbreak.

“Angel, I’m sure we’ll have more dates like this. How about a sunset dinner next to the Seine?”

“I would love that.”

Together they pretend to be a happy couple. The stalker never leaving their sight. The girl was growing anxious as they continue to keep up their act. To Damian he wonders why he even agreed to be this girl’s pretend boyfriend, he never does something like this. Maybe it was the hero (excuse me vigilante) in him? He truly doesn’t know. The girl would glance back every ten minutes like clockwork as does he because the minute the stalker was out of sight, they would stop this charade and go on acting like they never meet.

For Marinette, this was a whole new feeling. The moment she felt something was off, she dashed away leaving the rewarded dessert. Looking back, she saw that she was being followed at a similar pace to her own. Her eyes dart around looking for someone that could potentially help her. She found no one. The streets practically dead, an odd sight for a city usually booming with life.

Marinette ran for over a mile, thank kwami for her Ladybug training, as she would have gone off the deep end and crash for how fast she was running. Coming closure to the park, she spots a dark-haired male standing overlooking the park. He was perfect. Glancing behind her, Marinette sees her chaser slowly closing the gap between them. Making a mad dash for the male, Marinette grabs hold of his arm and quickly explains the situation.

A wave of relief past through her when the male replies with a yes in French. Little did they both know, that yes locked their futures together.

Marinette swears that pretending to be someone’s girlfriend had to be the most stressful of jobs. The chaser didn’t leave for over an hour. She and the person she randomly claimed spoke about romantic dates, the scenery around them, and even ate someone else’s picnic meal. To which Marinette feels very bad about it.

Her cheeks flush red that could match her Ladybug suit when she ended up taking a napkin and wiping away crumbs of food. The male became stiff when she did that, but thankfully it was enough to get the chaser away from the park.

“I’m so sorry, I dragged you into that.” Marinette proceeds to ramble, getting a slight chuckle out of the male to which cause a loud gasp from two males from behind them.

“Did she really get the Demon Spawn to laugh?” The tall one in blue asks with wide eyes as if he just saw the biggest moment since whenever.

“Nah, I’m pretty sure she did some dark magic or something.” The one with a strand of white replied causing her pretend-boyfriend to tsk and look away.

“What are you two doing back. I would I thought Todd had killed you or something Grayson.” He said standing up and offering a hand to Marinette.

Marinette looks between the three males and awkwardly rubs the back of her neck. Her phone dings to life. The three males engage in a somewhat heated conversation, well it more like the two males ganging up on the pretend boyfriend.

“Shoot.” Marinette cries out looking over the message. She then quickly turns off her phone and gains the males’ attention.

Walking over to the male she spent the last hour with, she smiles and says, “How about I offer you some coffee as a thank you? But I really need to leave, so if you want some…” She tries to make sense of her conversation but ends up failing, badly.

“Tsk. Angel, I would love to take you on that offer,” He replies sending a chill down her spine, but it was a good chill.

“C’mon.” Marinette grabs his hand and they dash out of the park. “By the way, my name’s Marinette.”

“Damian.”

“Sweet, you’re going to love the coffee.”

Their first official date just so happened to be that Seine date they had pretended to plan just days before Damian was scheduled to return to America. They stayed in contact through Skype calls, text messages, and private social media accounts. It was Damian who invited her to Gotham just a year after dating and countless visits to Paris. Marinette took that moment to get to know his family and she was in a huge shock when she found out that he was the Damian Wayne from Gotham. The family, of course, had a good laugh that would go down in the family history books. Demon Spawn’s girlfriend had no idea who he was for an entire year of dating.

“Well kids, that is how your father and I met.” Marinette says tucking in the twins into their beds. Damian watch from the doorway with his arms crossed and a smile on his face. It was moments like these he is forever grateful for agreeing to say yes on that day. He found his forever just like she found hers.

Turning off the lights to their kids’ bedroom, Marinette takes Damian’s hand and kisses his cheek.

“You know the next time we go to Paris, let’s visit that park again.”

“Of course, Angel.”

Embracing each other, thy walk to the direction of their bedroom for the night.

Specific Tag List: [None]

#maribat #daminette #damian x marinette #damimari #ml x dc #mlb x dc

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obxlife · 4 years

Text

Sunset Breeze (JJ x Reader)

A/N: this is my first request! :))))

Pairing: JJ x Reader

Request: reader stealing JJ’s hoodie cause she’s cold 🥺👉🏾👈🏾 pwease cause you’re writing *chefs kiss*

Summary: You’re out on the marsh during the end of summer with all of the Pogues. The cool wind of the sunset makes you some what of a thief.

Warnings: Mentions of abuse.

SUNSET BREEZE

Being friends with the Pogues was an adventure in itself.

Every day there was something new to do and you never knew what that day would bring. From going cliff jumping to breaking into houses that were under construction to hanging out at the marsh to the bonfires at night on the beach. Everything excited you in a way nothing had ever excited you before.

You hadn’t grown up with the Pogues, no. You had moved from Minnesota to the Outer Banks due to your mother’s job just two years ago. Once here, your father had managed to snag a job as a chef at The Wreck, one of the best restaurants in Kildare County.

It was during one of your visits there that you had met Kie. She was the owner’s daughter, and she worked there with your dad as a waiter. She had noticed you hanging around a couple of times before, but she had never really been interested in speaking to you until she had accidentally heard a conversation you had with your father.

You were mad at some kids at Figure Eight for teasing you about how poor you were (in reality you were pretty comfortable but not as rich as any of the Kooks on the island). This made you angry as you thought that it didn't matter how much money someone had as long as they were nice. However, the boys had been bothering you without even knowing you, which made your head absolutely fume.

After that Kiara had approached you and asked who the boys had been, but before you could even answer she asked, “Rafe and his goons?”

From then on she took you under her wing. Two days later you had met the rest of the Pogues. Pope had taken a liking to you almost as soon as he laid eyes on you. This was mainly due to the fact that you had a book tucked under your arms the first time you had walked into the Chateau. John B had a similar reaction to Pope and lit up once you had gladly accepted the beer he had offered you. JJ was a whole other story.

In your eyes, JJ was the most beautiful person you had ever seen. Blue eyes and blond hair had never been your type, but it turned into your type when you saw him. You were smitten from the start. However, JJ was not happy about having another Pogue in the group and tried to shut you out.

It took a couple of months for him to open up to you, but once he did you fell for him even more.

He was reckless and adventurous, and he knew exactly how to push you out of your comfort zone. For some reason, you really liked that.

It wasn’t until you had been friends for at least a year did he confess to you the reason behind his behavior.

This cleared up the questions you had in your mind. Why do we always hang out at John B’s? Why are we never at JJ’s if his parents seem just as relaxed about him being out all night as mine?

The answers to your thoughts fell upon his father.

Now you understood the scabs that always surrounded JJ’s face, and why he sometimes wouldn’t remove his shirt when you were all out on the Pogue. It all made sense.

You followed the rest of the Pogues lead on how to deal with JJ. Your heart ached for him and was begging for you to get help, but you listened to John B, Kie, and Pope. “It’s JJ, he’s fine.”

Despite this sad part about your golden boy, he never ceased to amaze you at how happy he could really be when he was surrounded by his real family. Just like right now, he had a huge smile adorning his face as he laughed at whatever Pope had said.

You were sat at the bow with Kie, sipping on your beers, but you were, for sure, not paying any attention to what had been surrounding you. Your eyes were trained on JJ’s golden skin, the dips of his abdomen making your thoughts turn dirty.

You felt a light shove at your shoulder and turned towards the brunette beside you. The girl you called your best friend raised an eyebrow at you and turned her eyes pointedly at the blond (he was now trying to grab John B in a headlock and kind of failing).

You stared at her blankly back. “What?”

“Quit staring,” she murmured in a teasing tone before going back to speaking with Pope.

You looked down at your beer bottle and took one final swig, finishing it off. With that, you stood up and stretched, taking off your clothes.

“Who wants to swim?” you asked the group. Kie and Pope declined, but the other two boys jumped in right after you.

To your surprise, the water was freezing. You should have expected it though. It was the end of summer, and the temperature of the island was quickly decreasing. You got back onto the boat shivering and regretting jumping in.

JJ and John B, on the other hand, were fine and continued to swim in the water.

You searched for a towel to dry yourself off, but you didn’t know what to do about your swimsuit and your hair. The wind started picking up as the sun had begun to set.

“Holy shit, I’m freezing,” you said as you searched around the small boat for your hoodie. Goosebumps littered your exposed skin.

“Where’s your hoodie?” Pope asked as he began to help you search.

“Oh, God,” you exclaimed, slapping a hand onto your forehead. “I left it at the Chateau on the hammock.”

Kie laughed at your forgetfulness, as Pope said, “Well, JJ has two hoodies on the boat right now. You should just wear one of his.”

This made your cheeks burn up. Wear JJ’s hoodie? The mere thought of it excited you.

You reached the bow where the blond had discarded his gray Pelican Marina hoodie and put it on. It smelled exactly like JJ (which made sense since this was JJ’s hoodie). You inhaled deeply while pulling the fabric closer to your nose and exhaled happily.

“Hey, where’s my Pelican Marina hoodie? I’m freezing right now,” you heard JJ say as he climbed onto the boat. Your cheeks burned up once again.

“Y/N’s wearing it. She was shivering so bad we thought she had hypothermia,” Kie answered. You turned around to glare at her, but she only winked.

You smiled at JJ as innocently as you could, while you felt the cool sunset breeze move the tips of your hair around.

“Oh, you little thief,” JJ said in a teasing matter. Within seconds he had latched onto you and thrown you over his shoulder. A laugh escaped your mouth at his antics, but suddenly became a scream when he reached the edge of the Pogue.

“JJ, please,” you begged, “Don’t drop me in! I’ll give it back, I promise!”

JJ laughed at the desperation in your voice, as John B joined him. Meanwhile, Pope and Kie shared a look. JJ was obviously flirting with you.

“Ah,” JJ sighed. “Don’t you guys love it when a girl begs?”

This joke made Pope and John B chuckle really loudly. You continued to pound on JJ’s back trying to make him put you down.

“JJ, I swear if you throw me into the water I won’t speak to you for a month.”

The blond pretended to drop you in but caught you before you could slip from his grasp. You were now chest to chest, your eyes, and noses level with each other.

You saw JJ’s eyes soften and move to your lips before setting you down firmly on the floor. He cleared his throat. “You can keep it. It looks good on you.”

Your eyes widened in surprise as you pressed your hands, which were covered by the long sleeves of the hoodie, to his chest. JJ, feeling as if you were going to pull away, tightened his hold on you.

The other Pogues had turned around, giving you two some privacy.

“You sure?” you said softly. “This is your favorite.”

JJ just nodded. “Yeah, you can keep it, you little thief.”

With that being said, he began to poke your side and tickle you, causing both of you to lie down at the front of the boat.

Once he stopped you both tuned in to the conversation the others were having.

“We should throw a kegger at the Boneyard tonight!”

Cheers and whoops came from not only your mouth but everybody else’s.

John B then turned the boat back towards his house.

You looked out towards the horizon and noticed the sunset was reaching its end. You sighed in content.

You felt JJ’s arm, which had been draped over your shoulders since your tickle fight had ended, pull you closer to him, letting him whisper in your ear, without anyone else listening:

“Maybe at the end of the kegger I’ll get to steal my hoodie back.”

You were blushing the whole way back to the Chateau.

#outer banks #obx #obx netflix #jj maybank #rudy pankow #jj x reader #jj x y/n

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gracelessfighters · 4 years

Text

somewhere nice

Rafe Cameron x female reader

Masterlist

Summary: Rafe and you have known each other for years, but recently he’s changed and you want to help him

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: swearing, mentions of drugs and depression (i think that’s it) - angsty and fluffy at the end

A/N: my first time writing for Rafe which is weird because i love drew but in this he’s nicer than in canon and obviously hasnt murdered anyone so hopefully it’s alright - pls bear with me as this isn’t the best but I’m tired and might not write for a couple of days. Also I really have a thing about sunsets if you cant tell

You and Sarah had been best friends for as long as you could remember - your dads were friends as kids and now owned a business together. This meant you spent lots of time at her house or her at yours, and if you weren’t doing that, the two of you were forced to go to little meetings to learn about the businesses. You understood why you were made to go as you were the oldest child in your family, but Sarah wasn’t - she had Rafe as an older brother but she seemed to be invited to more of these things than him.

You had never been really close with Rafe, but you were alright friends and so would bitch about your dads or just chat whenever you were at the golf course or at a meal. Through the years, you had learnt lots about Rafe as a person and were slowly starting to care for him so whenever you saw him recently you were worried a little.

His face was becoming more pale and empty, he was quicker to anger and if not angry silent - you didn’t know whether this change in him was because his father was clearly prioritising Sarah over him or if it was something else, but you felt like you should to try and help him out.

The Cameron house was one of the biggest on the entire island and even though your family was rich, it was nothing in comparison. Walking up the steps of the front porch was always daunting, made even worse today because you weren’t here to see Sarah, you were here to see Rafe.

Your heart was beating rapidly as you made your way up the steps towards his room, already hearing the music he was blaring from his speakers - what if he had a girl round? That would be embarrassing for the both of you, especially you. But you pushed these thoughts aside when you were stood outside his door and knocked.

“What?” His voice came from inside his room.

You took that as a sign to enter and pushed the door open, your eyes going wide as you took in the scene in front of you - Rafe was sat at his desk, a line of white powder in front of him and he hadn’t even registered that you had come into his room.

“What the fuck Rafe?!” You shouted, finally catching his attention.

He stood up quickly, trying to angle himself to hide the drugs, “Y/N! What are you doing in here?”

“I was here to talk to you about something, but I can see you’re busy with something else so another time maybe.”

You turned to leave his room, but before you got very far he had grabbed your arm, turning you back towards him.

“No I haven’t done any yet, we can talk.” His eyes were slightly watery as he asked you to stay, “Please Y/N.”

“Fine,” he let go of you, his lips turning up slightly, “but only if we leave your room - I don’t agree with drugs and I don’t want to sit in a room with them and you.”

“Okay that’s fair, let’s go down to the dock.”

You followed him out of his house and sat down next to him, your feet dangling above the water, neither of you saying a word for what felt like forever.

Rafe broke the silence, “So what was it you wanted to talk about?”

“I was going to ask what’s been going on with you lately as I’ve noticed your change in behaviour and I wanted to help - but it’s pretty fucking obvious what’s been happening now so not sure we need to have this conversation.”

He ran his hand through his hair, “Do you hate me?”

“What?” You coughed out, surprised at his question

“Do you hate me now you’ve seen the type of person I am?”

You sighed, “No I don’t hate you, I’m just a little shocked and disappointed maybe.”

He looked away from you, avoiding your eyes, “But, drugs aren’t who you are, you’re much better than them, and if you’re willing I want to help you.”

“Really?” His eyes widened as he looked back at you.

“Yeah, we may not be close but I do care for you Rafe, and you’re better than the drugs you take, so I will do my best to help you and maybe you’ll stop using them.”

You took his hand and squeezed it, waiting for him to speak again.

A few minutes passed before he spoke up, “Um, I’m not sure if you noticed but my dad couldn’t give two shits about me, he almost always invites Sarah to those stupid business meetings where it used to be me and you. And I don’t know, I just feel so empty all the time and when a friend suggested to do some drugs I was hesitant but I felt great for the first time in a long time, so they’re now how I get through the day, and hell my dad might even notice me if he knows I’m doing drugs so its almost a win-win situation.”

You hummed your acknowledgment of what he’d revealed whilst you tried to work out how to respond, “I hate to say it Rafe, but your dad sucks, and I think no matter what you do he will still suck and possibly not pay attention to you, but I care and I pay attention, so you at least have someone.”

He smiled at you, “I guess, and you’re not awful to have around.”

“Oh wow such a glowing compliment,” you laughed, “and you’re not too bad yourself.”

You stood up, holding out your hand for him to take, “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere nice.” You say as you lead him away from the dock and to your car.

You were too busy focusing on the road during the drive to notice the way Rafe looked at you - the way he admired you for being such a good and kind person, how he loved the way you quietly sung to every song that came on the radio under your breath, almost as if you had forgotten he was there, and how gorgeous you were. He’d known you your whole life and had only recently noticed just how beautiful you’d become - not only in the way you looked but also in the way you acted, but you were best friends with his sister and he’d deemed himself unworthy of any type of love, especially from you. Now he was starting to think he was wrong and perhaps one day you would love him so much that it would help fix him and his problems and you could be happy together.

Rafe was so busy stuck in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice you’d parked the car, you turned to him waving your hand in front of his face, “Earth to Rafe?”

He blinked his eyes a few times, “uh where are we?”

“We are at my favourite place on this whole island - the ice cream shop.”

“Are you kidding?” He asked, unsure what to make of this.

“Only a little, I do love ice cream and we’re absolutely getting some, but once we’ve got that I’ll then show you my actual favourite place.”

He chuckled and followed you into the shop where you both ordered chocolate chip ice cream, Rafe paying for them despite your protests and then followed you out towards the sea front.

You sat on the sand which was still wet from the receding tide and Rafe followed suit, “Why is this your favourite place?”

“This is where I had one of the best days of my life.”

He looked at you confused, “wait-“

“Yes this is where we first met, and before you get all smug it’s not just about you, but both our dads were happy, we were happy and I started getting close to Sarah after that day - so this place holds a really special place in my heart.”

“Oh it’s definitely about me,” he laughed as you glared at him, “but I suppose it’s a pretty nice place and memory so I’ll let it slide.”

You playfully hit him before looking out back to the sea, the sun was starting to set and there were no clouds in the sky so it would be a nice one.

He caught your attention again, “Thanks for this by the way, every second I’ve spent with you today has made me feel happy and, um, loved,” he coughed, “and that’s not something I’m used to anymore, so really thank you.”

You blushed a little, “No problem, like I said I’m now here for you whenever you need it and I’ve enjoyed today as well.”

He smiled at you, his eyes no longer looking empty or angry, and with your heart swelling you leant forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. You quickly turned back to look at the sea, avoiding his eyes in case you’ve made things weird between you, but then you felt Rafe move his hand into yours.

You stayed like this, both smiling like idiots, holding hands whilst watching the sun set.

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron #drew starkey #Outer Banks #outerbanks fic #outer banks imagine #jj maybank x reader #obx fic #sarah cameron #outrebanx #jj x reader

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waveridden · 4 years

Text

FIC: your face warm against the fire

“Izuku,” Shouto says quietly. “Do you have a destiny?” (A Magnus Archives AU. TodoDeku, 1.7k)

AUcember || read on Ao3 || TMA primer to read this fic

The first time the man with the two-toned hair comes in, Izuku doesn’t think much about it. He comes during one of the busiest hours of the day, and Izuku barely has time to notice his hair and his fine-boned face before his customer service instincts kick in.

He smiles at the man. “Hi, what can I get you?”

The man in front of him blinks slowly, as though he wasn’t expecting the question. “I’ll have… one large black coffee, please.”

“Large black coffee,” Izuku repeats, punching the order into the register. “Do you want anything to eat along with that?”

That earns him another slow, strange blink. “No, thank you.”

“Can I get a name for the order?”

“Shouto.”

“Shouto,” Izuku repeats, taking care to make sure that it’s spelled correctly. Something about this moment feels important, although he couldn’t say what or why.

He forgets about Shouto in the rush of orders and cleaning all of the machines, but eventually things slow down enough for Izuku to go out into the cafe and clean up tables and leftover dishes. His hands are full of plates and mugs when he walks past the counter by the window and pauses.

There’s a cup, a large to-go cup. It’s filled to the brim with black coffee. The computer-printed label says Shouto on it. And none of that is strange, except that the order is hours old, and the coffee is still so hot that there’s steam rising off of it. He tests it with the back of his hand and pulls away: it’s far too hot to touch. There’s not even a sleeve on it.

Izuku frowns and goes back to the kitchen. He’s going to have to make sure that there are more coffee sleeves out for customers. Someone could get burned badly if they’re not paying attention.

“Hello,” a voice says.

Izuku jumps and spins around. A minute ago the cafe had been empty, but now the man with the two-toned hair is standing in front of the counter, completely silent.

“Oh!” he says, and hurries to the register. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. Your name’s Shouto, right?”

Shouto tilts his head to look at Izuku. Now that it’s not frantically busy, Izuku has enough mental energy to look back at him. He looks very placid, the way that Izuku remembers, his face permanently resting in a neutral expression. His hair is tied back today, although it’s barely long enough to do so. He has a scar over one eye, something that looks like a burn. And he’s looking at Izuku with a strange intensity, like he’s trying to puzzle something out. Like Izuku is the puzzle.

“Yes,” Shouto says at last. “I didn’t think you would remember.”

“Oh,” Izuku says, suddenly embarrassed. “I just - your hair is distinctive, that’s all. And you got a black coffee. That’s easier to remember than most people’s orders.”

Shouto’s brows furrow. “What do most people order?”

“Lots of things. People like flavor shots and froth and special milk and things like that.”

“I see,” Shouto says slowly. “I’d just like another large black coffee. Please.”

“I’ll have that right out for you.”

“Thank you,” Shouto says, with such odd sincerity that Izuku feels warmed through.

Shouto keeps coming back, at odd intervals to begin with. Izuku tries asking some of his coworkers about it, but none of them know what he’s talking about. Which is odd, because even though he can recognize that he’s fascinated with Shouto, most people should probably know what he’s talking about when he brings up the man with two-toned hair. But none of them ever do.

It makes Izuku wonder if Shouto’s ever there when he’s not, but thinking about that too long gets… strange.

Eventually, Shouto’s schedule levels out into, well, an actual schedule. He comes in two afternoons a week and always orders the same thing: one large black coffee. Izuku has never actually seen him drink it; the mugs and cups are always full when he leaves. And they’re always still steaming hot.

But it becomes a routine, because it’s easy to make strange things a routine. Izuku takes to adding little drawings to Shouto’s cups, just to try and get a reaction out of them. Normally the reactions are nothing more than raised eyebrows, but one day Izuku draws a ring of flames around the bottom of the cup and that gets an actual smile. A small smile, but still a smile.

It’s a slow day, and Izuku keeps staring at Shouto. He’s sitting by the window, looking out absently, sitting with his cup between his hands. There’s so much steam coming out of the coffee that Izuku wonders if it’s literally boiling. It’s a strange, nonsensical thought, but there’s no logical explanation for that much steam coming out of the cup otherwise.

He wonders if Shouto is dangerous. He doesn’t seem dangerous, with his solemnity and the tiny smile that he’d offered Izuku earlier, but then, Izuku’s not always a great judge of character.

Still, he’s fascinated by Shouto, and he has questions, so many questions about this man who wears gloves when he hands Izuku a credit card to swipe (a credit card that looks like it was partially melted, although that doesn’t make sense) and who has only ever smiled once at him.

It’s that fascination that leads Izuku to go over to the counter and say, “Shouto.”

Shouto turns and looks at him. “Izuku,” he says. It’s the first time he’s ever said Izuku’s name aloud.

Izuku swallows. “Do you want to go out sometime?”

Shouto blinks, one of those scrutinizing blinks that makes Izuku feel small and immense all at once. “Yes,” he says, and then turns back to his coffee.

“Okay,” Izuku says on an exhale, and then more or less sprints back behind the counter. His face is burning, although he can’t say why. Shouto said yes; isn’t that supposed to be good?

And the coffee had been boiling. He swears he’d even seen some of it splash on Shouto’s hand, but he hadn’t reacted at all. He doesn’t know what to do with that.

It takes Izuku a full two days to realize that he hadn’t actually set a day or time to go out with Shouto. He’d been so flummoxed by getting a yes that he hadn’t thought to say anything else, which is awful. Shouto must be so confused, and now Izuku is going to have to bring it up again, and it’s going to be a whole conversation-

There’s a knock on Izuku’s apartment door.

Izuku frowns. Normally his friends text him before they come over, which gives him enough warning to pick up around his apartment and make sure that he’s wearing a clean shirt or something. Luckily, he’s already wearing a clean shirt today, so he silently hopes that whoever this is will want to go out instead of staying in, and he opens the door.

“Izuku,” Shouto says. “Are you ready?”

Izuku’s entire brain stalls out for a second. He doesn’t remember telling Shouto where he lives; he’s sure that he would remember having a conversation like that. But Shouto is there, looking at him as steadily as always.

He’s not sure why, but Izuku finds himself nodding. “I just need to get a coat and scarf,” he says.

They end up going for a walk in a park near Izuku’s apartment, watching as the sun sets. Shouto doesn’t say much, so Izuku ends up talking a lot, chattering about sports and celebrities and customers and whatever else comes to mind. Ordinarily he’d be embarrassed by how much talking he’s doing, but whenever he stops Shouto looks at him, something attentive and focused in his face. It makes Izuku feel… heard. Listened to.

They stop at a bench after a while, off to one side of the park. They’re angled away from the sunset, but Shouto seems to be watching it anyways.

“Izuku,” Shouto says quietly. “Do you have a destiny?”

He startles. “A destiny?” He’s always had goals, aspirations, things to work for, but that doesn’t seem like the same thing. He’s never felt like he’s meant to be any particular thing, only like he could be, like he can work for it. “I don’t think so.”

Shouto nods. “That must be nice.”

“Do you have a destiny?” Izuku asks, before he can stop himself.

Shouto doesn’t turn to him. “Yes,” he says, and he sounds sad, bone-deep.

Izuku thinks about it, about boiling coffee and melted credit cards and the way that Shouto hasn’t so much as reached for Izuku’s hand. About how serious he is, as though he has the weight of the world to worry about.

Without thinking, he unwinds his scarf from around his neck. It was a gift from an exchange at work last year, and it’s nice, but he’s never felt attached to it. So he wraps it around his hand, balling it up tight. Shouto turns to watch him, tilting his head in curiosity.

Izuku extends his hand, now wrapped in the scarf, and slowly reaches for Shouto, giving him plenty of time to pull away. He doesn’t, and Izuku’s scarf hand rests on top of Shouto’s bare palm. It’s hot , so hot that Izuku can feel it even through the layers of fabric. Something smells like it’s burning, and he knows he’s going to have to move his hand soon.

But Shouto looks at him, with a sense of wonderment that Izuku has never seen on anyone before. “Oh,” he says, as though he had never thought of having Izuku wrap his hand. Maybe he hadn’t.

His hand is sweaty and hot inside the scarf, but he doesn’t want to move it away. He wants this strange, sad man to know that he cares. That he’ll reach out.

By the time he takes his hand back, there’s a scorch mark on the scarf. But there’s also a smile on Shouto’s face, beaming out of him, and that’s much more important.

#boku no hero academia #bnha #bnha fic #tododeku #midoriya x todoroki #waveridden.fic #aucember19 #I FINALLY DID IT. I FINALLY DID IT!#remember when this au was just 'desolation avatar dabi' and then i remembered mag67 and was like OH SHIT. OH NO #this has a much happier ending than in canon lmfaooooo

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belphegor1982 · 4 years

Text

Aaand this will be the last chapter until next February or March. BUT. There will be new chapters in February or March, come rain, sleet, snow, or frogs and locusts. So, there’s that.

FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM

Summary: 1937: Two years after the events of Ahm Shere, the O’Connells are “required” by the British Government to bring the Diamond taken there from Egypt to England. In Cairo, while Evelyn deals with the negotiations and Rick waits for doom to strike again, Jonathan bumps into an old friend of his from university, Tom Ferguson. Things start to go awry when the Diamond is stolen from the Museum and old loyalties are tested… (story on AO3; on FFnet)

(Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15)

Chapter 16: Underture (on AO3 here)

To say Evelyn O’Connell felt a little out of place would have been an understatement, albeit a small one.

She had helped Izzy land his dirigible in the middle of the Medjai camp, downed her supper without really stopping to appreciate the taste or even acknowledge what it was she was eating, and now she was left to her own devices while everyone got ready. This was a situation she was not at all accustomed to. She was a librarian, an Egyptologist, a scientist of ancient history, a problem-solver. Right now, though, she did not know exactly where she should be and what she should, or even could, do. This state of forced uncertainty was unbearable.

The sun was going down on Egypt in the truly spectacular way that was unique to the place. There was something both sharp and mellow to the light, the way it appeared to envelop everything in bright gold like gift wrap around a Christmas present. Of course, the fact that this particular present included gleaming scimitars and machine guns made the whole thing feel a little bit bizarre.

Nobody seemed to pay any mind to the rich light, despite the definite possibility that at least some of the Medjai in the camp would not live to see the sun come up again if Hamilton was even partly successful. Everyone was walking among or in and out of the tents, looking determined and purposeful.

This especially made Evelyn O’Connell feel out of place.

There was also the fact that, ever since sunrise, she had been unable to get rid of a lingering anxiety, as though lead was slowly but surely settling into the pit of her stomach. She wondered whether this was anything like the ‘weird feeling’ Rick claimed to have whenever she was about to read books she shouldn’t read aloud or open chests she shouldn’t open. If it was, then she made a note to listen to him a little bit more in the future. This kind of feeling certainly was difficult to ignore.

Maybe the sight – the sheer stench, rather – of the still glowing remnants of the lorry they had found had brought this anxiety. It had been such a relief to hear Ardeth say that nobody had been inside when it blew up. Evy was not at all squeamish around thousand-years-old mummified corpses, but when it came down to facing the possible loss of one or two of the men she loved most and in such horrific circumstances… Well, suffice it to say that for a closer look she had waited until Ardeth was absolutely positive that there was no gory remains to stare her in the face and impress upon her how spectacularly she had failed them. If he was aware of her repugnance and the reason behind it, he tactfully avoided to mention it.

As for why that lorry had blown up, there were only three possibilities that held water: either the Chamber of Horus – as Sheikh al-Nazar had said the name of the organisation Thomas Ferguson worked for was – had set fire to their own vehicle, and that was illogical; or else Rick and Jonathan were the ones who somehow managed to blow it up, and that was probable; or else it had been an accident, which was not impossible (since nobody had been in it the lorry must have been stationary, thus not creating any spark) but improbable.

Whatever had happened, Charles Hamilton and his men had waltzed off, taking the two prisoners with them.

Needless to say, Alex had waited for his mother and Ardeth with barely concealed agitation. He was stamping his foot with impatience and almost shaking when they had got back on the dirigible. And had let out a suppressed but still perfectly audible ‘Whew!’ when Evelyn had told him that the explosion hadn’t made any victim.

They had reached the Medjai camp by sunset.

Evy had not quite expected this. She had thought they were going to an appointed place where the leaders of the Twelve Tribes Ardeth had told her about could join them – a sort of war camp with a few tents and some poles to tie the camels to.

She frankly had not expected the children to be there.

The women had not been a surprise1. The Medjai were warriors and scholars, often at the same time, men and women both. The descendants of the Pharaohs’ personal guard, they had to use every set of arms they could get to protect Hamunaptra and other places, less well-known and only slightly less dangerous. As Evelyn had understood it, they had come close to dying down around around the 4th Century; it was then, more or less, that they had created the position of High Commander, to bring all tribes together in an hour of need. About a third of those had been women, as were about half of the current Elders. This had surprised Evy at first. After all, in England women only obtained the right to vote about ten years ago – why, they still didn’t have it in France, their nearest neighbour.

But war was not for children. And yet there they were, helping with menial work, taking care of the animals, or playing hide-and-seek among the tents.

Alex had gone off exploring after she had made him swear that he would not get into anyone’s way or start any mischief. She knew her son to be fairly well-behaved around even relative strangers when he had a mind to, but she also was very much aware that, when nervous, he had something of a propensity to trigger catastrophes without the slightest malicious intent.

This had amused Rick to no end when Evy first pointed it out innocently. Of course, he had teased her mercilessly about this, pretending to wonder ‘who he had gotten it from’. She had huffed, pointedly ignoring the memory of the mighty shambles their eight year old son had single-handedly caused at the temple where they had found the Bracelet of Anubis.

Of course, Jonathan had roared with laughter when Rick had told him about the whole pillar business. And, considering the way Alex had so quickly lost all remorse and had kept grinning at her afterwards, there was absolutely no doubt that his uncle had been sharing with him a story or two about Evelyn’s frequent little bouts of clumsiness during her time as the librarian of the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities. And she would willingly have bet her beloved small stone painting of Hatshepsut that stood on her bedside table that at least one of the stories Jonathan had told his nephew was about her accidentally knocking down all the bookshelves of the Cairo Museum library.

Honestly, those three…

The reality of the situation came back to her with such force it felt like being splashed in the face with icy water. She had to get them back. She just had to. The alternative was simply unimaginable.

Evy started when someone spoke to her and relaxed when she recognised the voice.

“We are ready to begin the meeting,” Ardeth said, his tone serious but friendly. She nodded and stood up, dusting herself off and smoothing her rumpled clothes as best as she could. Although a few of the people she was about to meet knew her already, she thought it best to try to make a good impression – and, truth to be told, she did feel a little nervous. After all, it was up to the Council of Elders to decide what the Medjai’s course of action was going to be in the next hours.

It was very considerate of Ardeth, really, to fetch her himself while as the High Commander he could, maybe even should have sent someone.

Alex was currently engaged in lively discussion with a slightly younger girl Evelyn recognised as Maira, Ardeth’s eldest. The conversation was in two languages and backed by a good deal of gestures, as neither exactly mastered the other’s language. This did not seem to deter them, Evy noticed amusedly, and it was on this slightly cheerful note that she stepped into a large tent after Ardeth, who courteously drew back the canvas to let her pass.

The inside of the tent was well enough lit, with rich colours and comfortable-looking cushions strewn in a circle. The entire Council were seated there, all members looking up when Ardeth and Evelyn entered. She bowed respectfully, and many gave her an answering bow of their head in acknowledgement.

“Sit down, Evelyn O’Connell,” said the oldest Elder, Fatheya, a deceptively frail-looking old woman sitting in front of the entrance. “We were just about to start.”

Evy sat down on unoccupied cushions beside Ardeth, who cast a last sweeping glance at the people in the tent before joining her.

“First of all,” he said, “let me remind all of you –” here he looked at everyone in turn, but Evelyn had the fleeting impression that he lingered half a second’s time on her in particular “– that everything you have to say will be taken in consideration. Just remember that time is of the essence and we should make the most of the moments we have left. Elder Atef, I believe you have a suggestion.”

Elder Atef’s face was sharp, his eyes beady, and when he spoke there was a controlled sort of urgency in his voice. “Indeed I do. Commander, I know that the attack two days ago failed, and I believe I understand the reasons of this failure. But couldn’t we organise another, maybe stealthier attack, that would strike down their leader and cancel the whole operation?”

Evelyn listened with rapt attention, grateful for the use of English – for her benefit, no doubt – and found herself rather in agreement with him. Anything that could stop the search party from entering the Pyramid sounded good in her book, especially since it was only a matter of hours before the complete and utter destruction of Ahm Shere.

But Ardeth shook his head.

“I have sent scouts ahead for the past two days, with instructions to look for any weakness. Unfortunately, Hamilton now constantly keeps men close enough to him that we can’t attack from afar. To get to him would mean first getting through them, and we’ve already tried just that.”

There was a silence, during which Evelyn thought about the Medjai’s last attempt to ‘get to’ Hamilton. Ardeth had parted very reluctantly with enough bits of information for her to put together the jigsaw of that night. The skirmish had abruptly ended when Rick – always one to grab an opportunity when he saw it, he’d been right in the middle of the fray – had failed to stop Hamilton from bringing down a gun on the side of his head. The Englishman had cocked his gun and stared at Ardeth, fully aware of who he was, what he was, and ready to gamble everything on the basis that the Medjai would not risk getting O’Connell killed.

And that gamble had proved successful. Evelyn wondered what had been Ardeth’s thoughts after this, and wondered about the Elders and the Chieftains, as well. She had known, without a doubt, that Ardeth was the kind of man to lay down his life for the people he considered friends, and that thought very much humbled her. But what really shook her was the knowledge that he was also willing to risk the success of a mission and the responsibilities he had as the High Commander of the Medjai for the life of one of them.

That fact, when you knew Ardeth Bay as Evelyn knew him, was earth-shattering. Apparently his authority hadn’t seemed to weaken since that night, but she kept a close watch on the interactions between Elders and Commander all the same.

The turn had come for Pyhia, one of the youngest Elders – barely fifty or fifty-five years old – to speak out.

“Yet there is surely something we can do – we must. As we speak Hamilton is entering Ahm Shere with his men, and within hours, he will have raised the Army of Anubis. Is there nothing the Medjai can do but stand tall against the jackals from the ancient hells?”

Pyhia was one of the Elders that Evelyn knew best. Despite being comparatively young, she often used a convoluted phrasing that was often confusing, both in Arabic and English. However, behind the formal words was a question bordering on insolence: in short, were the Medjai only good for battling against Anubis’ Army and useless for any other, more elaborate, plan?

A whisper ran through the tent, but Ardeth raised his hands immediately. A hush fell despite some mild glares thrown in Pyhia’s direction.

“Please, Elders, now is not the time for sterile arguing. Elder Pyhia, is there some action in particular you would suggest we take?”

“Indeed, Commander. Our topmost priority should be sending a party to overpower the men Hamilton might have left outside the pyramid to guard their camp. It would give us a mighty advantage should they come out again.”

‘Should they come out again’… Evelyn couldn’t repress a shudder. She was fully aware that considering every possibility was the rational, reasonable thing to do, but for once she absolutely refused to think in the rational, reasonable way. There was only one outcome to consider seriously, and this was Rick and Jonathan both coming out of the pyramid alive. Unscathed as well would be absolutely splendid.

This made Evelyn shake her head at herself. Maybe not thinking in that blasted rational, reasonable way was a mistake on her part.

Thing was, try as she may to force herself to contemplate a grimmer alternative for logic’s sake, it failed every time.

Ardeth nodded, and Evelyn wrenched her mind back to the situation at hand.

“This is a very sound proposition indeed, Elder Pyhia. I suggest Maher of the Fourth Tribe for this mission – he and his team are especially trained in stealth combat. Given the number of men Hamilton has placed there, Maher’s men should overpower them without unnecessary bloodshed.”

This everybody seemed to approve of, and if the way the Elders began shifting in their seats and gathering their things was anything to judge by, the meeting was nearly over. But Ardeth raised a hand, and everything stilled.

“Evelyn, I hope you are aware that you are absolutely free to make a suggestion. Is there anything you wish to say?”

Evy bit her lip, then cleared her throat. She didn’t think she would sound entirely convincing if the first sound that came out of her mouth was a strangled squeak.

“Yes, there is,” she said with as much calm and composure she could muster. “Commander, I know that the men you will send to Hamilton’s camp are skilled fighters, and I am perfectly aware that the Medjai are undefeated on the battlefield, but –” Here she stopped for a second, because for all the respect she had for the Elders, she did not appreciate the two or three definite sniggers she guessed rather than heard. She let her face naturally assume the stern, scolding expression she often wore when Alex (or Jonathan, for that matter) clearly was not listening to a lecture. Just because most of these men and women knew just how aware she was, having faced and been defeated by the Medjai twice in her time, didn’t mean they had to rub it in her face.

There was something of an awkward pause. Evelyn did not dare look at Ardeth, who if she knew him at all probably had an amused smile dancing in his eyes.

“– But if we want Hamilton’s plan to fail, we should not be fighting only his men and the Army of Anubis if he does manage to raise it.” She took a deep breath. “We need someone to go down into the Pyramid of Ahm Shere as well and try to stop him. I volunteer for this task.”

The whispers that filled the tent made the stir caused by Pyhia’s earlier remark sound like a mere ripple. Before Ardeth could react, Elder Raneb, a very fat man with hard features, stared at Evelyn full in the face and spoke to her. Both were sort of unusual for him.

“What on earth could make you believe that the Medjai would not be fit for this kind of mission? I know what you have in mind – you would take the glory for yourself and let the Medjai be slaughtered, when it is you and your kind who have brought danger back to the desert with the Diamond of Ahm Shere!”

This caused an uproar. Most of the Elders sprang, shuffled or waddled to their feet and hurled expletives at Raneb, who stuck out his three chins mulishly, his cold eyes fixed on Evelyn.

She felt every muscle in her body tense, but held out his stare silently.

This was nothing new. She’d had to deal with minds like that all her life. Whether it was because she was a woman or because of her Egyptian mother, some people made their contempt towards her very clear. ‘The mongrel bitch’ and ‘that jumped-up little upstart’ were some of the nicer nicknames she had heard herself referred as throughout her childhood and her university days. For these people, the world was arranged in a stricter classification than the Dewey system, and if you didn’t belong in their category, you had better keep your mouth shut and your head down. Evelyn had long decided that crying herself to sleep every night probably would not help matters, and pointedly kept her back straight and her chin up as much as she could. She had followed her passion, she had learned and studied, and talked to anybody who would listen, mostly Jonathan, who occasionally dealt with nonsense of his own and always had an ear ready for her.

Being called ‘your kind’ in a tone of voice usually reserved for words like ‘filth’ or ‘scum’ is never pleasant. Someone insulting her English heritage turned out just as upsetting as someone insulting her Egyptian heritage.

The heated exchanges settled down to a tense hush when Ardeth finally silenced the tent, his eyes blazing.

“That is quite enough! Elder Raneb, I will not have Medjai Elders disrespecting a guest, particularly a guest as honoured as Evelyn O’Connell is. Besides, she and hers bear absolutely no responsibility in what is happening.”

“Yet you cannot deny that the Diamond of Ahm Shere would not have been stolen if it hadn’t been for those foreigners!” the old man snapped, still glaring at Evelyn.

“Raneb, you are acting just as some of the foreigners you hate so much,” came the placid voice of Fatheya, the oldest Elder. “You know, those who cannot and will not be bothered to distinguish one Arab from another.” She leaned towards him, exhaling smoke from her hookah as she said with the shadow of a very wrinkled smile, “In other words, you are an idiot.”

Elder Raneb stiffened, but remained silent. Fatheya turned her startlingly green eyes on Evelyn, who gave a strained nod in acknowledgement.

“Thank you,” Evelyn mouthed rather than said.

Then she straightened up, her head still held high. “I feel I cannot express upon you how much I don’t care for glory,” she said in slow, halting, but grammatically correct Arabic. Although she spoke at the entire Council she could see a few heads turn inconspicuously towards Elder Raneb. “If anyone here has doubts about my loyalties, they should do well to remember that Hamilton is keeping my husband and my brother hostage and will not hesitate to kill them if he feels it necessary.”

She was proud that she managed to keep her voice from shaking and her pronunciation accurate, except for the last sentence, on which she couldn’t help but trip. All eyes were on her. She turned to Ardeth.

Of course, she knew how she could plead her case. She could appeal to his feelings, say that she should be the one to enter the pyramid because it was nobody else’s husband and brother down there… But she’d feel like betraying herself. Evelyn O’Connell did not appeal to anyone’s feelings to obtain something. She did so by being the right person for the job.

So she bored into the jet-black eyes and said levelly, “I am the only person in this tent who has been inside the Pyramid of Ahm Shere. Nobody else would know what to expect or where to go.”

Ardeth looked at her intently, and gave a serious nod.

“Has anyone got something else to say?” he asked in English. Nobody moved a muscle and jaws remained shut.

“All right. Then we are sending Maher’s people to cover the ground around the Pyramid of Ahm Shere, I will lead the rest of the men nearby for the eventuality of a return of the Army of Anubis, and Evelyn will go inside for a direct stealth attack on Hamilton. Council dismissed.”

He bowed where he stood and left the tent. Evelyn followed him.

When she was certain nobody was watching her except Ardeth, her muscles relaxed as one and she let out a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” said Ardeth, “about Raneb. He never fails to make things… difficult.”

“Don’t be. I’ve heard far worse occasionally, growing up in England.” A cool breeze made her shiver. “Do you think a mortal can really control the Army of Anubis?”

“No, I don’t.” In the quickly fading twilight, Ardeth looked tired, the tension and lack of sleep finally catching up with him. “Anubis does not like it when mortals meddle in the gods’ affairs. That’s why his gifts are double-edged swords. If Hamilton does what he intends to do, it will be Anubis who will control the creatures, not him. He will simply be a tool.”

“What would it take to stop Anubis’ army, then?” asked Evelyn, her heart plummeting in her chest.

Ardeth appeared pensive. “In theory, Hamilton’s mind leaving his body. Nothing short of that would break the link.”

“Death, then.”

“My friend,” said Ardeth gravely, “you and I both know there are fates worse than death.”

He nodded at her and walked away to get ready, leaving her with a lot on her mind.

Night had fallen during the meeting, bringing a radical change in temperatures. Fires had been lit throughout the camp to light the way, and every square inch of it was buzzing with an anticipation such as Evelyn had seldom felt before. She had been young when the Great War had started, but there was something in the air that reminded her in a very striking way of the end of that particular summer. It was as though everything – what she was about to do, the choices she would have to make – everything could become a possibility to change History still about to unfold. At the same time, she felt that she and her actions were utterly insignificant, something trivial that was about to be ground by History in motion. The great big void that swallowed people, and spat out the names, as her father would say when he was feeling depressed (generally about the lack of knowledge about Ancient Egypt).

That’s why we do what we do. So History remembers us as people, not names and dates.

But it’s only people who properly remember people, had once pointed out a seven-year old Evelyn.

People.

Her father had laughed, closed the book he had been reading and ruffled her hair. Then he had changed the subject.

Evelyn shook her head, allowing some of the tension that had been piling up for the last few hours to ease suddenly as she smiled a little.

I’m doing this for Rick and Jonathan and Alex, she thought, and this is well enough for me.

History can have the rest.

.⅋.

Tom had never set foot in a jungle before, but he had read books about it. Most authors, he suspected, bragged and boasted and were oh-so-slightly untruthful about the reality of the situation. He had figured early on that, if there was really any truth in those pages, there would hardly be any tigers left in India, for one thing.

A few points all authors agreed on seemed to be rooted in truth: the stifling heat, made all the worse by the heavy dampness of the air, the impression that the very oxygen was getting rarer as you trudged on through the leaves… But the thing that came up most often was the ever-present sensation of being watched. Your every move, every word, every breath… Every single small thing you did seemed to be under careful, constant surveillance.

It was very unnerving.

Tom clearly wasn’t the only one to feel that way, although the others’ reactions were all different. Most agents huddled together, clutching their weapons and throwing nervous glances over their shoulders from time to time. Some tried to look relaxed, and failed.

The most interesting to watch was O’Connell. Tom could vaguely recall Jon telling him at one point that the American used to be in the Foreign Legion many years ago; now it was obvious in his stance, his walk, the way his eyes scanned every dark corner before taking a step… He didn’t look all nervous and scared like so many agents did – well, truthfully, kind of like Tom himself felt – but rather wary and aware of his surroundings. There was something deceptively relaxed and calm as well. It seemed to stem directly from instinct, and was probably helped by the fact that, unlike everybody else (except Jon) he had actually already been in that pyramid – and got out alive. Even though the inside of it did not match Jon’s description at all.

The atmosphere was damp, dark and thick. They literally had to hack their way through the enormous leaves and lianas sometimes. The plants were everywhere, creeping up the walls, intertwined around the columns, forming a thick, mostly dark green cocoon all around them. The condensation sometimes made droplets of what Tom hoped was water fall from the ceiling, wherever and whatever the ceiling was. It also made people jump out of their skin every time some tepid liquid dripped on their heads or shoulders, which made Tom wish very hard everybody would just take their fingers off the trigger of their guns before something horrible, definitive, and entirely non-supernatural happened.

At times they could make out in the light of the electric torches the sudden glint of gold through the foliage, or the hint of another, bigger room beyond the green wall. They passed it silently, without stopping. There was barely any conversation between the men apart from a few whispers.

They all followed Hamilton, who followed O’Connell. What O’Connell himself was following – his memory or his imagination – was anyone’s guess.

Tom couldn’t help but jump when he heard a mutter from somewhere to his immediate right, “Place has changed a bit, hasn’t it.”

Peering through the occasional holes in darkness created by the electric torches, he could make out Jon’s face, his eyes resolutely staring in front of him at the black hole that was going to be their path in seconds. Even with the lack of light he could see that the usually slightly slanted eyes had gone a bit rounder, and his jaw was clenched a bit tight.

“I guess,” he replied uncertainly, falling into step with him. “First-timer, remember? This looks more like the jungle around the pyramid you told me about. With the – dead soldiers and stuff.”

“Yeah… Well. Did I tell you about other, er… stuff?”

“What? The blokes in red who wanted to grab the Bracelet of Anubis and kill your nephew?”

“N—no… The other other stuff. That could still be around. The – the pygmy mummies.”

“What?!”

Tom stared and almost stopped in his tracks. Jon looked dead serious.

“You are joking, right?”

“Ha. I wish. Rotten little bastards.”

“What are they?”

“Guardians of the jungle of some sort. They jump on you with no warning, with blowpipes and the sharpest, nastiest little knives – I even saw one spear a guy.”

“Blimey! What with?”

“A spear, I think.”

“Oh.”

“Right.”

Tom threw a somewhat nervous glance at the forest around them. Suddenly it seemed to rustle with malevolent life and odd noises. He was suddenly aware that his already clammy hands were starting to shake. “So… How d’you kill them?”

Jon jerked his head towards Tom’s gun that he kept in a holster swung over his shoulder.

“Blowing them up with dynamite rather does the trick too,” he added. “Oh, and a shotgun too, according to Rick. The results were just as messy, too.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, Imhotep seemed to make them back away, but other that that…”

Tom shook his head with a grim smile he was pretty sure no-one could see.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where that thing landed, now, would you? After all, you were one of the very last people to use – to – to know where it was.”

He saw Jon’s pointed look when his face caught the light of the torch the agent behind him – Becker, a hefty fellow with a bushy beard and a thorough mind – was holding. His friend hadn’t talked in length about his first interview with Hamilton, but he had been clear about some specific things he had voluntarily left out.

Even though Tom wasn’t sure he entirely believed that particular part of the story – the ‘resurrection’ part – he was not going to argue about keeping things from Hamilton. Not after he’d watched and listened to his own boss talk about killing thousands of people as collateral damage and asserting, in horrible calm honesty, that it was for the greater good.

Admittedly, Tom reasoned, having doubts about Evelyn O’Connell coming back from a deadly knife wound while not having problems with accepting a three-thousand-years-dead mummy being raised from the dead was a little bit inconsistent of him. Maybe it was because he had seen Mrs O’Connell, talked to her. The fact that this lively, smiling, essentially alive woman had actually been dead, even for a few minutes, was hard to process.

And this no matter what Jon said. It was a gut thing.

The Southerner shook his head wryly.

“To tell the truth, I completely forgot about it once we got Evy back. I guess it stayed wherever Alex left it and got lost somewhere in that jungle.”

“You didn’t find it on your way out? Because I thought, you know, someone could have picked it up then. After all, it is priceless. One of the most famous books in history – at least Egyptian history.”

Jon actually stopped in his tracks and stared at him with an odd look on his face. Then he shook his head and walked on with a shrug.

“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know whether we even would have picked it up on our way out. It got pretty frantic down there, we just wanted to get the hell out. Besides, that book is bad news, my friend.”

“Thought you and your nephew resurrected your sister with it.”

“That’s beside the point. Of course I’m glad Evy didn’t… Bloody hell, ‘glad’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. But that book also brought old Imhotep back. Twice. Granted, the second time we didn’t get the whole locusts, bugs and boils and sores business, but…”

Jon’s voice trailed off, and Tom nodded. His point was a bit unclear, but the Liverpudlian reckoned he got it.

Still… It was a shame.

Lost in his musings, Tom didn’t see that the party had stopped until he almost bumped into Agent Bennett’s back. Being taller than him, he stared over his head at what had brought this sudden stop.

The two agents watching O’Connell (and protecting Hamilton, no doubt) had hacked a fork in the road clear of branches, and everyone was now peering through the darkness at the double path.

“Well?” Tom heard Hamilton mutter impatiently. Maybe the atmosphere was finally getting on his boss’ cold steel nerves, after all. His voice came as a mere whisper. “Which way?”

“I don’t know what you’ve been told about our last happy family trip to this place,” O’Connell deadpanned, “but I wasn’t particularly thinking of lining the path with white pebbles. I didn’t even come in that way.”

“I realise that. But do you have any idea as to the path we should take right now?”

In the crossed rays of the electric torches what little of O’Connell’s face Tom could see looked grim and set.

“Yeah, we should turn around and get the hell out of here before we’re all dead.”

Tom could suddenly sense tension rise higher among the agents around him. The American’s voice had been low, but firm and utterly devoid of any irony or jokey element. He was simply stating a fact.

There was no doubt that he had been aware of voicing some of the silent anxiety that had gripped most of the men since they had set foot in that pyramid. Granted, Tom hadn’t known O’Connell for that long a time, but it was obvious that the guy was anything but dumb. The Englishman could easily assess the cleverness of the seemingly casual remark.

Whispers ran all through the back of the group, and they gradually travelled up to the front, one agent at a time. Even if O’Connell hadn’t actually heard what they were about, he was smart enough to pick up on the atmosphere and encourage the doubts some of the men appeared to be growing.

Of course, those doubts didn’t fit Hamilton’s plans at all. Tom caught his boss glancing briefly in Baine’s direction, and the agent pushed back his jacket, leaving the butt of his gun exposed. He heard Jon gulp in the dark near him.

“Unfortunately for you,” Hamilton growled, white teeth gleaming in the erratic light, “this has never been an option. What always has been, however, is the possibility that I might grow bored of your deplorable lack of manners. So either you help us onwards, or I may just ask Agent Baine here to –”

Tom felt someone brush past him and realised with a start that Jon had pushed his way to the front of the group. Jon stopped and just stood there, his hands in his pockets in a would-be casual fashion.

“You’ve got to go right,” he said, his voice unsteady but standing his ground. Both Hamilton and O’Connell turned to him, both faces displaying different shades of surprise.

“How do you know that, pray tell?” Hamilton asked, not bothering to keep the disdain from his tone. It dripped like melting water from an icicle. Jon shrugged, apparently unfazed. Tom, who knew him, knew better.

“I’ve been inside that bloody pyramid too, if you’ve not forgotten. And it so happens we – I – this is the way we came in from. I mean, I recognise this corridor. I reckon that if you cut away the greenery on this wall here there’ll be hieroglyphics that mean ‘This way to the Scorpion King’.”

The boss made a sign, and his two bodyguards raised their machetes and hacked at the vegetation covering the wall in front of them. When they had uncovered a few symbols, Hamilton turned back to Jon with something new on his face. Tom decided he didn’t like at all the way his grey eyes started to gleam.

“Well! We may finally have found a use for you, mister ‘in the wrong place at the wrong time’. I can’t deny I’m somewhat surprised.”

“You’d be even more surprised at the things I picked up,” Jon retorted with what he probably thought was a sly grin. Actually, it came off more as a grim sort of wince. Tom had known that one for a very long time. It never fooled him, even back then.

Hamilton eyed him for a couple of seconds, then moved onwards, turning right; everybody followed, O’Connell muttering “Hey, quit that” when Bennett poked him in the small of the back with his gun. To Tom’s surprise, the agent looked almost apologetic as he hastily put the gun away and, thankfully, took his finger off the trigger.

“So,” Tom heard O’Connell whisper to Jon, who looked slightly green – unless it was a trick of the light, or lack thereof. “When’d you get the time to brush up on your Ancient Egyptian reading skills?”

“I was gonna ask the same question,” Tom piped in, highly curious. “Does it really say ‘That way to the –’”

“I didn’t, and yes,” Jon answered in a low, still slightly shaky voice, glancing uneasily at Bennett and Norton who were walking nearby, watching the three of them. “But I didn’t translate that. Alex did – that time. The three of us walked past it, on our way to… You know.”

“Yeah,” O’Connell said, his low baritone a bit rough round the edges.

“The ‘three’ of – oh. Right.” Tom cleared his throat and asked, a tiny bit awkwardly, “Well, is there anything you remember that might come in handy? Can you still read hieroglyphics?”

“Not as well as I used to,” Jon replied with a shrug. Then he added fervently, “But I’ll never forget that bloody Ahmenophus stork thing now. I’m likely to remember that one as long as I live.”

“Why? What does it mean?”

Jon stood still for a second, then he stared at O’Connell and Tom, who stared back, puzzled. Then something passed into his eyes, and his face relaxed.

“Do you know,” he said, with a shake of his head and a small but genuine smile this time, “I really haven’t got a clue.”

A low chuckle escaped O’Connell, and Tom let out something halfway between a sigh and a small, shaky laugh. There was something that he was missing here, clearly, but it didn’t matter right now. Not really. Not when a tiny fraction of the cold, gripping apprehension that had been clutching at his gut ever since they entered the pyramid had been lifted, even for a second. He tugged at the straps of his rucksack and fell into step with the two brothers-in-law just as O’Connell asked, his voice almost normal, “You don’t give a damn about the meaning of that symbol really, right?

“How did you know?”

.⅋.

“Look, lady, I’m not so sure about this.”

“And you choose this precise moment to inform me?”

Not letting go of Dee’s helm, Izzy turned his head towards Mrs O’Connell, a bit puzzled at the quiet laugh behind the seemingly biting remark. He had been expecting irony, or worse, sarcasm. But there was the hint of a smile on her lips.

“So… Remind me again. We are goin’ under to – to do what, exactly? Apart from probably gettin’ shot, I mean.”

She threw him a pointed look, but didn’t pick on the remark. Instead, she put down the whetstone and the short sword that the Medjai chief guy had given her and explained with a slow, deliberate voice.

“We are going down into the pyramid to stop a man named Charles Hamilton from summoning the Army of Anubis, because if he is successful in that, he will destroy the world.”

“Right. Okay. I still don’t get it.”

He caught her disbelieving stare for a second, then her face kind of slackened a little bit and she rolled her eyes. “Honestly, this is not so hard to process, you just –”

“No, no – I get the ‘The Earth is doomed and someone’s got to save the world’ part. But I still don’t understand why we gotta do the saving. I mean, it’s not like it’s your fault or something, right?”

She didn’t answer that right away and her gaze drifted off a little, and he wondered whether he’d blurted out exactly the wrong thing. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“It isn’t, right?”

Well, he’d heard stories. People talked, on long journeys. Most customers found the silence of the open desert sky so daunting and empty they quickly got the urge to fill it with words. And sometimes Izzy listened. If half the stories about Evelyn Carnahan O’Connell were true, the woman had – granted, with some help – had a hand in raising each and every single mummy buried in Egypt2.

This was probably a cartload of bull, but after the nasty business with the wall of water and the desert swallowing that pyramid two years ago, Izzy felt more inclined to give some of those stories far more credit than he used to.

Mrs O’Connell suddenly looked back at him and stated, rather intently, “No. I mean no, it’s not,” she corrected, more gently. “It’s just that we’re the only people who stand any chance of success. And we need to do it quickly, because it all comes down to the new moon setting. At dawn tomorrow.”

Izzy did not ask why they ‘stood the only chance of success’, because her earnestness and seriousness was so much more disturbing than O’Connell’s laid-back ‘mummies, pygmies, really big bugs’ attitude. It meant that it was real, and that it was just the start. Worse, he was actually expected to take a part in the ‘saving the world’ party.

And he’d always thought himself a sidelines kind of guy, too. Ever since O’Connell had buggered off to the French Foreign Legion, that is. The odds of getting shot in the arse were much lower if you stood on the sidelines.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, going back to scrutinising the landscape, “no wonder you people never stop to look at the scenery.”

Mrs O’Connell spared a brief, tense smile and returned to her whetstone and her sword. In the silence that followed, a tiny sound reached Izzy’s ears. It would have gone completely unnoticed in the middle of the conversation between him and his passenger, but as it was, he could not ignore it. Blocking the helm with the autopilot – a simple jamming device – he tip-toed towards the sound as silently as he could, followed by Mrs O’Connell’s curious gaze.

He did have a hunch about what, or who, could have made this sound. He was just wildly hoping to be wrong.

Sure enough, when he plunged his hand into one of the empty crates usually filled with supplies, his fingers caught something wriggly, warm, and emitting remarkably colourful language as he hauled it out into the night air.

Young Master Alex O’Connell’s blue eyes, looking unnervingly like his father’s, shot him a full glare that his blond fringe quite failed to soften.

Izzy let go of him before the collar of the jacket he was holding on to ripped for good. In a flash, the boy went from red-faced anger and shame at having been caught to dutifully wincing when he saw his mother advance on him. She did look quite formidable, much more so than a petite, slim librarian had any right to be.

“Oh, brother,” Alex mumbled, his cheeks rapidly losing colour. In spite of his annoyance at finding a stowaway – not to mention the identity and especially pedigree of said stowaway – Izzy couldn’t help but feel sorry for the kid.

“Mum, wait – I can explain everything.”

This should be really interesting, then.

.⅋.

Jonathan was starting to hate pyramids with a passion.

His reasons for doing so seemed perfectly sound to him, too. For starters, pyramids were the place you buried dead people. Long-dead powerful people. People who had been dead for millennia, and who, when they had been alive, had made arrangements for a peaceful, undisturbed afterlife.

As the Pharaohs were for the most part fantabulously rich, they had no problem getting the best architects to design the most perfectly lethal booby traps to ward off intruders. Knowing this early on had somewhat quelled his enthusiasm for archaeological venture.

Not that he really agreed with angry people who claimed that digging out ancient artefacts and putting them on display for the world to see was grave-robbing and sacrilege, but… Pyramids were graves, after all. And Jonathan had never really been too fond of cemeteries in the first place.

But what he was now loathing with all his heart, what really riled him to no end were bloody pyramids filled with bloody jungle swarming with bloody creepy little pygmy mummies!

Keeping his mouth shut tightly against the terror-induced nausea, he walked with his eyes and ears wide open, peering and listening intently for any sign of the eerie hush that had suddenly fallen just before the nasty little buggers had attacked two years ago. It had seemed, then, that the only sound for a couple of miles around had been his own blood thumping in his eardrums and Evy’s deep breathing.

It had been shockingly easy to stand on that ridge with Evy, telling himself over and over that if they didn’t shoot these men in red, Alex and Rick and Ardeth didn’t stand a chance down there. The old reflexes had come back as though they never left. Jonathan had slowed his breathing, pushed down his nausea, done his best to ignore his pounding heart, and got to work. The enemy’s uniforms were red instead of grey, and thankfully Hafez’s men were too busy trying to survive the jungle to shoot at them; but for those two differences, he might have been back in a trench, twenty years ago. Aim, shoot, reload; repeat ad nauseam.

It had been a sickening, exhausting business – not to mention the nightmares after that, both those where he missed and those where he hit the target – but at least he had not been part of the big action then.

This time, he’d been shoved unwilling in the middle of the fray, without any other purpose than just because he happened to be there, surrounded – with two noteworthy exceptions – by people who would kill him if he tried to escape, just as he’d killed those men two years and two decades ago.

Trying to escape would be a bloody stupid thing to do anyway, considering the lurking pygmy mummies that vied for everyone’s blood, his and the agents’.

Equal shares of danger for all. Hurray for equality.

Except it wasn’t really equality, now, was it? Rick and him were now in the exact same position Hafez’s nutters had been at the jungle of Ahm Shere, hunted down and potentially shot at from two different parties at once. Not that he felt sorry for the blighters (not after they kidnapped Alex and threatened to cut his arm off to get the Bracelet), but suddenly finding himself in the same situation actually had something laughable about it.

Sometimes I hate irony.

He kept chewing on his grim thoughts as he walked, and since Hamilton wanted to keep an eye on him after his little remark earlier about the path to the Scorpion King, the company was not helping any. The only difference it made was that instead of having complete and utter darkness engulf everything behind him with each step that he made, he had complete and utter darkness ripping open before him, as though reluctantly.

It came as great relief when Rick quickened his own step and muttered right behind him, making him jump a little, “Recognise the place?”

Jonathan peered at the little he could see of the space around them with narrowed eyes.

“Well… Can’t really say I do, old boy. Must’ve hurried past and not stopped to enjoy the view. Why?”

“Because I think we’re getting close. See that gold… ish thing on your left?”

“That pointy thing that sticks out from behind the big ferns?” They probably were anything but ferns, but Jonathan couldn’t for the life of him tell what kind of greenery the big dark leaves were supposed to be. Risking a glance behind him after making sure Hamilton wasn’t looking, he saw Rick staring at it.

“Yeah… I guess. Well, that’s where that nutcase Hafez stuck the bracelet. There’s a statue somewhere that sucked his hand right off.”

Jonathan winced. “Guess I won’t be sticking my hand anywhere around there, then.”

For some reason, Rick’s four-hundred-tooth grin took on a sinister gleam in the torches’ lights.

“Might be a good idea.”

His round blue eyes hardened a great deal the second after that, and Jonathan looked around to see what had brought this sudden change. He was met with Agent Baine’s equally cold and steely glare, and for a moment there he felt like having stepped into a less muddy no man’s land.

After a few seconds of silent glowering, Jonathan cleared his throat and asked awkwardly, in the most normal voice he could muster in the circumstances, “Say, how come everybody got a bag and we didn’t? Planning to do some archaeologing on the side, are you?”

Baine’s cold eyes shifted their aim from Rick to him, and Jonathan had a fleeting but haunting sensation of being a butterfly pinned in one of those display boxes entomologists showed them off in. He gulped nervously.

Incidentally noticing that he seemed to be doing that a lot these days.

Baine’s expression turned into one of grim amusement as he gestured at his own rucksack.

“Well, our thinking was, you probably won’t make it out of this place alive, so what would be the use of giving you a bag? It’s all first-aid kits and ammunition and other stuff you won’t need anyway.”

Jonathan knew he ought to have been more afraid of Baine’s answer; it sounded more like a promise than like a remote possibility. But he just couldn’t push the pygmy mummies out of his mind. His memories of them, though blurred (mostly with running like mad) and, truthfully, rather brief, were so much scarier than the seemingly more direct threat of Baine and his bunch.

He made a mental note to ask Tom what was in his rucksack. It hadn’t looked like there had been much in the way of equipment.

As for Rick, threats of all kinds must have got so old by now that he just raised an eyebrow at the bloke, who-rang-your-bell style. Then his toothy grin came back and he walked past the agent with a shrug.

“I wouldn’t think of depriving you of your first-aid kit, you probably will need it more than us,” he drawled, throwing a derisive look over his shoulder at Baine. “By the way, how’s your eye?”

Baine stiffened and automatically raised a hand to his two-days-old bruise. The angry red and purple was beginning to fade into yellow and green at the edges. It was not without a certain amount of satisfaction that Jonathan remembered having made this particular impression to the agent’s face. The small victory over him in the scuffle two days ago was worth any amount of glaring he’d been subjected to since Monday.

And there had been a certain amount.

A sharp intake of breath made him turn his attention back to the front of the group, a few feet away. Hamilton and his two bodyguards had stopped on the first step of an enormous stairway and were pointing their torches down in the room they’d just entered.

This chamber was big. Even with the greenery that was invading everything, gripping the columns, covering the statues and crawling up the walls, you could feel the weight of thousands of years coming down on you like the Egyptian sun on your head at the height of the afternoon.

It wasn’t just about the weight of the years, too. The entire room gave off an impression of malevolent watchfulness. It might have been just another demonstration of the theory that stated that the bigger the room was, the less you felt like talking, but there was something creepy in the air that you couldn’t help but taste, something damp, heavy and… dark. Brownish, maybe. Something that didn’t bode well at all, anyway.

As he walked carefully down the slippery steps, Jonathan noticed that his knees were having a heated debate about whether to start wobbling or not. He could hardly blame them, having just recognised the place as the chamber where he’d seen Anck-su-namun peering into a corridor, as though waiting, before she turned those cold black eyes on him and stared him up and down. As though he was something small, useless, and utterly out of place in the general order of things. When he had cleared his throat and raised his fists – feeling remarkably foolish in the process – the look in her eyes had changed, and in there he could now read, “Oh, does it want to play? Does it do tricks?”

Never, in his entire life, had he felt so much like a mouse stuck in a room with a cat in a playful mood. The woman had just murdered Evy, driven a knife into her stomach, up close and personal, and smiled. Seeing her had made cold sweat run down his neck and his back, and this was before she had toyed with him like a predator with its food. Jonathan was fully aware he didn’t exactly have a lot going for him in terms of chest-beating, swinging-from-lianas manliness, but he still did have his pride, and being thrown and beaten around by someone who must weigh half as much as he did still stung. Super badass concubine fighter from Ancient Egypt – as Alex had once put it – or not.

The whole group stopped at the foot of the stairway, circling something on the floor, and Jonathan tried to peek through the mass of dark suits to get a look. When he finally sneaked a glance, he spotted Hamilton being helped into a set of large robes with a lot of gold stuff on them that Jonathan judged too gaudy to not be fake. Especially when it looked so much like a fancy bathrobe minus the belt.

“Gentlemen,” Hamilton said, shaking the long sleeves to make the hem fall on his wrists, “this is the end of our journey. Here lies –” here he paused for effect, gesturing at the ground with the cloth of his sleeves giving an appropriate wave, “the Seal of Anubis.”

The few agents who were standing too close to it took a hasty step back.

There was not a single root or leaf on that seal. The big scorpion figure was clearly visible, the different shades of gold gleaming where the light of a torch touched them. The total absence of dark green was unsettling. It also made it crystal-clear that this was what they had come for. The ominous, heavy feeling hanging in the room seemed to emanate from this very point.

Anyone could sense that this seal meant business.

And Hamilton, without any other form of ceremony, cool as anything, came to stand right on top of it.

Instinctively Jonathan tried to take a step back, but froze at the sudden touch of cold metal against his neck. From the rustle behind him, it appeared that he was not the only one with survival instincts. There was a collective intake of breath and a fifty man gasp –

And nothing happened.

The collective breath was released and the tension in the atmosphere seemed to dwindle. All things considered, the whole business felt anti-climatic, even something of a let-down.

But Jonathan had learned not to trust seemingly all-clear situations. He still had the soot behind the ears to prove it.

Most agents seemed to welcome the lull, and they all gave a start when Hamilton turned a strangely meaningful look at Baine and said, “You’re in command now, ag—”

He never finished the word. Under his feet the seal sent a gradual shudder that shook the walls and eventually the entire pyramid. Golden light so bright those too close to it had to shield their eyes seeped – not unlike some sort of thick sticky syrup – from the gold parts of the seal and into Hamilton, who had gone stock-still, his eyes lost into the distance and his mouth slightly open.

He looked like any unfortunate bloke who had just walked rather violently into a lamppost, except for the very disturbing detail of thick yellow light pouring straight ahead from his eyes, his mouth and his nostrils. Then his feet left the ground.

It felt like watching a string puppet show done by someone who had only heard the theory of it. Hamilton’s dark grey shoes floated aimlessly four or five inches off the ground, his head lolled at a weird angle on his neck, one shoulder was slumped when the other one remained rigid…

“Here we go again,” Jonathan heard Rick mutter. The words fell in a stunned, shocked silence. Only Baine seemed to know exactly what was going on, and seemed very pleased by the turn of events so far.

Hamilton’s body – obviously his mind was busy somewhere else, possibly a few planets away – began to drift off towards the passageway to another chamber, his feet still dangling a little off the floor. The leaves and lianas shuffled aside gently, as though self-consciously, where he went.

A small crowd of agents followed Baine, who kept a leisure pace behind Hamilton, looking calm and poised and as gleeful as if Christmas had come early. Not so Jonathan’ and Rick’s escorts, who hung their heads low and shuffled silently, occasionally treading on each other’s feet. Once in a while they would glance grimly at the fantastic sight of their boss being dragged on as though by some sort of invisible string.

The supernatural does take some getting used to, gentlemen, Jonathan thought with an inner sarcastic grin which slipped abruptly when he bumped into a taller agent’s back. The agent gave a start and whirled around, his hand – and gun – jerking nervously. Jonathan took a hurried step back, startled, only to knock another agent to a halt. His gun was out in a flash, too.

“Now, now, gents, no need to resort to extremes,” Jonathan stammered, instinctively raising his hands. As the two men let out a trembling breath he made a show of straightening the creases in his jacket and added in a slightly steadier tone, “You know, you’d really better put those guns of yours away before one of you does something I’ll regret very much.”

“What?” the taller agent barked while the other shook his head and put his gun back into his holster. “Shoot one of our own?”

“No, I meant me.”

The agent sniggered, but Jonathan did notice with great relief that he kept his finger off the trigger now.

When he tried to peek around the dark suits to get a sense of why they had all stopped, he was unceremoniously shoved in front, where Rick already was, standing beside Tom with his blue eyes fixed on something ahead of him. Hamilton’s body had drifted to a halt.

His eyes still wide open and his mouth agape, his head still rolling on his neck like a ragdoll’s, he went near the wall as though attracted by a giant magnet like in the cartoons from the moving pictures Alex loved3. He stayed there, as though tied to a post, under a heavily-decorated gong of massive proportions that hung from the wall, too high for anyone normal to bang.

A sort of spasm ran through his whole body – even his fingertips jerked. Then he went completely still.

A shadow swept over the large chamber, and it felt hot and cold at the same time, and empty. Emptying, rather. Jonathan had a mad urge to dig his fingernails into his palms just to be able to feel something. The last time he had felt anything like it, he had thought the reason was the body of his dead sister lying in his arms. To say it had been unsettling would stretch the limits of even the most open-minded judge on English understatement.

Like last time, it lasted only a few seconds before everything went back to normal in a flash, leaving a trail of lit flambeaus and oil lamps, their light greenish and faintly sinister behind the trees, the lianas, and the giant ferns.

Except the Army of Anubis had just been raised again.

Jonathan let out a raspy breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. It fought briefly with what felt like his heart hammering inside his throat to get out.

Then Baine turned to him and Rick a look that made something churn in the region of his stomach. It wasn’t the passing glare or occasional sneer Jonathan had got used to in the past few days. It was a straight, direct stare. The kind that made you wish you were being ignored.

“Kill them.”

Oh, bollocks.

.⅋.

1 Me in 2008: “The Medjai, while being mostly a warrior people, were a society where the position of man and woman was not about superiority or inferiority. Rather, they went through life having different tasks (the men were taught in the arts of war, the women generally took care of the breeding of camels and whatever farming there was to do) but came together when it came to raising children and making important decisions for the future of the tribe.”

Me in 2019: to hell with gender roles, let’s say the Medjai came too close to extinction in three millennia to confine men to war and women to farming. We didn’t see women Medjai in battle in TMR but they were there.

2 This amounts to a grand total of one, two if you count Anck-su-namun. I would like to state, in Evy’s defence, that she was in no way responsible for the second time Imhotep was raised from the dead. (She just took the Bracelet of Anubis from its chest and Alex activated the Bracelet by putting it on.)

3 Cheating a little here, because while Porky Pig cartoons were already pretty popular in 1937, Daffy Duck was only created that same year, and Bugs Bunny a year later.

#Fairy Tales and Hokum #fanfiction #my stuff #the mummy films #the mummy

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secret-captain-swan-blog · 7 years

Text

Castle on the Hill

English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.

A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 30905/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4

Read on: Ao3

They wander out of Mamie’s just as the sun is beginning to set. Golden hour, Emma thinks it is called.

“So, how much have you seen of Misthaven?” Asks Killian.

Emma frowns, thinking of the Misthaven University library and the endless bowls of cappuccinos at Mamies.

“Hah,” Killian laughs, “That’s what I thought. Too much time with our darling friend Blanche Neige, and hardly any time spent exploring the thriving metropolis of Misthaven.”

Emma chuckles. She thinks of the past few hours she’s spent with Killian in Mamie’s. They’d exchanged favorite quotations, scenes, and characters from Blanche Neige. They discussed all of their other favorite reads. It seems that Killian is quite well read, his favorite books spanning from Dickens to Rushdie. She’s discovered that he’s not just ridiculously good looking, he’s also thoughtful and has a soft spot for literature.

“Hey,” Emma protests, “I have a lot riding on Blanche Neige right now.”

“Yeah, right, your whole future, I know,” Killian snorts, “But you can take one night off from books.”

Emma’s eyes narrow. What does he mean one night? They just agreed to be friends, not to-

“Emma, just an hour or two of sights in the city,” He offers, “Just that. I’m not planning on coming home with you after, if that’s what you thought I was on about. I mean, we could arrange that too, if you wish.”

Does this guy ever stop with the flirting?

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, but manages to let out a little smile, “Okay, fine, one evening off. And nothing more.”

Killian grins. He’s so open with his emotions. He wears his heart on his sleeve in a way that Emma has never done. She can tell how he genuinely feels about each of her responses, whereas she lives to be an enigma.

“Have you been on a river boat tour?” He asks, “They’re quite popular for tourists, but they really are good fun and a nice, proper tour of Misthaven.”

Emma shakes her head, realizing how little time she’s taken to enjoy Misthaven.

“Let’s do that shall we?” He suggests, “At sunset, the city will be very photogenic.”

She swears that the French bit of his trace-of-a-Misthaven-accent comes out a little more as he talks about sunset. And yeah, it’s kinda doing something to her. Stupid attractive voice.

“Yeah, sure,” She agrees.

They walk along the quay to where the tours leave from. Killian buys two tickets and they step onto the boat.

Emma hasn’t been on a lot of boats in her lifetime. One time a group home went on a boat tour of Boston Harbor. She doesn’t remember much of it, only that her hair was in a braid that day and one of the more annoying boys kept tugging on it as she tried to look out at the city. When she was in high school, on her trip to New York with Ingrid, she remembers taking a ferry to the Statue of Liberty. She remembers seeing the skyline of New York on the way back, stately and ruthlessly modern against the sky.

Both of those boat rides were rocky, lurching violently as they traveled, but this boat is smooth. She and Killian find spots upstairs, on the outdoor deck. They lean against the rail, watching the Misthaven flag that hangs off the back flap gently against the backdrop of the river and hills.

“So,” Emma says, turning to Killian, “Obviously, you know all about my life as a student and my thesis- but what about you?”

“What about me?” Killian says, crossing his arms over the rail with smirk.

“I don’t know,” Emma shrugs, “What do you do?”

“It’s going to sound a little dim, after our discussion about literature,” he says, scratching behind his ear nervously.

Why is that so attractive? Calm your loins, Emma Swan, he’s literally scratching his ear.

All the same, she feels weirdly hurt by his admission. She’s never been the kind of person who things herself above others. She’s spent most of her time at Duke feeling less than her peers who lived far more privileged lives than her.

“It’s okay,” Emma says, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Remember the bad childhood thing? It’s made me significantly less judgey than most people in academia. I got really lucky and that’s the only reason that I’m working on a PhD and not cleaning toilets.”

Killian nods, his face solemn and a little gentle, “I’m a bartender.”

“Nice,” Emma says, not waiting a beating, not wanting him to feel bad, “Does that mean that as your friend I get free drinks?”

“Hmm,” he says, his easy smile returning, “Not because we are friends, just because you’re hot.”

Emma dramatically huffs, because it’s her instinct to react that way, but there is a small bit of her that relishes that he thinks that she is hot. Okay, maybe more than a small bit.

She has to stop it. She can’t be swooning over this guy, even if he is charming and attractive and loves her favorite author. She doesn’t date at all. It’s self-preservation. And if she is going to survive finding funding and finishing her dissertation- she needs a much self-preservation as possible.

“What about before that?” Emma prods, trying to distract herself from becoming a love-sick puppy.

“I thought we weren’t getting into the dark childhoods today, love,” Killian said, his face becoming solemn again.

“Sorry,” Emma said, pulling an apologetic face, “I was just curious. Mostly about your accent. It’s more English than Misthaven.”

Killian nods, “I moved to the UK when I was twelve.”

That revelation helps her to connect the dots of confusion that have been mingling in her head about Killian’s backstory.

“Oh,” Emma blurts, “Is that why your name is funny? Killian isn’t a very Misthavian name.”

“It’s an Irish name,” Killian explains, “My mum was Irish. But that’s not why I lived in England.”

“Oh,” Emma says, softer. She notices the was, where she thought there would be an is. She realizes they are hedging along the topic of sad childhoods, a conversation that she definitely doesn’t want to unpack. She’s known Killian for two days, she definitely doesn’t want to be recounting the orphan story to him.

“She, uh, died,” Killian says, “Not long after I was born. My brother took care of me. He had an Irish name too- Liam.”

“Hey, you don’t have to tell me the sad story,” Emma says, noting another past tense where she expects a present one, “I’m sure you want to enjoy this boat ride without dredging up every horrible memory you have.”

He gives her a grateful smile.

It really is beautiful, the boat ride- though his smile is too (not that she’s thinking about it). The city drifts behind them. The opera house is glowing in the evening light. The adorable old town buildings jut out in angles as they creep up the hill, looking like a child’s town toy set. On the other side of the river, she sees the sunset reflected in the windows of more modern office buildings. She can see students lofting on the quadrangles of the campus. Misthaven is beautiful at sunset. Killian was really right about that.

“But, if you were wondering, before that,” Killian says, returning to her question, “I worked at a bookshop in London. I really miss that job.”

Emma looks up at him. The light brings out the flecks of red in his stubble and she marvels in this discovery.

“I think the best jobs are ones where you are surrounded by books all the time,” Emma says, dreamily, stretching.

“It was great,” Killian says, becoming animated once more, his hands suddenly moving as he talks. “I could recommend books, read behind the counter during lulls. There was a coffee shop in it too. I learned to make really nice cappuccinos.”

“The smell of coffee and books?” Emma says, “Sounds like the dream.”

“I really was,” Killian says.

“Why’d you leave?” Emma asks.

Killian shrugs and she assumes it’s part of the long sad story he isn’t ready to tell. Her heart breaks a bit at that. He seems graceful now, happy enough, with a lost look that lurks behind his eyes at moments when he isn’t paying attention. She knows he must have been through some hard things.

“I decided to move back to Misthaven after the Dark Time ended. I missed home. But, I’d love to have a bookshop of my own,” He confesses, “I’ll die happy if I can open my own bookshop.”

Her heart now melts a little bit for him. It’s such a gentle dream to come from man as disarmingly attractive and hopelessly charming.

“That’s what I was going to use the money for,” He tells her, “Why I wanted to go into that deal with the man in the pawn shop.”

“For your bookshop dream?” Emma asks. She had imagined that he’d want the money for personal use, maybe a nice house or an easier life, but not to open a book store.

He nods. She smiles at this idea. She thinks her motivation of wanting a PhD in literature was soft, but Killian’s dream also eeps a sort of gentleness as well.

“We are such nerds,” Emma laughs, “Wanting a large fortune to spend on our bookish dreams.”

Killian gives her a tight smile. In a flash, she feels as if they are kindered souls. They’ve both had really tough lives. They’ve probably spent a lot of time alone, without families, fighting for their own selves because there wasn’t anyone else to. But books are their solace, the bit of hope, the passion that kept them from giving up. She knows in a second that Killian understands her fierce love of literature in a way that her privileged university peers, or even Belle, could never truly understand. Killian knows what it was like to be saved by book. To have books as your only companion.

In this revelation, Emma feels something bubble up inside her that she can’t restrain. A whole glob of feelings for Killian. She doesn’t want them. She isn’t ready for boyfriends or dating or relationships. But yet the feelings explode into her world, unable to be quashed, unable to be brought back in.

So, she does the only thing she’s good at: bottles it up. The feelings go into a bottle, into the wall of bottles.

“Tell me about what the bookshop would be like,” She says, pressing further into the rail of the boat, watching the ripples that the wake makes as it coasts through the water.

“I don’t want anything huge,” he says. “Just a small shop would be lovely. Two floors, I think, with a coffee bar in the back.”

She nods, imagining it already. She pictures it in rich dark wood, like the belly of ship.

“I think I’d like to have reading groups there,” he continues. “Maybe workshops for aspiring writers, or readings from local authors.”

“I’ll be there the second you get Blanche Neige to read,” She says.

“Believe me, if I ever get her, or discover her identity, you’ll be the first to know,” He vows.

“Same,” She agrees, letting herself bump into him (in a purely chummy way).

He looks back at her with an expression of tenderness, of kinship- that she feels herself draw away again. She moves a fraction over, but just enough to feel the space form between them. It’s a game she constantly plays- don’t get too close, don’t let those feelings out.

They are silent for a moment and the boat leaves the river to move into the channel. The skyline of Misthaven turns to silhouette against the dusky rose sky. Emma can trace the top of the opera house, the university library, the cathedral tower. She can see in the distance the taller, modern buildings of the business district. But her eyes linger on the castle, perched on the hill, hovering over the city.

She thinks again of Emma, the other Emma. Princess Emma.

She thinks of the revolution, the story that Professor Hood told her of his time in hiding, his wife’s death.

“Were you here during the Dark Times?” She asks, turning to Killian, trying to fit his story into the history of the country.

His eyes are fixed on the castle as well, “A bit yes.”

He runs his hand through his hair, ruffling it adorably. There is pain in eyes as he looks at it.

Emma sees him open his mouth and she stops him, “Hey, we aren’t talking sad stories, remember? You don’t have to tell me about it.”

He shakes his head, shrugs, and reveals, “You should probably know, well, because I think this is how the whole thing the other night came to happen- I used to live in the castle.”

All of a sudden, Emma can picture Killian as a child- almost too well. She imagines him with a mop of dark hair and freckle smattered face. She pictures him dressed in finery, the kind of thing you’d wear at a castle.

“Were you royalty then?” She blinks, the reality of his confession hitting her. He must have been pretty important to live at the castle. She knows he is a bartender now, in the way that the revolution made paupers out of many greats from Misthaven, but she imagines he must have been very distinguished to have lived in the castle. Maybe a duke or lord…

He shakes his head, giving her a half grin, “No, Emma, I wasn’t anything like that. My brother was a guard at the castle and the royal family was kind enough to let me stay with him in the castle. We had a small room in the basement. It wasn’t much, but I took lessons from the royal tutor and we got better food than we would have on our own.”

“Your brother Liam was a guard?” Emma asks, her mind still caught up in his previous statement, tracing the words over and over in her head. They brought back an echo to her, of something. It’s like she’d spoken the words before.

“Yeah,” Killian says, “Why?’

Emma shakes her head, brushing off the sense of déjà vu, “Sorry, it just sounded familiar. Something about that.”

“It’s because he was with the princess when she disappeared,” Killian explains, before swallowing hard, “He fled with her to America, to take her into hiding. But something went wrong, his remains were found in the Hudson River.”

“Oh,” Emma says softly, reaching out to Killian, “I’m really sorry, Killian. Truly.”

“It was years ago,” He says, “I lost him when I six. But you’ve probably read it in an article somewhere. Everything about the lost princess seems to mention Liam in it somewhere.”

“So, you knew her then?” Emma asks, “Princess Emma?”

He smiles at her, “I knew a little girl who’d run down corridors and play silly games with me.”

“You were friends?” Emma asks.

“I suppose,” Killian says, “When you are the only two kids in the castle, you stick together. She was younger than me though, so we weren’t terribly close.”

Emma nods, silently, her eyes still looking up at the castle on the hill. The pieces start to come together for her.

She looks enough like the lost princess. She has the right name, the right accent. Damn, she even has that scar. She’s desperate enough to need the money, still despite everything.

Killian knew the princess. Killian has the connections to really sell their story. The queen might actually listen to him.

Maybe she was wrong before. Maybe this is the fairy godmother opportunity that’s fallen into her lap again. She’d been foolish not to try for it.

“What if we really did this?” Emma asks, turning from the rail to face Killian.

“Sorry?” He says, “Do what?”

“Convince the Queen I’m the princess,” Emma says, “We could do it. Between your history with the crown and my uncannily good looks, we might actually be able to pull this off.”

Killian pushes his lips together, a small frown forming, “We aren’t going back to that man. That awful, impish man. Let’s not return there.”

Emma shakes her head, “We don’t need him. We can do this just the two of us.”

“How would we even begin to do that?” Killian asks.

Emma smirks, as the boat loops around and heads back into the river, their horizon turning to nothing but sea before them.

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” She says, letting her smirk turn to a grin, “I’m like really good at research.”

“Ha,” Killian says, following Emma off of the tour boat, twenty minutes later. “You said you said you weren’t going to invite me home after our soirée, yet here we are Swan, heading back to your place.”

“Oh shut up,” Emma says, fake annoyance in her voice, “You told me that you don’t have Wi-Fi at your place, so we are going back to my apartment to research. Research, Killian.”

He chuckles, glad that Emma is sassy enough to match him. He’s only picked up the flirting and innuendos after bartending. He realized that his good looks coupled with a few compliments and an eyebrow wiggle are enough to garner a few extra tips and sometimes drinks from his female (and some male) clientele.

“Ah right, research,” He says, smacking his head, “Thanks for reminding me Professor Swan.”

She rolls her eyes, as she seems to adorably do frequently, and he follows her in the direction of the tram. It’s just across the river from where the boat docked. They cross a bridge towards it. It’s a cute bridge with ornate iron designs and one covered with love locks.

“I thought this was just a Paris thing,” Emma says, nodding to locks.

Killian shrugs, “No, apparently, they are littered all around Europe on bridges and benches.”

“Seems kinda anticlimactic,” Emma remarked, “Like oh hey, let’s put a love lock on a bridge- but not the bridge, not even in the City of Love, just another random bridge in another random city.”

He laughs at her rant, “Well, Swan, if I had thought about getting you a love lock before, I’m scratching that thought now.”

She hums a bit, surprising him with not rolling her eyes.

They finish crossing the bridge and head to the tram station. Emma swipes her metro card moving through the turnstile to the awaiting train. Killian pushes himself above the barrier.

“I could just swipe you in, you know,” Emma offers.

“Nonsense, Swan,” he says, flashing her a smile. “I’ve yet to get caught. Besides, we are about to convince someone that you are a lost princess as part of a money-making scheme- we’ve got other things to worry about.”

He thinks he sees her shiver and he regrets bringing up the devious nature of their scheming. He doesn’t want her to feel guilty for it or anything akin to that. She was crafty to think they could pull it off on their own. He thinks she’s right, with a little research it’s very possible. They have a right, he thinks, to pursue the possibility of this. There is too much lining up for them not to try.

He takes a seat beside Emma and the train moves. He doesn’t know where Emma lives, but he isn’t surprised when they get off at a stop in one of the young neighborhoods not too far from the university.

“You’ve got a place here?” He asks.

“I’ve swapped with a student who is in the states for the semester,” Emma says, “I was surprised by how nice it is.”

He’s surprised as well when she leads him up the apartment. Once she flicks on the lights, it reveals a bright, white space with a few house plants and vintage posters on the walls. There is a large bookshelf, where Emma’s books have neatly been added beside some that the previous apartment owner left behind. There is a funny contrast between her tome of Infinite Jest and an old biology textbook in Dutch. He admires her full row of Blanche Neige books, each and every one there on her shelf.

“Make yourself at home,” Emma says, “Would you like some tea?”

“Wouldn’t mind a cuppa,” Killian remarks, as he sinks into her sofa.

He watches her fuss over the kettle. A few strands have escaped from her bun, and trickle loosely around her face. She’s hung her red leather jacket by the door, so she wears only her romper now. The thin, dark straps create a contrast against her sharp collarbones. She’s lovely.

He’s thought that for a while now. As they chatted over coffees, as he watched her in the golden sunset, as they chatted on the boat, as they giggled on the bridge- she’s truly lovely. She has hard edges, shaped by a mysterious past, but underneath it all she’s full of passion and creativity and drive.

She returns to him with two mugs of milky black tea.

“Thanks, milady,” He says.

“It’s your royal highness, to you,” She corrects, laughing.

“That’s the spirit,” Killian says, taking a sip of the tea.

“So, where do we start?” Emma asks.

“I think we need to figure out a way for you to befriend the queen,” Killian says, “She’s quite approachable for a queen. I’ve met with her since she’s returned.”

“You have?” Emma asks.

Killian flinches, “At Liam’s funeral.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Emma says, putting a gentle hand on Killian’s arm.

“No, it happened a very, very long time ago,” Killian says.

“Well, I think we should start by researching the queen then. If we figure out where she goes in town, where we can find her- maybe then we can negotiate a way to make her acquaintance,” Emma says, her practical academic voice kicking in.

“Right on, Swan,” Killian agrees.

She pulls her laptop out of the bag and flicks it open. He’s surprised at just how fast she types, as she taps in, “queen of misthaven.” She instantly clicks on a wiki article that appears first in the search results.

Killian watches as a familiar picture of Queen Mary Margaret fills the corner of the screen, a description detailed beside it describing her life.

Emma makes a little choking noise as she looks at the screen.

“Swan, are you alright?” He asks, lifting a hand to stroke her back.

She puts the laptop down on the coffee table in front of her. She tucks the wisps that escapes from her bun behind her ear.

“Wait, that’s her?” She manages, “That’s the queen?”

“That would be correct,” Killian replies, “Our royal majesty, your mum, in the flesh.”

Emma purses her lips together, picks at her nail for a moment. He can tell that she’s thrown by the discovery.

He wonders for a moment if she really is the princess. Maybe she is the princess and she’s startled because she remembers. Maybe everything is coming back to her. Well, it would certainly make everything easier if Emma was actually the princess.

But then she says, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I know her.”

“You do?” Killian asks. His heart skips a beat.

Could she really be her? The Princess? He’d believe it.

“I met her at the opera,” She explains.

At the opera? Emma’s never struck him as the opera going type. He’s always written it off as a posh thing that was out of his league. But then again, Emma is a PhD student. She is out of his league. She’s the kind of intellectual type that doesn’t spend time with scum like Killian.

“I got a free ticket from the foreign student association,” Emma says, “It was actually pretty horrendous. But anyway, I ran into this woman in the bathroom and she was trying to convince me to come back to the opera even though this one sucked. She offered me free tickets to a ballet on Friday and I accepted them.”

“And this woman was the queen?” Killian asks.

Emma nods.

“Well, Emma, I think our plan just got a lot easier,” Killian says with a grin.

“I think so,” Emma says, and he can tell reality is hitting her. They really do have a chance at this.

“You said the opera was Friday?” Killian asks.

“I have two tickets,” Emma replies with a nod.

“Hmm, well, Emma Swan, fancy an opera date?” Killian suggests.

“Ugh, with you?” She jests, “I guess.”

“Oh sod off,” he tuts back.

“It’s sod off, your royal highness,” she corrects again.

“I really need to start working on that,” he laughs.

“Yeah, you do,” she says, her voice full of confidence.

His brain starts churning, thinking through the reality of this plan. They’ve nearly accounted for everything- expect for one thing.

“Emma, before we do this,” he says, hesitant, “There is one thing we should do.”

She cocks her head, “What is it?”

“Well, as much as I hate that man, he was right. You do need a scar to match the one the princess has,” He says.

He hates to think of marring her porceline skin with a knife. He hates to think of doing anything that the horrible man wanted them to do. But it would be a shame for the whole plan to fail just because of a small, but crucial detail.

Emma dips her head demurely. “Well, actually, we might not have to.”

She moves to reveal her opposite shoulder. His eyes drift from her lovely sharp collarbones that he noticed earlier, to where a small silver line begins at its base and travels over the curve of her shoulder.

“I’m not sure if it’s the right shoulder,” Emma begins.

“It is,” Killian says.

Her eyes widen.

“I remember the day she got the scar,” He says lightly, “She was on her pony and had a fall, cut her shoulder on a rock.”

“Oh,” Emma says.

He reaches out a hand, letting a finger trail along the slightly puckered skin. Emma shivers and he worries that’s gone too far. Maybe his touch is an unwelcome memory of the hooded man.

“Why? How did you get yours?” He asks her.

Emma shrugs, “I don’t know. I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”

“Emma,” He says, smiling, “You realize we are hardly going to have to lie to pull this off. You are truly the perfect woman for this opportunity.”

There is a part of him that wants to say something more. He wants to tell her that she’s beautiful, that she’s clever, that’s she’s the perfect woman in general. But he holds it back. They are going to be business partners. She already has enough on her plate between this scheme and her academic work. She doesn’t need his unwanted affections. Maybe another time. Maybe in the future when she’s finished her thesis and he’s financially stable. Or maybe never. She’d likely be better off without him.

“Would you like another tea?” Emma asks, shaking him from his melancholy.

“Oh no, Swan, I should be off,” He says.

He stands to head to the door and she rises beside him.

“Well, I’ll see you Friday, then?” She asks.

“Yes, Friday indeed,” Killian says.

She goes to open the door for him, but then pauses, her hand lingering on the knob.

“I’m really glad we’ve become friends, Killian,” She says.

He lets himself smile a full grin, “I am too, Emma.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who cares about Blanche Neige as much as I do,” She says, a little blush gracing her cheek, “It’s nice to have someone to talk about this stuff with.”

“Likewise, Swan,” He says, “Truly, I’m very fortunate that you’ve come into my life.”

“Thanks for the boat ride,” She adds, “Maybe you could show me more of Misthaven sometime. You know, when we aren’t coming up with money making schemes.”

“I’d like that very much,” He says, “I’ll think up something.”

“Well, till Friday then,” Emma says, opening the door.

“Till Friday, Swan.”

Tagging: @sambethe @lenfaz @pocket-anon @the-corsair-and-her-quill @kiwistreetswan @princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story @katie-dub

#cs ff #cs au #captain swan #emma swan #killian jones #cs mc #cs ff au #cs crew #cs mafia #cs fic

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quillquiver · 7 years

Text

He’s only been walking for about a minute before something in the air changes. Frowning, Castiel Novak looks up from where he’s been watching his step to take a look at the copse of trees around him, shivering slightly against the wind. The rain has finally cleared to give way for sunset–gold light spilling across hill and rock. It’s beautiful in an ancient, abandoned sort of way… but something in the air has him alert and careful.

This glen demands respect.

He pays special attention to his steps from then on, careful not to put his feet anywhere outside the marked paths.

The more Castiel walks, the faster his heart beats and his body curls into itself, and suddenly, the nice Scottish man who picked him up on the side of the road and drove him to the fairie glen doesn’t seem so crazy.

“They’re there,” he’d said sagely, nodding up the road. “Ye canna see ‘em, but they are. And if they choose you, lad, well… ye best do whatever they want, because fairies are a fickle sort."

Dunvegan, the faerie castle, is a big and imposing outcropping of rocks, and after seeing the old and new spirals on its other side, Cas carefully makes his way to the top. There are a couple of people making their way back down, and he nods to them as they pass.

But to get to the top, he has to climb up a narrow passageway. He goes from thinking he can fit with his backpack, to being completely stuck.

When a couple of grunts and some shifting only manage to wedge him further, he gives up.

"Fuck.”

And then a hand appears in his peripheral vision.

It’s pale, with calloused, freckled fingers and knuckles and a couple of braided leather bracelets adorning the wrist. Cas follows the equally freckled arm up to a white t-shirt and, quite frankly, beautiful face of a man.

He’s got brown hair and a perfect nose, with high cheekbones and a plush-looking mouth. The freckles that seem to cover the rest of him sweep across the bridge of his nose and apples of his cheeks in soft nebulae. Bright green eyes framed by long lashes look down at him expectedly, and Castiel is made aware of the fact that he’s been staring longer than socially acceptable.

“Uh…”

The man smiles.

Cas thanks the powers that be that he’s wedged between two rocks because he goes weak in the knees.

The man wriggles his fingers as if in invitation and Cas grabs hold, his own blue eyes widening when the man barely grunts and pulls his through. Though he gracefully steps back, Castiel ends up a pile on the ground. The man grins more widely and bites his lip. He's wearing a kilt.

Cas is a goner.

“Um–thank you. Thanks.” His face is on fire as he struggles to his feet.

The man merely nods and goes to sit on a nearby ledge, over-looking the sunset.

Castiel takes this opportunity to explore. He walks to the edge of the castle and back, spending time just staring at the two spirals that are supposedly entrances to the faerie realm. The younger one is well-groomed and beautiful, with gifts dotting the stones laid out, while the older is overgrown and slowly disappearing in the grass. Cas stares at the latter and shivers. Still, he–noisily, despite the fact that he tries to keep quiet–takes his camera from his bag and snaps a picture.

When he’s finished, he notices the man staring at him.

He’s even more beautiful backlit by the sun, and Cas takes a minute to get himself together before carefully approaching the other and pointing to the place beside him. “Can I sit?”

The man stares.

Brow furrowing, Castiel tilts his head to the side in thought before his eyes widen once more and his cheeks flush in further embarrassment. Immediately, he repeats his question, this time signing along as best he can remember from the one ASL class he took in college.

The man raises a brow. “’M not deaf.”

Cas suddenly wishes the earth will open up and swallow him whole. His face turns bright red with both his mistake and the gorgeous way words roll off the man’s tongue, and he scrambles to untie his own in order to answer. “I am so sorry.”

“No trouble,” the man says. His green eyes look Castiel up and down in a way that makes his heart race. “Y'gonna come'n sit, or…?”

Cas has never moved so fast.

He clumsily falls into the seat beside the man, apologizing again when he jostles him.

“So, y’re a tourist?”

Castiel nods. “I’m from the States.”

“American.” The man whistles. “Y’re a mite far from home, arentcha?”

“I’m working in a hostel,” Cas explains. “In Kyleakin? It’s called the Skye Backpackers. I’m their new receptionist but I start next week, so I’m hitchhiking around the island to get a feel for it.”

“Seems like a good living,” the man nods. “I think I’d like to see America. All of it, not just the United States part.”

“Well, if you ever end up in Illinois, let me know.”

“Cheers.”

Cas licks his lips during the lull in conversation and clears his throat. “Are you from Skye? Or somewhere else in Scotland?"

A sad, resigned sort of smile steals across the man’s face. "I’m from right here,” he eventually sighs.

“Oh, you live in one of the farm houses nearby?”

But instead of answering, the man flashes a smile and offers his hand. “I’m Dean.”

The change in topic is a little unorthodox, but Cas is too distracted by the fact that he has a name. Dean. It suits him.

“Castiel,” the other replies in kind. They shake hands, and Cas’s fingers tingle all the way up his arm and to his shoulder. “Everyone calls me Cas.”

“Cas,” Dean repeats. “Tha’s a good name.”

“Thanks. So’s Dean.” A beat. “You just came up here for the sunset?”

“Somethin’ like that, yeah. You?”

“A couple of people told me to come here because it’s so beautiful. A couple people also told me to stay away because of the faeries."

“The faeries,” Dean hums. "Did ye hear the stories?”

“A couple. I heard about the bagpiper who was approached by the faerie king to play at one of his parties, but who was reluctant to leave his family especially because he’d promised to play at a friend’s wedding. But when faeries ask you for something you do it, so he went to the faerie realm and played until really late. When he asked to go home, the King allowed it but said things would never be the same once he went back. When he arrived back home, it was hundreds of years later and everyone he’d known and loved had died, because the King failed to tell him about the fact that a second in the faerie realm was a hundred years in his reality.”

“Mm,” Dean says, staring at the horizon. “Faeries can be tricky.”

“I also heard about the girl who came here a couple of years ago and when into the cave on the ridge.”

“There’s a nasty thing lives in there.”

“Yeah. Apparently, she got back to her hostel, went to bed, and woke up screaming in the middle of the night swearing something was trying to choke her.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

There’s another lull, and Cas bites his lip. He takes another picture just to do something with his hands, but quickly abandons the endeavour when Dean stares at him while he does it. Swallowing thickly, with sweating palms and a racing heart, Castiel decides to throw caution to the wind. After all, he’ll probably never come back to this part of Skye after this weekend.

“So, um, do you have any plans for supper?”

Now, Dean’s smile widens to something slightly predatory. “Why?” he smirks. “Y'want'a share a meal?”

Cas blushes. “I have too many groceries and an empty airbnb so, yeah,” he says, sounding far more cocky than he feels. “I think I’d be willing to try my hand at Scottish hospitality.”

Dean laughs, and it’s probably the best sound Castiel has ever heard. “So I won’ have t'worry 'bout bein’ murdered, is that’ what y’re saying?”

A grin. “Murder is definitely off the table.”

“Then lead the way, Cas from America.”

***

It takes them fifteen minutes to get back to Cas’s cottage. Their otherwise forty-five minute walk is cut down almost to nothing due to a kind young woman picking them up and dropping them off at Castiel’s rented cottage.

Once inside, Cas opens a couple of beers and hands one over, taking a swig himself and licking his lips. “Are you okay with pasta? I’ve got a bottle of white I should really use.”

Den’s excitement is so palpable the air almost crackles with it, and Castiel feels himself start to smile as well. The thing widens impossibly when the other man leans casually against the wall and clears his throat. “That seems—that’ll be fine.”

Castiel makes pasta carbonara.

He’s finishing off the sauce and about to put the spaghetti in to boil when he feels Dean off to his side. This isn’t new–for the majority of their time in the kitchen, the other man has been looking over Cas’s shoulder inquisitively. This time, however, Dean’s entire body is pressed up against his back and he’s got a grounding hand on Castiel’s hip.

Cas almost burns himself.

"Smells good,” Dean murmurs.

Castiel squeaks.

“M’I makin’ ye nervous?” the other asks against his ear. Cas can feel him smiling and bites the inside of his cheek. There’s a beat. “Because if I am,” Dean continues. His thumbs begin to caress the t-shirt-covered skin of Castiel’s hips. “Ye need only tell me to stop.”

In answer, Castiel leans back into the touch.

***

“So, how’re ye likin’ Scotland?”

They’re seated on the back porch’s hanging swing, lantern lit on the coffee table directly in front of them. Empty plates and wine glasses are strewn across the table, with the finished wine bottle sitting as centrepiece among the carnage.

Cas looks lazily down to where Dean’s cuddled up against him. He smiles. “I love Scotland.”

“Oh, do ye?” Dean laughs.

“Mm. Very much.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, then, broken only by the sound of Dean licking his lips. Castiel isn’t entirely sure who initiates after that, but soon he and Dean are tangled up on the swing, kissing lazily.

It’s the best kiss Cas has ever had; warmer than anything else he’s ever felt, like a shot of whiskey warming him from the inside out. It only takes about another minute for Castiel to clue into the fact that the tingling he feels in the wake of Dean’s fingertips and lips is definitely not normal.

To the other’s protests—mm! one more wee kiss, please—Cas pulls away with a small ‘pop’ and stares, wide-eyed. “You’re… not human, are you?”

Dean shakes his head, much too pre-occupied with the sweetness of Castiel’s mouth to do anything but lean in again. Cas reciprocates, but only barely.

He’s kind of freaking out about the fact that he’s not freaking out.

“So, you’re a… faerie?”

This time Dean leans back with a small, hesitant nod. “The first of my name.”

“You’re a king,” Castiel says faintly.

“Close,” Dean amends. “A crown prince.”

Cas makes some sort of strangled noise in the back of his throat, climbing off of Dean and sitting, eyes locked on the wine bottle.

“Ehm, can I get ye somethin’?” Dean asks considerately. “Glass o’water, maybe? A pint? Some whiskey so all this seems like a bad dream?”

"Why were you out there, anyway?”

“Ah, y’know,” the other answers, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I’m not so keen on the prince thing.”

This is something Castiel can relate to—after all, hating his circumstances is why he left Illinois in the first place. “So what,” Cas smiles. “You prowl around Dunvegan looking for unsuspecting tourists?”

“Hey now, if I remember correctly, you, sir, were the one who invited me here.” His voice turns guarded now. “And ye promised ye wouldn’t murder me.”

Cas weighs the pros and cons of his situation for approximately two seconds before leaning in and pressing a plush kiss to Dean’s mouth. “No one,” he says against the other’s lips. “Is getting murdered.”

Dean grins.

***

The next morning, Castiel walks Dean to the door of his cottage with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He has a crick in his neck from sleeping on the porch swing all night, but given the choice, he’d do it again.

“Can I see you again?” Dean asks. “Tonight?”

“I’d like that.”

***

And so begins the rumoured tale of romance between a human and a faerie.

#destiel #fluff #au #fairy!dean #human!cas #scotland #erf: scotland #eurotrip fic series #eurotip!fic #adventures in fanfic

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