#Jungle Fury ten years after anyone | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

samyazaz · 4 years

Note

This is a little more specific than, y'know, a general AU setting, but if you're feeling it, PQT, Gravity AU, and, honestly any trope, but it's them, so perhaps Only One Bed?

Ewhoza glances back at the huddled group of them, one brow lifted like he’s expecting something, before he presses his palm flat to the scanner set into the wall. Its light glows a moment, just long enough for Quil to tip her head and wonder if maybe it wasn’t expectation at all, maybe he’s just wanting to show off, when they all know that Quil could have released the pneumatics with a thought. He doesn’t even bother to remind her to wipe the access records so Security won’t know they’ve been here, but she thinks it’s more out of arrogance than any sort of confidence in her, and so she’s frowning, exasperated, when the locks release with a hiss, and the doors slide open.

It’s the light that strikes her first, the warm, verdant brightness of it, and the frown falls off of her face as she gives a swift gasp, and then loses her breath all at once as her lungs flood with air so heavy with scents that her mind reels at the onslaught, even as the part of her that’s the ship sorts and filters and categorizes, tells her Loam, and Herbs, and Wet earth, and Greenery.

She stumbles forward, heedless for once of the unceasing analytic stream of thoughts flowing through her mind, only distantly aware of the others doing the same around her, looking just as stunned as she feels.

She knew there were hydroponic gardens on upsilon level, of course. She knows everything about the ship. Almost everything. Everything they didn’t deem it to dangerous for her to know, like her psych evals, her past, her name. Who she was, before they made her Tranquility.

She knew there were hydroponic gardens on upsilon level, knew they produce enough food to provide for the caloric needs of every person on board with enough to spare for seed and for compost, she knew how much of their water stores they required and the precise wattage that the lights drew, and somehow it had never occurred to her to put these pieces together and imagine this, a vast, endless expanse of hydroponics, stacked up to the ceiling and stretching out as far as the eye can see, farther, so everywhere she looks, all she sees is light and green.

“How...” she breathes, stumbling forward, down one of the rows left between the structures. “How...” She flinches, then laughs breathlessly, when the reaching leaves of a tomato plant brush her cheek.

Behind her, Ewhoza’s voice is dry, a little mocking. “How did you think we’ve been feeding all these people, all these years?”

She shakes her head, because that’s not what she meant. “I know, but... how did I not realize?” Somewhere on the edge of her awareness there’s a humming noise, like the machines she spent her life wired into, like the thrum of the ship around them. Like the rushing in her ears after they released her and brought her back, in the ill, disoriented moment before the world went black around her. She reaches for her sensor data, but she — the ship — is fine. She fights the urge to sit and stick her head between her knees. Her stomach isn’t twisted like it had been before. Her skin isn’t hot. Her vision seems normal, if half-dazzled by the brilliance of the green all around her.

A hand touches her shoulder, pulling her back to herself, to the herself that is contained within her skin. Phi is at her side, looking at her with a concerned, unvoiced question written plain on her face. Terry’s just beside her, looking no less alarmed. Beyond them, Ewhoza is saying, “—no one ever stops to consider how we do all that we do for everyone, do they?” and his tone is at odds with his words, is a little sad and a little lost, instead of the righteous belligerence she might have expected of him. It startles her to realize that he was answering her, in a fashion, though her question hadn’t been meant for him, hadn’t been meant for anyone, really, except perhaps herself.

“I’m all right,” she says to Phi and to Terry, quietly.

Phi nods once, taking her at her word but keeping a light touch on her shoulder all the same. Terry looks only half-reassured, but he moves a step away, his hand on Phi’s elbow drawing her with him, and hers on Quil drawing Quil along after as well. “Let’s go see what we can find that’s ripe. Do you think you can eat, Quil?”

“I can try,” she says, unhelpfully, because she can know in a fraction of a fraction of a second if a single lightbulb ten levels down and halfway across the ship has burnt out, but she still doesn’t understand how her own body works half the time.

It’s enough for them all the same, though, because they guide her off, deeper into the field of greenery, and each row that they walk down smells different than the last, this one sharp and fresh and pungent, the next floral and sweet. They pluck a berry here, a leaf there, and they pass the best of each to her and watch her sidelong when she eats them dutifully, smiling with happiness and enjoyment, at the bursts of flavor upon her tongue and at the company and at the feeling like they’ve gotten themselves lost in the dense jungle of the hydroponic towers, even though it’s not possible for her to really ever be.

The humming starts again and she stops still. Phi and Terry turn back to her, looking concerned once more, but she shakes her head, says, “I’m all right, I just— Do you hear that?”

Phi tips her head like she’s puzzled, or like she’s listening for it too, and Terry looks around, uncertain but searching, but it fades and then comes again, louder, and Quil does feel like her legs are going to collapse underneath her but she doesn’t feel like she did when she lost consciousness and she doesn’t understand why.

“Oh,” Terry says, his expression clearing, and the humming stops just as it’s reached its loudest. “Is that what you heard? Here, hold still.” He reaches towards her. His fingers brush, almost tickling, against the side of her neck, and the sound begins again, and fades sharply. “It’s all right. It was a bee, I think. It must be a bee. They’re pollinators, aren’t they?”

“A bee?” She whirls in the direction the sound vanished, searching the green all around them. “Where?”

“It’s all right,” Terry says again. “It’s flown off now.”

“Oh,” Quil gasps, and her legs are going to give out on her, they are, but they can’t, not now, not when she needs them. “Where?”

She takes off in the direction the sound had disappeared, pushing through the narrow spaces between structures that had never ben meant to be pathways, until another humming noise darts past her and this time she’s able to spot it, to track it, a small golden shape flitting amongst all that green.

She follows it until it’s joined by another, by a third, and her heart is pounding and she can scarcely breathe. She pushes through row after row of hydroponics, until all at once the space opens up before her and there’s a gap, just big enough to make space for a series of narrow, sleek towers, featureless but for the narrow, slitted openings at regular intervals through which more bees are coming and going, dozens of them, hundreds. Thousands.

She stops still, abruptly enough that Phi and Terry behind her nearly crash into her. They catch themselves and then they stand there, all three of them breathing hard. Phi and Terry eye the hives, a little, but mostly they’re watching Quil, but Quil can’t look away.

“I forgot,” she breathes, and her voice cracks, and then breaks. “How could I forget? How—“ Her eyes burn. She doesn’t remember what it means until the tears drip hot down her cheeks. “How could they take this from me?”

Phi looks back and forth between her and the hives, and understanding downs in her eyes, but it’s Terry who says it, his voice so tight with upset that it quivers like a plucked string: “In your psych eval vids. You said you worked in the horticulture division, before.”

“I thought it just meant plants. I thought it meant working the gardens. I didn’t think—” Her voice breaks, goes sharp all around the edges like glass, and she shakes with fury. “They made sure I didn’t. That I couldn’t. Didn’t they?”

Neither of them answer her right away, but the glance they exchange, the bleak looks on their faces, is answer enough.

Quil takes a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of herbs and plants and earth, with the new, heady smell of the honey in the hives. It should feel familiar, shouldn’t it? It should feel like coming home. and it does, but somehow it doesn’t stir any memories at all. Her mind reaches for them, expecting them to be there, as though it’s done so a hundred thousand times before. But all she comes up with is black emptiness.

She folds her legs underneath her without being aware of deciding to move, sits on the floor without looking away from the hives and watches the bees come and go. Terry and Phi sit beside her, quiet, letting her watch but staying with her all the same.

After a while, a bee flies over to her, lands on her knee and climbs across it, little antennae waving like it’s expecting to find nectar. It flies away after a moment, and she thinks it must have been disappointed to find only the fabric of her clothing instead. But a moment after that, two bees fly back to her, and before they’ve left, a third joins them.

Her eyes burn again, and tears fall down her cheeks, and she knows she must be broken, knows Security must have broken her, because how can she mourn for something she doesn’t even remember? How can she feel such grief and such joy, when she has no memory of ever seeing a bee before this day?

Occasionally, distantly, she’s aware of the others making their way through the rows of plants as well, the rustle of leaves and a far-off shout of excitement, quickly muffled. At some point, the plants shift and sigh closer by, and footsteps sound quietly on the floor, and there’s a low murmur of conversation exchanged with Terry and Phi, but nobody addresses her directly or indicates they need her attention, and so she doesn’t look away from her enraptured study of the bee crawling its way across her knuckles.

Later, there are louder steps, heavier, and the sharp huff of a breath, and then Ewhoza’s voice, too near, and edged with impatience as he says, “There you are. What— Oh. What’s she doing?”

“Leave her be,” Phi says placidly.

“We can’t stay. People will be along, and if they see you— if they see her—”

“No.” Quil wrenches her attention away because this, now, demands it. She turns to fix Ewhoza with an unyielding look. “I’m not leaving.”

He returns her look with an arch one of his own, asks, “Ever?” in sarcastic tones. “That’s a fine plan. Stars, why did I even risk my neck for you if you’re just going to throw it all away—“

She unbends, just a little, says, “Not yet.”

This time, the look he sends her is hard, calcified with frustration. “How long?”

She gestures uselessly. The bee keeps its place, and doesn’t fly away, despite her disturbance. “I don’t know.”

“You need to sleep. If you push yourself and end up back in the infirmary again—“

“I’ll sleep,” she promises.

He looks little assuaged. “You need to sleep soon.”

Phi shifts beside her and clears her throat, gets her feet beneath her and says to Ewhoza as she stands, “I’ll come back with the rest of you, get some blankets. We’ll keep her safe, until she’s ready to come back.”

Ewhoza’s mouth thins with disapproval. “If someone comes—”

“I’ll know,” Quil says. “Before they even set foot on upsilon level, I’ll know. We’ll leave.” Ewhoza looks skeptical at that, so she says, sharper, angrier, “I don’t wish to be caged again. I’m not a fool. If someone comes, we’ll go.”

He still seems unconvinced, but finally huffs out a breath and rolls his eyes. “It’s your head,” he says at last. “But all of ours as well if something happens to you. Try not to forget about the rest of us, who’d very much like to keep on breathing.” He fixes her with a look, just before he turns away. “If you do get caught, don’t lead them back to the rest of us.”

The implication is so horrifying, so infuriating, that it steals her breath, and by the time she’s recovered it, Ewhoza is gone, and Phi along with him, and she’s shaking with rage.

“As though I would!” she gasps, but there’s only Terry there to hear her, and he just gives her a sidelong glance and a crooked smile.

“We all know you,” he says, reassuring, like that’s all that needs saying. And it settles her, so perhaps he’s not wrong, either.

The lights dim before Phi returns, an artificially diurnal cycle programmed somewhere deep in her memory stores, for the crops that need it in order to thrive, and the air cools around them so that by the time Phi does return, with a few blankets folded up and tucked beneath her arm, Quil’s glad for them as well as for her.

“Are you all right?” Phi asks her straightaway, and drapes a blanket around her shoulders without Quil having to ask for one.

Quil gives her a puzzled glance and grips the blanket’s edges close before her. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be, just from sitting here awhile?”

“Not from this.” Phi tips her head back towards the direction she arrived from. “From him.”

She means Ewhoza, Quil realizes. “Oh,” she says, and blows out a sharp breath and turns abruptly back to face the hives, though the activity there has died down, with the simulated evening. “Yes. Of course.”

Phi doesn’t react for a moment, like she’s waiting for something more. Then she laughs a little, softly, and shakes the other blanket out. “He wasn’t wrong about needing to sleep, at least. There’s not a lot of room, but we’ll make do. Just say, when you’re ready.”

She’s being overly generous. there’s hardly enough space between the hives and the hydroponics for the three of them to sit, much less for lying down and sleeping. But even with the bees bedding down for the night, she doesn’t want to leave them, can’t bring herself to, not yet.

“Make do how?” she asks, because they promised to keep her safe and she knows that even though they must be tired themselves, they won’t sleep until she does. Maybe not even then, but certainly not before.

Phi answers the question with a smile and nudges at Terry’s hip with the toe of her shoe. He gets to his feet and offers a hand to Quil, and so there’s nothing for her to do but take it, and let herself be pulled up as well.

Phi lays the other blanket out, and even folded in half to make it narrow, it barely fits. Terry sits first, and offers Quil his hand again, and she gives him a bemused frown but takes it once more, lets him draw her back down.

As he does so, he stretches out along the blanket, keeps drawing her down even once she’s sitting until she does the same, her pulse spiking too fast. Phi shakes the last blanket out over them both, then lies down as well, behind Terry with her arm stretched over him to lace with his where it’s curved around Quil’s arm.

Oh, Quil thinks, and her throat goes tight, but she doesn’t say a word.

Phi loosens her hand enough to brush the backs of her fingers over Quil’s shoulder. “All right?”

She nods wordlessly, trusts them to see it, or to feel it.

“Comfortable enough?”

She could laugh, but she just nods again. Every part of her is overly aware of them behind her, around her, and she thinks that this was pointless because she’s never going to be able to sleep, not like this, not with her heart in her throat and her pulse a drumbeat in her ears.

She’s wrong, though. She feels like it’s only moments, at most, before the gentle hum of the bees in their bed and the close warmth of Terry and Phi around her in their own lull her off, and the dimness of the space around them fades to the true black of sleep.

#answered asks #sovinly #fun fact: Valira works in the gardens #and finds them in the morning #also what the hell this prompt is so good #thank you darling!

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judgement-free-sideblog · 5 years

Text

Ghost from the rainforest

James Conrad x Reader

Summary: A simple rescue mission will bring him back to a place full of nightmares, and maybe this time he could find redemption. Situated in 1975, 2 years after the events of Skull Island.

Warnings: Violence, blood, wounds, mentions of war, cursing, implied smut, smoking, angst.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 3: Those who never came home

At 4:35am you were already in the departures site, checking the truck was fully loaded and that there were enough food and water for the men that will accompany you.

It had been a long night, and you barely had any sleep since every time you closed your eyes you could picture Conrad's face laughing at you.

You shake those feelings away and lean your back in the truck, and close your eyes for a moment, the cold breeze of the early morning was more comfortable than the hot room you were staying. And suddenly you were on the edge of sleeping holding yourself standing against the dirty tarp covering the backside of the truck.

"Morning" His voice said suddenly and you frown with your eyes still closed "We are ready when you are Doctor" His tone was oddly professional and when you finally looked at him he immediately look aside, it hurt that he was in the same place as you, regretting what happened.

"Fine, who's driving?" You had the keys on your hand and look at the men with him, there were only three, apart from Conrad. "Aren't you missing people? I count five last night, Dr. Y/L/N" you said shaking his hands.

"Reles" Said the shorter of the four, he had a nice candid smile and brown skin. "Nice to meet you Doc, I must say you look nothing like your dad" That make you smile.

"Glenn Mills" Said the black men next to him looking embarrassed at his teammate behavior "Ignore him doctor, he doesn't know how to be around women." You only nodded in response.

"Ah Reg, I remember" You say at the youngest of them, before he spoke.

"Slivko is fine, those idiots run away, they say the won't be at the jungle for a month" He spoke as someone way older than he looked like, and you could figure they were another form of victims of the war, even when they were alive.

"I'm driving" James said, extending his hand to grab the keys.

"No you're not, they drive on the correct side of the road here" You said ignoring him, "You guys can handle the stick?" You ask the men holding the keys in front of them. Mills raised his hand and you throw them at him. "Let's go then".

Slivko and Reles got inside the backside to guard the boxes and you hop on the front seat next to Mills, and after a minute Conrad sit next to you, and closed the door careful to not look at you.

"I think there is plenty space in the back guarding the medicine." You said to him coldly.

"And I think I get paid to guard you not your boxes" he answered and Glenn was desperately trying to start the engine and ignore you two.

"Fine, but at least keep that thing away from me" you said rolling your eyes and then pointing to the large gun he was carrying with him. And you could hear a giggle on the back knowing pretty well that by now the whole crew knew about what had happened.

The way out of the town was boring and easy, after four hours there was only a country road surrounded by small houses and when it was time to eat you chose to stop at small village. You got something to eat and gave some medicine to the children that couldn't go to the main city to get a proper doctor, and you were back on the road.

"So what kind of doctor are you then?" Reg asked from the back of the truck opening the window that separated you.

"I have a PhD in Chemistry and Biology" You said to him taking the canteen he offered you "And work as a nurse in the 60's so I know my way around wounds and diseases" you said to him.

"See Captain?" Reles said to Conrad in a very serious tone "She is too smart for you" He add making Slivko and Mills laugh while Conrad only gave him a murderous look. "But for real tho, isn't it boring to spend all your time here? I mean don't you mis America?"

"Of course I do, but this is important, I mean the troops are leaving yes, but someone has to help clean the mess they made, no offense" you said and James nodded understanding. "Who's that by the way?" You asked pointing at a picture Glenn had attached to the windshield, where the four men were standing in some field with water to the knees, and next to Conrad an old man with a beard carrying what it seems to be a katana.

"That's Marlow, an old friend" Conrad said and you could tell it was true because there was a happiness in his eyes when he talked about him.

"Yeah, is like a crazy Santa" Reg said, "But anyone would have gone crazy after..."

"Is getting late, we should stop don't you think?" Mills interrupted suddenly and you could see how the three of them looked at Slivko with anger, he had been about to tell you something he shouldn't.

"Yeah sure" You said looking at the map, and then the road "We will be at our first delivery point in ten minutes, and we can sleep there". You haven't told them where you were delivering part of the medicine, you have done it several times and Noah's men never had a problem with it, but you doubt the Captain will be ok with it. "This people can be a little unfriendly" you start when the lights of the village were clear on the road. "Just do as I tell you and it should be fine"

"You don't sound convinced" James noted.

"Because I'm not" You said and you make your hands into fists on your lap praying at nobody in particular that things will go well.

A couple of kids with large guns were at the entrance of the village, you bend over Conrad's lap to reach the window and make sure the see it was you, they immediately let you go in and you get back to your sit pretending it didn't feel like heaven to touch his hard chest.

A man came out of one of the huts with a smile on his face, framed by a thick goatee, he wasn't bad looking but the AK-47 in his hands, and the ones he had put on other children hands was enough reason to hate him.

"I thought you said you hated militars" Conrad said offering you his hand to get down of the truck.

"They're are militia, nor proper militars" You said ignoring his help and jumping of the truck.

"Is there a difference?" He asked looking at the man waiting for you with a smile.

"Yeah, they're worst" You said and walk towards Shukri.

"Selamat kembali, saya isteri cantik saya" Welcome back, my beautiful wife The man said to you and tried to give you a hug that you didn't respond to.

"Santai Shukri, dan hentikan memanggil saya isteri awak, inilah yang anda minta." Relax Shukri, and stop calling me your wife, here is what you asked for. You pointed at the truck and Reg and Joe were already carrying down boxes helped by Shukri's men.

"This are not your usual companions" The man said then looking directly at Conrad who had been pending on your whole interaction since the beginning.

"No, they're not. Is safer don't you think? If we get use to the same people there could be snitches" You lied to him and he nodded approvingly"

"Ahh isteri, I told you you have to stay with me, I could use that quick mind of yours" He said and tried to pull you closer to him but then Conrand put his body between you two making both you and Shukri look in surprise, plus anger on his side.

"How many boxes are we downloading?" He asked and you could see some anger in his eyes.

"14, the ones that are marked with a black cross" You said still shock by his reaction.

"British? That's different" The guerrilla lider said behind his back and you could see Conrad shoulders tense and his nostrils move with fury.

"Yeah, and very helpful, right prince charming?" You said, and touch his arm softly trying to calm whatever the hell was going on in his head. "Put those nice arms of you to good use and help the boy will you?" It was not an order but a plea and he listened because he relaxed his back and start walking towards the truck. You indulge Shukri with a smile and remained close to him while the man take part of the medicine, after that they show you a hut where you could spend the night with two cots inside blankets and a couple chairs "Just that?" You asked him and could see a disgusting grin on his face. "We are five, three of us are going to have to sleep on the floor, I won't risk my men to get bit by a snake, a spider or god knows what"

"Thats all I have isteri, unless you want to share mine" He showed you a toothy grin.

"Hentikan memanggil isteri!" Stop calling me wife you shouted exasperated. "I will take my chances with the spiders, thank you" You said and walk inside where the tired men were resting. "Glenn take one of the cots, Reg and Reles you can take turns for the other" you took a chair and sit there, any hope you had about a civil conversation with Shukri was now gone and with that also your hopes to take a shower. That certainly was not something you will miss when you came back with them to america, if you go back, your mind corrected you.

"You are not sleeping in that chair Y/N" Conrad said, taking a pair of blankets under his arm. "Let's go Reg, the truck will be more comfortable and safer than the floor, we will see you in the morning" He said and reg followed him making it impossible for you to reply. "Also" He had holding the door open for you "Saya tidak percaya suami anda" I don't trust your husband He said putting a venomous inflection in the word husband.

"Oh please don't" You said tired and embarrassed "Do you speak Malay?" You asked when you were at the truck but you didn't come up and let Slivko in first. The night was humid and hot, and you couldn't believe you'll have to wait another two days for a bath.

"I told you I have been here before" He answered, and took a cigarette to his lips, and offered you another.

"Well at least that was true" You said and let him light the cigarette for you.

"Isteri?" He asked again, imitating the disgusting tone Shukri used, and you rolled your eyes at him.

"Let it go Captain" You said taking one long puff "Is just the delusion of a crazy man"

"I think there has to be an interesting story behind" He said facing you and looking you again with his perfect blue eyes.

"Well if you really want to know. I have been here for about five years" You started and look at the quiet village in front of you. "And at first I spend every little money I still had buying medicine from Noah, one day I was trying to help a kid from this village"

"The little guard that welcome us?" He asked throwing the cigarette butt to the ground.

"Yeah, precisely." You said mimicking his movements "Anyway he needed medicine and I couldn't find it, so I talk to the village lider, Shukri's father, and he send his man to "get" the medicine from a local hospital in Bandar. The boy lived and they asked me to check on the rest of the kids. And boy they were in poor shape. So I make a deal with him, I will take his money, and get the medicine peacefully from Noah, if they gave me enough to help others. So long story short I'm kind of a pharmacist for them"

"That's a compelling story" Conrad said rising a brow to you. "But doesn't answer my question"

"Shukri's dad died, and he is a crazy sociopath, who thinks he would take down the Malaysian government with drugs and weapons trafficking. He said to the people that he is their father, and since I take care of his sick children as a mother..."

"You are his wife" He said bitterly "That's a clever way to get a wife without the effort"

"He is just an stupid man" You said crossing your arms "And honestly you didn't have to literally put yourself between us, I have been doing this for long enough to take care of myself. But thank you" You poke his feet with yours.

"You are welcome" He said grinning at you and making a head gesture to you. And at that moment you wanted to forget you were suppose to be mad at him, maybe it was the tiredness or maybe it was how gorgeous he looked under the stars, but you feel the need for him to hold you again.

"Yeah yeah! Is all beautiful, can you two shut the fuck up and go to sleep already??" Reg voice shout from inside the truck and you realized how late it was.

"He is right, you sleep in there, I will be in the back so I can guard the medicine" He said and you agreed

"Captain" You said climbing in to the truck.

"Doctor" He gave you a wink that paralyzed you and walk to the back of the truck. You were glad you were in talking terms now, but you knew there was still a long way to follow to Borneo and you were certain he and the other men were not being completely honest with you. So you were not planning on lowering your guard, at least not yet.

#captain james conrad x reader #captain james conrad x you #captain james conrad #james conrad imagine #james conrad x you #james conrad #reg slivko #joe reles #glenn mills #hank marlow #kong skull island fanfiction #kong skull island #tom hiddleston

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go-hux-yourself · 5 years

Text

Hard Reset

My first Kylux fic out! FINALLY. And of course we’re in omegaverse territory haha. The narrative is all over the place in my opinion but hey, what’s plot when we all know what we’re really here for?

This goes out to @thethespacecoyote, my enabler in all things tasty and garbage (ilu hahaha)

Also on my ao3 here :) My masterlist archive of bullshit i write can be found linked at the top of the blog or here.

“You seriously didn’t think to inform me about this?”

Ren studied the way the agitated general’s skin had gone flush, almost shining from the manner in which he’d begun to sweat inside the ancient console room. A pinkness starting in his cheeks and spreading down the other man’s neck was in complaint of sensitivity to the blooming flora, if not consequence of sunburn from their trekking to even get to this old outpost.

Truly he’d never suspect the general’s complaints to be over flowers of all things when it was the rebels that made this dropdown necessary. It figured that Hux was literally more-suited to an artificial life on a star destroyer, the simple realities of being planet-side clearly not agreeing with him. Ren found it annoyingly inefficient that this was a task the other man couldn’t have delegated to some nameless engineer in his stead.

Of course the general-- in his pressed uniform and carefully arranged hair- wasn’t suited to trekking through the deserts, jungles, or swamps that Ren himself regularly journeyed in his missions. It made the other man weak, in his opinion.

Or rather, intolerable.

“It’s none of my concern if you suffer from allergies, General,” Ren brushed-off, the area boringly secured, his task in this mission completed without incident and waiting for Hux to do his part.

“This is not allergies you incompetant--” Hux bit his tongue over a swell of fury born of the embers of lust quickly fanning his blood. Hux’s glare was locked on Ren’s own as the alpha gave him a look that dared him to complete his insult. They didn’t have time for paltry words. The clock was already ticking. “I’m going into heat.”

Ren looked at him blankly for a few moments, and Hux rolled his eyes at him, muttering something about the alpha being childish to undermine him in this way, that Ren succinctly ignored.

“Heat.”

“Yes, Ren. Heat.”

“That’s impossible.”

“As you’ve neglected to inform me of the bloom warning in effect for this planet, I assure you it’s quite--”

“That only affects omegas,” the alpha stated dumbly, as if Hux were a simpleton.

Hux gave him a look as if he were mad. Ren gave it right back. Again, Hux felt a hot swell of what he presumed to be anger or annoyance-- or most likely both where the other man was concerned- wash over the back of his neck. His uniform began to feel stifling. “What part of this are you not understanding?”

The moment that Ren connected what Hux was saying with what he meant became apparent on the alpha’s face as he gave the general a disbelieving look, staring at him silently.

Under any other circumstances, Hux might’ve been amused. Perhaps even mildly flattered to not be taken for what he was, and all that implied. Whether Ren had truly not known, or just didn’t care to, hardly concerned him, but to not be associated with the weaknesses of his kind pleased the omega general.

Which, in this moment, was another kind of particular danger.

Hux’s voice was probably more smug than it should have been, given his current position, but Ren was avoiding his eyes now, and it was some small victory he wanted to savor before his mind was reduced to blubbering sheer instinct. “You never noticed?”

“The endotypes of others hardly concerns me,” Ren quickly deflected, keeping his distance as his eyes observed the other man through a new lens; Hux’s flushed skin, the shine of light sweat as his temperature rose, the scent he began to get whiffs of. Hux was an omega, and the local flora was wreaking havoc on his body, and no matter how he looked at it, this was definitely his fault. “Only their competence or lack thereof.”

Hux found himself to be of the same sentiment to be perfectly honest, though it was hard to separate the meathead-alpha stereotype from the identity of the man who regularly destroyed his ship standing in front of him. Even if he considered it classic alpha-arrogance to have not compiled an all-inclusive report of even minorly ‘unimportant’ things, the body language of the other man alone was enough to show honest contrition at such an important mistake.

It was something Hux found, at least, to know that all their antagonistic years spent working together wasn’t steeped in unnecessary judgment from his own designation. Though that of course meant Ren’s antagonism towards Hux was founded in personal dislike-- or stars forbid- that he found Hux’s commanding of his ship to be incompetent enough to deride him ...though not by any fault of his being an omega.

Whether it was the damn pollen or his own sense of pride, Hux chose to file that concern away to fight with the man about later. If anyone was to be accused of being incompetent here, it was the fool of an alpha who let him land on a planet in the midst of an omega-bloom without proper bio-precautions being taken.

Hux didn’t need to voice such an opinion, as the quick-glances and downcast looks away from his person bespoke Ren’s own culpability, and furthermore, his awareness of what was happening to Hux. He could feel the fever taking him over little by little, aware of the way Ren’s own alpha-musk was pleasurably pulled in through his nostrils, and he understood he’d have very little coherence left in tens of minutes at best.

It left very little time to strategize, though there were really only two options available. It was lucky, then, that his personal preference aligned with the more-efficient choice.

“Well, Ren, here we find ourselves in the conditions of your own making with a time-constraint that will end favorably for the rebels if we don’t solve this.”

“I did no--”

“It hardly matters now that you didn’t know I was an omega,” Hux huffed, his patience thinning even at the confused, almost-guilty disbelief on the other man’s face as Ren most certainly could smell the proof of what Hux was. His uniform felt stuffy, skin overly-hot, and his mind kept getting distracted by thoughts he maybe only indulged in after a tumbler of whiskey and a particularly trying shift. He tore his gaze from the larger man, considering their options. “The fact of the matter is, I am, and I need to fix that beacon and have our forces coordinate to move out as soon as possible.”

He was beginning to breath harder, and his pulse was coming faster. He undid the buttons at his collar to alleviate some of the heat trapped within. It didn’t escape his notice the way Ren’s nostrils flared, or how the alpha quickly turned away to hide a face that was red with the knowledge of something it liked.

Hux preened a little at that, flattered and calculating; well that would certainly help.

“How long will it take?” the alpha asked, still turned away from Hux’s own form. The other man’s scent was beginning to fill the old control room, and though Ren clenched his fists and tried to find a calm center, there was no blocking the needy scent Hux’s body was putting out… Nor ignoring just how much he liked it.

“The repair should take two-hours, perhaps less,” Hux spoke, undoing further buttons that allowed cooler air to kiss his flushed skin. Pleasant goosebumps rose on his arms at the minor relief, and he felt a craving for more. He was shrugging his outer dress-uniform shirt off before it even occurred to him, eyes keen on Ren’s turned back. Hux could feel his nipples hardening with the quick temperature change, and he bit his lower lip, savoring the feeling before remembering that he was definitely drifting into heat-brain.

Cock already hardening in his pants, Ren realized just how grave a mistake his miscalculation here had been. He’d never assumed someone like Hux could smell so good, let alone have this kind of effect on his well-trained body. And an omega to boot? This wasn’t a scent oft-encountered on the ship. People took inhibitors or time-off to deal with their cycles in a very orderly and efficient manner as dictated by First Order practice. An unexpected heat simply wasn’t a thing.

...Unless Hux’s own co-commander was an idiot of an alpha who’d exposed him to an omega-bloom without a second thought.

Ren deserved the discomfort of a willful erection for the time it took Hux’s body to metabolize the effects of the plants. It was a suitable punishment, as well as an exercise in control, and one he surely wouldn’t forget. “And you can hold off for that long?”

A puff of a laugh made Ren turn, and the alpha felt a lump form in his throat. Hux had removed his outer jacket, pale skin flushed pink and dog-tags worn over a black regulation tank bared to Ren’s eyes. It was the most casual he’d perhaps ever seen the other man-- even if Hux still kept himself at parade rest, watching him a little too-sharply- and it threw Ren straight into fantasy and wordless silence.

Hux exhaled sharply through his nostrils, his own observations concerning the alpha moving away from his failings and more towards his more amiable attributes. “The effects of the pollen either needs to be properly metabolised, or a hard-reset to the endocrine system to invalidate its effects. We do not have the twelve hours it would take to wait this out. The chemical imbalance causing a false heat requires a… flushing out.”

Ren’s mouth went dry. Hux couldn’t possibly be insinuating what Ren was thinking, as the alpha knew his own thoughts were straying due to the general’s scent pervading his every inhalation. Hux was... maybe trying to diplomatically inform him that he’d need some private time? “So you’re just gonna…?” He felt stupid making even a slight pass of his hand in gesture, understanding relief would reset the other man-- and further shocked that they were even having this conversation- but here they were.

Hux laughed again, and the sound almost made Ren lose the force-hold he was keeping his own hard-on contained with. These were new experiences with the general, and Ren found himself intrigued by every one. His laugh, his scent, his humanity when dressed down and wanting-- even when that want was the effect of plant-life and not particularly born of desire for him- it was captivating. Ren was sure Hux would laugh at his own want for the omega, but he didn’t care.

Hux was already tenting his own pants as far as Ren could tell-- in his efforts to not look, anyways- but it wouldn’t be nearly as easy to ignore Ren’s own alpha cock if he lost his control on fantasies of trailing his fingers over that pale skin, or dragging his nose up his throat.

Hux met Ren’s eyes, the request bald on his face. “For that to work, it has to be from an alpha.”

Ren frowned as he simultaneously blushed at the idea of getting the other man off. That’s what he meant, right? That he couldn’t just quickly jerk himself back to clarity, but an alpha had to do it?

That logic hardly seemed sound, and his expression must have communicated that because again came that soft laugh-- and when had Hux ever laughed like that before?- and the omega general brushed it off with far more good humor that Ren thought he himself was capable of at that moment.

“The hard-reset requires biological-agent from an alpha to register. I can’t trigger it on my own, no matter how enthusiastic.” Hux honestly couldn’t help the smirk on his face. The situation they were in was poetically funny, and the more he felt his body taken over by familiar heat-indicators-- false-heat or not- the more-amusing and less-annoying he found their predicament.

It helped, of course, that aside from the exasperating personality, Ren fit the more physical-aspects which Hux’s taste in alphas tended to skew; bigger than him, broad, and a bit too full of himself, undeniably male in scent and demeanor who could probably match his own stamina. He’d wondered more than once what it might be like to be manhandled by Ren’s large hands, or to press his nose into the other man’s neck to get a better scent on the one Ren was currently giving off in response to his own heat-pheromones.

Hux knew what needed to be done, and there was no reason to necessarily fight the impulse so long as Ren was willing. To be honest, Hux wasn’t completely opposed to the idea of their coupling anyways, as there had always been something curious about his co-commander that only direct-involvement would satisfy. Ren was powerful, most certainly passionate by definition of sheer wanton destruction. It appealed to him in every way privately that he professionally loathed. Something he wanted to taste at least once to be fully informed. Hux would press his advantage.

It was easier in some ways to have this conversation than some of their heated exchanges on the bridge. He knew what he needed in order to stay on schedule with their plans. This was a necessity, and therefore nothing to be ashamed about proposing, should anyone ever discuss. Hux’s voice was earnest, looking the other man in the face with expectation of easy cooperation. “You have to fuck me, Ren.”

“...I have to do no such thing.” Ren’s words sounded weak and pitiful even to his own ears. There was no part of his body that didn’t want to fuck Hux right now. There was so much bare, pale skin on display just waiting to be marked up, and the general looked so different-- so much more delicate in his tank that showed off collarbones- that Ren could almost feel the texture between his teeth.

He could easily drag his nose from Hux’s throat down to his shoulder, suck marks just low enough that the general would be wary for days about anyone catching some wayward glimpse. The general would certainly be walking around with Ren’s reminders littering his skin, if the alpha had his way. Hux looked less imposing with his layers removed, and Ren knew his hands would fit perfectly around that trim waist if the other man pressed himself against him. Having the general beneath him-- atop him?- would be unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

Ren quickly turned away again as his thoughts were most certainly being broadcast on his face if the other man’s keen observation of him was any indicator. Hux’s own eyes were becoming glazed with a clear need, and he fidgeted slightly where he stood. So slick. But the thought wasn’t Ren’s own; the barriers around Hux’s mind were coming down. Loudly. The omega general’s own quickly-dwindling control being taken over by observations about the alpha’s own scent and breadth and images of what he was definitely hoping might happen were drawing Ren in like a tractor beam he didn’t want to fight.

The alpha stayed rooted in his spot lest he grab the general by hands or force or both. “...We can alert medical, see if--”

“It took us hours to get through here,” Hux pointed out, though his tone was less antagonistic; Ren forbid himself and his cock of entertaining the thought of Hux’s voice begging him. The plea in the other man’s voice to just give in was clear as day regardless. “The mission has already been compromised enough.”

Ren turned from him again, cock achingly hard and not entirely positive this was something he could-- or wanted to- fight against. Hux, for all his speeches about Ren’s incompetence, and his general distaste for the alpha, was putting off the best scent he’d ever smelled in his life. And moreover, the man wanted him to deal with it. Personally.

He was the only one around who could deal with this, of course, so naturally it would fall to him, yet still... He’d have to watch his back if they did this, as Hux would surely hold it against him once he was back in his right mind. This wasn’t something they could easily just forget and carry on in their usual manner towards one another. His brain told him No, this was not a smart thing to do. He could hold out. Call medical, arrange a drop of inhibitors from a droid or something. Hux would just have to be extra attentive through the repairs and think through the fog in his brain with the help of suppressants.

All Ren’s efforts to stay strong, however, were easily annihilated with a single, softly enunciated word:

“Please.”

He turned back, and Hux was surely at his wits’ end if the hot-faced look and desperation to that utterance was anything to go on. He looked like he was holding himself to the spot on sheer willpower alone, his body language defiantly exposing his longing to indulge with the alpha before him.

It may as well have been begged with desperation for all the effect that one little word had on Ren’s resolve. He’d do this, and he’d do it well, and because he wanted to, he decided, above all. Not just because of duty. He was interested in the other man; dressed down, skin against his own, how he might look or sound taking his knot. The thought made the alpha groan. “We don’t have the time to spare,” Ren stated, and he could see the relief on Hux’s face as it became clear to the other man that the alpha was giving in. He was bolstered by the expression there, much more confident that this was the right course of action.

“Yes, yes there’s no time,” Hux agreed quickly, green eyes shining with heat and want both as he moved towards the other man in triumph. Why was this taking so long? Why were they both still wearing clothing when it was so damnably hot? The solutions to all the general’s problems were all wrapped up neatly in the package of his co-commander, and Hux eagerly wanted to unwrap him. Maybe then he could think straight again.

As Hux’s hands found their way to Ren’s chest, tugging but also flattening in appreciation of the alpha’s breadth, his scent fully enveloped Ren’s senses, and Ren held his hands around that lithe waist to find them fit just how he’d expected. “For the good of the mission,” Ren stated weakly, frankly not giving a single damn about anything that wasn’t more of his hands on more of Hux’s body.

“The Order, yes,” Hux murmured halfheartedly, pulling himself close to fit his nose in Ren’s neck, inhaling with an unapologetic groan of relief that he was getting what he needed, and nothing else took a higher priority.

Ren abandoned all attempts to keep his hard-on suppressed, pulling the other man hard against him and getting a whimpered moan unlike any sound he’d ever heard the general make before. He wanted to see what other sounds he could wring from the prim man, and decided to test the limits Hux would allow in pressing a sucking kiss to the junction of his shoulder and neck, tasting scent and flesh both. It made his belly and cock lurch with want.

“Kriff,” Hux gasped hotly with clear-surprise, his fingers digging into the other man’s tunic. He threw his head to the other side to allow Ren’s mouth more space to work, and the alpha slid one hand down his back to cup his ass through his jodhpurs as the other held him closer to better nip at aroused skin. One taste wasn’t hardly enough for either of them.

Hux’s scent was intoxicating. It had to be some function of the pollen making it more potent, or his own senses extra sensitive to the general’s need because surely no one normally smelled this good. Hux’s scent had never been more clear, more him than Ren could scent at this moment. The man rubbed up against him without shame and Ren worked his thigh between Hux’s legs, wanting everything at once and too greedy to take it slow.

It wasn’t often that Ren delved into the general’s mind; frankly the man’s mental walls were impressive and the rigidity with which he composed himself on the daily also comprised his inner mind. But Ren knew the usual aura of the other man; the constant-planning and plotting, and the ever-ready organization of a brilliant tactical mind. Right now, that was all gone in a single-minded pursuit to satisfy the thing inside him.

Hux was awash in sensation, his only plot being the great goal of getting Ren’s pants off and getting whatever the other man had hard against him inside him. Ren held him as the Hux ground himself against his thigh with breathy little sighs. The alpha claimed Hux’s mouth with his own, surprised when the general turned out to be a greedy kisser in turn. He wouldn’t stop to let Ren remove his tunic, nor did Ren necessarily want to break to remove Hux’s own tank.

Hux caught Ren’s bottom lip between his teeth, eliciting a growl from the alpha that only made the omega slicker and needier with want.

“Hux, give me a moment,” Ren spoke gruffly, grabbing him by the back of the neck and almost smirking at the indignant expression there; Hux’s fury that the alpha would stop kissing him even to undress them.

Hux surprised him again when he surged forward to nip at Ren’s own neck, his hands busily stripping the alpha with purpose. “Ren,” Hux’s breathy voice came, half plea, half threat, shocking the alpha he was still even this coherent with how good he smelled, “if you aren’t kriffing inside of me soon--”

“I’ll warn you not to threaten me, General,” Ren growled into the other man’s ear, though Hux’s desperation and sigh of Ren’s name proved the warning to be anything but a deterrent. The alpha was pleased despite himself. “Strip.”

If he were of his usual mind, Hux might’ve resented how quickly he jumped to obey that order. His hands clumsily reached for his own belt, shaky and uncoordinated with need as he removed his boots and pants in a messy pile along with his dog tags and tank. The sharp-look he aimed at Ren to make sure the other man was similarly undressing proved unnecessary; the alpha’s tunic lay on the floor at his feet with his belt and cowl, gloves tossed aside and hard-on sticking out obscenely from the front of the leggings that were still on. Hux felt his knees go weak, eyes glued on the prize, and felt the last of his resolve melt as he reached for the other man.

Ren greedily touched and scented the omega, so much pale skin on display he wasn’t quite sure what or where he wanted to kiss and bite and lick first. The general stood only in regulation-black underwear, the material doing very little good as it was sodden with slick and pre-come both, the omega’s cock jutting out from the material creating a wet-spot Ren wanted to drag his mouth over.

The headiness of Hux’s scent was making the alpha nearly dizzy, and the low-growl that escaped him as he slid his hands from Hux’s waist to underneath the material got a moan in response from the general. When he took handfuls of his ass, nose buried in Hux’s neck while the omega clawed at his back, Hux made a sort of strangled whimper as his hips thrust against Ren’s own. The general was panting, whimpering through the aftershocks, and Ren didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know he’d just come.

“How do you like it?” Ren asked, not surrenduring the grip he had on Hux’s asscheeks, but pulling his face from the general’s neck to look into a pleasure-dazed face. It momentarily occurred to him that Hux was right: a simple orgasm wasn’t enough to bring him back, nor to burn the induced-heat out of him. The man’s gaze was locked on him, but eyes wild and glassy with want. He felt guilt again at having exposed his co-commander to this state, but he couldn’t feel too bad as he found the solution to be worth whatever price may follow.

Hux was clinging to him, unable to keep the whine from his voice as he just repeated please, please Ren. He was quite far gone, needy, and his carefully-styled hair was becoming loose with the efforts of their exertions and the heat consuming his every thought.

Ren touched his forehead to Hux’s own, trying to establish some sort of connection with the other man’s own preferences. He was still in there, fully enjoying the ride he’d been thrown into if his thoughts were any indication, and while there were a great many ways the alpha would like to take him, he realized that once stuck together, a coherent-Hux might take issue with perhaps being taken up against a wall, or bent-over the ancient terminal needing their attention. He wanted to act accordingly.

“Hux,” Ren spoke softly, and they looked one-another in the eyes-- glassy green to bottomless black fathoms- and Ren tried to latch on to that quick flash of awareness to chase it to some form of communication. “...how do you want it?”

Images both delicious and creative flitted through Hux’s own mind: the idea of letting Ren have him bent over the bridge, of riding him facing the viewport of the alpha’s TIE Silencer, or perhaps most deliriously of them all, on hands and knees of what the alpha understood to be Hux’s own bed in his personal quarters of the Finalizer.

Ren groaned as he closed his eyes in a sort of feverish pride; the omega found him suitable enough to let the alpha fuck him in his own bed. It was charming as hell, and maybe just a fantasy, but even the intimacy that would need to be involved for such a thing to happen made Ren preen. Did Hux often picture their relationship differently, if only to fantasize about Ren in a role far-different than their current interactions with one another?

Trusting one-another enough to invite into a space that personally belonged to them was another kind of fantasy all together, and it made the alpha decide then and there that he was going to make this really good for Hux; as apology for not making his report on the planet more thorough; in gratitude to be allowed to scent the man and touch him, even if there weren’t exactly other options around; most of all, because of the thought of how utterly wrecked the Hux in the general’s mind had been. One of Ren’s arms wrapped under the omega as he took him from behind, his other hand stretched out to spread over Hux’s own, their fingers entwining to hold while the alpha lazily pumped in and out of him.

Never in any of Ren’s own fantasies, sexual or otherwise, did he ever picture himself in such a sentimental role. He didn’t think himself capable of it, frankly, but seeing himself through Hux’s own fantasies… It was sweet. Something which Ren definitely wasn’t by his own account, yet there it had been. Minor details to a larger fantasy about being fucked, yes, but that was what made it so charming.

It made him reexamine their entire professional relationship, along with any ideas and opinions he might’ve thought about the man in some spirit of rivalry that wasn’t based on much but incorrect assumption.

...Did Hux actually like him in some way, despite their apparent disdain for each other? Hate-sex wasn’t unheard of between rivals, and who didn’t have fun, dirty fantasies about sexually dominating their coworkers? Hux’s fantasy hadn’t been of that brand, though. None of them really were. It was soft, intimate, and the way the omega clung to him now, it felt trusting. He wouldn’t just let Ren have him in such a vulnerable state if he didn’t on some level trust the other man. Far more Hux-like to barricade himself in one of the other empty rooms and ride out the symptoms if he truly hated him. The last thing Ren wanted to do was somehow violate the tentative trust being given to him.

Working Hux’s underwear down past the globes of his ass, letting Hux’s omega-cock spring free in the action and wiping the mess with unsullied material, Ren took to a knee to have the omega step out of them before he tossed them aside quickly. It was out of impulse, not disgust, in order to stop himself before he could do anything… embarrassing… Like bringing them beneath his nose in desperation to drown in Hux’s scent.

He could always snatch them for later appreciation after.

For now, Ren was face to face with the general’s still-hard omega-cock, framed in neatly-scaped hair the same color as the strands sticking to Hux’s flushed face. He could smell the slick on the other man, arousal so musky and delicious that he licked his lips in anticipation. The motion got a twitch of Hux’s hips towards his face, coupled with a whimper of need as Hux’s hands landed on his shoulders, tugging.

Ren didn’t need him to ask twice, sighing as he first rested his head to the omega’s torso to scent glistening skin, steadying his raging heartbeat as he allowed himself to nose about the other man’s coarse hair before lifting off to easily suck down his cock in one go. Hux’s hands immediately relocated to the alpha’s dark hair, fingers hanging on and tugging deliciously, eyes fluttering closed.

“Ren… Oh Ren…”

The lightly-gasped words went right to the alpha’s cock, and he immediately wanted more of those breathy sighs. He wrapped his arms around Hux’s thighs to pull the other man by the ass in encouragement to fuck his mouth, breathing through his nose in harsh exhales. The sound that touch wrung out of the omega was going to feature heavily in Ren’s own fantasies from now on, the taste of the other man another new facet of sensory treasures the alpha refused to allow himself to forget.

Ren was gentle in his movements, monitoring Hux’s own scattered thoughts as his hand cupped the omega’s ass, simultaneously sucking him off. Ren moaned deep in his throat as his fingers encountered slick, and he slowly followed it to the source, gentle in his probing as the pad of one of his fingers pressed against the general’s hole. The reaction was instantaneous.

Hux’s cry came out of nowhere, fingers tangling in the alpha’s hair as his hips surged forward in the other man’s mouth. The paltry release Ren tasted moments later was a pleasant surprise, and he hummed in his throat in pleasure as the other man was bent over him, effectively hugging Ren’s head and enveloping the other man in his scent.

Hux’s legs shook where he still stood, and the alpha pulled off him to gently tug the general down to kneel on his shed cowl. Hux was catching his breath, leaning now in Ren’s arms as the alpha held him to him-- cock so hard it actually hurt- and the omega put a hand on the other man’s shoulder, looking up plaintively; desperate. “Please, Ren… I need…. need...”

Ren moved some of the hair stuck to Hux’s sweaty face to behind his ear. He knew what the omega needed, and he wanted to give it to him, and so much more. He cupped his cheek with his hand, stroking the heated skin with his thumb. He might have certain opinions about General Hux his co-commander, but Hux the omega who needed him heat drunk? He only wanted to be good to him. Nice. This wasn’t even a real heat, so who knew how much Hux would remember at the end of it all or not, but he wanted to be that version of himself from the fantasy; the one who Hux wanted at his back and holding his hand atop his own bedsheets.

The needy growl of his own Ren couldn’t completely suppress from his voice, but Hux shivered and gratefully sank to hands and knees at Ren’s own instruction, presenting his ass with an impatient sort of look behind himself as the alpha tried to reign in the lust he was feeling at such a sight. Easy, start easy.

His hands cupped Hux’s ass, squeezing appreciatively and getting a noise out of the man that made his chest swell with pride. He pressed kisses up the general’s back, enjoying the discovery of barely-there freckles, and smoothing his big hands over and around the other man’s body to pinch both nipples. Hux arched back, pushing his ass into Ren with a moan as Ren’s hands continued their exploration of his skin, down his belly, over his cock, and around his thighs to again land on the man’s ass.

Hux whimpered when the alpha spread his cheeks with his thumbs, swiping one of the digits over his hole to gather the slick there. He then reached his hand beneath Hux to wet the omega’s cock with his own slick, hand sliding over the general’s length. It got breathy whines and thrusts from the other man that made the alpha smirk.

Ren moved his hands back to spreading Hux’s cheeks again right before he delved his tongue onto Hux’s hole.

“R-Ren… o-oh Ren… yes! ...ah! Please! ...please ...please…”

Ren felt himself drunk on Hux’s heat-scent. Properly and utterly under its spell. The general’s usually-commanding voice was instead soft around sighs. Hux spoke his name in breathy pleasure instead of baleful scorn. It was everything. It was perfect. Ren had to have him.

He couldn’t wait any longer with the sweet way the other man earnestly and unashamedly begged him for more, and he nipped Hux’s left ass-cheek before sitting back up to work his damn leggings down his thighs. He wasn’t going to waste any time standing to fully remove them, just taking his aching cock in hand with his leggings pinned under his knees, and teased the rim of the omega’s hole with just his cockhead.

Ren’s groan echoed Hux’s own.

He was so slick, so hot, and the alpha wanted to ram on home more than anything, but he went slowly, kissing Hux’s back and licking salty skin as he held his hip with one hand, his cock with his other. “...let me in, General,” Ren whispered softly, kissing up below Hux’s ear while the omega sighed out. Hux pressed back towards him impatiently, and Ren slowly breached the other man with a strangled sort of moan. It was through sheer willpower alone he didn’t come immediately.

Hux’s moans were obscene as Ren slowly, slowly sank into him, the omega’s hole not nearly as unwelcoming as Ren might’ve thought; no uncomfortable resistance, warm and wet and loose for him.

The prim, ever-plotting general was lost to pleasure and selfishly chased more, pressing back urgently to try and get more of Ren inside him faster. His forehead was pillowed on his forearm as he moved his hips, and Ren steadied him with grunted, whispered words to pace himself. Whether or not that was actually a chuckle or a stitled sound of pleasure that left Hux didn’t matter, because Ren was solely focused on the way Hux’s body pulsed hotly around him as it accepted him. Hux kept asking for more and whining his name.

By the time he was fully sheathed and shallowly thrusting, the untethered general was regularly moaning into the cowl bunched beneath them, pushing back to meet every thrust the alpha pounded into him while drowning in his scent-thick clothing. Hux’s moans reached new pitch whenever Ren dipped to nip at his skin or jerk his slick omega cock.

Ren wanted to come so badly, holding off just a bit longer, just a bit more, willing his knot away even as it was already threatening to swell. Hux could feel it too-- the knowledge that the alpha was going to knot him- and the anticipated-thought spilling over from the omega is what tipped the scales for the alpha.

“Fuck, Hux!” Ren reached out for the hand Hux was gripping Ren’s cowl with, entwining their fingers as he could feel his knot beginning to swell with the crest of his orgasm. He was pounding haphazardly into the other man as it felt like his cock grew to even greater proportions, tugging on the omega’s hole until it could move no longer. Hux cried out, coming untouched and dry as Ren’s own orgasm took him. The alpha released inside the omega, their bodies snugly connected for the time being, finally sated with relief.

Ren’s heart was beating wildly in his chest, still feeling Hux’s body pulse around him and beneath him as he fully collapsed atop the general. Hux made a noise of discomfort, and Ren maneuvered the two of them to their sides, holding the general in his arms and scenting indulgently up his neck. The alpha could feel Hux’s own heartbeat return steadily over time, the pair’s breathing calm, and mood lacking any hostilities. He didn’t let go of the omega’s hand.

Hux slowly came back to himself as they lay there in comfortable silence, the chemical imbalance in his brain smoothing out to usual levels; nature had gotten to ‘run its course’ on him, so to speak.

Ren was sniffing about his neck with genuine fondness that he didn’t feel like hiding-- not after what they’d just shared- and not wanting things to revert back to their antagonistic state. He fought it with soft touches and gentle hums, lightly chuffing over the omega’s skin as if to say it wasn’t just the hormones; he hadn’t only fucked him out of a sense of duty nor responsibility.

He could sense clarity inside the other man’s head; an understanding of some kind. Hux’s mental walls weren’t up to their usual guardedness, though it wasn’t as easy to sneak about there as it had been during the heat-state, but Ren sensed a feeling of contentment growing that didn’t necessarily diminish the longer they laid in place. Hux’s opinion about the pleasure over their coupling was very much in line with his own; satiated, content, safe.

Ren was still holding his hand when Hux finally chose to break the silence between them. Gathering his courage-- Ren could feel, as the omega didn’t have the benefit of the force to sense the alpha’s own mind behind him- Hux cleared his throat just a bit before broaching the silence. The alpha pressed fond kisses to messy copper hair regardless, waiting.

“...figures you’d have a cock the same size as the rest of you. I’d never have been able to take that if I wasn’t in that state.”

An indignant snort took the alpha in surprise, pausing him in his attempts to learn what hair the color of Hux’s tasted like. Hardly the words Ren had expected. A cursory glance of the general’s face surprised him again as he realized Hux’s mouth was turned up in amusement, little quick looks over his shoulder at the alpha as if to make sure he knew he was in on the joke. He was teasing him, but it wasn’t mean-spirited. Not at all.

Ren could feel the pleasure radiating off of Hux. Astonishment, and oddly motivation as well. The general was having sudden issues controlling his face, looking away with smirking embarrassment that the aftermath of this… incident was going so well. Ren only cuddled him that much closer, as if Hux had instead accused him of only being a means to an end. He pressed a kiss to a pale shoulder, and dragged his nose over the skin with a shuddered exhale.

The general huffed, purposely-overdramatic, with a look down his body to where Ren’s clothed-leg was possessively over his own, bodies fully entangled in the mess of all their other clothing.

“...you seriously didn’t even fully undress to fuck me?”

“I was impatient,” Ren stated honestly, unapologetic as he turned a cocky smirk on the other man, sensing the pleasure Hux got even in making that statement.

Hux quickly turned his head away again, a genuine smile he was trying to hide as he chastised his co-commander. He was pleased by the desperation to fuck him that those damn leggings represented, no matter how he may try to frame it. “How utterly discourteous of you.”

Ren felt his heart speed up at the theater of what Hux was doing, and again felt charmed by the other man. There was no fighting thinking this was just a fluke. They would do this again. And again. And most certainly again.

Ren spoke words of promise against Hux’s skin, hoping he’d accept him. “I’ll strive to do better next time.”

Hux’s body squeezed Ren’s cock, and the alpha groaned and pressed his head hard into Hux’s shoulder. The back of Hux’s neck grew red, refusing to look at him as he curled into himself, but the pure pleasure radiating off of him was no mistake.

Hux was thrilled at those words, his co-commander taking him by surprise more times today than through their previous years working together. Hux was now privately praising Ren’s idiocy for not knowing he was an omega, and enabling them the fledgling opportunity to have… this. Whatever it might be.

There was time to explore that for what it was later, but just such an opportunity made Ren himself excited; seeing behind the whole General-facade to the person who wanted his hand held while in the throes of passion. There was nothing weak in it, and nothing to be ashamed about wanting it. Ren’s own intentions of a repeat were clear, and Hux was willing to entertain that as soon as they had the time in their schedules.

Hux brought the hand Ren held up to his lips, not quite kissing, but brushing the other man’s knuckles with his lips. The alpha held him closer and pressed a kiss against his neck. His knot had shrunk between them, no longer forcing their closeness, but neither moved, and Ren wanted to savor being inside the general for as long as possible.

“We should… take care of that beacon…” Hux proposed a few moments later, speaking against Ren’s fingers with hidden sentimentality. “Every minute we waste is another minute for the rebels to get further from our reach.”

But Hux didn’t get up. Not immediately, anyways. A little peek into the general’s mind found a bone-deep contentment there, and it warmed something forgotten inside Ren’s chest to know he had the power to make another human being feel that way. He wanted to explore the feeling just as much as the other man did; to find out what, such as in Hux’s fantasy, might potentially be there.

They eventually got up, making their best attempts to clean their garments to something presentable enough to return to the Finalizer with, and Hux set to work on the complicated repairs for the signal that would rally their forces.

Thoughts of continuing this new liason back aboard the Finalizer weren’t just in Ren’s head alone, and it was with that same anticipation that Hux worked towards making the repair in a fraction of the time, the blush on his otherwise smug face certainly not one from concentration.

Ren wore his own smile without pretense, watching the general work.

kofi | ao3

#kylux #kylux fanfic #kylux fanfiction #armitage hux #kylo ren #omega hux #alpha kylo ren #omegaverse #your basic sex pollen/heat trope fun nonsense. Visit the ao3 link for more in-depth tags. i'm a super lazy asshole but they're there haha #poisonjack #my fic #if youre reading the tags here for info honestly just click the ao3 link i am HORRIBLE at trying to be concise about new stuff haha

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belphegor1982 · 4 years

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Twelve years. Twelve years between chapters. But we got there. I can hardly believe it. Anyway, here’s the elusive chapter 17. Hope you enjoy!

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, 16)

Chapter 17: Fight or Flight (on AO3 here; on FFnet here)

Evelyn had rarely been so angry at her son. Alex did have a mischievous streak – often encouraged, to his mother’s dismay, by a father who tended to turn a blind eye to what he judged to be mild shenanigans and an uncle who sometimes still seemed half a child himself – but he hardly ever did anything that warranted more than a stern talking-to.

This time, Evelyn’s anger was proportional to her sudden fear for her child, which took priority over everything else. Alex visibly struggled to explain his actions, in vain.

“But Mum, I’ve been in the pyramid too! I know which way to go, I can help Dad and Uncle Jon while you find the bad guy and stop him!”

“You will do no such thing! This isn’t one of your adventure books, Alex – we know next to nothing about the men inside the pyramid, however I don’t think they’re going to draw the line at harming you. Not to mention the Army of Anubis. They’re set to destroy everyone and everything in their path, including children.”

Evelyn didn’t shout. She was too furious for that. Besides, she usually didn’t need to, and considering the way Izzy was slinking away, looking supremely uncomfortable, this was one of those times.

Unfortunately, Alex had inherited both his parents’ brands of stubbornness, and knew how to dig in his heels when he felt it necessary.

“I know that, Mum. But Lock-Nah and the others didn’t really cut me any slack for being a kid. If it hadn’t been for Dad, he would have killed me in that jungle, and I think he would have really liked it.”

Through her anger, Evelyn felt a stab of retroactive terror and fury at the men who had come so close to depriving her of her only child. Then she forced her mind back to the present and grabbed Alex by the shoulders, resisting the urge to hold him as tightly as she could.

“That’s just it, Alex. You don’t have to place yourself in danger now. You can stay at the camp, with the other children, and,” she added pointedly as Alex opened his mouth to protest, “I can go into that pyramid knowing that you’re safer than if you’d come with me. Have you any idea how worried I’d be for you if you went with me? Or what your father would say if something happened to you while you were down there?”

The argument was a bit of a low blow, but Evelyn was past pulling any punches, as Rick said. Of course Alex could be mature beyond his years. Of course he had endured things no ten-year-old should with remarkable fortitude. Of course – and this broke her heart – he was not unfamiliar with the worst human beings could inflict on fellow men, and even children. But this time he could stay behind, and, if she had anything to say about it, would stay behind.

Izzy’s hesitant voice was loud in the sudden silence.

“Actually. Um. I don’t think we can. Go back to camp, I mean.”

Evelyn’s eyes swivelled from Alex to him, and he pointed at something in the distance.

“Well, we could, but if that means what I think it means, we need to land and get into that pyramid right now.”

Mother and son ran to bend over the rail, disagreement temporarily forgotten.

From ground level came a dot of light that made Evelyn’s eyes water when they met it. After squinting a little in the near darkness, she saw tents lit up by campfires. In the middle, a figure knelt on the ground next to a fire, holding a mirror towards the dirigible.

The signal. Maher and his men had overpowered Hamilton’s men, commando-style, and were telling her it was time to land.

Evelyn closed her eyes and took a shaking breath. They really didn’t have time to go back.

“Alex,” she said, her voice very, very low, “when we get home, you and I are going to have Words.”

Alex swallowed and wisely kept his mouth shut. Visibly his mother’s tone had successfully impressed upon him just How Serious the situation was. Good.

Hamilton’s camp should probably have been bustling, but it was eerily still and silent when Izzy landed Dee next to the dug up top of the Pyramid of Ahm Shere. The men, she found, were huddling together, sitting down in the sand, throwing nervous glances at their captors. Maher’s team was small, but effective.

While Izzy dragged the ramp out of the bowels of the dirigible, Evelyn turned to Alex and knelt down to his eyeline.

“Alex, please promise me you’ll stay here. Please, swear on my life, on your father’s, that you’re going to stay on the dirigible and not wander off.”

Alex still looked conflicted, but eventually nodded solemnly.

“I swear, Mum. I won’t set a foot outside of Dee until you’ve brought back Dad and Uncle Jon.”

His voice rang with absolute certainty, as though Rick and Jonathan were merely busy elsewhere, to be called back to the house for dinner. Not for the first time, her son’s unshakeable faith in her was humbling, and not a little daunting considering what lay ahead. Evelyn wrapped him in her arms and held him close, laying her head against his, her nose in his fine hair. She was almost surprised when Alex hugged her back fiercely, silently, his small hands gripping the back of her blouse so tightly the fabric strained.

She was not surprised, however, when she heard a snuffle and a muffled, “Promise me you won’t die again, Mum.”

Evelyn ran a hand through Alex’s hair; she pulled away to lay a kiss on his crown and rested her forehead against his for a few seconds, until he could give a wobbly smile and pretend he hadn’t noticed she hadn’t promised anything.

As she followed Izzy down the ramp, she looked back only once. Her little boy stood at the rail, firelight behind him, his eyes very bright.

Maher, a tall, willowy man who rarely talked, gave her a gentle smile when he saw her before he went back to watching the prisoners. His lieutenant, Atifa, met her in the centre of the camp, at the foot of the pyramid – or rather, the dozen feet that had been unearthed. She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman, a little older than Evelyn who had met her a few years ago on one of her visits to Ardeth and his family.

“Are you sure you don’t want anyone else coming with you?” she asked Evelyn in a low voice.

Evelyn shook her head. “Thank you, but no. You’re needed here; I’m needed down there.” She pursed her lips and breathed deeply through her nose. Her mission – taking down Hamilton by any means necessary – was clear, and she intended to see it through, but she couldn’t help but shudder, like she’d shuddered two years ago, standing nearly in the same spot. She had lost count of the men she’d had to kill in that jungle to protect her son, her husband, and her friend. This, almost more than the memory of the smell of gunpowder and almost throwing up once she’d lowered her rifle, kept her awake at night. And she let it. Killing people should never be easy, she reasoned. The dead, even nameless, had their way of weighing on the souls of the living, their murderers’ in particular.

Come to think of it, stripping Imhotep of his name in the hope of his never reaching the afterlife had been an exercise in futility. Engraving ‘He Who Shall Not Be Named’ on his sarcophagus hadn’t taken away his sense of self any more than it had stopped her from bringing him back to life.

Atifa didn’t argue the point. She held out her hand, and instead of clasping Evelyn’s, laid it on her arm, just below the shoulder.

The warmth of this simple contact nearly undid her resolve before it strengthened it. Apart from Alex, Evelyn realised, she hadn’t felt the touch of another human being in five days. She allowed herself one second of fierce longing for Rick’s arms around her, or Jonathan’s hand in the crook of her elbow, before smiling at Atifa and returning the gesture.

“Be careful,” said Atifa in a low voice.

“You too,” said Evelyn firmly.

And she entered the pyramid, feeling rather than hearing Izzy’s presence at her back. Even the weapons he had brought didn’t make any sound as he walked.

Evelyn herself held a pistol in her right hand and a sword in her left. The part of her that was Nefertiri scoffed at the imbalance and pointed out that a khopesh in each hand would have been better.

If someone asked her one day how one went about being a reincarnated princess from Ancient Egypt and handling both sets of memories and reflexes, Evelyn would be hard pressed to answer. There were facts she knew that she never learned, movements that came to her instinctively in spite of herself… Nefertiri had died a young woman, but Evelyn had a decade on her, plus a child. It had taken her hours and hours of fighting practice before she could truly find a balance between the warrior and the archaeologist.

Right now, for instance, Nefertiri focused on being as stealthy and silent as possible, while Evelyn’s experience in entering tombs kept her eyes and ears open for anything unusual. Which, admittedly, amounted to everything in a pyramid that appeared to hold a veritable jungle in its entrails.

“Did you know about this?” muttered Izzy, startling her. “Was the place already like that when I picked you up last time?”

“No,” she whispered. “Absolutely not. The oasis must have got sucked into the pyramid when the Scorpion King died.”

A shudder ran through her body. If the Oasis of Ahm Shere was now inside the pyramid… did that mean everything else was, as well?

The jungle around her was hardly silent. Some wildlife must have made it home again, from what she could hear, and somewhere a small stream was babbling merrily and dripping over a wall. Against all odds, there was even a slight breeze on her face. So far, there was no sign of the unearthly silence that had preceded the arrival of the pygmy mummies.

“Right, right. The Scorpion King. Was that the one your boy’s gold bracelet led to, the one who was supposed to rise from the dead and destroy the world?”

Evelyn turned sharply towards Izzy.

“It was, actually, outlandish as it may sound. That bracelet almost killed my son, and the Scorpion King almost killed my husband.”

And a three thousand years old resurrected concubine killed me.

Izzy held out one hand.

“Look, couple of years ago I would’ve said this was nuts, but then a wall of water with a face on it tried to drown us and then the desert bloody ate an oasis and an entire pyramid. I’m willing to go on faith. Just… Lemme adjust a little bit.”

“I know the feeling. But you’re going to have to adjust quickly. We—”

The floor shook, the walls trembled. She and Izzy reached for each other at the same time for balance, and she felt his hand grip her wrist and send a shudder through her arm.

“Wha—”

The world went black, and for a second Evelyn felt a wild, irrational fear that she’d just been killed again. The sensation was nothing like she’d ever felt before. The shadow drove itself into the heart of her, like cold fire or burning ice, leaving her with a gaping void. Suddenly she was grateful to feel the grip of Izzy’s hand. It was the only sensation that registered at all.

The shadow left as quickly as it had come. In its wake was a faint, greenish light, as though the braziers and torches she remembered were there had been lit again, somewhere beyond the foliage.

“What was that!?” gasped Izzy, letting go of her wrist.

Evelyn peered into the half-lit passageway to the trail they were following, then back to the way they had come from, her heart pounding in her chest fit to burst.

“I think… I think that was the Army of Anubis.”

Her next words turned to ash in her mouth.

“We’re too late.”

.⅋.

Tomorrow often was a good day to die, Ardeth reflected. Today never was.

Tomorrow was convenient. It allowed room for steely composure and swagger, admiring stares on the part of the less lucky ones who would not be riding out to war, and maybe just a few seconds of feeling sorry for oneself.

Not so with “today”. Today was the moment death stared you in the face and you hoped, wished and prayed that it would look away, just for you, just for one minute. It was the moment when you tried so very hard, as your enemy stormed upon you, to maintain a little bit of dignity and not let your body betray you with violently shaking legs or a loosening bladder.

A good warrior looked on combat as being ‘today’, because he knew that the true face of war was the face of your comrade in arms and best friend staring at you from the ground with dead eyes, sand mixing with blood in your own wounds and staring at whatever was pouring out of your gut in nauseating terror.

For all his years as a chieftain and a commander of the Medjai, and his experience in battle, Ardeth knew he would never be quite used to war.

He fervently hoped so, anyway.

Spurring his horse to reach the front of the first line, he caught a grim glance from Aziz, chieftain of the Fifth Tribe – a tall, thin man, whose deep-set eyes looked more dour than ever.

His expression did not surprise Ardeth. Aziz was a strategist first, and a warrior second. Although nobody – not even him – had been able to come up with a completely satisfying solution, he had been one of the strongest voices against facing the Army of Anubis a second time with nothing more than a wild hope that things would somehow turn out all right in the pyramid.

But try as he might, he couldn’t think of a better strategy. Having known the Chieftain of the Fifth Tribe for years, Ardeth had a very clear idea of just how much this angered him. In all likelihood, Aziz was now close to seething, and the only thing that stopped him from speaking his mind to his Commander was the men and women standing around them, and, possibly, his own lack of a better plan of action.

But he waited, same as the others, careful not to let his mask of cool self-control slip. Ardeth knew that he felt just the same fraction of mind-boggling terror – voiced by the same instinct of self-preservation that whispered that right here and now was the last place to be.

Once more, though, he silenced it as he surveyed his people.

Most of them had already been there two years ago. He could see the weariness and horror in their eyes that came from knowing exactly what they would face. Some of the younger warriors, those who had never seen a Jackal of Anubis, were throwing worried glances here and there, breathing shallow and fast, but it did not come close to the terror of facing your nightmares for the second time in two years.

The wind changed. Ardeth’s breath caught in his throat.

The stars above were still visible, but their light was cold, as though dimmed. The air suddenly cooled.

In front of them, between them and the pyramid in the distance, dark sand began to move.

Ardeth’s hands tightened around the hilt of his scimitar.

They were coming.

.⅋.

“Kill them.”

“Wait – stop! What!?”

Damn, the guy was fast. In the half-second it had taken Rick to instinctively reach for the gun he knew wasn’t at his side, Ferguson had leaped in front of him and Jonathan, facing his colleagues with a wild-eyed fear in his eyes and his hands held placatingly in front of him.

To their credit, a few agents lowered their guns immediately.

“Robertson, Wyndham, Norton, come on – what does Baine think you are, cold-blooded murderers?” Ferguson’s voice was a little higher than usual, and the sudden edge in it seemed to shake several agents into taking their fingers off the triggers of their guns. “Our job is to protect important and ancient artefacts, not bloody kill people!”

“Thank you for that eloquent address, Ferguson,” said Baine coldly, as though this was just a hitch in the plan, “but I think we’ll do without interruptions now. Gentlemen, proceed.”

From the corner of his eye, Rick glanced at Jonathan, who seemed to be surreptitiously looking for a quick way out. Good. Here’s hoping he’s spotted the little passageway between the two trees and the statue.

Apparently Ferguson hadn’t played his last card.

“Stop – think! Why?”

A burly giant of an agent lowered his gun entirely and asked, frowning, “What d’you mean, ‘why’? It’s a direct order, innit?”

“A direct – oh, for God’s sake –” Ferguson threw up his hands. “What if he ordered you to shoot yourself in the head, you monumental idiot, would you do it?”

“Here, he’s got a point,” a younger agent piped up. “Do we really have to kill them? I mean, this isn’t what I signed up for in the first place.”

“Shut up and do the job at hand, McLean,” came the low, scratchy voice of a much older agent, whose gun was still trained steadily at Rick and Jonathan. “It’s not your place to ask.”

Rick took a minuscule step back. If he could just bump into one of them and help himself to a gun in the process, they might have a chance to get out of this mess alive. What they would do outside against the Army of Anubis was another matter entirely, but right now, the priority was getting the hell away from Baine.

Rick O’Connell always prided himself on his sense of priorities.

The man himself stood silent in the background as voices rose in argument, slowly but definitely reaching inside his jacket for his own gun. Rick took a short moment to appraise the look in Baine’s eyes. The guy was deadly serious.

Meanwhile, even as they clutched their guns, some of the other agents still exchanged uncertain glances at the idea of shooting two fellow human beings in cold blood. Maybe there was something to work with here.

In the blink of an eye, Rick grabbed Ferguson from behind, wrenched his revolver from his holster and shoved the muzzle between his shoulder blades.

The guy stiffened and let out a strangled sound. Rick tried not to wince and whispered, “Sorry, buddy. Just look scared.”

“Not bloody hard, is it!” Ferguson hissed through clenched teeth, as Jonathan inched closer, his face even whiter than it had been five minutes ago.

“Rick, what the hell are you doing?” he whispered angrily. Rick gave an imperceptible shrug.

“Making a gambit. You play poker, you oughta know that.” Then he stared at Baine, hard, trying to make him understand just how deadly serious he was, too.

“You make a move, I kill the guy,” he said as levelly as he could, his heart hammering in his chest. He had played poker before, occasionally with a bad hand, but this was easily the worst hand he’d ever had. “Your call.”

Okay, that got ‘em thinking. They would surely think twice about murdering a fellow agent, someone they’d known for some time, maybe some years. Talk as little as possible, keep your eyes on theirs, make a slow retreat…

“Is it, really, Mister O’Connell?” Baine actually grinned, clearly enjoying the situation. “What makes you think I won’t just shoot him as well? Do you really believe, in that thick American head of yours, that I would let the life of one agent compromise the mission?”

Shit.

Baine raised his gun.

Rick fell back on pure survival instinct and decades-old training. The second before Baine’s finger squeezed the trigger, he dropped to the ground, pulling Ferguson with him. The jungle became a dark green blur as he leaped to his feet and bolted to the door, only risking the shortest glance behind him to check that Jonathan did the same, still keeping a tight hold on Ferguson’s collar with his left hand and on his gun in his right. Leaves, branches, and the occasional chip of stone exploded around them as agent after agent decided to follow the leader after all and shoot.

All things considered, it was a sheer miracle that the three of them were still intact when they finally stopped after what felt like hours of running straight in front of them. Rick made sure of that once he had recovered enough to review his troops.

Jonathan was leaning against the wall for support, ashen-faced and gasping – from retroactive fright, Rick guessed, as well as the actual run – but Ferguson looked worse. His face was an even more alarming shade than his old friend’s, his breaths coming in gasps, gulping and uneven.

The only sound that didn’t come in muffled by the layers of green around them was the same faint gurgle that they’d noticed as they entered the pyramid.

With a bit of luck, they could find the source and follow it upstream back to the entrance at the top.

“All – all right, there, Tom?” Rick heard Jonathan ask uncertainly. When he looked back, Ferguson’s glare was very bright in the half-gloom of the low, small corridor.

“Do I bloody look all right, Jon?” he panted, a bit of colour creeping back into his cheeks. “Those – what a bunch of stupid, mindless – I don’t even – God, I can’t believe that son of a bitch!” he finally exploded with on his face an expression even Rick couldn’t deny was a little bit scary. “When I get me ‘ands on him he’ll be bleedin’ sorry he was born!”

Nobody asked him who ‘he’ was – there was no need.

Thankfully, possibly because of the unsettling hush around them or the stifling damp heat, Ferguson’s fury boiled down to a steady simmer quickly enough, although his dark glower spoke volumes about the fate he reserved for Baine if he was still alive when they got out of there. Rick caught himself thinking it might be kinder for the guy to never see the light of day again.

As for the other agents…

“Orders, they said,” Ferguson muttered as they tiptoed their way up, watching every shadow like hawks. It was almost impossible to see the floor under all the greenery, so they tread very carefully. “Orders. Cretins. That lot wouldn’t recognise common sense if it danced naked in front of them and hit them on the head with a big bloody sign…”

He hadn’t even asked for his gun back. Maybe it was just as well, considering he was still shaking with anger. Rick kept it tucked into his belt, wishing for a lot more than one Browning Hi-Power with 15 rounds for the three of them. A machete would have come in handy, too; they kept getting scuffed and scratched by the ferns and leaves around them. Still, at least they did have a gun, and he could hardly look a gift horse in the mouth.

Too bad they didn’t have a convenient magical spear this time around…

After being surrounded by guards non-stop for days, the total absence of other humans and the relative silence made it tempting to relax a little bit. Rick knew better. He had more than enough experience with people and places trying to kill him to trust this traitorous boxed-in jungle.

Besides, concentrating on his surroundings was a lot more preferable to the alternative, namely what was undoubtedly happening outside the pyramid.

The Army of Anubis, unleashed a second time.

Rick caught himself wondering whether the Warriors actually remembered rising two years ago, fighting the Medjai, then disappearing back into the sands. The Medjai certainly remembered. Ardeth and his people must have followed the trail – which surely meant that they were outside right now, fighting their second worst nightmare again, dying, too, to defend humanity…

At least Ardeth was still alive. Of this he was sure. How, he had no idea, but the gut feeling was there. Funny, really; he had always felt a mixture of wariness and respect for the man, which had turned into a sense of kinship well before the Medjai had pointed out and explained the half-forgotten tattoo on his arm.

Whether Rick O’Connell really had been a Medjai in a former life or not was a moot point. They ‘got’ each other at a slightly different level than anyone else in their extended family. The first few years, Rick had chalked it up to their both being fighters, used to making the hard choices, with an ingrained sense of duty that had nothing to do with traditional military structures. Ardeth had his tribe and the task of guarding the deadly secrets of Egypt; Rick had his family, small as it was, and the deep-seated urge to shield it from harm.

When he had mentioned it to Evy, she hadn’t taken it lightly or laughed, as he might have feared; she had suggested pensively that perhaps the two men had known each other in a previous life.

Rick had smiled at the theory then. But since their adventure at Ahm Shere two years ago he wasn’t so sure.

Now was not the time for philosophical musings, though. Not with a supernatural army probably already decimating the Medjai and a madman down below channelling an Ancient Egyptian god…

“Wait,” Rick said in a low voice. The other two stopped and looked at him curiously. “We can’t just go. Hamilton’s down there commanding the Army of Anubis. We gotta take him down, now.”

Look who’s getting ‘involved’ now. He could almost hear Evy’s sharp voice in his head, telling him ‘I read the book, I woke him up, and I intend to stop him’ all those years ago. If it had been up to him, he would have grabbed her and hightailed it to another continent. Imhotep could be someone else’s problem. But Evelyn Carnahan was principled, opinionated, and in possession of an unerring sense of responsibility; because of that, a stubborn librarian, a reluctant adventurer, a foppish dilettante, and a determined guardian had saved the world.

Oh God, he thought, Evy. Please let Evy and Alex be okay and very, very far from here.

Aw, who was he kidding. If he knew his wife at all, she was at the heart of things right now, doing whatever she could to make things right. Rick amended his half-prayer. Please, honey, take care of yourself. I don’t think I could bear to lose you a second time.

“I’m all for that,” said Jonathan darkly, yanking Rick back to the present, “but how? He practically has his own bloody army.”

“He’s not in command.”

Rick and Jonathan both turned to Ferguson, who was frowning, lost in thought.

“What d’you mean?”

“Remember when I said I went to see the High Priest of Osiris before we left? He said no mortal can claim Anubis’ army.”

“We got that part,” said Rick as patiently as he could, which was not saying much.

“Hang – hang on. He also said that Hamilton’s… that his body and mind would just be a vessel. Without either, the connection would be broken.”

Kill the bad guy, save the world. Sometimes it really was just as simple as it was complicated. At least that tune was familiar.

“Right.” Rick checked the gun again, made sure the clip was full and that sand had not jammed the mechanism. “Let’s go break a connection, then.”

Retracing their steps proved easier than going forward, as they only had to follow the broken fronds and the crushed ferns. The jungle weaved an entire tapestry of sharp smells and small sounds around them: chittering, scurrying, chattering sounds that made all three men jumpy.

Rick walked in front, followed by Ferguson, Jonathan bringing up the rear. Ferguson looked like any city dweller who’d just been dropped into a completely new and hostile environment, while Rick’s apprehension came from experience. Jonathan, he noticed, was especially jittery, the fingers of his left hand twitching every now and then.

“I can’t believe we’re going back down there to a bunch of trigger-happy idiots and one tosspot with delusions of grandeur,” Rick heard him mutter. “I suppose we’ll just go ‘Oh, don’t mind us, just popping round to kill your boss, we won’t be a bother’, and they’ll say ‘By all means, old thing, shoot the daft bastard, we’ll just put the kettle on and pass the biscuits around, don’t mind the flesh-eating scarabs and the angry pygmy mummies’…”

The steady stream of nervous chatter should have driven Rick out of his mind. In other circumstances he would have told Jonathan to can it before he really got the ball rolling. But it was familiar, and thankfully not in the way the jungle rustled all around them, boxed in every direction by walls, ceilings, and a floor you couldn’t see. Besides, for all his bellyaching, Jonathan kept walking on.

The last mumbled sentences made Ferguson’s ears prick up.

“Flesh-eating scarabs? I thought those were only at Hamunaptra!”

“Figure of speech. Wouldn’t put it past the place, though.” Jonathan gave a full-body shudder. “Just what we’d need, more creepy little buggers trying to eat us alive…”

“O-kay,” said Rick, who didn’t like where the conversation was going, “let’s not get sidetracked here. Ahm Shere – pygmy mummies and jackal-headed soldiers from hell. Hamunaptra – flesh-eating scarabs and the Ten Plagues of Egypt. We got enough on our plate without mixing the two, dontcha think?”

Jonathan gave him a somewhat sheepish look that instantly reminded Rick of Alex when he could be bothered to actually act contrite, and Ferguson looked uncertain.

“Did you really get all ten plagues? I mean, that sounds awfully… Biblical.”

“You’d better believe it got Biblical,” Rick muttered. “Locusts, boils, blood everywhere, night at two in the afternoon… Our mummy buddy spared no expense.”

“Lucky we stopped him before the tenth, though.” Jonathan shifted uncomfortably. “‘About midnight I will go throughout Egypt. Every firstborn son in Egypt will die…’ I wasn’t especially keen on seeing whether that pertained to me or not.”

Ferguson’s eyes went round. “That’s right, your mum was Egyptian…” Then he shook his head. “Look at us. Trying to stop a madman from unleashing an army of jackal creatures, talkin’ about mummies and plagues…” He sighed. “I liked it better when me job was pushing paper and trackin’ ancient artefacts.”

Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to our world,” he said in the tone he used to make himself look more impressive. Rick suppressed a snicker.

“Twice in ten years, Jonathan. Just twice. It’s a lot, but I don’t think we—”

He felt it the second before he had finished putting his foot down. The roots and shrubs parted and the floor vanished – he was only able to press the left side of his right foot on a hard surface before slipping. His leg followed his foot, his entire right side followed his leg, and before he knew it, he was hurtling down a steep slope, his body rolling and tumbling against the stone. Fronds and enormous leaf blades slapped and scraped at him along the way; he only managed to slow down when he caught hold of some kind of root as thick as his wrist. In the sudden lull he heard Jonathan shout his name before the root gave out and he was falling again.

Rick only had time to curl into the tightest ball he could before his body hit the ground and shut down.

.⅋.

A battle won without bloodshed was an even sweeter victory, Atifa reflected, gazing at the Westerners sitting in a huddle in the middle of camp. A few of them had tried to resist, fight back, but they had been quickly overwhelmed by either force or the sight of their already captive comrades. In the end, they had lined up to drop their weapons into a pile and resigned themselves to being prisoners.

All the Medjai had to do now was wait, and pray.

Maher was staring at the top of the Pyramid of Ahm Shere when she walked up to him. As usual, he didn’t need to talk to voice his thoughts. The gaze he turned to her was very eloquent.

“I know,” said Atifa in a low voice. “Everybody felt it.”

Relief flashed in her chieftain’s eyes, quickly replaced by a grimly inquisitive expression.

“Yes, I remember.” How could she forget? They had both battled the Army of Anubis before. They had both faced its herald, the darkness that washed over hearts before being deposited on the sand and turning into a many jackal-headed nightmare. Knowing what followed made it even worse than the first time. Knowing their people and their commander would be fighting it again, and being unable to fight side by side… That was torture.

Atifa’s head turned to the desert as though of its own accord. Maher followed her gaze, then lightly touched her shoulder and shook his head.

Maher hardly, if ever, talked. He devised tactics, gave orders, shared the good times and the bad, almost always silently. This was unusual, and a few people sneered at the idea of serving under a man who was, barring a few exceptions, a mute, but he was the best chieftain Atifa could think of serving. What he lacked in words he made up for in observation skills. He was a fount of knowledge about subjects like tracking, covert operations, and, oddly enough, constellations.

And he demonstrated every day that a man could have a kind, unguarded heart and still be a fearsome warrior in his own right. People had tried to test his role as chieftain. People had failed.

Sometimes he read other people’s faces wrong; right now, though, Atifa only needed to look at him to know he had interpreted her reaction correctly.

“I know we can’t help them,” she sighed. “And I know our place is here, guarding the Pyramid and the prisoners. But –”

She was interrupted by a loud voice and turned to see Djedi, one of her men, running up to her.

“—Coming! They’re coming!”

Maher raised his hands. One he used to get the panicked young man to stop and breathe, the other to encourage him to explain.

“The Warriors of Anubis! Wazad saw a detachment breaking from the main army. They’re coming here!”

Absolute fear washed over Atifa. “How many?” she asked, doing her utmost to keep her voice steady.

“Wazad didn’t say!”

Maher’s hand came to rest on Djedi’s shoulder. With his left, he indicated his eyes, and pointed to the direction Djedi had run from.

“Go,” he said, his voice low. “Count. Come back.”

Djedi swallowed hard, nodded, and ran off.

Maher’s face was stone. He strode to the nearest campfire and picked up a flaming stick, then drew a small circle with it. The aftereffects lingered for a second, giving Atifa the impression of a circle of light around the fire.

“We can’t run, can we.”

Maher shook his head.

“Then we make our stand here.”

A grim nod from her chieftain. The panic abated slightly, enough for sombre resolution to settle. Atifa took a long, deep breath, trying not to think that this might be one of her last, and turned to the men and women guarding the Westerners.

“Farid, Intef, Janan! Leave the prisoners. The Warriors are coming. Take two men each and build a barrier of fire around the camp. We’ll end up fighting inside it and probably outside, so make it big enough. Dismantle the tents if you have to, use everything that burns. Quickly, we don’t have much time.”

The camp came alive with focused despair as men and women left their posts to grab torches and fuel for the flaming barricade. From the corner of her eye, Atifa saw the Westerners mutter between each other with mounting animation.

As she struck down a nearby tent, relieved to see that the structure was made out of wood, she heard a voice call in atrocious Arabic, “Excuse me?”

She turned to the group. A dark-haired man was on his feet, his face pale in the firelight.

“Yes?” she said in English. The man appeared relieved, and continued in his own tongue.

“I thought I heard the word ‘warriors’. That didn’t mean the other, er… your compatriots, did it?”

The last word was unfamiliar, but the question was obvious.

“Your leader released the Army of Anubis. Last time it only spread out from the Oasis of Ahm Shere, but now the jackal warriors are coming here to kill us all.”

The Westerner paled even further. “We, er… How can we help?”

Atifa pinned him with her most withering stare.

“‘Help’?”

“Well, we all agreed that Hamilton’s a madman and that he did something really, monumentally stupid.” A couple of angry mutters rose from the back of the group. The man glared in their general direction, then turned back to her. “Most of us agreed, anyway. If we’re going to die, might as well die standing.”

Atifa took two seconds to think. Then she went to Maher and explained the situation in a few short words. Maher nodded curtly, and went back to the barricade to help and wait for Djedi’s news.

The Westerners’ firearms would be useless. They would only barely have enough blades for everyone. Some would probably find themselves armed with only torches.

This was madness. But they needed the numbers.

Atifa went back to the group to find all of them on their feet, some shivering, some resolute, the rest a mix of the two.

“What’s your name?” she asked the self-appointed spokesman.

“O—Owens. Mark Owens.”

“Mark Owens, my name is Atifa, daughter of Amenia, and I will allow you and your men to fight by our side. If anyone tries to betray us, he will be dead before his hand falls.”

Owens gulped, but stood a little taller. “You’re not the enemy. They are.”

“As long as it is clear to everyone. And remember – when this is over, you are still our prisoners.”

“Better a prisoner than a bloody corpse,” said another man behind Owens. Everybody nodded in agreement.

When Djedi and Wazad came running back from their look-out post with the certitude that they were about to be set upon by about two hundred jackal-headed abominations, the combined forces of the Medjai and Hamilton’s men amounted to eighty people. Eighty human beings huddled behind a bulwark of fire, too low, too flimsy to really protect them. Eighty humans who had been fighting each other just hours ago, and stood now shoulder to shoulder, not ready to face the horrors in the dark but standing anyway.

They could hear roaring now. Atifa’s palms were sweaty around the grip of her sword.

In front of them, under the starlight, darkness advanced relentlessly.

.⅋.

“RICK! You’d better not be dead, so help me God I’ll – Rick! For God’s sake, can you hear me?”

Jonathan knew he was yelling, knew he should not be yelling, and was well past caring. Miles and miles, in fact. Rick had disappeared down some kind of incline so steep it was almost a well, and he had no idea how deep the drop was or how hard the landing had been. This, to him, more than justified screaming his throat raw, prudence be damned.

That bloody pyramid had already been the death of his sister; they had only got her back on a fluke. There was, simply put, no way in hell it would claim his brother-in-law.

Tom dropped to a crouch beside him, his face pale, and laid a hand on his shoulder that Jonathan barely felt.

“Jon – Jon, please, be quiet, mate – Baine and his guys must be lookin’ for us, you’re gonna draw them ‘ere –”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” said Jonathan, still bent over the drop trying to catch sight of how far it went and where the bottom was. “They might have rope with them. Do you have rope? Here, let me see your bag.”

He was aware that he was babbling, that his hands were shaking as he ripped Tom’s rucksack from his shoulders to rummage through its contents, and that he couldn’t seem to get his voice down to a normal pitch. It just didn’t seem very important right now.

Rick couldn’t be dead, he just couldn’t be. He needed to save the world, he needed to go back to Evy and Alex once the dust settled, to butt heads with his irresponsible reprobate of a brother-in-law, to be tired and battered and still make low-key jokes about mummies and big bugs and the end of the world…

Tom grabbed Jonathan’s arm and snapped “Jon, shut up and listen”, making Jonathan realise two things at the same time. One, he’d actually been muttering his train of thought under his breath instead of keeping it safely in his head. And two, in the sudden silence and stillness a small sound rose from the bottom of the precipice.

“Ow.”

The panic rushed out of Jonathan in a flash, leaving him light-headed and shivering. He fell back on his arse in a graceless heap of limbs, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

“Rick?”

“…Yeah?”

“Are you all right?”

“Kinda.”

“Please elaborate?”

There was a silence, then a distant rustle.

“Feels like I got dragged behind a car for a mile or two. I’m okay, though, considering. No broken bones or anything.”

“Can you stand?”

“Hell, I can even walk. Ow.”

Rick’s voice seemed to come from far away, but it sounded fairly strong and no less articulated than usual. When Jonathan opened his eyes again and crept towards the drop, he could make out a light-coloured blur between the criss-crossing vines and lianas. The wall Rick had fallen along to wasn’t quite vertical, but it was sheer enough to make climbing back up next to impossible, especially without a rope.

“Think we could climb down?” asked Tom, sounding doubtful. Rick’s answer was sharp and immediate.

“Don’t even try. Those vines can’t hold worth a damn. You’d break your neck.”

“Well,” Jonathan pointed out in his most reasonable voice, which had nothing on Evy’s but still worked occasionally, “we’ll just have to find a way down, then, won’t we?”

“No you won’t. I’m coming up. I can see stairs over there.”

“I don’t, so I highly doubt yours lead up to here.”

“They gotta lead somewhere. This place looks kinda familiar, I think I know where to go.”

“Hopefully not into another death trap, old boy. Do you have any idea what Evy would say if I made it out of that bloody pyramid and you didn’t?”

“Jonathan. Just…” Silence. Jonathan wondered if Rick had noticed the way his voice had pitched up near the end of the sentence. With his luck, he probably had. Hence the tone – a mixture of ‘shut up’ and ‘calm down’. “You do remember I still have the gun, right?”

“…Yes?” Jonathan said uncertainly. “And?”

“So you two are gonna hunker down where it’s safe and not attract the attention of the other guys with guns till I can come up and even the odds a little.”

“That’s your plan, is it?”

“Yup.”

Jonathan was torn. On one hand, the idea of staying put in relative safety had a lot of appeal. On the other, it meant keeping the group separated, and he knew from experience that it could lead to all sorts of bad things.

“Your plan,” he declared, mostly for the sake of argument, “is terrible.”

“Maybe. But that’s what we’re gonna do.”

Well, nothing for it I suppose.

“Watch your footing while you’re down there?”

After eleven years, Jonathan didn’t even need to see Rick to know when he was being glared at.

“Just stay out of trouble,” Rick said, and then the light blur disappeared and silence descended once more.

After a while, he heard a shuffle behind him. Tom held his rucksack in one hand, picking up his things with the other.

“You made a right mess of my bag,” he said quietly, a small smile in his voice. Jonathan ran a hand over his face and shuffled closer, picking up a notebook.

“Yes, sorry about that. I – well. I was in a bit of a hurry.”

Tom shot him a wry look, but didn’t comment.

In his frantic search for rope, Jonathan hadn’t really looked at the contents of the bag properly. What he found lying around and handed back to Tom to put away ended up being a pencil bag, a toolkit, two clips of ammunition for the gun currently in Rick’s possession, a half-empty flask of water, a meagre first-aid kit, and two small notebooks.

“You know,” he said, “maybe it comes from having a brother-in-law who can’t travel anywhere without packing half an arsenal, but I think you’re falling a little short of the mark regarding weaponry.”

Tom made a face.

“I don’t know what you think me job is, Jon, but I’m not some kind of gunslinger. Don’t get me wrong, I can shoot, but that’s not what I signed up for.” He sighed. “Then again, what I signed up for wasn’t really what I signed up for, so…”

Jonathan paused, toolkit in hand.

“Well, what did you sign up for, then?”

“Protecting antiques,” Tom replied firmly. “Only, you know, not stealing them from museums. And pretending I’m an idiot as a cover.”

“Only pretending?”

“Oh, do shut up,” grumbled Tom as Jonathan grinned. “I fooled you, didn’t I?”

Jonathan felt his grin slip several notches. A lot had happened since that late afternoon in Giza when his friend had pointed a gun at him and stopped being ‘Tommy’. ‘Tommy’ was a warm memory of loud laughter, daring escapes, bright eyes over pints clinking in the comfortable darkness of a well-loved pub. Tom, on the other hand, was a fairly decent man chucked into a complex situation, who had a wife he loved dearly but lied to about his job, who had not wanted to bring harm to an old friend but had done so anyway.

Who had also put himself between Jonathan and a gun twice, and almost got killed for it.

A lot had happened, indeed, but the reminder was still anything but innocuous. It poked at certain areas that were still somewhat tender.

Tom’s look was apologetic this time.

“Bit too soon?”

“Bit too soon.” A thought occurred, and Jonathan allowed his smile to resurface, cheekily, if a little gingerly still. “You know you didn’t fool Evy for a second, though. She had the measure of you, right enough.”

“Smart woman.”

“You have no idea.”

Into the bag the toolkit went, and Tom picked up the rucksack. It still looked mostly empty despite everything that had gone into it.

The few steps between the edge of whatever it was Rick had fallen into and a safer spot near an archway were made in silence. Which was how they heard the footfall.

It wasn’t Rick. That much was obvious. Unless he had picked up an escort along the way.

Jonathan pushed Tom against a wall and flattened himself next to him. Maybe, if they didn’t breathe or think too loudly, the men walking along the wall wouldn’t cross the doorway. Maybe they wouldn’t see them. Maybe…

Jonathan and Tom looked at each other, drew their hands back in unison, and drove their fists into the first faces that came their way.

Two men fell to the floor, groaning, while a third sprang back, raising his hands frantically.

“Whoa, whoa, stop! We were looking for you!”

“Of course you were,” spat Tom, massaging his knuckles. Jonathan knew exactly how he felt. The shock of colliding with his opponent’s skull had made his entire forearm ring like a bell for half a minute. Surely boxing hadn’t hurt that much when he was a lad. “Baine’s orders were clear, weren’t they?”

“But we’re not acting on Baine’s orders,” muttered one of the men on the ground, rubbing his jaw. “He’s a thug. And Hamilton’s off his bloody nut.”

“Come to your senses, have you?” Jonathan quipped. “That couldn’t have happened earlier, before Hamilton’s little light show and especially before you tried to murder us and my brother-in-law?”

The man who was still standing mumbled something Jonathan didn’t catch, then asked, “Where is the American anyway?”

“He’ll be joining us shortly. What are you doing here, if you changed your minds about killing us?”

The tall, broad-shouldered man Tom had punched was the last to pick himself up from the floor. “Like Vaughn said, we were looking for you.”

“We, er,” said Vaughn meekly, “thought you might know a way out of this death trap.”

Tom’s eyes grew cynical. “Of course. Turn right, then straight up until the supernatural army from hell.”

“And that’s if you escape the pygmy mummies,” Jonathan added smugly, crossing his arms. “But considering the Army of Anubis is your boss’ fault, you might want to do something about that first.”

Two of the three men looked at each other uncertainly. The burly one scoffed. “Pygmy mummies. You must really think we’re some sort of—”

“I don’t have to think, old boy, I know you’re the worst sort of, well, sort. But I’m not pulling your leg.”

“He’s really not, Norton,” said Tom, shaking his head. “Norton, Vaughn, Wyndham,” he added, turning to Jonathan and pointing at each of them in turn. “Maybe not the biggest pillocks I’ve ever worked with after all, but they come close. Are you even armed?”

“Of course we are!” protested Wyndham, opening his bag and taking out a stick of dynamite. “Look, we have explosives, and guns, and –”

“What a splendid idea. How about you lend us a couple?”

Wyndham looked at Jonathan like he had sprouted a second head.

“Why would we want to give you weapons?”

“Because somebody’s going to have to do something about bloody Hamilton and Anubis’ bloody army,” Jonathan snapped, nerves already frayed and nearing the end of their tether. “And frankly, the fact that I’m going to have to be a part of it should tell you just how bollocksed the whole situation is!”

Either his little tirade hit its mark, or the three agents simply didn’t want to get punched again. Jonathan found himself in possession of a handgun similar to the one Rick had taken from Tom, while Tom checked the clip of his own borrowed gun. Norton appeared to be sulking.

Wyndham slunk up to Jonathan, dynamite stick still in hand. “Er… When you said ‘pygmy mummies’… You didn’t mean the chaps in the Congo, did you?”

“Absolutely not. I mean eldritch little creatures about knee-high with sharp teeth and knives who delight in disembowelling people. They make spiffy shrunken heads, too, I’ve seen them.”

“Jon, stop scarin’ the kids,” said Tom. He was a few feet away, investigating a pile of something that must have been stone before it got covered in gunk. “Especially Wyndham here. He’s a bit trigger-happy.”

“I am not!” protested Wyndham.

“Oh yeah? You were one of the first to shoot at me not an hour ago, you little –”

Jonathan shrugged. “He asked.”

Norton said nothing, but looked uncomfortable. Vaughn glanced at Jonathan uncertainly and went to sit not far from Tom with a thoughtful look on his face. The three agents seemed to have absolutely no idea what to do next. Tom appeared to have no such problem: he was digging into the half-solid muck, sleeves rolled up on his arms, trying to extract what looked to be a statuette of a scorpion and a big tablet out of the sludge.

There was a lull in the conversation, followed by somewhat awkward silence. Jonathan, who had no patience for awkward silences, was racking his mind for something to do to pass the time until Rick found them when he realised his heart was going a mile a minute. It was pounding against his ribcage, making him almost sick to his stomach, as though angry that his brain wasn’t catching up.

But what…

When it finally hit him, it hit him like a locomotive going on full speed ahead. The pyramid was silent. Deadly silent. The little sounds that came from unseen bugs and critters had stopped. And this could only mean one thing.

Jonathan’s mouth went dry.

“Tom?”

Tom looked up, puzzled and somewhat apprehensive.

“Yeah?”

A sense of déjà vu struck Jonathan, whose brain helpfully provided him with the memory of him and Tom a few days ago, seconds before the Medjai attack on the camp, saying the same two words, down to the inflections.

“They’re coming.”

A susurrus ran through the plants around them, a hissing whisper that seemed to carry small cackling laughter with it. Jonathan felt the small hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He clutched his gun and glanced wildly around.

The movement got the agents’ attention. Only then did they notice the sounds.

“Here,” said Norton, striding towards the next room, “what’s th—”

A spear whistled through the air and skewered his forehead. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Jonathan screamed. So did Wyndham, half a second later. Vaughn and Tom scrambled up, spouting a mix of curses and inarticulate yelling.

“Fall back! Fall back!” Vaughn shouted. Wyndham ran up to him and Tom, wild-eyed, waving his ingot of dynamite like a torch.

“Where to!?” he wailed. The hissing seemed to come from all directions, bouncing from the walls, surrounding them, taunting them. It seemed to drill into Jonathan’s skull, driving out all coherent thought. He kept pointing his gun at the rustling ferns, searching desperately for something to shoot.

Behind him, Tom yelled, “Don’t, you bloody idiot –”

Jonathan whirled round to see Tom, still cradling his big tablet against him with his left arm, reach for Wyndham with the hand that also held his gun, while Vaughn’s jaw dropped open at the sight of the still-open lighter in Wyndham’s hand.

The tableau burned itself crystal-clear on Jonathan’s retinas just before the dynamite exploded.

It took a while for Jonathan to realise he hadn’t, in fact, lost consciousness. The silence had been replaced with a shrill, high-pitched sound, like some sort of alarm going off much too late. The ferns and leaves were no longer rustling. In fact, when he opened his eyes, blinking a few times to drive away the mist, the plants were all gone. In their place was a mountain of broken bricks and big chunks of what had been a wall of gold and stone.

The plants were gone… and so were the four people who had been in the chamber with him.

Jonathan’s mouth opened and closed a few times before his brain sparked into life again. When it did, he took a deep breath and shouted, “TOM!”

“Shush, don’t, I’m right here,” muttered a very welcome voice from the other side of the wall. “Are you all right? Are they gone?”

The emphasis on ‘they’ puzzled Jonathan for all of four seconds before the memories of a couple of minutes ago stampeded back through his brain with the subtlety of a herd of panicked camels. He scrambled up, swaying and seeing stars from the head rush, and clutched the gun he had picked up without even thinking.

Nothing.

The sounds he had come to associate with the in-pyramid jungle were back as though they never stopped. There was no sniggering, no hissing, no susurrus. Only the usual rustling and skittering that meant normal jungle activity. For a given value of ‘normal’, of course.

“Sounds like it,” he said uncertainly, putting the gun in his belt. “Do you hear anything from your side?”

“Only Wyndham’s teeth chattering. He had a bit of a scare.” Tom’s voice had the biting, icy quality it only got when he was badly rattled. “Which should be a lesson to him in the future – if he has a future, considering he’s so terminally stupid as to light a dynamite stick in confined spaces with other people close by!”

“I am not!” protested Wyndham, more weakly than the first time. In the background, Vaughn groaned.

“Bloody hell, Norton…”

The reminder was sobering. The image of the poor bastard with a spear through his head remained seared in Jonathan’s mind whether his eyes were open or closed. At least it had been instantaneous and presumably painless.

“I’m so sorry, Vaughn,” he heard Tom say quietly. Wyndham gave a faint whimper.

There was a silence, during which Jonathan – mostly for something to do with his hands – walked up to the cave-in and looked for rocks to move to take the wall down. Or at least make a big enough hole in it for a man to go through.

“Where do you think those creatures went?” asked Tom after a while. Jonathan kept inspecting the stones.

“As far away from us as possible, hopefully. What was that thing I saw you mucking about with?”

“I have no idea. I think it’s an incantation of sorts, probably for the Scorpion King? I can only make out a few hieroglyphs. It says… hang on… Followers of the Sunset King – no, wait, of the ruler of the West… something something on their side… It’s ‘ard to tell underneath that crust.”

The Scorpion King was dead, and so was Imhotep, yet Jonathan couldn’t help a shudder. “Would you mind not reading it aloud? Just in case. We really don’t need another supernatural menace after us.”

Behind the rock wall, Tom chuckled.

“You didn’t used to be superstitious.”

“I didn’t used to see cursed mummies come back to life every ten years.”

“Fair point.” A pause. “Jon? Can I ask—”

Jonathan never knew what Tom meant to ask him. He was interrupted by a hair-raising scream that sounded like Wyndham and an awful noise that didn’t sound like it could – or should – ever come from a human being but probably came from Vaughn.

From then on, it was pandemonium.

“Where are they…?”

“Tom, what’s—”

“DOWN!”

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod—”

“Bloody hell –”

“Ferguson! They’re—”

“Oh f—Run!”

“TOM!” Jonathan clawed at the wall, no longer paying attention to which stones he should take down first, completely beside himself with panic and worry. The only thing on his mind was making his way through the cave-in to get to Tom. What else might make its way across didn’t even occur to him. He barely registered a rock falling on his instep.

And then, all of a sudden, there was nothing. The only sound he was aware of was his own blood hammering against his eardrums. Around him, the jungle kept breathing, chattering, living. Of Tom and the other two agents, there was no trace.

“Tom? Are you… Tom, bloody answer me, please.”

Jonathan hardly dared to breathe. His heart had jumped up into his throat, blocking all sound, making his voice come out strangled.

“Tom, I think it’s safe to come out now. They’re gone. …Tom?”

Why wouldn’t the bloody rocks come down already!

“Tom, for God’s sake!”

Only silence answered him.

“Tom? …Tommy?”

.⅋.

Notes:

1) I can hardly believe believe it took 178 pages and almost 111,000 words before this story passed the Bechdel Test, and barely at that. I’m glad it did, though :o)

2) The further this chapter got for eleven years was Ardeth’s part (which was supposed to open the chapter) and 1,200 words of Rick’s, Jonathan’s and Tom’s scene. Hopefully the transition between 26 years old writer Bel and 37 years old writer Bel is seamless. (The rewrites helped.)

3) I am sorry about that last scene and you are free to yell as much as you like as long as it’s inarticulate shouting and not actual insults.

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

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crqstalite · 5 years

Note

❝ if you wanna talk, i’m here. ❞ or ❝ you’re my favorite person in the world. ❞

so! this was actually supposed to be written for someone else (who i have no idea) but i remember thinking that it was supposed to be for someone else not participating in shadow of the sith. it wasn’t supposed to be any of the outlanders, but it ended up being my mom!quizzy mierrio. because of the ending part, it’s considered part of shadow of the sith, but i don’t know where yet :/

either way! enjoy. a for angst.

written : 12.14.19. words: 3,004.

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mierrio likes to be alone. she enjoys it much more than having to spend time with someone, talking about obscure topics or worse, in pure, uncomfortable silence. something that often can be avoided by seeming as threatening as possible, or shocking someone into oblivion.

both of which, are her strong suits.

but sometimes, simply ignoring the problem or throwing lightning at it doesn't always work. sometimes her body is so exhausted she doesn't want to get out of bed in the morning, or the power that always flows through her bloodstream has suddenly cut off, and she's a shell of the sith she used to be. that scares her more than she even knew.

she's worn out. hair plastered to her face as she wakes up and tries to push herself out of bed, sadly finding the other side empty. it's cold.

nikky hasn't been here for a while.

mierrio can remember the first time they met. when she was still a budding acolyte doing at-the-time obscure tasks for her absolute insane master. a grin crosses her face, when she kept her hair boyishly short and actually wore sith robes. her still uncorrupted features, save for her golden eyes that had quickly replaced her green ones.

how the first time she'd seen him, she hadn't been intimidated. mierrio had barely been more than a child at the time, a measly twenty years old when her eyes first landed on the man. khem had been more than skeptical to leave her with him, even if he didn't directly show it. maybe it was because of her jaded personality or lack of baby face, andronikos didn't ever once comment on her age. in fact, even possessed an attraction to her that she'd quickly returned.

they didn't ever talk about her age. not until they'd been lazing around in the cockpit after her ascension to the dark council. admitting she didn't meet most legal drinking age policies until three days earlier (that being her birthday).

"wait," he sat up straighter, jostling her from her position stretched across his lap, "you're only twenty one?"

"yes?" she raises an eyebrow, as if it were common knowledge, "andronikos, how old did you think i was?"

"at least in your late twenties..." he admits quietly. maybe she hadn't been so evident in just how old she was. it wasn't like she went around telling that many people the year she had been born into the galaxy (or a hellhole depending on how she looked at it), "you never did tell me your birthday until the day of, sith."

"mmhmm. is there a problem?" she asks, dangling her legs over the edge of the captain's chair. he's uneasy. if andronikos is one thing, he's an open book through the force. he hides his true emotions behind a mask, but something always seeps through up top, and right now he's...

nervous. frightened. confused. usually he was a lot more happy to be with her, but nothing says he's excited to have his sith over his lap right at that moment, "how old are you?" she asks jokingly.

he's quiet for a moment, maybe formulating his next response. his hold on her isn't as tight anymore, so she has to actually lean against him instead of being able to look up at him without the arm rest stabbing her in the back. his heart is faster than usual, something she'd picked up on when she invited him to stay a night in her quarters instead of the crew cabin.

she liked just listening to him breathe in the ungodly hours of the night. it was nearly comforting when nightmares kept her up, and when andronikos did realize, he tried to stay up with her but she often fibbed and told him they'd gone away and to get some rest. they never really did.

"nikky?" she asks. it's been an uncomfortable amount of time without him answering such a simple question, "did my pirate forget his own age?"

"doesn't matter." he says eventually, his arm snaking around her waist to pull her closer again. peace has momentarily been restored, but she is curious, if not also suspicious. what does this mean, avoiding the topic entirely?

if mierrio vhella kallig was one thing, it was always some form of suspicious. and observant, if she were being generous. she had to be, being a slave and then an acolyte with an overseer who intended to kill her indirectly. and now that the topic has been brought up, she's not sure she just wants it to die. the few things she does know about andronikos are far and few in between, other than that he's been around the galaxy a few times.

he goes in to kiss her, but at the last second, she decides she wants answers, "how old are you, nikky?"

"still on that, sith?" he asks. she nods, a childish pout on her face. he sighs, already giving up to her. "i'm thirty-seven." he says defeatedly.

she pauses, frozen in between saying something else and registering his answer. on one hand, he has admitted to his age, which is finally something else she knows. but the disappointed look on his face also says exactly what she's thinking on the inside as well.

he's sixteen years older than she is.

does he think this changes things? that she'll leave just because a measly decade and a half seperates them in age?

"i get it. you tied yourself down to someone much older than you. heh, little disappointed huh?" he asks dejectedly, as she shifts herself to look at him directly, "there are plenty more fish in the sea."

she kisses him hard, both palms on either side of her face. he looks a little more satisfied, his lips painted with the red of her lipstick, "yes, but i happen to like the fish i caught. maybe he's a little older, but maybe fish age like fine wine."

he chuckles at her good-natured attempt to make him feel better, "you're my favorite person in the entire galaxy, andronikos revel. don't you ever forget that."

"whatever you say, miss mierrio kallig."

later she realizes just how stupid that sounded. wine aged for years. fish had a lifespan of two decades, if that.

she would love him forever.

mierrio also isn't a child anymore, as the pain in her back reminds her. she's not twenty one, she's twenty five. she figures she's a little undeserving of the pain though, she's technically still in the prime of her life.

well, putting it through hell and back didn't really help either, she thinks as she frowns.

though it seems so little changed, the scars that marr her pale skin are nearly a map to everything she's been through. almost having her body taken by a wayward master, nearly losing her body to force ghosts, her final fight with thanaton. among other things, fighting animals in the jungles of dromound kaas, the occasional duel with her acolytes.

the way her body filled out after her first pregnancy.

she'd always been skinny, to the point she thought she'd look like a grade schooler until the day she died. but maybe her body had finally kicked into high gear after it realized it was creating life instead of taking it. her breasts were the first, then it slowly spread over her body until she was self-conscious of putting on so much weight.

it's hard to get used to. the way most clothes and more importantly, armor don't fit the same way anymore is frustrating. her favorite armor has since gone unused because she's too wide in some places now. and even worse, she had been confined to their apartment for the last five months of being pregnant.

the rumors had only been blown out of proportion when she got back. the gossip was just childish at that point, but one that always struck hard was always the talk of ronin. someone had seen her out with him and andronikos, they must have, and jumped to conclusions. before the baby could even form his own words, people already had an opinion of him he had no control over.

she stayed in the apartment for months afterwards just because she was so embarassed. he was her baby, wasn't he? no matter how he came to her care, he was ronin revel, just as she was mierrio revel. the three of them weren't related by blood, but she felt closer to them than anyone she'd ever met before. looking at the baby twi'lek taking his first steps across the fury made her proud. that was her son, their son. screw what the others said.

she fell pregnant just after he turned three.

it wasn't as if she and andronikos had actively been trying for a baby, after so many years of being married and even before she hadn't been able to carry. to say the least, it was a joyous moment for those who'd previously inhabited the titan. corsha had been a turning point for everyone, she and andronikos had gained a family. he had his sky princess.

but something was just...off. nothing felt right anymore. maybe she was able to keep up with those on the council, but that didn't mean she still didn't feel so absolutely out of place. those on the council were decades upon decades older than her, and most didn't have successors or children. she was twenty-five, with two young children with targets on their back before they were even ten.

andronikos could lie, but not for forever. he was a pirate before, and though he'd given himself to her, that was always him. he didn't leave without her and their kids now, but there was always that wistful look in his eyes as he was in the captain's chair of the titan. she'd made him a father at thirty nine, and he was forty one now. if he hadn't had any when he was younger, why would he stick around now?

standing in front of the mirror, she can remember when getting up late meant finding one of andronikos' oversized shirts and trying to surprise him wherever he'd gotten off to, back when they lived on the titan it meant round two in the cockpit. but these days it meant trying to pull her hair back (she should really cut it again) and hoping to find one of her own shirts and checking on her kids. there wasn't time to laze around and get nothing done for days at a time anymore.

she looks tired. there are bags under eyes and some dark strands hang in front of her face. she's sore in a lot of places, and mierrio wishes it were for a different reason than exhaustion. eventually deciding on a loose shirt and leggings, she leaves the master bedroom to wander into the living room. it's still dark, so either it's been raining all morning or it's simply early. passing by a chrono, she finds it's a mixture of both. it's earlier than she usually wakes up (makes sense why she's still unexplainably exhausted), but it's also dark. the rain is pattering at the window, and it's soothing to be back on dromound kaas. she would've raised ronin here, had she had the funds for a home at that point in time.

"nikky?" she whispers, afraid he's hiding from her and planning to scare her. it wouldn't be the first time. without an answer, she steps closer to the couch.

a warm smile etches itself across her face. ronin is lying against his father, drool rolling down his face. corsha is all bundled up in a pink blanket in andronikos' arms, cheeks a rosy color she'd never been able to attain herself. a smattering of fluffy brown hair covers her skull, and she sleeps on peacefully.

she's perfectly a mix of her and andronikos. darker skin than hers, but tan enough to be a few shades lighter than her father. she doesn't have the same color hair than either of them, which was a surprise, but she's beautiful. her deep brown-green eyes are truly mesmirizing.

but his brown eyes have found her, and without even saying a word he's able to slip ronin off his shoulder and laying against the armrest of the sofa. in less than a second, corsha is recradled in his arms and he's up, leading her towards the kitchen, "good morning." he says.

"good morning to you too." she whispers, careful not to wake her daughter. though, the last year had proven the girl could sleep through a storm and not even stir, "why are you up so early?"

"princess was fussing earlier, so i took her out of our room before you woke up. ronin must've heard, so he got up too. we all fell asleep." he admits, putting his free arm around her, "heard you when he came by. figured the kid would feel better if he weren't lying upright when he woke up."

"oh." is all she can say, snuggling into her husband as he leans against the counter. he's so considerate, even if the rugged pirate look is what comes off first. his being a father has changed him, but maybe it's for the better. he's gotten extremely protective when he's out in the field with her now too.

"somethin' on your mind, sith?" he asks, and she's surprised he's caught on so fast. maybe he can hear her heartbeat as much as she can hear his, "you've been a little off lately."

"it's nothing. really." she says, just a tad too quiet for him not to suspect. if andronikos revel was good at one thing, it was gauging her reaction to just about anything, and she'd made it too obvious that everything was bothering her.

"sure."

a pause.

"just know you can always talk to me, mier." he says, "nothin's changed about that."

"i know." she whispers, "i've always known."

the silence isn't comfortable anymore. in fact, it's suffocating. the few people that even know about some of her true struggles don't even spend all that much time with her. ezridivia was halfway across the galaxy now, and tri'ama (mellena, apparently) didn't bother ever spending time with her these days (she didn't before, but after the debacle of the revanites on rakata prime, she thought the woman would at least visit). she offered good advice, but didn't relate with her as much. she wasn't married anymore, and spent most of her time gallavanting across the galaxy with the barsen'thor the jedi order (what had happened to that woman?).

why is it so hard to tell him about what's hurting her? because so much of her insecurities surround his hypothetical thoughts about their situation? how he really feels about everything?

how she's afraid one day he's going to fly off and leave her with corsha and ronin?

she grew up without a family. to make her own children do the same?

it would destroy her.

"i'm afraid one day i'm going to wake up without you. i'm afraid you're going to run again and i'm going to be alone again." she thinks, unable to even look at him before he picks up her chin, tilting it upwards to face him. he has a look of concern painted across his features.

"you're what?" he says incredulously, as if it's the biggest announcement of the millenia.

had she said that out loud? "it's not a big deal, andronikos. i'm just being childish."

"i'm not leavin' you. or the kids." he says firmly, "i'm not going anywhere, mier. i'd rather die first."

she's quiet for a moment. he's serious, something he typically was whenever it came to her or their small family. it isn't enough to get her to speak up, to say anything about how she feels. but maybe he understands that, because he doesn't press for information. he kisses her instead, "i wouldn't leave the one person that's the most important to me, sith."

"darth nox?" someone asks, as she adjusts where her saber hangs on her hip. ronin is prim and proper today, looking rather handsome in his youth corps uniform. even at twelve he's tall and lanky, at 5"6. she quickly puts the native flower in corsha's hair, her nine year old taking after her father and being rather fussy about being all dressed up for an outing, "the commander is landing. empress acina requests your presence at once."

"thank you." she thanks the nameless soldier as both children are herded off. she's promised them she'd take them out after meeting with the commander, so she's gone and hired someone to look after them for the time being. hopefully corsha doesn't become frustrated and begin practicing on the soldier. primping herself as she hurries along the black and red corridors, she tucks a stray hair behind her ear. it's lighter than usual, after she'd hacked off twelve inches or so. she'd gone for a less special hairstyle, planning a speeder ride in the jungle afterwards. one long braid down her back and a high collared robe, she could play responsible and imposing darth for a few hours and then get back to being what she did best - being a mom.

"empress." she nods, taking her place next to the woman. she acknowledges her as well, and she tries not to look around the throne room too much. it's been a long while since she was in the citadel, so much has changed.

she still wonders if this is where andronikos came first after zakuul took over.

"commander." acina's voice snaps her out of her thoughts, and her eyes widen once she realizes just who the commander is. other than the occasional news report, she's never taken the alliance very seriously. but flanked by two others she doesn't know, tri'ama amarillis-quinn has arrived, "welcome back to dromound kaas."

"acina," she nods in greeting, before turning to mierrio in well masked shock, "nox. it's been a while."

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organized-decay · 5 years

Text

The Road Goat

Title: The Road Goat

Edited, originally posted as a twitter thread: link

Read on ao3

"I dunno," X mumbles, the uncertainty in her voice as obvious as a grasshopper you see on your brightly lit screen at 3am on a humid August night. "I'm always scared when in driver's seat. I mean, what if we get hit?"

We stand in front of my grandfather’s car, a vehicle that remembered the times of old Eastern Bloc and that seems to have been born already old without ever experiencing the joys of childhood, which is the very basis of the relationship between the two of us. It has a bumper sticker on the back window with a cartoon infant smiling at anyone who looked at it. In red letters a menacing print announces to the world that “there’s babies on the deck”.

I look at X in all of her 5 feet tall glory (nearly 3 inches of which were thanks to her wild curls, which I always decided safest not to point out), who looks like an exceptionally bored elementary-schooler. I think “babies indeed”.

I nod sagely, because my blown up Capricorn ego won't allow me for a regular nod. "It's ok, I can sit there instead," I say, with some level of condescending, though not enough to alarm the other speaker, something I’ve mastered through past 20 years of being a Capricorn.

X looks at me weird. "But you can't drive?"

"It's okay," I repeat. "We will be fine, I tried for a bike license once.”

I don’t mention that I didn’t pass but it’s a minor detail anyway.

We enter the car - an old, red fiat 180p, passed through two generations of Nowak’s between various uncles and cousins in what is probably the saddest game of inter-family hot potato known in so far recorded history.

I go to the driver's seat, X seats in the back. There's wires tied to the wheel which she holds in her hands clad in hot pink fingerless gloves. There's a third wire tied to the gear stick and connected with her leg. The pedals are my one and only domain and there's a letter written on the gum of my shoes with glittery blue and red gel pens so I know which one to press at any given moment. It took us all of ten minutes to construct this weird mechanical puppet and we test it for all of 30 seconds before we get bored, deem it good enough and decide to go.

I start the car. It takes me three tries but the rumble of the engine once I manage to turn it on is more gratifying than eating a whole sub sandwich without spilling the excess lettuce on the floor. Internally, I triumph. My hands rest lightly on the steering wheel to avoid suspicion, but it's X that leads us out of the driveway and onto the road.

The first half an hour goes without a hitch. I honk at a truck while waiting for the green light on the crossing to the beat of Everybody backstreet's back, but the light changes to green just as the driver leaves his vehicle with clear intentions to beat me up. Or congratulate me on my sense of rhythm. With his fists.

As we leave the crossing I cheer at my luck, though there is some disappointment mixed into it. The prospect of a fistfight on a busy street was something that appealed to me and filled me with childlike excitement ever since I watched that one Dexter episode with Action Hank where Dexter grew a beard. Alas, me and X continue our journey fistfight-less.

We leave the town with little issues, as per X’s request I don’t honk at truck drivers or any other drivers for that matter anymore. In addition, nobody so far seems to realize that my hands are merely a prop for our intricate man-steered wire system, that X is the true puppeteer of our little car-shaped circus du soleil, or that I don't even have a bicycle card. We look just like every other pair of young adults if one of them looked more like a preschooler than someone over 20 and if anyone in these parts owned a red fiat 180p. Nobody did.

Elated by the success of our little charade, I think, wow, we are incredibly lucky.

And this, well. This is the very moment our luck runs out.

As the saying goes, don't praise the day before the sunset.

There's a goat on the road. And as I always say, where's a goat on the road, there's trouble.

Now, one may ask: how do you know that?

Well, I’ve already mentioned before that I'm a Capricorn. While to the uneducated it probably means nothing, to the one well-versed in the ways of the stars will recognize that as a Capricorn, aside from being insufferably pretentious and emotionally unavailable, I know goats. And I know that goats bring trouble.

My hands twitch on the steering wheel and sweat starts dropping down my neck and forehead in thick beads. I look at the goat. The goat looks back, its intense, green eyes seemingly looking straight into my very soul.

It stands far ahead of us at where the road drops down and hides behind the horizon. It's backlit in golds and pinks from the late, afternoon sun, seemingly glowing and ethereal, like a four-hooved god of doom. Like Bacchus on wine withdrawal about to start a party except the main course wasn’t Dom Perignon year 1932 and a roast but you.

"Dodge," I say, a sort of primal fear making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"From what," asks X, who relaxed during our ride and now looks very much at home holding the wires in her hands, like an 18th century charioteer from London if they dressed in yellow t-shirts and pink corduroy overall dresses back in the day.

"There's a goat on the road," I say, hurriedly though to a regular listener not well-versed in the way of Capricorns it may sound bored and nasal. "We need to dodge."

X sways to the side to see the front window. I can see her brows furrow from the front mirror. "I don't see any goat," she says as we near said goat at the speed of 40 miles per hour.

"Please," I say, just about begging, "just swerve to the right. There's no one else on the road, indulge me.

She does, though not without throwing me a Look that highly suggests that I am at best an idiot and at worst an utter buffoon. She’s mastered the expression over the course of our nearly ten years long friendship nearly to perfection, though deep down I know this is nowhere near the limit of her abilities.

We swerve to the right, a surprisingly swift motion for a car that can be both destroyed and fixed with one kick, and I never stray my eyes from the goat, not even for a second. And yet.

And yet, I fight the urge to cry as I realize that somehow the goat transported to the other lane, seamlessly, as if it’s always been there.

I convince X to swerve once more, saying that I want to test her driving skills. She takes up the challenge with a smile and I welcome the shaking of our car with the closes thing to relief one can feel when trapped in a Fiat 180p with X as a driver.

We do it a couple of times until X gets fed up and tells me to put on some music if I'm so bored. Miraculously, our car stays intact and I send a small prayer to whoever is watching us over int he clouds before with trembling hand I turn on the radio.

"A rich man's war in poor man's blood, silent their cries..." plays Killing Joke, the harsh sound of electric guitars abusing my ears with the rage of thirty to fifty wild boars chasing children in someone’s backyard. "...follow behind the Judas goat."

I change the station.

The goat is still in front of us but the distance doesn't change. We pass through another town, listen through Goat by the Shudder To Think, to Goat 2.0 by Eric Bellinger, Goat Annie by Carole King and several others as I keep hopping through the stations in a wild fury worthy of a middle aged man sat in front of his TV trying to find something that isn’t Mango or morning weather forecast at five am on a Sunday. The goat remains ever present and I slowly assign what portion of my sanity be assignable.

"What are the five apex predators of the jungle," asks X out of nowhere as we listen to Evil Little Goat by Pearl Jam, about an hour after I spotted The Four Hooves of Doom.

"Goats," I say, because I'm at the point in my life where I acknowledge that goats run the world and I don't question it.

"No," X says, because she knows nothing. I indulge her anyway.

"What's the answer then," I ask.

"Three lions and two tigers," she says like it’s the most hilarious joke she’s ever heard. I stare at the goat at the end of the road and she looks back with eyes that know what hides at the bottom of the ocean.

"Okay," I agree with barely concealed pity, for X doesn't know yet.

My staring contest with the goat lasts through next string of goat related songs which keep pouring through the tinny radio speakers no matter how often I change the station. At some point I stop focusing on them and drift away, my eyes stuck in the horizontal irises of the god. Goat.

I fall into a kind of trans where I both seat and don’t seat in the car, my consciousness drifts far beyond the old, leather seat of the Fiat 180, beyond my body, beyond where human consciousness should drift, allowing me to see a trillion years into the past and into the future as I transform from a human into a bug into water into mist into a celestial body only for the black hole to swallow me like a child would corn candy on a Halloween night - with tearful, lip-trembling disappointment and an aching tooth.

When I wake up from the vision, I feel both like a newborn and a being too old to describe with words, my bones singing to the eons past and my blood reaching to the eons that are still yet to come.

I am bathed in the golden pink light of the late afternoon sun. There is a black, gravel road stretching behind me and before me, seemingly endless though I know it stops abruptly three meters into an overgrown cornfield at the end of the universe somewhere in the middle-of-nowhere Minnesota. A small, red car is speeding straight at me but I am secure in the knowledge that it won't ever be able to hit me. I remain fixed in place, unbothered and inevitable

I stare into the car, past the plastic glass and dangling, yellow car freshener at myself, sitting in the front seat, pretending to drive with X sitting behind me and holding the wires. I am dressed in an old Batman t-shirt and torn jeans and look immensely bored though I’m paralyzed with fear.

My body stares back at me, eyes droopy and tired though irises thin with panic, and at that moment I finally understand.

I was the goat the entire time.

#writing #mine #short story #surrealism #goat

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years

Text

The Utterly Perfect Murder

Ray Bradbury (1971)

It was such an utterly perfect, such an incredibly delightful idea for murder, that I was half out of my mind all across America.

The idea had come to me for some reason on my forty-eighth birthday. Why it hadn't come to me when I was thirty or forty, I cannot say. Perhaps those were good years and I sailed through them unaware of time and clocks and the gathering of frost at my temples or the look of the lion about my eyes.…

Anyway, on my forty-eighth birthday, lying in bed that night beside my wife, with my children sleeping through all the other quiet moonlit rooms of my house, I thought:

I will arise and go now and kill Ralph Underhill.

Ralph Underhill I cried, who is he?

Thirty-six years later, kill him? For what?

Why, I thought, for what he did to me when I was twelve.

My wife woke, an hour later, hearing a noise.

"Doug?" she called. "What are you doing?"

"Packing," I said. "For a journey."

"Oh," she murmured, and rolled over and went to sleep.

"Board! All aboard!" the porter's cries went down the train platform.

The train shuddered and banged.

"See you!" I cried, leaping up the steps.

"Someday," called my wife, "I wish you'd fly!"

Fly? I thought, and spoil thinking about murder all across the plains? Spoil oiling the pistol and loading it and thinking of Ralph Underhill's face when I show up thirty-six years late to settle old scores? Fly? Why, I would rather pack cross-country on foot, pausing by night to build fires and fry my bile and sour spit and eat again my old, mummified but still-living antagonisms and touch those bruises which have never healed. Fly?!

The train moved. My wife was gone.

I rode off into the Past.

Crossing Kansas the second night, we hit a beaut of a thunderstorm. I stayed up until four in the morning, listening to the rave of winds and thunders. At the height of the storm, I saw my face, a darkroom negative-print on the cold window glass, and thought:

Where is that fool going?

To kill Ralph Underhill!

Why? Because!

Remember how he hit my arm? Bruises. I was covered with bruises, both arms; dark blue, mottled black, strange yellow bruises. Hit and run, that was Ralph, hit and run—

And yet . . . you loved him?

Yes, as boys love boys when boys are eight, ten, twelve, and the world is innocent and boys are evil beyond evil because they know what they do, but do it anyway. So, on some secret level, I had to be hurt. We dear fine friends needed each other. I to be hit. He to strike. My scars were the emblem and symbol of our love.

What else makes you want to murder Ralph so late in time?

The train whistle shrieked. Night country rolled by.

And I recalled one spring when I came to school in a new tweed knicker suit and Ralph knocking me down, rolling me in snow and fresh brown mud. And Ralph laughing and me going home, shamefaced, covered with slime, afraid of a beating, to put on fresh dry clothes.

Yes! And what else?

Remember those toy clay statues you longed to collect from the Tarzan radio show? Statues of Tarzan and Kala the Ape and Nurna the Lion,' for just twenty-five cents?! Yes, yes! Beautiful! Even now, in memory, 0 the sound of the Ape man swinging through green jungles far away, ululating!' But who had twenty-five cents in the middle of the Great Depression? No one.

Except Ralph Underhill.

And one day Ralph asked you if you wanted one of the statues.

Wanted! you cried. Yes! Yes!

That was the same week your brother in a strange seizure of love mixed with contempt gave you his old, but expensive, baseball-catcher's mitt.

"Well," said Ralph, "I'll give you my extra Tarzan statue if you'll give me that catcher's mitt."

Fool! I thought. The statue's worth twenty-five cents. The glove cost two dollars!

No fair! Don't!

But I raced back to Ralph's house with the glove and gave it to him and he, smiling a worse contempt than my brother's, handed me the Tarzan statue and, bursting with joy, I ran home.

My brother didn't find out about his catcher's mitt and the statue for two weeks, and when he did he ditched me when we hiked out in farm country and left me lost because I was such a sap. "Tarzan statues! Baseball mitts!" he cried. "That's the last thing I ever give you!"

And somewhere on a country road I just lay down and wept and wanted to die but didn't know how to give up the final vomit that was my miserable ghost.

The thunder murmured.

The rain fell on the cold Pullman-car windows.

What else? Is that the list?

No. One final thing, more terrible than all the rest.

In all the years you went to Ralph's house to toss up small bits of gravel on his Fourth of July six-in-the-morning fresh dewy window or to call him forth for the arrival of dawn circuses in the cold fresh blue railroad stations in late June or late August, in all those years, never once did Ralph run to your house.

Never once in all the years did he, or anyone else, prove their friendship by coming by. The door never knocked. The window of your bedroom never faintly clattered and belled with a high-tossed confetti of small dusts and rocks.

And you always knew that the day you stopped going to Ralph's house, calling up in the morn, that would be the day your friendship ended.

You tested it once. You stayed away for a whole week. Ralph never called. It was as if you had died, and no one came to your funeral.

When you saw Ralph at school, there was no surprise, no query, not even the faintest lint of curiosity to be picked off your coat. Where were you, Doug? I need someone to beat. Where you been, Doug, I got no one to pinch?

Add all the sins up. But especially think on the last:

He never came to my house. He never sang up to my early-morning bed or tossed a wedding rice of gravel on the clear panes to call me down to joy and summer days.

And for this last thing, Ralph Underhill, I thought, sitting in the train at four in the morning, as the storm faded, and I found tears in my eyes, for this last and final thing, for that I shall kill you tomorrow night.

Murder, I thought, after thirty-six years. Why, you're madder than Ahab.

The train wailed. We ran crosscountry like a mechanical Greek Fate carried by a black metal Roman Fury.

They say you can't go home again.

That is a lie.

If you are lucky and time it right, you arrive at sunset when the old town is filled with yellow light.

I got off the train and walked up through Green Town and looked at the courthouse, burning with sunset light. Every tree was hung with gold doubloons of color. Every roof and coping and bit of gingerbread was purest brass and ancient gold.

I sat in the courthouse square with dogs and old men until the sun had set and Green Town was dark. I wanted to savor Ralph Underhill's death.

No one in history had ever done a crime like this.

I would stay, kill, depart, a stranger among strangers.

How would anyone dare to say, finding Ralph Underhill's body on his doorstep, that a boy aged twelve, arriving on a kind of Time Machine train, traveled out of hideous self-contempt, had gunned down the Past? It was beyond all reason. I was safe in my pure insanity.

Finally, at eight-thirty on this cool October night, I walked across town, past the ravine.

I never doubted Ralph would still be there.

People do, after all, move away. . . .

I turned down Park Street and walked two hundred yards to a single streetlamp and looked across. Ralph Underhill's white two-story Victorian house waited for me.

And I could feel him in it.

He was there, forty-eight years old, even as I felt myself here, forty-eight, and full of an old and tired and self-devouring spirit.

I stepped out of the light, opened my suitcase, put the pistol in my right-hand coat pocket, shut the case, and hid it in the bushes where, later, I would grab it and walk down into the ravine and across town to the train.

I walked across the street and stood before his house and it was the same house I had stood before thirty-six years ago. There were the windows upon which I had buried those spring bouquets of rock in love and total giving. There were the sidewalks, spotted with firecracker burn marks from ancient July Fourths when Ralph and I had just blown up the whole damned world, shrieking celebrations.

I walked up on the porch and saw on the mailbox in small letters: UNDERHILL.

What if his wife answers?

No, I thought, he himself, with absolute Greek-tragic perfection, will open the door and take the wound and almost gladly die for old crimes and minor sins somehow grown to crimes.

I rang the bell.

Will he know me, I wondered, after all this time? In the instant before the first shot, tell him your name. He must know who it is.

Silence.

I rang the bell again.

The doorknob rattled.

I touched the pistol in my pocket, my heart hammering, but did not take it out.

The door opened.

Ralph Underhill stood there.

He blinked, gazing out at me.

"Ralph?" I said.

"Yes—?" he said.

We stood there, riven, for what could not have been more than five seconds. But many things happened in those five swift seconds.

I saw Ralph Underhill.

I saw him clearly.

And I had not seen him since I was twelve.

Then, he had towered over me to pummel and beat and scream.

Now he was a little old man.

I am five foot eleven.

But Ralph Underhill had not grown much from his twelfth year on.

The man who stood before me was no more than five feet two inches tall.

I towered over him.

I gasped. I stared. I saw more. I was forty-eight years old.

But Ralph Underhill, forty-eight, had lost most of his hair, and what remained was threadbare gray, black and white. He looked sixty or sixty-five.

I was in good health.

Ralph Underhill was waxen pale. There was a knowledge of sickness in his face. He had traveled in some sunless land. He had a ravaged and sunk look. His breath smelled of funeral flowers.

All this, perceived, was like the storm of night before, gathering all its lightnings and thunders into one bright concussion. We stood in the explosion.

So this is what I came for? I thought. This then, is the truth. This dreadful instant in time. Not to pull out the weapon. Not to kill. No, no. But simply—

To see Ralph Underhill as he is in this hour. That's all.

Just to be here, stand here, and look at him as he has become.

Ralph Underhill lifted one hand in a kind of gesturing wonder. His lips trembled.

His eyes flew up and down my body, his mind measured this giant who shadowed his door. At last his voice, so small, so frail, blurted out:

"Doug—?"

I recoiled.

"Doug?" he gasped, "is that you?"

I hadn't expected that. People don't remember! They can't! Across the years? Why would he know, bother, summon up, recognize, call?

I had a wild thought that what had happened to Ralph Underhill was that after I left town, half of his life had collapsed. I had been the center of his world, someone to attack, beat, pummel, bruise. His whole life had cracked by my simple act of walking away thirty-six years ago.

Nonsense! Yet, some small crazed mouse of wisdom scuttered about my brain and screeched what it knew: You needed Ralph, but, more! He needed you! And you did the only unforgivable, the wounding, thing! You vanished.

"Doug?" he said again, for I was silent there on the porch with my hands at my sides. "Is that you?"

This was the moment I had come for.

At some secret blood level, I had always known I would not use the weapon. I had brought it with me, yes, but Time had gotten here before me, and age, and smaller, more terrible deaths....

Bang.

Six shots through the heart.

But I didn't use the pistol. I only whispered the sound of the shots with my mouth. With each whisper, Ralph Underhill's face aged another ten years. By the time I reached the last shot he was one hundred and. ten years old.

"Bang," I whispered. "Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang." His body shook with the impact.

"You're dead. Oh, God, Ralph, you're dead."

I turned and walked down the steps and reached the street before he called: "Doug, is that you?"

I did not answer, walking.

"Answer me?" he cried, weakly. "Doug! Doug Spaulding, is that you? Who is that? Who are you?"

I got my suitcase and walked down into the cricket night and darkness of the ravine and across the bridge and up the stairs, going away.

"Who is that?" I heard his voice wail a last time. A long way off, I looked back.

All the lights were on all over Ralph Underhill's house. It was as if he had gone around and put them all on after I left.

On the other side of the ravine I stopped on the lawn in front of the house where I had been born.

Then I picked up a few bits of gravel and did the thing that had never been done, ever in my life.

I tossed the few bits of gravel up to tap that window where I had lain every morning of my first twelve years. I called my own name. I called me down in friendship to play in some long summer that no longer was.

I stood waiting just long enough for my other young self to come down to join me.

Then swiftly, fleeing ahead of the dawn, we ran out of Green Town and back, thank you, dear Christ, back toward Now and Today for the rest of my life.

0 notes

marvelousbirthdays · 7 years

Text

Happy Birthday, mcgregorswench!

September 25 - ShieldShock for @mcgregorswench

As fluffy and sweet as you can make it. Where both are clueless as to the other's connections with the Avengers, like Steve doesn't know that Darcy works with Jane and is best buds with Thor (and also happens to be Tony's sister or daughter), and Darcy doesn't realize her Steve Rogers is actually THE Steve Rogers aka Captain America.

AN: Set between The Avengers and CA:TWS. Not compliant to any canon whatsoever. Big thanks to CatrinaSL for cheerleading, some fantastic ideas when I hit a block, and betaing for me.

Written by @ibelieveinturtles

When he looked back on everything, Steve found it completely amazing—miraculous, even—that he and Darcy had known each other for so long, without knowing who the other really was.

Two days after the battle in New York, he signed a confidential contract with S.H.I.E.L.D., including clauses covering secrecy, confidentiality, and anonymity. In other words, don't tell anyone anything, up to and including, who you really are.

When they offered him a new identity, however, he turned it down.

“I've lost everything else already—you can't have that,” he told Fury, in no uncertain terms.

Fury offered a compromise: “You can keep everything except your year of birth. The council wants everyone's identities kept secret—well, as much as we can—but if anyone does get curious or recognise you, tell ‘em you're a distant cousin. Families throw up look alikes all the time. I’m the spitting image of my great granddaddy on my mother’s side, so ‘Captain America’s third cousin twice removed’ shouldn’t be a hard sell, even for you.”

Deal done, Steven Grant Rogers, born 4th July 1988, headed off to Culver University, where he enrolled in summer classes, studying Modern History, and a unit of independent learning, custom-designed to ease him into the new century before he took up his new position at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Washington DC headquarters.

He met Darcy on the first day. Overwhelmed by the crowds of people, the noise, and already wondering if he'd made a mistake, he ran straight into her.

They collided with the force of a thousand supernovas… Well, the bump was hard enough to knock her off balance, and Steve barely managed to catch her before she hit the ground.

“Woah, I got ya,” Steve said, as he carefully set her back on her feet.

“Thanks for the save, dude,” the young woman said a little breathlessly. “Sorry about that. Serves me right for texting and walking, I guess.” She waved her phone at him, and he couldn’t help noticing the stylised drawing of Thor on the case. It matched the t-shirt she was wearing, and the messenger bag slung across her body.

“No, it was entirely my fault,” Steve protested. “I wasn't paying attention. I'm the one who should be sorry.”

“First time here?” she asked.

“Um, yeah. It's a little overwhelming,” he looked around at the crowded, noisy courtyard. “I've never actually done anything like this before.”

“You’ll get used to it in no time,” she assured him, adding a welcoming smile. “Welcome to Culver! I'm Darcy,” she said, holding her hand out.

“Steve,” he said, taking her hand. “I hope you're right. I have no idea what I'm doing.”

She studied him for a moment. “Gimme one second.” She did something with her phone, and then looked up again. “Look, I don’t have to be anywhere for a couple of hours, and I know from experience how overwhelming it can be. How about I give you some tips about getting around over coffee?”

Steve ran a hand through his hair. “I don't want to inconvenience you,” he hedged.

“Hey, no sweat, dude. I'm in desperate need of coffee anyway, so you'd be doing me a favour.”

Steve smiled, deciding right there and then that there was no way he was going to turn her down. “Well, in that case, I could definitely use the help.”

Ten minutes later they were seated in a small cafe with food and coffee, and she was giving him a brief history of the college.

“And then a few years ago, The Hulk showed up and wrecked half the school. Thank God, I wasn't here for that! Apparently it was a super clusterfuck.”

“The Hulk was here?” Steve made the appropriate noises of shock and surprise, even though Bruce had told him all about the incident when suggesting Culver as something to do for a few months.

Darcy nodded, shoving some fries into her mouth. “There’s a rumour that he used to teach here. I mean, I don’t know if it’s true or not, but the STEM departments have kind of adopted him as their unofficial mascot.” She leaned closer to him, as if about to impart a secret. “Personally, I think he’s pretty awesome, especially after what happened in New York—I mean, he saved Iron Man's life! A raging, mindless monster wouldn't have done that.“

“No… no, you’re right about that,” Steve said, and then angled for a change of subject. “So, what are you studying?”

“Well, I’ve already got a degree in Political Science, and now I’m working on my Masters in International Relations. You know, diplomacy, public relations, negotiation, that sort of thing.”

“Wow, that’s impressive. What will you be able to do with that?”

“A lot of different things! I’ve already got a couple of options, but I’m gonna stick with my current boss for now; she’s my best friend, and we’ve been through a lot together. I don’t really need to make a decision yet, so I won’t.” She punctuated the remark by snapping her teeth on the last fry, and grinning at him. “So, I’m actually thinking that this might be easiest if I give you a guided tour. What do you think?”

After all this time, Steve still thought that accepting her offer of a guided tour was the best decision he’d ever made.

~*~

As luck would have it, Darcy’s boss was currently based in Washington DC, and they soon settled into a completely random, not-routine of seeing each other whenever they were both in the city. Between his "job” in International Search and Rescue, and her frequent field trips with the Boss Lady, it was impossible to keep to a set schedule.

On one sad, Steveless day, Darcy arrived home from a long day of Jane-herding and was staring into her fridge debating between cooking or ordering pizza, when Steve texted her. He was home— pizza it was!

She could feel the goofy grin paste itself across her face as she hit send on her reply. Steve had only been away for a week, but she'd been surprised by how much she missed him.

The pizza arrived first, but she'd barely set the boxes down before her intercom chimed again. She buzzed Steve in, and finished setting the table.

There was a knock on the door.

“Hi,” Steve said, kissing her on the cheek and presenting her with flowers he bought on his way over.

“Oh, they're beautiful. Thank you.” She stepped aside to let him in, then led him to the kitchen.

“How was your trip?” she asked as she hunted through her cupboards for something vase-like.

“Well, it was a slow week,” he said, remembering how they'd spent four days tracking a giant space slug in the Amazon jungle. “But we got the job done. What about you? How was yours?”

“Same old, same old,” Darcy replied, giving up on her quest to find a vase. She turned back to Steve. “Boss Lady had a breakthrough, and is determined to give the entire scientific community the proverbial finger.” (She carefully didn't mention that the breakthrough was actually to another dimension. They'd been lucky to get it closed before it caused any problems.)

“Well, I can't wait to see that,” Steve said.

“It'll be a good memory, I guarantee it,” she agreed. She tilted her head to one side as an idea popped into her head. “Do you have any objections to these flowers living in a jug?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. We'll go vase shopping tomorrow.”

She dumped the flowers in an ugly old plastic jug, filled it with water, and set it on the counter.

“Perfect,” Steve said, taking her in his arms and planting a firm kiss on her mouth.

They spent the whole of the following afternoon scouring the city for the perfect vase. As it turned out, there were three perfect vases in the city of Washington DC, so Steve bought her two more bouquets. After helping her arrange them throughout her apartment, it hit him that he'd rather be here than anywhere else. The only time he stayed at his own apartment was when Darcy was away on a field trip with the woman he still only knew as Boss Lady. More than half of his wardrobe had taken up residence in her cupboards, and other random belongings are scattered throughout.

It got him thinking.

~*~

The first time he asked Darcy to marry him, they'd been officially dating for about a year. It didn’t seem like it had been that long, but he'd fallen head over heels, and wanted to tell her everything.

They were coiled together in a post-orgasmic haze, and it just kind of… slipped out. She laughed. Actually laughed. “Fantastic sex, a good marriage does not make,” she said. “I love you, but I'm not ready to get married just yet.”

She didn't say yes, but it wasn't an outright no, either.

He managed to wait a couple of months before asking again, but once again it was a spur of the moment thing. Boss Lady had decided to go to London for a few months, and he was petrified that she’d forget him, or not come back, or that they’d drift apart, or… he’s not sure about that last ‘or’.

She sighed, but it was a loving sigh, not a ‘what the hell’ sigh. “Steeeve. Honey.” She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, and stared into his eyes. “You know I love you, right? But marriage isn’t a spur of the moment thing. Now, kiss me—I’m not going to see you for the next three months, and I need something to get me through!”

He kissed her thoroughly, and once again took heart from the fact that she didn’t actually say no.

He didn’t hear about the Dark Elves until well after the fact—blackout missions didn’t happen very often, but this one had lasted a month, and he felt every second of it by the time they got back. He’d left his civilian, Darcy-only phone in his locker, but Fury had insisted on an immediate debrief before they even had a chance to shower, so the first he heard of it was from a fragment of conversation that drifted out of a break room as he walked along the corridor towards the changerooms.

He headed straight for his locker and his Darcy phone.

The first message was ‘Shit, I’ve lost the Boss Lady,’ followed by, ‘Why won’t anyone answer their goddam phone today?’ and ‘IT’S OKAY I’M ALIVE!!’ and finally ending with, ‘Boss Lady’s boyfriend is back!! Staying in London for now, but will be back in DC soon. Call me when you can.’

He hadn’t even known that Boss Lady had a boyfriend.

He called straight away.

“I just got back,” he said. “What in seven hells happened?”

“Steve! I was starting to worry about you!”

“Sorry, we lost all our communication in a storm.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was close enough, he decided.

“Well, to make a long story super short, evil elves invaded London, and Thor saved us all,” Darcy said.

“What? Evil elves? Thor? You mean, like the Avengers Thor? I didn’t think anyone had seen him since New York!” Steve was flabbergasted. No one had said anything to him about Thor returning.

“They hadn’t, but he just showed up out of nowhere! Look it up on YouTube; there’s so many videos, even the jack-booted thugs couldn’t keep up. They gave up trying to take them down about three days after it happened.”

“Can I come and see you?” Steve asked. “My boss owes me a few days—”

“YES!” Darcy shouted down the phone. “But I’ll book us a hotel, okay? Trust me, you do not want to stay with us now that The Boyfriend is back.”

“Okay, I’m gonna go home, pack a bag, and jump on the first plane I can,” he said. “I’ll let you know all the details, and I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Darcy replied. “I miss you so much. Oh god, I’m so excited now, Steve! Hurry up!”

“Okay, okay. I’m hurrying. I’ll call you from the airport.”

He wrangled a whole week’s worth of leave out of Fury (on the condition that he touched base with Thor while he was there) and proposed for the third time at the top of the London Eye. Darcy said he was affected by the view, but once again didn’t say yes, but didn’t say no either. In fact, she didn’t even say “not yet."

~*~

Darcy glanced at the clock and checked her appearance in the mirror one last time. Steve’s boss had called him earlier in the day, and asked him to check in with a client while he was in London. Even though he was on vacation, and they had a dinner reservation, he’d agreed to run the errand. He’d rung her half an hour ago to say that the meeting had gone much longer than he’d expected, and that he would meet her there.

She grabbed her purse and phone, opened the door, and standing there with a hand raised, ready to knock, was her father.

“Oh,” she gasped. “Jesus, Tony. You almost scared me half to death. What are you doing here? And how did you find me?”

“I’m here for a thing, so I thought I'd drop by,” Tony replied with a self satisfied grin. “Foster told me where you were.”

“Why were you talking to Jane?” she asked, suspicion hijacking her brain and refusing to let go. “Are you trying to convince her to sign with SI again?”

“I came to see Thor,” Tony said, “and then Capsicle showed up too—I wasn't expecting that. We had an extra long lunch, it was nice. But to answer your question, of course I am; how else am I going to get you to come home?”

“Even if she does agree to work with you, I’m not living in the Tower, Tony. I like my independence.”

“So you keep saying. Anyway, I didn’t actually come here to debate your residence in the Tower. Would you like to have dinner with me? I'll invite Cap as well.”

“You can't do that. Anyway, I have a date,” Darcy blurted out.

“Ah, I see. Everyone's turning me down tonight. Even Spangles turned me down! What could he have to do that's better than spending time with me?”

Darcy rolled her eyes. “I can think of a few things.”

“You wound me!” Tiny gasped in mock offense. “So your date tonight. Still the same guy? The one from DC?”

“Yes,” she replied, stepping out the door and pulling it closed behind her.

"When do I get to meet him?” Tony asked, following her to the elevator.

Darcy pushed the button, then turned and gave him a stern look. “Tony—Dad—I love you, but you're still you. And you're Iron Man. Remember those new security protocols Fury put in place last year? I literally need to marry the guy before I can introduce him to my own father, but how can I marry someone when I'm hiding such a big thing from them?”

Tony kissed Darcy in the middle of her forehead.

“The whole world already knows I'm Iron Man,” he shrugged. “That rule should not apply to me. If your guy can't handle that, you're better off without him.”

Darcy smiled. “And then you can introduce me to Captain America, right?”

Tony grinned. “My Steve is way better than your Steve,” he declared.

“Oh my god, Tony! You know you shouldn't even be telling me his name!” Darcy protested as the elevator arrived. “Just because I'm already associated with you and Thor, DOES NOT mean I automatically get to know any other Avengers!”

“I can change that!” Tony said, following her onto the lift. “The Avengers could use someone like you. I get you on the payroll, and everything would be perfect.”

Darcy frowned. There was a reason she’d chosen International Relations for her Masters, even if she hadn’t really acknowledged it at the time. “I’ll think about it,” she said at last. “But I still need to finish my thesis, and since the convergence Jane’s gotten enthused again. She’s got a lot to study over here.”

Tony nodded. “I understand. Also—and I shouldn’t be telling you this by the way—S.H.I.E.L.D. is going to be asking Thor to help them out occasionally. They’ll probably lean on him and Foster to come back to the States sooner, rather than later.”

“Hah!” Darcy snapped. “When they didn’t even answer my phone calls when Jane went missing, and then didn’t show up until after everything was all over? Not if I have anything to do with it, Tony. No. Fucking. Way. I'd rather she work for you!”

Tony threw his arm around her shoulder and hugged her tightly. “That’s my girl.”

They exited the elevator, and made their way outside.

“How are you getting to your date?” Tony asked, handing his valet slip to the attendant. “Can I give you a ride?”

“Well, I was gonna take a cab, but yeah, I'd like that.”

The ride to the restaurant wasn't a long one, and halfway there Darcy gathered her courage.

“I'm thinking that when I get back to DC I might ask Steve to move in with me ,” she said.

“Again: when do I get to meet him?”

“Tony! He keeps asking me to marry him. Three times in six months... and I want to say yes, but I'm scared about what might happen when he finds out about you, and Jane, and Thor. I thought, maybe living together first would be a good way to see if we'll really work or not.”

“That sounds reasonable to me,” Tony said. “But you have to tell him about me first, and I want to be behind the door as exhibit A when it happens.”

Darcy laughed as her father pulled into the curb half a block down from her destination. “You're incorrigible.”

“It's one of my better talents,” Tony quipped. “Come and see me when you get home. I'll be waiting!”

~*~

Darcy, Boss Lady, and The Boyfriend returned to DC on Christmas Eve. Steve was already at her apartment, having let himself in with the key she'd given him before he left London. He tidied and dusted, then went out and found what was possibly the last decent Christmas tree in the city.

By the time she arrived home, the tree was decorated, dinner was in the oven, and Steve was watching the cheesiest Christmas movie he could find.

“Oh my God, could you get any more perfect?” Darcy asked once she'd recovered from his welcome home kiss.

“I didn't actually cook,” he admitted. “It's from a restaurant a friend recommended.”

“I don't care—it smells amazing.”

They ate in front of the movie, then Steve insisted Darcy shower while he cleaned up.

“You know, I could get used to this,” Darcy said later, curled around him as they lay in bed. “Coming home to dinner, and a homey apartment… and you.” She lifted her head to look at him. “I think you should move in with me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. You practically live here already, why not make it official?”

Steve could think of plenty of reasons why he should say no; the main ones being S.H.I.E.L.D. and not being able to tell her who he really was.

“You don't have to decide straight away,” she continued, “I know it's a big decision. Just... think about it?”

“Okay. I can do that.”

Steve tried to put off thinking about his dilemma and just enjoy the time he had with Darcy. He succeeded, mostly, allowing himself to make endless pros vs. cons lists only after she fell asleep at night. Three days later, when he got called out on a mission, it was harder to push out of his mind. In Darcy’s presence he could forget anything unpleasant; in an abandoned bunker stuffed with undecipherable technology, it wasn’t so easy. As he watched Tony take apart a piece of modified electronics, Steve decided to take the opportunity to talk to someone who wasn't S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Can I ask you something?”

“What's up, Cap?” Tony asked, elbow-deep in computer components.

“My girlfriend asked me to move in with her.”

Tony paused and looked at him. “You have a girlfriend?”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“And she asked you to move in with her?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Does she know who you are?”

Steve sighed. “That's the problem—she doesn't. I want to tell her, but I can't.”

Tony nodded. “Fury’s security protocols. Do you love her?”

“More than I ever dreamed,” Steve admitted. “I'd marry her tomorrow if she'd just say yes.”

“Have you asked her?” Tony asked.

“Three times now,” Steve said with a self deprecating smile. “She just says she's not ready for marriage, and changes the subject.”

Tony put his tools down and straightened up, turning to look at Steve. “Three times? Has she actually said no?”

Steve shook his head, a little unnerved by the fact that Tony was ignoring his work to have a personal conversation. “No, just ‘not yet’.”

Tony stared, blinked, then stared some more.

“Tony? Is something wrong?”

“Out of curiosity... have you met her parents yet? Her father?”

“No, but... I thought people didn’t care so much about that sort of thing nowadays.”

Tony shook his head. “Never mind; nothing to worry about. I think you should do it. Move in with your girl, show her you're serious, and maybe you'll get that yes so you can come clean.”

“I would, but I wonder… What if she doesn't want Captain America in her life?”

“If she really loves you, she'll come around.” Tony turned back to his work. “She'll probably be really mad at first, but that's always a risk in any relationship. There's always something that’s gonna make someone mad. You just have to get through it.”

“Voice of experience?” Steve asked.

Tony nodded. “Take the chance, Cap. Take the chance.”

~*~

(When Tony got home, the first thing he did was ask Jarvis for the security footage from his daughter's apartment block during Christmas. When his suspicions were confirmed, he laughed for a solid five minutes.)

~*~

Steve’s S.H.I.E.L.D. apartment was exactly that: an apartment belonging to S.H.I.E.L.D. It came fully furnished, and he had never been one to collect much, so there was very little in it that belonged to him. It took him half a morning to pack up his stuff, and he was all moved in with Darcy by New Year’s.

As he sat on Darcy’s couch, arm around his girl, watching fireworks, and waiting for 2014 to start, he realised that he hadn't felt this happy—this comfortable, so at home—since he'd woken up almost two years ago. A neuron fired in his brain, and he knew: this was what he'd wanted his whole life.

As the clock ticked down, he closed his eyes and made a wish. For a good year. For Darcy to say yes to his next proposal (which he was determined to do properly this time: ring, knee, the lot). For Darcy to be okay with him being the Real Steve Rogers (and Captain America).

As the last seconds counted down, Darcy turned to him and smiled.

“Happy New Year, Steve,” she said, eyes shining as she leaned up to kiss him.

~*~

Steve's last proposal was planned properly.

Ring, dinner, flowers, speech. Everything done right.

Whenever they can, they rendezvous at the subway station after work and then walk home together through the park. Some days they talk a lot; some days they don't. On this particular day, they were both lost in their own thoughts, when Darcy stopped suddenly.

“Darce?”

“I'm ready for you to meet my father,” she said.

“Um, okay?”

“And… I want to marry you,” she continued. “If you still want to marry me, that is.”

He stared at her for a moment, gobsmacked at what she'd just said to him, and then he started laughing. He couldn't help it.

“Okay, I'm not sure if you laughing at me is a good sign?” Darcy looked equal parts worried and amused. “I never laughed at you!”

“I'm sorry.” He gathered her up in his arms, and hugged her tightly. “It's just, I finally planned out a proper proposal, and you blurt it out while we're walking through the park.”

“You planned a proposal?” She blinked at him.

He pulled the box out of his pocket. “There's flowers and dinner at home, but I've had this in my pocket for a few weeks now.” He opened the box.

“That's a really nice ring,” was all she said.

“It is,” he agreed. “And I think it would look nicer on your finger.”

She looked down at the ring again, and he held his breath. “Yes. You're right. It would look nicer on my finger.”

“Does that mean you're going to wear it?”

“I do have a few things I should probably tell you first; I don't know if you're going to like them." she said.

“Me too, but you wanna give me an answer first? Please?”

“Hang on, didn't I just propose to you?”

“Yes, you did, and yes I will. Whatever secrets you have, I will deal with them,” Steve said solemnly.

“In that case, yes, Steve. I will most definitely marry you, and ditto on the secrets. Now gimme that ring!”

He put the ring on her finger, and she flung her arms around him, kissing him breathless.

“Let's go home.”

#ShieldShock #fuckyeahdarcylewis

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crstapor · 5 years

Text

The Toilet Bowl

Harrison Krutch wasn’t the sort of man who would take shit from anybody, though he would take a crap wherever he liked. Sheriff once caught him crapping behind the Dairy Queen near the Interstate, and that only a week after he’d given Walmart’s pallet shed a double deuce. Since a child he’d been animal-like with his waste. A trait most thought he’d learned from his pa. Fact of it that one day he’d seen his chocolate lab, Skip, going where he would; that was enough for Harrison. Dog and boy were close before old man Sessions and the grizzled Chevrolet. Nine years since Skip departed it still dredged up pain whenever Harrison put memory to it. He was doing so just then, heading about 55 per down Willow, when he realized those burritos weren’t sitting any longer.

> Fuckin fire sauce …

December and a cold one he pulled into an Exxon with lights. Opening the door to the interior warmth he conjured a wicked image of the lady behind the register, who he did not know. The restroom was unlocked and empty before Harrison gave it squatter’s rights. Toilet seat a patchwork quilt of sepia stains Harrison sat without care. Half way through his first big push a wooden plank covering a small hole the opposite wall rattled, squeaked, moved off its nails. Harrison eyed the activity with a dull concern; his higher mind still working out the scat. Little door fell to ground and a small boy popped his head out the ingress.

> You the one stinking up my parlor?

> This’s the place for it. What you want?

> See if you any good at games.

> I’m the best at about fifty of ’em.

> That right?

> Shit.

> You got anything to bet?

> I got a plane.

> No you don’t.

> Aright, I got a boat, but I didn’t want to say nothing or you’d think I was rich.

The boy eyed him for a steady second.

> Boat?

> Pontoon, down Center Hill.

> Fine. You can bet that, but hurry up now, game’s about to start.

Harrison pushed the last of it out while carelessly wadding up some TP. Chuckled to himself.

> Guess he don’t care it can’t float!

The tunnel was already small for the boy so it gave Harrison grief getting through. Pipes and slimy wood merging into gritty rocks till the man-made aspect was forgot. Scampering ahead the boy would stop every so often to make sure Harrison was keeping pace, which he was, more out of that spite some men get from bragging than any honest desire to know truth. When he thought to ask what the boy was bringing to the table, what stake he’d play in the game, Harrison nearly shouted the query down-tunnel like rifle fire.

> What about my boat?

> Said it was on Center Hill. What about it?

> What you putting up?

> You’re my second. You’re the one betting tonight.

> Huh?

> Another fifty yards then we can talk, the boy echoed back at Harrison along the darkening walls.

By the time the two gamers reached the opening alcove Harrison had thought twice someone was putting him on. Didn’t figure it was the boy because Harrison instinctually believed all children pure idiots, though he’d seen that proven wrong once or twice dealing with Charlene’s spawn. Still, it was just him and the kid so he decided to object.

> Aint going no further till you tell me about this game.

> You climbed down half a mile before getting curious?

> None of that - spill it.

> Fine. Everyone calls it something different, and no one knows when it started, but it’s been going on for a long time. Players come from all over, like you wouldn’t believe. Once you played enough, raised in the ranks, you get to bring a second. Tonight that’s you.

At which point the boy stopped speaking, carefully examined a nook in the earthen wall. Harrison realized he had no idea where it was coming from, but a pale light emanated from each crevasse and crack. Satisfied, the boy turned back to Harrison.

> Picked you for a reason.

> So?

> You lived it hard and wild right? Razor’s edge whatnot -

> You don’t know - what’s your name?

> Call me Jeff.

> And we teammates Jeff?

> Yeah, tonight we are, but before we enter the coliseum you have to promise.

> Promise to win? Already said I -

> No no, not that. You can’t make a promise like that and I wouldn’t believe it if you did. You have to promise you won’t talk about it. What happens next.

> Like that movie where Meatloaf had tits? That was a dumb movie.

His eyes beaded up, the boy, as he bore into what passed for Harrison’s soul.

> Forget it. You’ll be fine.

Inside the coliseum Harrison quite nearly lost his shit. He remembered thinking, while considering whether or not to utterly freak out, if it was even possible to believe it, all of it, and if he did, if that didn’t mean he was crazier than old Hudge. Hudge was damn insane and Harrison knew it. Sober he’d wrestled a black bear east of Maryville. Whole battle caught on a video not just some lip. Another time Hudge had stopped a train down by Patty’s bare-handed, or that’s what Tim Abner said and anyone called Tim Abner a liar might as well move out the state. But this, Harrison reflected, surveying the scene around the coliseum, if this was sanity they should go ahead and give Hudge his job back teaching fourth grade.

About the size of a high school gym the coliseum was a large domed chamber center of which bubbled a pit of teal lava. Around the pit a circular walkway, some ten feet up from the frothing goo, lapped the room. Harrison and Jeff, who’d entered from a seemingly hidden door, were immediately surrounded by a throng of competitors all milling about - the likes of which were Harrison’s instant cause of alarm. He’d been to Nashville once, seen enough movies to figure there had to be other people in the world, but the diversity of faces, clothes, tongues and affectations that assailed him then conjured a panic attack worse than the night Charlene’d said it was his, no lie.

Jeff noticed his second’s discomfort, set about allaying him.

> What? Now you’re a sissy?

Harrison, unable to breathe right, let alone speak, dumbly pointed around the room.

> Yeah. They’re the competition. Get a good look. That’s part of it.

As if the whole History Channel had left screen, formed up beside him, corporeal. He judged a total crowd of five hundred odd, all from what appeared as many differing homes. He saw horsemen of the American plains, grey coats or blue from the Northern War, jungle dwellers of the Amazon, what he knew as vikings then men in togas or others wearing the flowery dress of the Orient. Pasty men in weird wigs, tall gaunt ones burnished by sun and others, stranger to his eye. They were all paired two apiece, mostly keeping to themselves. Each casting a pallid hue. It was then Harrison noticed Jeff aglow as well.

> Why’re you shining? You swallow a battery?

Jeff shook his head. Smiled an elfin grin that cut Harrison to the quick.

> They didn’t even have batteries when I ate dust.

> What? Walmart’s sold batteries forever. Long as I’ve …

About that point Harrison got the picture.

Then he lost his shit.

* Jeff pulled Harrison against the wall, away from the railing and runny pile of vomit, shaking his head the while.

> I thought you were tough. Thought you’d seen it all.

> Aint never seen this! The hell could I have seen this?!?

Jeff managed a disgruntled sigh. Stroked his chin calmly, nodded at nothing. Finally shrugged his shoulders, turned toward the pit. First match had just begun.

> Phooey.

Harrison, picking something gooey out of his mouth, grimaced a bit then got interested in what was happening below. Everyone else in the coliseum was moving near the edge.

> It was just those burritos Jeff, shouldn’t have had the fire sauce -

> Fire sauce? Quiet now. Watch and learn.

> Learn what?

> How you play.

* The first match was over in about three minutes. As Harrison had it a haggard black from slave-days Mississippi fought and beat a Chinese man on a horse covered in furs. After entering the lava pit the combatants stood out on small docks and sort of stared each other down. Intent like murder, Harrison figured right as he was getting bored. The staring went on more than a minute. Then, and only after they’d taken the whole of the other, odd images emerged from the lava, the goo, the pulsing fluid underneath. The shapes began taking on forms familiar to each player, foul forms from their past. Like spectral puppets reenacting hideous moments of their lives. More the player concentrated his fury at the other the more puppets emerged, sort of swaying above the sludge like a twisted Macy’s Day parade. This continued long enough for Harrison to get bored again. Then, right as he was going to make a comment betraying his cultural sensitivities, the black’s puppets rushed his opponent in such wild barbarity full of furious hatred that Harrison could barely believe it. Engulfed, the loser fell off his dock, into the slime below.

> Hot damn! Chink ate nigga slam!

> Yeah, that’s old John Cook. He can fight. John Cook can win.

> Damn again, again I say damn! Where’s the China fellow then? He -

> He’s out Harrison. He’s gone. Shoot, Jeff said as much to the air as his second, before turning his attention to a dour man in a turban.

Harrison watched as the victor climbed out of the ring. As he was congratulated by the crowd, as what he could only figure bets were paid out or received. Jeff seemed to be working out a bet with the turban but that didn’t bother Harrison.

> But really now, where’s that Chinese gone? When’s he -

> Dammit Harrison, can’t you see I’m working a deal -

> He got nothing worth a pontoon. But that don’t change the fact of it -

> Fact of it is, if you lose down there there aint no coming back. Not only are you dead, you’re dead for good.

Harrison thought about that with pursed lips. Then inspiration hit him.

> Yeah, but what if you wasn’t dead to begin with?

> Then you’re just dead Harrison. Then you just die.

* A Roman gladiator bested an Incan scout and Harrison still didn’t know. Next an Inuit whale-slayer barely etched victory from a decrepit Aborigine which made Harrison think of his mother for some reason, a mother who’d left him to grow up alone. The Confederate soldier didn’t stand half a chance versus the child from Babylon, a loss felt by Harrison more for the memories it roused of his pa than any half-sworn dedication to rebellion or Southern pride. Then a Cherokee bowman confronted a strange figure draped in folded robes, a battle Harrison wrote off as clear-cut till it proved the most interesting bout so far. With the other spectators Harrison got so wrapped up in the win (the Bedouin, to his dismay) that he was very nearly more concerned with finding glory than preserving his immortal soul.

> Goddamn those foreigners won’t give the South a chance! I’ll show ’em a country boy can -

> What? Talk out his asshole? Grit and stones won’t do it alone. You have to have a plan. You got one?

Harrison considered Jeff’s words quickly.

> Where you from boy?

> Was raised in Missouri. What about your plan?

> Seems your plan was inviting me along. I aint scared. I’ll win if I have to.

> Guess that’s the idea. So you know, I put your pontoon up against a box of magic acorns.

> That’s fair, Harrison replied like you could buy magic acorns at Kroger. During a brief intermission Harrison surprised himself by noting the complete lack of women in attendance.

> Why aint there any girls Jeff?

> Can’t rightly say.

> So you all queers?

> Probably just have something better to do. Now shut up; this one’s worth study.

The match before Harrison’s was between an ageless Russian and a timid youth from Victoria’s England. It lasted a long time. Better half of an hour. Evenly matched, the contestants had so nearly filled the ring with ghostly muppets the eerie constructs were encroaching on the railing, forcing the fans from edge. When the killing blow was delivered no one knew who exactly had sent it. As the ectoplasm settled back to a simmer neither player could be seen. As a jubilant murmur went through the audience Jeff shouted,

> What!?! A tie!

> How’s it a tie? They both lost, Harrison said like he always knew it.

> Not in sixty-plus years … hot God …

> Who won Jeff? They both went out.

Before Jeff could answer all the lights flicked off then on in quick, triple secession.

> Shitters MacDougall. That’s game.

Harrison knew what the code meant, just didn’t believe it.

> They aint kicking us out are they? They can’t kick us out -

> Can and did.

> But I didn’t get to play!

> Saves you a pontoon.

As the spectators milled about and departed Harrison’s eyes went hazy. Mind cloudy he thought it a shame he hadn’t had his chance in the ring, that he could have won, maybe set a record. Considered assuring Jeff all about it but by then Jeff was gone.

* She’d pulled one double on top another. Didn’t really see how she needed this crap. Some pervert in the men’s room finger-painting with poo. All night too, look of it. Cops didn’t ask why she didn’t find him sooner, didn’t figure an answer make much difference. Harrison was startled when they broke through the door. Sort of woke right up. Flaccid cock in shit-stained hands. Weird scrawlings on the walls described via feces likely his own. Long, stretched out doggish figure between parallel lines. Boxy house broken in pieces. Two misshapen men striking each other, while another, with poofy hair, watched from far away. Cereal boxes or TV screens. Myriad vaginas.

Nor did he help the situation by addressing it.

> Any y’all see a little Jew boy from Missouri? Fucker owes me a box of magic figs.

#writers on tumblr #short fiction #2015 #C. R. Stapor

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