#Me writing “blah blah bloody fucking blah” is probably a bit too on the nose for how I feel about my writing right now

[iamamythologicalcreature]

Sentences or Sketches or Something... Sunday

Hello strangers! It's been a long time since I last did a progress post of any kind - thank you everyone who's continued to tag me so I don't get left behind! And thanks to @noblecorgi, @alexalexinii, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @blackberrysummerblog, @thewholelemon, @mooncello, @monbons, @prettygoododds, @shrekgogurt, and @youarenevertooold for tagging me, today. (I feel so loved! <3) I'm looking forward to seeing what everyone's up to.

It's still Sunday in my neck of the woods, though just barely. And yes, I've used my "sentences" banner, but... It's a bit more chaotic than that. Honestly, I wasn't sure about doing a post today because I'm a bit all over the place, but then I figured... eh, why not? I am all over the place LOL.

So here's your snippet from the collective efforts of Jo's creativity, lately, under the cut. (Because I ramble...)

On the Haunting of Simon Snow... I haven't forgotten about it! Nor is it abandoned. As I keep telling anyone who will listen, I have a rough draft, which basically amounts to an outline, meaning I have way too much figured out to just let the story fade away. XD I attempted to work on Chapter 2 earlier this month, and ran into some roadblocks - of the architectural variety.

So I've started to research manor houses and English estates like mad. I'm going to do the thing. I'm going to figure out Pitch Manor. Why? Because my brain won't let me gloss over paltry details such as the location of Simon in the grand scheme of the house, or how and where the roof attaches and where that tree is going to be. It's annoying, but I figure... This is a fun puzzle, too. One I hope to be able to share with the fandom at large once it's complete.

This little snippet is from an early design I've since scrapped (but you never know what might come around, again.)

"That's great, Jo, but how about some sentences?"

Okay. Ahem. Here's... some Simon sentences... that have just been scribbled out. *cough*

I sit there and listen to the man on the other side as he blathers on about extra fees associated with estate deliveries due to distance and blah blah bloody fucking blah. I wish he’d just say it. Just say 'this is the Pitch Manor tax.' No one ever does. But everyone charges it.

I HAVE WRITTEN SEE THERE'S PROOF.

Okay, moving on...

The other thing I'm working on is illustrations for @mooncello's beautiful fanfic, "Lost Boys." I just posted art from Chapter 1 here, and I'm working on art for Chapter 2, now. The story is stuffed to the gills with absolutely gorgeous imagery, so choosing what to illustrate is a challenge. Hopefully it all works out, and in the meantime, here are a couple doodles.

(I was telling Heath last night... this morning...? about how all illustrations start out as baby sketches XD These are the little babes in the creative nursery, basically. Also I have never posted baby sketches before and I'm kinda nervous about it. But. Well. >.> )

THERE YOU HAVE IT. A couple of my reasons for being so entirely absent from all other aspects of the fandom. (Also I got hit with the flu super hard, but doing better now!)

Tags for future wipsdays/hello's! @leithillustration, @artsyunderstudy (thank you for listening to me ramble about Pitch Manor), @erzbethluna, @nightimedreamersworld, @cutestkilla (thank you for also listening to me ramble about Pitch Manor sorry I'm reworking it again XD), @angelsfalling16, @fatalfangirl, @hushed-chorus (thank you for being my secret-garden-enabler XD), @rimeswithpurple, @best--dress, @whatevertheweather, @ileadacharmedlife, @scribble-tier, @imagineacoolusername, @brilla-brilla-estrellita, @alleycat0306, @ivelovedhimthroughworse, @tender-ministrations, @katmiscellanious, @anxious-m3ss, @bubble-gumhead, @ebbpettier, @facewithoutheart, @bazzybelle, @theimpossibledemon, @aristocratic-otter, @ic3-que3n, @palimpsessed, @raenestee

[loiterer87]

So, the other year I got challenged to do some creative writing/flash-ficcy thing by  a mate. I sent it to her and another mate who does writing sometimes for their opinions and they seemed to like it. Then I sat on it for ages because I do that sort of thing a lot...

Anyway, I decided sod it, let’s stick it up here and see what happens. Here’s a short, Urban Fantasy thing I wrote up t’other year featuring my character Dave from the Loiterers comic doing something his mates don’t know about...

                                        A DECK OF MANY THINGS

Heidi texted me.

'Dave, you in town?”

It was winter and I was out with my studio mates, all of us had a different reason to celebrate. Mostly it was Christmas revelry, but each of us had our own reasons to be cheerful. I had just posted out the last three commissions of the year and was happy whiling away the rest of the day drinking. After replying, she sent me back another almost instantly.

“Ring me.”

I sighed, excused myself and slipped outside the pub.

“What?” I said. It wasn't exactly a winter wonderland outside, but it was cold enough. I wanted to get through this quickly and go back to my pint.

“Someone's got a Deck of Many Things.”

It's basically a pack of magic cards. Doesn't matter if it's your standard lucky pack of Fifty Two, a cursed Tarot set or someone just faffing about with an enchanted deck of Magic the Gathering, some of us of a certain generation of magic-users started calling them a Deck of Many Things. Yes, Gary Gygax has a lot to probably answer for.

“And this is important... how?”

“This someone's not supposed to have it.”

“Isn't stuff like that your job?”

Heidi is part of what can be described as a cross between a Neighbourhood Watch Association and a mystical security force. She'd say 'she walks the city, night and day, protecting us from threats, unseen and unheard... blah blah blah, prose of the purplest hues, etc.' It boils down to her and her group keeping everyone safe from dickheads with magic. Usually armed with a big stick.

“Normally, yes, but not right now.”

I could vaguely hear some singing in the background. It took slightly longer than I care to admit but eventually I realised what she meant. She was celebrating with her family. All of them.

“Oh.”

“Yeah...”

“...I'm at the point of merry right now.” I sighed.

“You're also the only person who's in town who answered.”

“...So, Deck of Many Things then...”

She told me that a seer had phoned her about it and that it was happening live. At the Cuthbert Broderick Wetherspoons.

I swore. Heidi noticed. I was about two minutes walk from there, if that, at another pub down the road.

There's a book, in a library somewhere called 'Like Attracts Like: A Study on Luck, Magic and Probabilty' by a guy called J. Ohljson. It's about how magic-users and magically-inclined folks essentially find themselves becoming weirdness magnets. I hate it. I was thinking about it and how much I hate it as I made my way across Millennium Square and up the stairs into 'Spoons.

It was busy. I couldn't immediately tell who the pillock with the Deck was so I headed up to the bar and ordered a drink.

“Don't tell me Heidi sent you!”

I looked up at the bartender. It was Lee. Lee doesn't like me.

“Evenin', Lee...”

“Of all the people she could've asked...”

“I was the only one who answered. We both have to deal with it. Now, what's going on?”

He looked at me distastefully. Probably trying to work out whether or not it was worth me helping the Watch.

“Look, while you're mentally wording your letter of complaint to Heidi and her lot, can you get us a pint please? I'm supposed to be celebrating tonight.”

His grimace increased, my smile became shit-eating. He responded by putting a pint glass full of water in front of me.

“My right, far end of the bar. Five of them.”

I downed my glass while stealing a glance in the direction Lee mentioned. I could see a small trio at the far end but...

“Three lads, two girls. One lad's nipped out for a smoke, not sure where the girl went.”

“You're definitely sure it's them?”

“Guy who got the first round went for all the really expensive shit. Paid contactless with a Queen of Diamonds under his actual card. Our till had a brief glitchy flicker and miraculously his bill was paid.”

“Is that it?!”

“Also, the guy outside is busy performing fire-breathing tricks right now.”

He nodded behind me. Looking round, he was correct. There was a drunken, braying idiot belching a jet of fire that'd impress a dragon. You know, if it had really low expectations. The crowd were amazed though. Very drunk, thankfully, but impressed.

The guy was clearly a student. Another glance at his friends inside confirmed it, all modern clobber and all pissed. It was coming up to Christmas after all. They were also watching their mate outside and one of them, the money man Lee mentioned, was idly thumbing through a half opened pack of playing cards.

“Definitely a Queen of Diamonds?”

Lee nodded, “Please don't wreck the place.”

I tried thinking of something clever to say but he had a point. Try as I might, and honestly, while my magic's not really that strong or destructive, sometimes things break. And the Cuthbert Broderick's facade is mostly glass.

Getting up, I left my bag on the seat and asked Lee to keep an eye on it.

“What you doing?”

“Piss. I need to think. Get us a proper pint while I'm gone.”

I left him before he could answer back and headed downstairs.

The toilets were probably the old cellar of the place. As you go further down, the nice smooth walls suddenly become old red brick. And the ceiling is really low. In the past I've bashed my head on it even with my head bent. I passed the communal sink area and into the gents.

As I went about my business, something was bothering me. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I felt as if there was a camera or something on me. Most unusual for the gents, normally everyone keeps to themselves. Snatching a quick glance around there was me and another guy. He had his eyes down. That wasn't it.

Then I heard a giggle. Not loud, like a little snicker that slips out. Again, there was no one else in the room. I carried on. Again, the giggle. Another look around and I thought I saw something  for a second on my left. I pretended not to notice and sniffed. And there it was, a sickly sweet perfume in the air. It was almost as if it was peering over my shoulder. The smell was godawful and got up my nose in the worst way. I sneezed.

As I jerked my head left, force from the reaction driving it forward, it connected with solid air. I also distinctly heard a girl go “Ow, shit!”. I finished up, headed out and back upstairs.

“Yeah, they're proper magic cards.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young blonde walking past, tissue hiding a bloodied and broken nose, shooting a very dirty look in my direction. She headed straight for her friends with the cards.

Lee's face and shoulders dropped and he groaned. “We need to clear out the place, don't we?”

“Now now, not necessarily...”

“How's your thieving skills?”

I said nothing, then, “Let's not pull the fire alarm just yet! That's all I'm saying.”

I looked through my bag. There was very little actually useful in there. I grabbed my A6 sketch book and shoved it in my jacket pocket. Rifling through the pencil case I carry led me to grabbing a pencil, old wood and blunt lead job (probably HB), and the Magnum. A permanent marker so chunky, it has little practical purpose in my day job. This stuff however? Conjuring magic symbols and creating works which alter a tiny bit of reality is so much easier with a bit of kit which actually leaves a decent-sized indelible mark.

I chucked the rest at Lee, “Keep an eye on that, will you? Maybe also hang around the fire alarm.”

“...You're not going to make me regret calling this in, are you?”

I shrugged. Downed the beer I'd ordered for liquid courage and decided to do something stupid.

On the way outside I grabbed a glass of something clear off an empty table. In hindsight, I should probably have sniffed it before taking it but I was kind of drunk. It might've avoided how bad things got.

The fire-breather was still showing off when I got out the door. I shouted to the prick just as he was about to give it another round. He turned, flames flicking the corners of his mouth.

“Does that leave you with bad breath or does it just make everything taste like burnt toast?” I asked to him and the incredulous audience. He snorted derisively.

“No really,” I continued, “I would also resort to circus skills if I was that desperate for a shag at a fucking 'Spoons!”

That got his attention. He sneered, took a deep breath and as soon as I saw a flash of orange I threw the drink in my hand.

Turns out it was vodka.

There was a short flash in the guy's face as the vodka met the flame and then a lot of screaming. The crowd panicked and scattered while the fire-breather was on the floor frantically trying to put his face out.

As he slapped at his face and shirt, I sauntered over and picked up the card off the floor. The three of hearts. Turning back and there was a little commotion inside, no doubt my antics had got their attention in there too.

Amongst the people who'd just seen the fireworks were his friends. I tapped the window to properly get their attention. They looked, I showed them the card. Then tore it in half. I took a step back, tilted my chin up and thumped my chest in that unspoken way which translates to “Come on then.” I also saw Lee staring agog at that display of completely immature bravado. At him, I just shrugged. Then he went and pulled the fire alarm.

All the doors suddenly burst open, patrons and staff trying to get out of the building, I waited for the initial rush to subside before slipping in and heading up a nearby staircase to the mezzanine. Soon as I made it to the centre I got on my knees and pulled out the Magnum. The strong smell of the ink did not help with my beer-addled state and made it harder to concentrate of the magic as I drew.

I could hear angry voices below me as I neared completion. Peering down through the glass bannister, I could see the remaining card-wielders arguing. A second later, one spotted me. Shit. I took the marker to the glass and drew a seven pointed asterisk which looked like a shatter pattern. I capped the Magnum and held my drawing hand over it for about three seconds before smacking it as hard as I could.

Upon impact, the glass blew outwards like a bullet had gone through it. The fragments spiralled and contorted in the air like a flock of razor-sharp birds in flight before piling down at the four. The girl with the bloody nose screamed as the shards rained down. After they'd finished I saw her heading towards the exit screaming “That is it I am so done with this magic shit!” The ring leader tried to calm her down but she was having none of it.

“I don't care! It was funny when you nicked 'em but now I've got guys throwing glass at us! I'm going home!”

And that was the last I saw of her that night. Unfortunately, me listening in had also alerted them to my presence and one of the remaining two guys was beginning to head upstairs with a handful of cards.  I turned to face him, only to hear the sound of a card deck being flipped through. He was gone.

Then he was behind me and all over my back. Fucking. Teleportation. I fell to the floor as he shouted something tough at me, I wasn't listening. All I was concentrating on was working the pencil out of my pocket. It was a lot harder than expected, what with his weight pressing down on top of me and what I was sure was another pair of arms trying to keep me pinned.

After retrieving it, I drove it point down, straight into the first hand I saw which wasn't mine. He screamed, the hand vanished back into nothingness and I managed to roll the guy off while he was dealing with the temporary phantom pain. I snatched the pencil up off the floor and headed behind one of the pub's decorative bookcases. The pencil's end was covered in blood. That was good, I whipped out the sketchbook and started some rudimentary Voo-doodling.

I stole a quick look at the guy; daft blond cow-lick, neck tattoo, white rugby shirt, before putting pencil to paper and sketching a quick headshot in blood and lead. He might have seen me, because just as I finished the last lines a bolt of lighting struck the case I was hiding behind and caught fire. I wiped the pencil on my jeans and ducked behind a table as another bolt arced overhead. And another striking the table leg. Clearly, his aim was off.

“God, this one's shit...” He said, throwing the card aside. I took the moment to finish off the ritual. I stood up, held the sketchbook image out and declared: “By book, blood and lead, I bind you!” He hurled a pint glass at me in response.

I was back behind the table when I remembered there was more to say. I held the book up again, “And in binding, your will is mine!” Bloody beer brain! Knowing my luck, it probably messed the spell's effects about.

He threw another. Yep, definitely not working properly, I thought. The teleport card made its presence again, this time startling me by having the guy appear in front of me. I swung both arms in  panic as I saw him materialise in front of me. The spell did work though. Sort of. I saw him appear, then suddenly jump to the right, colliding hard with the railing. Okay. So, I couldn't control his complete will, just his direction.

I tested this by pulling the book back left, leading my new puppet back the other way into another bookcase. He charged at me, every direction the book pulled him merely annoying him. We ended up doing some strange violent dance, him throwing punches at me, me leading by book and dodging the odd fist. A jab came towards my kidney which was flung back towards a chair. Which smashed. This continued for a while, punches, dodges, the odd furniture being struck. Which I noted didn't always end in destruction. At some point, I also noticed that he had two cards left in his back pocket.

I snatched the pair when his back was turned and when he turned back, pulled the book straight up, this time the effect was different. Blondie staggered back like he'd been chinned with an uppercut. Even better, he staggered back and stood right over the thing I'd drawn earlier. A trapdoor.  The floor beneath his right foot suddenly gave way and he fell through, only getting stuck fast as his crotch slammed into it, leaving him and his one free leg jutting awkwardly out of the hole.

At this point I should probably mention I have a habit of drawing undersized trapdoors. Don't know why, I just do. Maybe it's a time thing. Either way, what with the combination of dizziness and understandable pain on his face, I think he was done for this round.  

Then everything around me was filled with broken glass. A lot of broken glass. Most of it smelling like some booze or another. After several cuts to my face and yet more holes in my jacket, I'd had enough. I was the floor when I started shouting, it was full on childish tantrum shouting, I'll admit it. I don't remember exactly what it was other than something along the lines of “Oh, will you just fuck off?” All of a sudden, the glass stopped. It fell to the floor like whatever had been holding it up had just dropped everything and left. Peering over the edge to the ground floor confirmed it.

Leading pillock was shouting at the only other remaining member of his little crew. She had another card in her hand and was heading for the door.

“What the fuck, Nat!?”

“I don't know, Bobby! He just shouted at me and I just want to go!”

“What!?”

“Don't you start! You got us into this shit! You-- Forget it, I'm off home!

And with that, she threw the card on the floor and stormed out. I laughed.

And then Bobby saw me. “Don't move!” I shouted. He didn't. I looked over at my hand. Still had Blondie's two remaining cards gripped tightly in it. I figured one must've been some sort of compelling voice thing. Looking back down, Bobby was still stood frozen. After some standing and stretching, I made my way back down to the ground floor.

“Alright then, tell us, “ I said, still holding the pair I had, “where'd you get these?”

“...”

I sighed, he still couldn't move. Whoever enchanted these things clearly didn't do a decent enough job, the do-what-I-say card took my words too literally.

“Uuugggh, alright! You can move, but tell me who you got the cards from!”

“I took them from this weirdo who lives in the same cluster as me at Beckett. He's into all that weird shit. Told me he made them himself. I thought it'd be a bit of a laugh to take 'em out.”

“Was he one of the lads here tonight?”

“Fuck off! He was on acid or something, I took 'em from his shelf and he didn't notice a thing. I even tripped on his coat on the way out and he didn't even flinch!”

I was about to ask him to hand over the rest of the deck, but I'd forgotten that 'You can move' has multiple meanings. By the time I'd started my next sentence, I had to quickly swap the back end of it for simply the word:

“MISS!”

And that was just seconds before I dodged out of the way of a chuffing great black battle axe burying itself into the staircase behind me. Thankfully, it was embedded deep enough into the wood that Bobby had to really work to unstick it. This gave me enough time to put some distance between us. I couldn't get another command out before he came swinging at me again! This time smashing a table. Then another. And one of the windows.

The wind blew a sharp cold draft through both of us and sadly, one of the two cards I had left in my hand. Bobby noticed this, grinned and raised the axe. I saw the card flit in the breeze before I saw the axe coming up and thought quickly.

I ducked, cringed and either shouted another command or screamed as the axe came down. It was not the most dignified way to die in this game, but really, I've yet to hear of one that is.

Then I noticed I wasn't dead. Bobby noticed too. He pulled the axe back and tried again. Swinging for my midsection. Again, nothing. Around this time, I'd stood up and flinched when he tried yet again to no avail. We both stared at each other confused. I felt myself confirming, yes I was still whole and intact while Bobby tested the axe on another table. Which smashed. I still had one card left and checked to see which it was. Then I grinned as I worked out what was going on.

It was the Joker. I turned it face down and quietly picked a piece of broken table leg off the floor and a half spilled glass of something. Bobby was trying to dislodge the axe from the floor. As I crept up, he must've realised something about the magic and dropped the card he was holding. The axe vanished, he picked it up again and the axe appeared in his other hand. He turned and thrust the blade towards my neck! Nothing. He still hadn't figured it out.

Not missing the moment I threw the mixture of broken glass and alcohol in his face! When he dropped the card again while shrieking was when I broke his nose with the table leg. As he laid writhing in a pool of many varying fluids, including some bodily ones, I stepped over him and retrieved the rest of the deck. Out of the fifty-four in the pack there was still about thirty plus. I flipped through them before pocketing them and digging out my phone.

There were three missed calls from Heidi and maybe three times as many texts.

“What the hell did you do!?!” Her voice was harsh and shrill with a mixture of concern and outrage. “Lee called and said you'd gotten into a full on war with the gang who had the deck!?”

“They were a bunch of drunk students...”

“Why didn't you just steal it!?”

“How?...”

She was silent for a good thirty seconds before asking, “Is it over, at least?” I looked around, even if I couldn't see the fire on the mezzanine, I could smell it. “I got the deck, yeah.” I stepped behind the bar and pulled my bag up onto it. Still talking to Heidi.

“Heidi, it's mostly cosmetic is the damage. Also, I had no idea what I was walking into and some of these cards have destructive properties!”

More silence. I dug out a compact mirror marked with stray correction fluid and a small pot of black corpse paint I borrowed from a band I'd done some work for in the past.  Eventually she said, “When you say 'cosmetic'...”

“One of the guys tried electrocuting me and another had a big fuck-off axe! What the hell was I supposed to do?”

“...Alright, go home, Dave. At least the building's still standing. Can we talk later?”

I was applying the black paint around my eyes in the style of an old-school bank robber, “That'll be fine. Got to go now, need to paint my fingers.” I hung up and put my phone away before smearing the remainder of the paint on my fingertips.

The emergency services showed up just as I'd grabbed all my belongings from all the floors and walked out one of the broken ground floor windows. No one stopped me or even noticed. I've used the Burglar Mask trick so often I don't even try to sneak away from people anymore. With the mask over my eyes and fingers. No one can see me, not unless they try very hard. I surveyed the damage, several of the ground floor windows were broken as was one of the glass doors. There was the small glow of fire coming from the mezzanine and the whole ground floor was a mess of glass, liquid and splinters. I could even see Lee talking with one of the police on site all the while looking around for me.

I took a deep breath and decided to head home to sleep off the inevitable hangover.

It was about a week later when the whole thing about the Deck came up again. Heidi had rang to tell me that it had been destroyed. She was just calling to let me know and if any of the missing cards had been destroyed. Outside of the fire-breathing one and one or two others I'd ripped up I'd assumed the rest were taken by the fire. This seemed to satisfy her. After she hung up I went back to clearing out my messenger bag, there'd been a bit of debris inside since and it was starting to muck up some of the pages in one of my sketchbooks. Digging around led to me discovering what turned out to be the Queen of Diamonds.

It took another minute or two to remember, this was the magic money card. I put it to one side and grabbed the jeans I was wearing that night from the laundry bin. In the back pocket, beside a used tissue and forty three pence was another one. I must have put it in there and forgotten about it after the blonde guy smashed his balls on the floor. I considered ripping them up there and then, but...

I remembered I'm also a starving artist and a mage. Neither career was especially rewarding. So I decided to keep hold of the Queen for a rainy day. The other card was the Nine of Spades and I never did see what that one did. I still don't, come to think of it, but it may come in useful somewhere along the line.

[xturtletrashx]

Devil’s Dance Floor - Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I don’t own Uncharted, blah blah blah, you know how it goes.  I do own my OCs though.  This fic in its entirety can be read on AO3 here or you can find the other twelve parts here.   

I really fought with Sam and Simone in this chapter.  Things weren't supposed to move this fast but no matter how much I told them to chill the fuck out, they refused.  -___-

This chapter is mildly NSFW.  Graphic and title pic was made by me, all other pics aren’t mine.  If one belongs to you, please let me know and I’ll either credit or remove.

Chapter 13: Her Breath Began to Speak

"We'll get back to work first thing in the morning," Rafe said as he pulled Sam's duffel bag from the back of the Jeep and handed it over.  

"Yeah, we'll see," was Sam's answer, tired and eager to get away from his traveling companion.  Even in small doses Rafe was hard to deal with but non-stop Rafe for two days was more than Sam could handle.  It was funny how things changed.  

He headed away from the castle and toward the water instead, where his little cottage sat at the top of the rocky bluff, one window dimly lit against the darkness.  The cottage was beginning to feel like home, he'd found, and the fact that he so often had enjoyable company while there certainly helped.  

Sam was eager to see Simone and as he walked, he glanced over his shoulder at the castle again but her window was dark.  She was probably sleeping, he assumed, and couldn't help but wonder if she'd come down to see him if he texted her . . .

He slipped the key into the lock and pushed open the door to find that he wouldn't have to text her after all, because Simone was curled up in his bed.  She was fast asleep, full lips just barely parted and her arms wrapped around his pillow - and she was wearing the red flannel she'd stolen nearly a month ago.  God, she looked beautiful and Sam's reaction to seeing her, the way his stomach flip flopped and his chest sort of felt like it was caving in, caught him completely off guard.  He'd missed her, of course, but he hadn't realized quite how much until that very moment.  

He set the bag down and closed the door softly behind him, crossing the room to poke at the hot embers in the fireplace before leaning on the arm of the couch to untie his boots.  Oddly enough, he found that he didn't want to wake her.  He just wanted to slip into bed beside her and pull her into his arms and fall asleep with his nose in those untamed curls . . .

So he stripped down to his boxers and did just that, settling in behind her and wrapping an arm around her middle to pull her close.  Her hair smelled citrusy, like lemons maybe, and when she stirred in his arms he pressed a kiss to the back of her shoulder.  Simone's breathing changed minutely, catching in her nose in the softest snore that Sam could only find endearing and then she was twisting a bit in his arms to peer over her shoulder at him with sleepy brown eyes.

She'd been in a deep sleep and it took a moment for the frown to smooth from her brow, only to be replaced with a smile that made his heart skip.  "You're home," Simone sighed, and Sam found himself grinning in response.  It had been a long time since someone had been so obviously happy to see him.

"Yeah," he smiled, brushing his nose against her freckled cheekbone.  "Just got in."

"Did'ya miss me?" she asked in a whisper.

"Mhm," Sam hummed, his arm tightening around her waist.  "I did."

She reached between them, her hand gripping him gently through the thin material of his boxers, and Sam couldn't help but groan in response, hips flexing on instinct.  His mouth found the side of her neck even as his hand slid up to cup her breast, and in his ear he heard her whisper prove it.  

She wasn't wearing anything under that flannel, he quickly found out, and after just enough wiggling to get his boxers down his thighs and a condom in place, Sam was working himself inside of her.  There was no foreplay, no playful bedroom talk, just shallow thrusts until her body had made room for him and then, once he was as deep as he could get, he paused and asked on a whim, "Did you miss me?"

And he was expecting a breathy confirmation, some sort of sexy remark to keep the blood pumping, but what he got instead was a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob.  Sam froze, worry quickly pushing his arousal aside, and he brushed her hair back in an attempt to see her face.  "Simone?  Did I hurt you?"

"I'm a'right," she said quickly, fingers wiping away the shine of tears.  "Keep going."

"What?  I'm not gonna keep going," Sam insisted even as he pulled out of her. 

Simone scooted onto her back, staring up at him with accusing eyes.  "I said keep going," she snapped.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked again, voice rising a bit.  What the fuck was wrong with her?  

Simone huffed and sat up, shoulders bunched in . . . annoyance?  Sam wasn't sure but he'd obviously done something wrong.  Maybe he should have gone down on her?  "Simone?"  

She put her back to him, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and staring down at the floor and Sam wasn't sure what to do, so he stayed where he was, sitting in the middle of the bed in a tangle of sheets with his boxers around his knees and a condom on his dick.  He watched her warily, waiting for some sign that she was ready to talk or was inviting his touch but the minutes stretched in silence until, just when he was about to break, she spoke.

"I missed you."

The words were so softly spoken that Sam nearly found himself saying what? simply out of habit than any real need for her to repeat herself.  He'd heard her words but they didn't explain anything and he found himself holding very still for fear of missing whatever came out of her mouth next.

"All I've wanted was t' touch you.  For you t' touch me," she continued softly, her head still bowed as she stared at the floor.  "And then ya did and it was too much . . ."

What?  

Sam shook his head, "Simone, I don't--"

She turned to face him, her eyes hard with accusation.  "You're such a bloody idiot," she snapped, grabbing a pillow and flinging it toward him.

Sam reached up and caught the pillow before it connected with him, annoyance bubbling up in response to her aggression.  "What the hell?" he demanded, tossing the pillow aside.  

Her mouth opened, then closed as she reconsidered, and then without a word she was rising to her feet and darting to the bathroom.  The click of the lock sounded deafening in the sudden silence and Sam was left staring at the closed door and wondering what the fuck had just happened.

Minutes ticked slowly by, the faint sounds of sniffling carrying through the closed door, as Sam turned over her actions in his head.  He'd seen her get emotional - that afternoon in Edinburgh came to mind immediately - but this was different and what she'd said . . .

Sam blinked, realization dawning.  Did she mean . . .?  His heart was suddenly racing and, where he would have run for the hills in the past, right in this moment he found himself oddly okay with it.  But he needed to hear her to say it.  He needed to be sure because if this was what he thought it was, then it would completely redefine their relationship . . .

Sam climbed from the bed and threw out the condom, straightening his boxers as he went to the bathroom door and knocked softly.  "Simone?  Can we talk?"  The only answer was a soft sniffle and Sam sighed, gaze drifting around the small cabin and landing on the pad of paper beside the phone.  If she wasn't ready to talk, then maybe she'd be ready to write?  

He made a circuit around the room, collecting the paper, a pen, his cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket, and then sat down on the floor outside the bathroom door, leaning back against the wall.  On the paper, he scrawled a simple I still miss you and then tore the sheet off and slipped it under the door along with the pen.  

The only answer was silence and, finally, Sam lit a cigarette to help pass the time, mentally preparing himself for a long night of waiting her out . . .

And then the paper appeared again, fluttering across the floor next to his bare thigh, the pen pushed through only a second later.  I miss you too, it read.

Putting the cigarette between his lips, Sam took up the pen and wrote, I'm sorry I upset you and then sent it back to her.

It's not your fault was her response.  

It's not yours either, he answered.

Yes, it is.  We had a deal.

Sometimes deals need to be renegotiated.  

Are you willing to renegotiate?

The last time Sam had agreed to a renegotiation it had hardly gone in his favor, but still Sam took a moment to think about that, giving the question the attention it deserved.  He'd never been the boyfriend type, not really - in fact, he'd always been a rather shitty boyfriend - and he'd always preferred things to be string-free.  Contrary to that, the thought of labeling this, or at the very least them both allowing it to naturally progress without fighting it, didn't send him into a panic.  Did he love her?  Maybe?  Sam wasn't sure he'd ever loved anyone in his life, aside from his mother and his brother, but he was certainly fond of Simone.  She was so full of life and laughter, and the way she stuffed her hands up into his armpits when she was cold made his stomach feel a bit butterfly-ish and her smile made his heart skip a beat . . .

Yes, he answered.

Another beat of silence passed and then the lock clicked and the door opened and Sam glanced up to find Simone staring down at him.  Her eyes were red, her hair wild around her shoulders, and there was a hesitation in her step as she crossed the threshold.  "I'm sorry," she said softly.  Her hands were twisted up in the too-long sleeves of the flannel, fingers laced together in front of her as she absently massaging one thumb into the opposite palm.  

Sam reached out and wrapped a hand around her calf in a subtle invitation for her to move closer to him and she did, stepping over him to settle down onto the floor with her shoulder and arm pressed against his.  "You don't have to apologize," he said, opening the conversation.

Simone didn't answer right away, just reached out and plucked the cigarette from his hand and put it between her lips.  It reminded him of that first night they'd met and brought into stark relief just how far they'd come in such a short amount of time.  

"I've never been in love," she admitted, blowing smoke from her lungs and handing the cig back.

Sam took a long drag, tipping his head back to rest against the wall.  "Me either."

"What are we gonna do?"

Sam stared up at the ceiling, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.  "Renegotiate?" he suggested.

Simone chuckled, jostling him lightly with her shoulder.  "We can't make this official," she said.  "Like with labels an' all that junk."

"No?"  Sam shrugged.  He could live with that.  It would probably make things hell with Rafe and Nadine, anyway.  "So . . . maybe just acknowledge that it's--"

"A thing?" Simone finished.

Sam chuckled.  "Yeah, a thing."  His hand found her thigh on instinct, seeking out her skin in this moment of intimacy and she leaned closer to him, pressing her lips against his bare shoulder.  "So you've never said it?" he asked after a moment.

Simone shook her head.  "Not meaning it."  She paused and, for a moment, he thought she was gearing up to make her confession but instead she said, in a small voice, "D'ya love me?"

Sam turned his head and found her watching him closely, unsure of how he should answer.  "Maybe," he answered honestly and was relieved to see acceptance in her eyes instead of insult or anger.  "I'm not sure yet."

"I can live with that," she said, lips pursing to kiss his shoulder again.  "Maybe tell me if anythin' changes, yeah?"

Sam smiled, "You'll be the first to know."

***

That surety came slowly, or maybe it was the process of acceptance that took him a while, but as the weeks passed and barriers continued to fall between them, Sam found those feelings working themselves out.  His birthday came and to celebrate the big forty-two Simone bought him a new motorcycle.  Well, it wasn't new but the fact that she'd gotten him a fixer-upper just proved how well she was getting to know him and between chasing down dead end leads, he gave the Triumph Bonneville some much needed TLC.

Christmas saw Rafe back to New York to spend the holiday with his parents and most of the mercenaries flew home to celebrate with their families, which meant a break from research and hunting for leads.  Those who stayed in Scotland - Simone, Sam, Nadine, and a handful of Shoreline mercs - had their own version of Christmas with food, drinks, stories, and drunken shenanigans.  Sam had enjoyed himself, but the subdued festivities hadn't distracted him from the aching regret of not spending his first Christmas as a free man with his brother.  It made him wonder if he was making the wrong choice, if he should just leave and go to Nathan instead, but then what?  They had no leads and Rafe would be right on his tail, seeing red . . .

And so the idea was pushed to the back of his mind to maybe be examined again later, after the New Year, after winter passed into spring, after he'd figured out exactly what was going on between himself and Simone . . .

***

"God, that's beautiful, innit?" Simone asked, eyes on the sun as it hovered just above the horizon.  

"Yeah," Sam answered, but his own eyes weren't on the streaks of pink and purple painted across the London skyline, but rather Simone's profile and the wistful sparkle in her eyes as she watched the sun sink steadily lower.  They were going to dinner after this and she was dressed for it, in a short, clingy dress in bold African patterns and she'd claimed his denim jacket to drape over her shoulders in an attempt to ward off the late spring chill in the air.  Her hair had been semi-tamed, straightened and then curled again so they fell in loose waves instead, but that didn't stop the fine hairs at her temples from coiling in the humidity.  It was a small imperfection and he loved it.  

She must have felt him watching her, because she turned to him then and her face broke into a grin.  "What?" she laughed.  "Were you starin' at me?"

"No," Sam chuckled and now it was his turn to cast his gaze out over the city.  Simone's grin didn't fade though and he could see her - feel her - watching him, so he shrugged and laughed.  "Maybe."

"It's cause you want to kiss me in front'uv the sunset, yeah?" she teased, sidling closer until she was pressed against his side.  

Sam wrapped an arm around her hips, pulling her in so he could do just that.  It was a gentle kiss, all soft lips and teasing tongues, and Simone went up on her toes so she could wrap her arms around his neck.  It was tempting to bring it to the next level, to let that sudden passion overwhelm them, but they were hardly alone hanging off the side of the London Eye, and Sam doubted the elderly couple on the opposite side of their capsule would appreciate it.  

"I wish I wasn't leaving," Simone murmured against his lips.

"I wish you weren't either," he answered, pulling back enough to meet her gaze.  

It was why they'd taken this impromptu road trip, winding their way down from the castle in the Highlands of Scotland to downtown London, because Shoreline had a standing security contract in France and it was Simone's turn to rotate in.  

"Three months feels like a long time."

"Three months is a long time," Sam corrected, hands smoothing down her back to come to rest on the swell of her ass.  "But we'll talk every night."  And it would give him time to focus on Avery's treasure, which would make Rafe happy; it was pretty obvious that he'd been frustrated with Sam's distraction lately.  

Simone grinned up at him.  "Just don't forget me, yeah?"

"Right," Sam laughed.  "Like that'd happen."

***

With a bag slung over her shoulder, Simone made her way down the hallway, the squeaky wheels of her suitcase echoing off the castle walls.  If she hurried, she'd have just enough time to have breakfast with Sam before having to leave to catch her flight . . .

"Simone, do you have a minute?"

She paused, drawing to a stop as Rafe came up behind her.  "Sure Rafe," she answered, putting on a friendly smile as she turned to face him.  

He didn't slow his approach and Simone found herself retreating a step as he plowed into her personal space.  "We had a deal," he hissed, eyes dangerously dark and his voice low to ensure his words wouldn't be overheard.

Simone straightened her shoulders, refusing to give another step even in the face of an obviously angry Rafe Adler.  "I 'aven't gone back on our deal, Rafe," Simone answered, careful to keep her tone even and her own volume low.

"You've taken this too far," he continued.  "I told you to watch him and, fine, if sleeping with him helped with that then so be it.  But that's not what this is anymore, is it?"

No, it wasn't.  Simone was in love, head over heels, and she was pretty sure Sam was heading in that same direction even though he hadn't actually vocalized it.  "What's it matter?" she asked.  "I'm still doing what'chu asked.  He's not any closer to running off on ya than he was eight months ago."  

"I've seen the way he looks at you, Simone," Rafe growled as he glared down his nose at her.  

He was trying to intimidate her and while there was a part of her that wanted to shrink back from that spark of insanity in his eyes, Simone refused.  If she had to, she could handle herself against one spoiled prick.  "Whatsa matter Rafe?  You jealous?" she returned, one eyebrow lifting in question.

His face smoothed out suddenly, shutting down as the emotions faded and it was unnerving to watch.  "Perhaps I should tell Nadine not to bring you back after this."

Simone's heart fell into her stomach, her breath catching in her chest, but it was an empty threat.  She reached up and planted a hand in the center of Rafe's chest, forcing him back a step.  "Tha's not up t'you, Rafe," she answered.  "You may be paying for Shoreline's services, but this company still belongs to my sister."  

His face was still dangerously blank and, for a moment, Simone was sure he was going to lash out at her but before she could give him a chance, she ended the conversation: "Now back off; I've got a plane t'catch."  

Simone swore she could feel the heat of Rafe's anger beating against her back as she turned and walked away, but she'd be damned if she were going to give him the satisfaction of looking back.