#all the dash lights and check engine lights of my life are flashing right now

[vulcanette]

truly, Fred Durst. It’s just one of those days!

[brightgnosis]

Oh man. When it gets interesting it certainly gets interesting (and all at once), huh?

I got a call this morning from my Doctor's office saying they need to talk about my insurance. I have enough time before my class today, so I go ahead and call. They say they noticed during check-in for my Telehealth appointment yesterday that I had built "a fairly substantial bill" and that didn't seem right to them. So they had their billing department investigate, and it turns out insurance stopped paying for all of my medical with them around the time that we switched our policy to a better policy in January of this year.

After some digging in their system, and on our end, we finally figured out that my dumb tush forgot to update the insurance card on file with the office after we got our new card (probably because I've been doing Telehealth all year and have only been in office once all year). However, their systems was saying I was still eligible the entire time, so they didn't catch it on their end either .... Not until my bill was strange and they decided to investigate.

Now we've got that fixed, thankfully. They're re-filling all of my bills for the entire year with insurance, and we'll find out if they'll pay things backlogged, since I was actually eligible the whole time 🤞

THEN we were about to leave for my class and my Husband went up early ahead of me in order to get the car warmed up. I finished up, and then went up to meet him- but when I got out there, he was shutting the car off.

Apparently just before I came out the door, the car had lurched on its own, reved to a higher rpm before stuttering a bunch, stalled to half dead, and then the dash went insane ... Check engine light came on, and then suddenly "a lightening bolt in parenthesis" started flashing on the side board.

It took me about 10 minutes to get him to stop panicking enough to get even that info out of him so that I could figure out what was going on with the car (hi, minimally formally Auto Service trained- and also grew up around our type of car specifically my entire life; there's multiple reasons why, when we bought our first car together, I made sure it was this kind of car specifically). Turns out it's something to do with the Throttle Control. So we had to drop it off at the dealership.

In doing so we found out there's also an open recall on the Catalytic Converter for our model and year. It would be nice if that's connected, but it's doubtful. Either way, we're getting that taken care of, too, while she's in the shop. And I've gotta call insurance to have them coordinate with the shop in case it's something insurance can cover.

So guess who's missing school today 🙃 Last class right before the test, too. And for the class I was most excited for (Fruit and Nut Production). [sigh]

[theres-an-impulstor-among-us]

Another Friday night stabby glitched game idea, if your motivation's still moving in that direction!

A game that doesn't properly recognise the end when the Impostors outnumber the Crewmates, leaving Tango the sole survivor being openly hunted down by Impostors Brody and Impulse. Maybe he finishes the last task against the odds, maybe he gets slaughtered, maybe nobody ever figures out what went wrong with that game...your choice! I just love the spookyness of being alone on a ship with emergency alarms blaring and your-friends-but-not-quite tracking you down... Add code-level bloodlust and/or alien Impostor mutations to taste, if you'd like. Extra fun! :)

so bc the prompt was more horror-y, i took that as a dare to make this as horror-y as my non-horror-minded mind possibly can >:)

…

Something is extremely wrong. Tango’s been staring at the admin table for thirty full seconds now and there’s definitely only three players left. But the thing is… they haven’t voted anybody out. And the special roles are off, so there’s no sheriff. That means there’s still two imposters left.

...so why has the game not ended…?

Finally, Tango leaves the admin table and reluctantly checks his task list. He only has the download in comms left, which means he has to do that and then return here for the upload. As the only crewmate left alive, and the task bar so close to completion, he knows he has to do it.

However, at that moment, the oxygen alarm goes off. Tango quickly enters the number in the keypad in admin, before sprinting out towards O2, knowing that neither Impulse nor Brody is going to reset it.

Thankfully, neither imposter is waiting for him when he gets there and he’s able to punch in the second code. But the alarm doesn’t stop blaring. The red lights don’t stop flashing. His tablet tells him that the emergency timer has stopped.

Another glitch.

Thoroughly unnerved by the flashing lights and deep alarm sound still going off, Tango rushes from O2 down towards communications.

However, as he gets to shields, he spots the vent opening and he skids to a halt, finding himself face to face with Brody.

“H-Hi,” he squeaks out.

“I don’t know why the game hasn’t finished yet, but like hell am I losing now,” Brody snarls back. “Come here.”

Tango immediately turns tail and flees. He has no idea where Impulse is but his terror has just increased tenfold. Avoiding the vents as much as he can, he bursts back into the cafeteria, intending to loop back around to comms.

But as he does, he spots movement just inside admin and quickly changes course, running past medbay, through upper engine, and into security. Panting, he checks the security cameras. He can see Brody hovering around just inside admin, but there’s no sign of Impulse.

He hears a vent creak.

And now realises he’s stationed himself in a room with a vent and closable doors.

Abandoning security, he dashes out towards electrical, his head starting to pound at the alarm still blaring in his ears. Darting inside, he peers out and spots a figure just leaving storage, heading towards admin. He thinks it might be Impulse, but he can’t quite tell if the figure is yellow or white.

After a moment, he risks making a run for it. Using the pile of boxes in the centre of storage as cover, he makes it through and into communications.

The ten seconds his download takes are the longest seconds of Tango’s life. He has to check over his shoulder every second or so, just to make sure nobody is sneaking up on him. But finally, it’s over.

One more task. Ten more seconds. Then they can all go home.

Tango peers out of communications. He can see nobody to the left or the right, but he suspects Impulse and Brody might still be hanging around admin.

But as he carefully makes his way around towards navigation, he happens to glance up and spots the red flashing light on the side of the security camera.

Someone’s watching him.

His stomach drops but he forces himself to keep going. Not long now. He’s so close to the end.

Elsewhere on the ship, Impulse leaves security. He doesn’t know where Brody is and he doesn’t much care at the moment. All he knows is that there’s only one task left and it must be Tango’s.

He doesn’t know why, but the urge to kill is even stronger than it usually is. It’s like the 3rd Life bloodlust combined with the normal imposter urges. Tango is one of his best friends and yet the desire to hunt him down and tear him down with his knife is overwhelmingly strong.

In admin, Tango stands at the upload panel, jiggling anxiously from foot to foot as he watches his last task slowly complete. His heart pounds in his chest, sweat trickling down his back. He’s never been so terrified in his life.

A second or two before the upload finishes, something moves in the corner of his vision and he whirls around just in time to catch Impulse’s wrist before the dagger gets embedded in his chest.

“G-Get away from me!” he shrieks.

The two tussle for a while, struggling over the knife. As Tango tries to wrench it out of Impulse’s grasp, he feels a slight sting in his side but he ignores it and manages to shove Impulse away from him. The knife clatters to the ground as Impulse hits his head on the wall outside admin, knocking him out.

Panting, Tango turns back to the admin panel but another sharp sting in his side causes his hand to automatically fly to the area. To his shock, it comes away red and sticky.

Impulse must have got him in the scuffle.

The pain hits him just then and he almost collapses immediately.

But something in his code says NO.

He hasn’t survived this long against all the odds just to die to one tiny little stab wound just seconds from the end.

So he drags himself to his feet and determinedly plugs his tablet back into the upload task, forcing himself to stay awake as long as he can. Using his leg as a makeshift support, he presses himself against the wall, his stiff knee the only thing stopping him from keeling over.

Come on… come on…

But finally, he can’t take it anymore. His knees buckle and he slips down the wall, ending up in a sitting position leaning against it. He watches his tablet clatter to the floor with subdued dismay.

So close.

Breathing heavily in and out, his fuzzy mind wanders. For the first time in this game, he’s genuinely scared of dying. There’s been so many glitches this game; what if “the final glitch”, as the group generally refer to it, is one of them?

What if Tango doesn’t respawn when he dies?

If the game doesn’t reset, Tango won’t come back to life. He’ll never see any of his deceased friends again. Impulse and Brody will be trapped as bloodthirsty monsters in this fake purgatory forever.

His eyes flicker to Impulse, who hasn’t moved. He swallows back a sob as the reality that he might never see his best friend again sets in. Maybe the last memories they’ll have of each other will be them hurting each other.

That hurts more than the stab wound.

Fear of death has helped Tango to cling on to his last shreds of life, but it’s not enough anymore. Knowing he’s coming close to the end, he summons his last vestiges of energy and crawls doggedly out of admin. He desperately wants to reach Impulse; if he has to die, he wants to die hand in hand with his best friend, even if said best friend was the person who killed him.

He just doesn’t want to die alone.

But try as he might, he just can’t reach Impulse. His energy entirely gone, all he can do is lie helplessly on the ground, bleeding out, inches from death and from his best friend. He can’t hold back the tears anymore as he stretches his arm out with his rapidly draining strength, his hand less than a foot from Impulse's.

The last thing he sees before he slips away is Impulse’s own brown eyes opening.

[imagine-darksiders]

I hope you feel better soon! When you're feeling better would you be able to write something about jealous Strife? That ask made me curious

“Do you really have to go?”

From your seat at the vanity, you heave an exasperated sigh and set down your lipstick, swivelling around in the chair to face the Horseman who stands sulking at your bedroom door.

“Strife,” you begin patiently, “I'm afraid my answer still hasn't changed since you asked me ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah, I know. It's just -” Averting his gaze, he crosses his arms and grumbles, “I thought we were gonna hang out tonight.”

“And I told you two weeks ago that I wouldn't be around tonight.”

You can't see his expression, hidden as it is behind the silver helm he wears, but you're fairly confident in guessing that there's a pout on his lips.

“And besides,” you add, “We hang out all the time. You practically live here. Hell, you've already turned my spare bedroom into your own personal den.”

'Den' is an understatement. Your spare room is now less of a bedroom more of an Earth museum, filled from floor to ceiling with all of the things that Strife has picked up simply because they took his fancy. For the most part, it's all junk. There's an obsolete gaming console that no longer works, a skateboard, a horse figurine made of glass, no less than three Nerf guns and not a foam dart between them...

Honestly, you're loathe to tell him to get rid of any of it, though you fear you might have to soon if you don't want the mess spilling out into the rest of your house.

Giving your head an exasperated shake, you check the time on your phone and stand up, throwing your bag over a shoulder. “Listen, it's just one evening with an old friend who I haven't seen since before the apocalypse. We can hang out tomorrow, I promise. But now, I really need to dash, he'll be here to pick me up any minute.”

Pausing to stuff your phone into the pocket of your trousers, you head towards the door, hardly noticing that the Horseman is still standing in front of it with his arms folded neatly across a broad, armoured chest. It's only because you glance up right at the last second that you manage to avoid a painful collision. “Um...Strife?” you ask, halting in your tracks, “... Move?”

In response, he simply leans back against your door and begins to inspect the claws on one of his gauntlets. “Nah... I'd rather hear about this friend of yours. You've never mentioned him.” Pausing, he shoots you a sly smirk that you can sense more than see, his golden eyes flashing, “You guys close?”

With a roll of your eyes, you mimic his posture, crossing your arms and giving him a glare that would make Death proud. “Strife, what's gotten into you? I just said I'm going to be late for my friend.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he returns coolly, “Just wanna know that my friend isn't walking into a trap.”

“Oh wow – a trap? Really? Of all the-” You cut yourself off and raise a hand, massaging at your temple. “Okay. Now you're just being ridiculous. It's not a trap.”

“Why don't you let me come with you, just in case?”

“Because!” you cry, throwing your arms up, “It'll be awkward! You remember what I taught you about third-wheeling?”

He remembers it well, in fact. Just like he remembers everything you teach him, committing the moments to memories that he'll carry with him until the day he snuffs it. He only has you for less than a hundred years, after all, and he's determined to remember every last bit of it. The Universe must have thought itself pretty hilarious when it placed you in his life. Of all the creatures in all the realms, the one he ends up caring about most just so happens to be the one with the shortest lifespan. It makes him want to hunt down the Creator and shoot a hole where a heart might be.

Shoving down his contempt for the omnipotent bastard, Strife returns his attention to you and lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I don't mind tagging along. You know, just in case I have to watch your back.”

Your response hits him harder than a crack from Fury's whip. “I don't need you to watch my back every second of every day! Stop being so paranoid.”

The Horseman is too proud and obstinate to ever let the stab of hurt show in his eyes, but he can't ignore its presence in his chest.

He is not being paranoid... He's being a good friend - watching your back, looking out for you, all the things a friend is supposed to do. Not that he's had much experience being friends with a human. Or anyone, for that matter, who isn't a horse or his siblings. It's been a learning curve for both of you, though more-so for him, and so far, the most prominent challenge he's faced is balancing the line between being a friend and being an overprotective nuisance.

It perhaps hasn't helped that, ever since humanity was resurrected, the pair of you have been nigh inseparable. He's grown used to your presence – is dependant upon in, according to Death; a fact that Strife had vehemently tried to deny, at least until he learned that you'd made plans. Plans with someone else. Plans that didn't involve him.

It was only once he'd taken some time to reflect and found that he had indeed been glued to your side for months, that he realised the awful truth.

His older brother was right, after all. The smug ass.

A shudder rolls over the Horseman's body and he blinks, realising that in the few seconds he's been lost in thought, you've managed to reach around him to push open your bedroom door.

“Hey!” he complains as you all but shove past, and he – being the soft-touch that he is – simply allows himself to be moved aside. Grumbling, he follows you across the landing and down your sweeping staircase until you reach the front door and stop beside it.

From outside, the thunderous roar of an approaching, automobile's engine thrums in his ears.

“That's him!” you chirp, and Strife hates the way your face lights up at the mention of whoever 'he' is.

Throwing open your door, you head outside and try to pull it shut behind you, yet find your efforts abruptly halted by the Horseman sticking close to your heels. He ducks through the low doorframe and moves to stand beside you, his viciously keen gaze raking over the vehicle that idles at the end of your driveway.

By his own admission, Strife has always had a weakness for those 'motor bikes' the humans like to ride, with their shiny gaskets and noisy engines. But this one – the one upon whom sits a tall, lanky human – Strife does not care for.

“Anton!” you call out, flying down the driveway, splaying your arms out wide in anticipation of a hug.

'Anton' laughs brightly and kicks down the bike's stand as he leaps from the seat, his own arms only just opening in time to receive you when you crash into him with a whoop of delight.

As soon as those long, stringy arms wrap around your shoulders, the Horseman's hackles raise like a feral beast's and the sudden presence of Anarchy begins to claw at the confines of his ribcage. For a few moments, he wrestles with himself, weighing the pros and cons of letting his most primal form take over for a while, but after envisioning the disapproving frown that's sure to adorn your face should he pull such a stunt, he bitterly shoves a reluctant Anarchy back down and settles upon prowling down the gravel drive after you, glaring hard at the stranger the entire way. Admittedly, he is a little surprised at himself for the animosity. On the whole, he's always maintained a good rapport with other humans. He likes the species, a lot. So to suddenly be filled with such a strong disliking for this particular human strikes him as odd and out of character.

Then, Anton's hands slide down to your lower back and another bout of indignant fury flares up in the Horseman's belly. After what he thinks is, quite frankly, an obscene amount of time, the stranger releases you, holding onto your shoulders and leaning back to get a better look at your face.

“God, it's good to see you, Y/n,” he drawls, eyeing you from head to toe in a way that makes the Horseman's skin crawl, “I can't believe it! You've changed so much!”

Grinning shyly up at him, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and reply, “Hopefully for the better?”

His own smile widens. “You were always at your best, even before the apocalypse. Still, being Humanity's Hero seems to be really suiting you, huh?”

At once, your expression falls and you pull a face, extracting yourself from his grasp. “Oh god, don't call me that. I've told the media till I'm blue in the face - the Horsemen are the ones who deserve to be called heroes. Oh, speaking of whom...” You turn to face the looming presence at your side and gesture up to Strife. “I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine.”

Anton's gaze leaves you long enough to flick over towards the Horseman and you watch as he does a very comical double-take, his eyes bulging for a moment before he manages to compose himself again and lifts his hand in greeting. “Hey! You must be one of those Horseman guys. Death, right?”

Noticing that the Nephilim's hands curl suddenly into tight fists, you interject, “Uh, actually, this is Strife, Tones.”

“Tones?” He really does try to keep the disdain from his voice when he switches his burning, golden glare between you and the other human. “I thought you said his name was Anton?”

How many other friends do you have?

“It's a nickname, Strife,” you reassure him quickly, “This is Anton.”

A nickname... Of course. The Horseman's stomach twists itself into a knot and he can't stop himself from blurting out, “How come you've never given me a nickname?”

The human concept surrounding abbreviated names was a fairly easy one for him to grasp when he first learned of them. They're terms of endearment, meant to signify familiarity and friendship.

He's your friend. He's familiar. Why doesn't he have a nickname too?

"Ugh, I'm sorry. We'll brainstorm nicknames when I get back," you huff, "But the restaurant will give our table away if we don't hurry. So -"

Turning to usher Anton onto the bike, you hardly manage to take one step before a large, metal hand is sliding around your forearm and tugging you gently to a halt. Biting back a groan, you glance over your shoulder, ready to scold him, but one look at his slouched stance and averted gaze stops you in your tracks.

"Uh. Hey, Tones?" you call, never taking your eyes off the Horseman's mask, "Can you give us a sec?"

The human behind you is careful to check that Strife isn't looking when he rolls his eyes and grunts in acknowledgement before he turns and saunters over to his bike, leaning up against it and pulling out his phone.

Once Anton has turned his attention elsewhere, you raise a brow at the Horseman and wait, patient, expectant. After working his jaw for a moment or two, he finally looks at you properly and tightens his grip on your arm, not until it's painful, but enough that you understand what he's trying to convey in the gesture.

He really doesn't want you to go.

"Strife?" you prod.

Reluctantly, he lets out a rough exhale.

Although he's far better at it than his siblings, watching Strife try to openly express emotion isn't unlike watching someone pull their own teeth out with a pair of pliers. The process is slow, and it's best to sit back and listen to him rather than try to encourage him to speak. So, that's what you do, and eventually, your patience is rewarded when after another few seconds of silence, he offers a strained chuckle and says, "This guy isn't my replacement, is he? I know the bike is cool, and all, but..."

"Your replacement?" you laugh, incredulous, "Strife. I don't know how it worked with Nephilim, but for humans, having another friend doesn't cancel out any existing ones."

He knows that. He's not some whelp who never learned how to share. Frustrated with himself, the Horseman huffs and turns his head to the side, glaring hard at nothing in particular.

"Hey..." An old habit kicks in, and before you can stop yourself, you reach up to trace your fingertips along the underside of Strife's helm, tipping it back towards you and smiling at the bewildered look in his yellow eyes. Confident that he's paying proper attention, you pull your hand away again and state, "I could search the whole universe from top to bottom for the next hundred, thousand years, and I'd never find a friend who could replace you, okay? So stop worrying. Your ranking as 'my best friend' is not under threat."

"M'not worrying," he grumbles, but inside, his heart is aglow with the warmth of your words. At the back of his mind, Anarchy rumbles happily. You said best!... He's your best friend? He tries to recall you ever calling him that before. Then he realises that, no, you can't have done. He wouldn't forget a moment like that. Not in a million years. Just like he won't forget how he feels right now after hearing those two words.

Oblivious to the fate you've just sealed for yourself, you clap your hands together, bringing the conversation to what you hope is an easy conclusion. "Good. In that case, will you please let me go with Anton now?"

The Horseman's mood sours almost immediately, but at least he peels his fingers off your arm.

"Hey, kid?" he address Anton, packing his voice with all the menace and threat that he can muster, "If I find out she gets hurt on your watch, I'll introduce you to a couple'a friends of mine..." His hands fall less-than subtly to his holsters, where the silver handles of Mercy and Redemption glint in the sunlight.

Anton's face pales upon seeing the Horseman's legendary pistols.

"Stop that," you scold him, smacking the back of your hand against the armoured chest plate before turning to your other friend and calling, "Come on, Tones, let's go."

Anton all but throws himself onto his bike, kicking the stand back and jamming his keys into the ignition whilst you climb on behind him, albeit far more gracefully. The man tosses you a helmet and you shove it onto your head.

Strife's eyes remain settled upon your hands that wrap snugly around Anton's waist and it takes everything in him not to grab you, haul you off the bike, drag you back to your home and lock you inside.

“I'll be back late tonight,” you call over the roar of the engine as you begin to pull away, “There's food in the fridge if you want to eat! And my Netflix is still logged in! I'll see you later, okay!?”

Strife doesn't respond, not because he can't think of what to say, but because there would be no point. Anton has already peeled away and pushed the bike to a reckless speed. All the Horseman can do is stand there at the end of your driveway, his shoulders drooping dejectedly.

After you're nothing more than a dot on the far horizon, he tears his eyes off you and lets them fall to the tarmac near his boots.

He never notices you looking back.

[platypanthewriter]

Pillow

Harringrove April prompt 28, Pillow.  Billy fixes some things, for Max. (It’s another short one omg guys praise me)

Billy got home a little drunk, spreading his hands occasionally when his boots hit nothing, stumbling on the sidewalk.  He thought—maybe—he could crawl in through his window, his dad would be asleep—but the closer he walked, the higher up it got, and he stopped, squinting.  

Better sleep in the car, he decided, fumbling the keys out of his pocket, and he walked over to the curb, only to see the back seat lit up with a flashlight already, the light flashing off the dash and the rearview mirror.  He stalked over like a jungle cat only to see Max curled up with her walkie-talkie, the flashlight hanging in her hand, lighting up wet tears on her cheeks.

It took like ten flicks of his lighter to light his cigarette, and he wondered if he was drunker than he thought, leaning against the car, listening to her on the walkie-talkie through the open windows of his Camaro.  

“I was gonna say something,” she said shakily.  “I can’t—I can’t take him anymore, and she—my mom knew, she grabbed my shoulder, just trembling, you know?  She knows if I fight him he’ll hurt me, or her, I can’t—”

She took a long, shuddery breath, and she must have clicked the button, because then it was a boy’s voice.  “Don’t make him mad—”

“You don’t know what it’s like living with somebody like Neil,” she said, flatly.  “You don’t know, okay, don’t tell me—” she cleared her throat, and then clicked it again, and the boy came on.

“—don’t know, I don’t, but don’t let him hurt you—”

“There’s nothing I can do to stop him,” she said, dryly.  “He keeps saying he’d never hit us, you know?  He tells me this.  He pushes me up against the wall, he says ‘I’d never hit you or your mom,’ and you know what I hear?”

“...what?” came the other voice, a whisper.

“I hear he can’t hardly stop thinking about it,” said Max, laughing like she was trying not to cry, and Billy stared up at the skies, smoking his cigarette, listening to her try to sleep, curled in the tiny back of his Camaro, her head against the molded vinyl instead of a pillow.

He watched the stars, thinking. 

 When he figured it was light enough the next morning, he pushed himself to his feet, shoving himself upright against the car door and staggering a little.  He winced as he stretched, feeling like he was a hundred and ten.  He walked around and dropped into the driver’s seat, listening to Max’s muffled yell with satisfaction.

“Billy,” she whispered, scrambling to the other side of the car.

“How bad you wanna get out of here,” he asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror as he tapped his pack of cigarettes, frowned into it, and lit the last one.  “You okay with shit like dishes?  Laundry?”

“...I can do my own laundry,” she whispered warily, glaring at him.  

“You gonna pick up your own shit?” he asked her, raising his eyebrows.

“...won’t pick up yours,” she shot back, and he couldn’t help grinning, a little.  

 He skipped school and visited a realtor that day.  He had to hit the bank and show her the money he’d been saving for a deposit on an apartment in southern California, but she let him in a few places, and two days later, he hauled Max in the car after school even though she was trying to go to the arcade.  He grabbed her friends for good measure.  “Come on, you little titsuckers, we’re moving out,” he told them, and one of them called Harrington to come and help, with his bigger car.

He mostly ignored Billy—he talked Susan down, though, when Billy and Max stomped in and announced they were blowing this shithole, and she started to cry—and he grabbed Billy’s stereo from the kids, and he was careful.  

It was perfectly obvious the big shit wasn’t gonna fit in either of their cars, and Billy was packing boxes of Max’s clothes in Steve Harrington’s car when Steve told the kids to haul the furniture out, too.

“We can’t fit that,” Billy told him.  “He’ll be home in a couple hours, we can’t fit it anyway—”

Steve glanced at him, but told them to haul everything out, and of course they listened to Harrington, instead of leaving Billy’s bed where it was.  Steve snapped under Billy’s nose and pointed to the passenger seat, and Billy got in, because Steve was right about one thing only, and that was that his Camaro trunk was the size of a small cat, and he’d waste more gas than he’d manage to haul belongings.

Halfway through town, he stopped, and even though it was nowhere near Neil’s office, it wasn’t where Billy told him to go, and his heart nearly stopped with the engine.  But all Steve did was hand him the keys, his eyes tired, and climb out.

“Don’t crash my car,” he said, as Billy stared at him.  “...go unload,” he added, when Billy glared at the keys, still bewildered, and then he walked off, and Billy decided to take advantage of some good luck for once, and take Harrington up on his offer.  He drove over and got the car unloaded—and rethought the number of stairs he’d accepted—and then drove back to find the kids and Harrington loading up a U-Haul truck.  Billy stopped his borrowed car right in the road, staring again, until some asshole honked, and then pulled up and parked, trying to figure out what was going on.  

“We’ve got nearly everything,” Harrington told him.  “Check around and see what we missed.”

Billy nodded, wandering into the house to find his room stripped, and Susan crying.  “I went to the bank,” she said, sniffling, and held out a wad of cash.  “You tell me if you need anything,” she sobbed, “—you—you tell me,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, grabbing his hands, and pressing them around what looked like a roll of hundred dollar bills.

“I will find a place soon,” she said, setting her jaw.  “Keep yourselves safe until then?”

“...what,” Billy said, and she bit her lips together, swallowing hard.  

“...stay safe, both of you,” she said.  “Billy, I pulled out the records I know you like, they’re in a crate on the table.”

He stared at the money in his hands, and she pushed the crate into his arms, and maneuvered him out the door.

 When they got most of the furniture up the stairs of Billy and Max’s place, the kids were horrified there was only one bedroom, and Billy just shoved Max’s bed into it, and waved them and their boxes inside.

“No, it’s fine,” Max breathed, unsteadily, as Will—kids kept showing up, and Billy honestly wasn’t sure whether one was giving him a different name every time, or whether he was the same kid—offered to paint designs on her walls.  “It’s—it’s good, it’s amazing.”

The one she’d talked to the night she’d decided wedging herself in the back seat of his car was a more relaxing night than any with Neil was there, and Billy remembered trying to kick his ass, and tried to grab all the heavier boxes from him, and the kid watched him, as tiredly as Billy felt.  

Once they were basically moved in—with no food, or cleaning supplies, but moved, anyway—Harrington ordered everyone pizza from the payphone on the corner, and left to return the U-Haul, and Billy watched him go, wondering how the hell his life would balance that all out.  Maybe he’d get flattened in a freak accident.  Maybe somebody would drop a cow on him from a plane.

Harrington returned and brought food—milk, apples, sandwich stuff, cereal, and TV dinners he stuck in the avocado-colored fridge that looked older than Max—and Billy tried to give him the money Susan had given him, but Harrington shoved it back, rolling his eyes.  “Didn’t do this for you, Hargrove,” he said, wrinkling his nose, and then frowning over at Max.  “...but this is a...good thing, you’re doing.  Lemme know if I can help.”

Billy wished furiously, his eyes burning for a long second, that anyone would have helped if he’d been alone, and then rubbed his face.  He took a slow breath.  “Yeah,” he said, smirking.  “I know it’s not for me.”

“No, I didn’t—that’s not quite—” Steve said, groaning.  “I didn’t know you...were the kinda person who’d wanna help Max.  I...thought you were...not like that.  I wanna help the kind of brother who’d do all this.”

“...she’s not my sister,” Billy said, out of habit, watching Max laugh at everything her friends said, out of sheer relief.  A girl had shown up, and Max was half collapsed on her, giggling, with tears rolling down her pink cheeks.

“Even more so, then,” Harrington said.  “You’re trying to do the right thing.  I’m...I’m glad to help.  I don’t need your money.”

Billy nodded, his eyes burning again, and he blinked rapidly, sniffling hard, and rubbing his nose.  

 Everybody stuck around until Billy chased them out, and then it was Max, Billy, and Steve Harrington, who’d done so much Billy didn’t dare tell him to go home.  Max curled up on the couch, mumbling sleepily after a day of hauling furniture up stairs, and Billy dug around in her boxes until he found the bedding.  Steve came in and helped him make the bed, and then went out and walked Max in, muttering angrily until she flopped across the bed with a groan of delight.

“...she was sleeping in the back of my Camaro,” Billy told Steve, watching her lazily kick one shoe in the air as she hugged an armful of comforter.  “Head wedged up against the vinyl, to get herself far as possible from...Neil.”  Steve nodded, glancing over, and Billy laughed, scrabbling at his hair, and looking around at the boxes to be unpacked, and the shit piled everywhere.  “...now she has a pillow, at least,” he whispered, forcing a laugh.  

Steve reached over and squeezed his shoulder.  “Let’s find yours,” he said, frowning around, and rolling up his sleeves.

[tinyyoungblood]

romance, eh? | peter parker

summary: it’s the broken main characters typeshi where they don’t think they deserve love, but over the course of the movie, they help each other and fall in love. football fields and late night drives. it’s kinda cute

pairing: peter parker x reader

trope: best friends to lovers

warning: language, very fluffy

a/n: i’ve resurrected from the dead, waddup <3

* * *

You were sat at the porch of your house, tossing rocks down the driveway and watching them skip toward a puddle. The sound of splashing water was the only source of entertainment as you were seemingly the only person alive in this town. When you realized that you had finally run out of stones to throw, you considered hurling the gnome down the driveway but decided against it and instead, patted your pockets in an attempt to locate your phone. To your surprise, it started ringing the second you held it in your palm. Peter’s name flashed boldly across the screen, illuminating your face. You answered the call and stood up.

“Where the hell are you?”

Loud rustling was on the other side of the line, and you squinted down the road in search of any approaching cars.

Finally, his familiar voice rang through the phone’s speakers. “Y/N, fuck, I’m—ow.” You heard a car door shut, and a string of curse words lingered at the tip of your tongue.

“Oh God, you’re not telling me you’re still at home, are you? Please tell me, you just closed the door to get out of your car and not in.” Absolute silence followed, and you could practically see him sit still like a deer caught in headlights. A beat followed before he replied carefully.

“What if I tell you I just entered a very sketchy dance battle in the middle of the forest and now it takes me 10 to 15, maybe even 20 minutes, to kick ass and get out of here?”

You took a deep breath and dragged your feet back to the porch, shunning it with a glare. “Parker, I swear to God, if I hear you turn on the engine right now, I’m going to set your Star Wars collection on fire.”

You heard him mumble something on the other side of the line, but were only able to pick out a soft “not cool”. The clanking of keys occurred next and before you knew it, the engine was yanked to life, making you groan loudly. “I hate you.”

You heard him set the phone down with a chuckle, switching to speaker. “I’ll get over it. Just don’t touch my Star Wars.”

You slumped back on the porch and grimaced at the spider web hanging above your head. Scooting away from it, you let your back hit the wooden ground, phone still pressed against your ear. “Just hurry up,” You murmured, defeat and exhaustion instilling a softness in your voice. He cooed at you.

“Don’t worry, I know there’s never any parking space on Thursdays, but I’ll run all the way from the parking lot to your house. Actually, I’ll start running the second this car is parked—no, wait, I’ll start running while I’m still in the car—”

“Peter,” you cut him off, knowing he could go on forever but still somehow end up not coming at all. “Just drive safely, okay? I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Fine,” he replied, “but I’ll have you know that I have now stomped two holes into the car’s floor to get to you Flintstone style. That’s the dedication we’re working with here.” A subtle click followed, signaling that he had ended the call.

Light laughter bubbled over your lips, and you shook your head at your best friend’s words. He was a dumbass, but at least he could make you laugh. One of the many reasons, you adored him. The rest of your life could be spent listing off the other reasons, but even in the afterlife, you wouldn’t be halfway done. You didn’t bother to sit up, opting to just lay on your back until either he would arrive or a passer-by would mistake you for a corpse and call the police. Whatever came first.

The next few minutes were waste of time. Now and then, a glance would be cast at the display of your phone, but that was really how far it went with the physical activity. For all Peter knew, you could’ve been dead when he finally arrived, dashing toward you like a maniac chased by the Holy Spirit. “Y/N?” He skidded to a halt and breathed hard. “You alive?” You felt him poke your side with his finger. Too drowsy to react, you simply lifted your hand and gave him a thumbs up. A grin swept over his lips, and he bent down to scoop you up, coaxing a sign of life out of you as you squealed but almost immediately after melted into his chest.

He chuckled and carried you to his car. “Hello to you too, baby.”

You forced an eye open. “Took you long enough.”

Shrugging, he cocked his head to the side and lifted the corner of his mouth. “Oh, you know, some girl was babbling my ear off while I was on my way here. Really messed up my schedule.” He pretended to scowl at you, and you rolled your eyes at him.

“Seems like she didn’t do her job right.” You tucked at his earlobe, and he grimaced. “Such a bummer. You could’ve totally pulled off the Van Gogh look.”

He let you down into the passenger seat, shutting the door for you and setting his crossed arms on the rolled-down car window. “Oh yeah? You got a thing for dead artists now?” His face was in a twist, and you found yourself rolling your eyes again.

“I got a thing for guys who value punctuality,” you replied pointedly, and Peter let out a loud laugh. Leaning down, he came to an eye-level with you.

“Good thing, that’s not me then, am I right.” He winked and walked over to the driver’s side. In a second, he was seated next to you and reversing out of the parking lot, head turned to look behind him while his arm was holding onto the back of your seat. You took the second of concentration to take in his features. When he caught you staring, a smug smile raised to his lips, but you were quick to smack his chest with the back of your hand.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was just checking if you had a black eye or at least a broken nose,” you said and ignored the way he cocked his brow.

“Thanks?” His eyes flickered between you and the road. “I gotta tell you, that’s a very sadistic love language you speak, but I’ll take it.”

You shot him a glare. “How else do you want to explain being 40 minutes late if it wasn’t being robbed by a biker gang and left in a ditch?”

“My answer was lack of time management by birth, but your excuse does sound far cooler.”

“Well, sadly, there’s no biker gang.” You heaved a sigh of exhaustion. “Otherwise, I would’ve gladly let them de-ball you.”

Peter cackled at your words, shaking his head before reaching over to pat your knee. “And they say romance is dead. I bet they’ve never met a total sweetheart like you.”

You broke out into a grin and swiftly whipped around to stare outside the window. Deciding to roll it up to stop the fidgeting of your hands, Peter made it his mission to choose the perfect song for your little drive. When the song “Midnight City” came up, he stopped and turned to you while wigging his brows obnoxiously. Pointing to the time on the upper corner of the car’s display, he awaited your reaction. It was five minutes past midnight.

You sighed. “Peter…”

“Oh, shut it, Y/N.”

You couldn’t help but let out a laugh, morphing the pout on his face into a matching smirk. “You know,” he spoke up, still staring ahead, “Sometimes I wonder why I’m even friends with you if you never appreciate my genius.” He gestured to his face, and you snorted.

Your eyes caught a brown bag that was sitting at your feet. “I’m here to keep your ego from exploding, I thought we’ve already gone over this—hey, what’s this?”

Peter glanced at you. “Booze.” He said it so casually you barely wondered how he got a hold of it. “You told me to get the good stuff, remember?”

Frowning, you leaned forward and tried to catch his gaze. His eyes flickered to yours. “What?”

“Since when is the good stuff not chocolate?”

He contemplated your words for a second before pulling a face. “Oh. Well, you wanted to bitch about our sucky love lives, so I assumed that involved liquor.” He shrugged. “To make it less excruciatingly painful, you know.” Eyeing the bottle in your hand, you pursed your lips, oblivious to Peter’s pleading look to just go with it. You hadn’t an idea what he had to go through just to swipe that bottle.

“I guess,” you finally replied and screwed off the cap to take a big gulp, feeling the liquid burn down your throat. Raising the bag, you flashed him a big smile. “Off to our voyage!”

He mirrored it, also raising his fist in the air. “Off to the deserted island named football field.”

- - - - -

“So what’s got your love life in a twist?” Peter asked casually while biting a piece off his sour belt. Within the past hour, the two of you had consumed a considerate amount of alcohol but had yet to experience feeling fatally wasted. A slight haze had infiltrated your senses, but that was really it. You both were still perfectly capable of having a proper conversation.

“You mean my panties?”

“Huh?” He narrowed his eyes in deep thought. “Oh, you want to talk about your underwear. Yeah, I guess that’s fine too.”

“No, you meant my panties are in a twist.” He turned to look at you.

“Why would your panties be in a twist? Do you want me to untwist them?” Slowly, the corner of his mouth curved into a not-so-subtle smirk, and you fought hard to keep a straight face.

“I really do hate you, Parker.”

He grinned back at you. “Means I must be doing something right, huh.”

Choosing to ignore his words, your gaze traveled the dark night sky above, littered with endless sparkling white dots. Peter mirrored your action, letting comfortable silence settle in, as the two of you continued to lay next to each other on top of the roof of his car.

“I don’t know,” you responded after a while. You felt him look the side of your face, but you forced yourself to fix your gaze on anything other than your best friend beside you, your fingers fiddled with one another in your lap. “I guess I just haven’t caught anybody’s eyes yet. No one really likes me, you know.”

“I like you.”

“You know what I mean, Peter.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you sighed and took up the courage to meet his eyes. They weren’t holding any trails of pity like excepted. Instead, you gazed into nothing but a loving pool of honey that ignited clouds of warmth to swirl in your stomach. He looked at you in a way you couldn’t quite place, and you had to force yourself to look away, just barely missing the glint of disappointment as you broke the eye contact. You shrugged, an unsure smile gracing your lips. “Somebody will come along, I’m sure. Maybe at a hot dog stand. Hot dog stands are reliable, right?”

The tone in your voice, lacing your words like grapevine, was poisonous, making the boy beside you sit up and pull you right along. Your poor attempt of self-assurance didn’t sit right with Peter, but you didn’t feel like confronting it just yet, and he knew that. So, he tried to catch your gaze, and given that you had no other choice but to look at one of the most important people in your life, you dropped your shoulders and gave in. You simply stared at each other in silence, seemingly waiting for the other one to crack first. The serious situation quickly shifted into a comedic but intense stare battle and before you knew it, you were pulling faces at each other.

You were pretty certain, the alcohol in your system did not contribute a thing to it, but eventually, even the two of you would fall victim to it as you already felt it tuck at some loose strings. And Peter being Peter, he spoke up first.

“If neither of us cracks any time soon, we will both look like fools who escaped a mental institution and are roleplaying as Harley Quinn and the Joker.”

And just like that, laughter bubbled over your lips, prompting a face-splitting smile to dance on his lips while his eyes were staring at you like you had created all good in the world. It quickly turned into heartfelt laughter and once he joined in, it only made you laugh harder.

Your eyes drifted until they met those familiar honey ones again. The ones you have known since childhood, and the ones you had stared into one too many times tonight. And suddenly the entire world was encased into an incredulously large pool of amber that you never wanted to leave. It made sense. It just clicked, and suddenly the riddle was complete.

And the best part about it all was that you knew he felt the same way. He had never been an easy book to read, not even when you were children, but that night, in the middle of the football field, you could read him like he was your favorite poem. Each line and metaphor were as clear as the sky. Without having acknowledged it much, your face had grown closer in proximity with his. So, when he decided to speak, his voice was a hushed whisper. The alcohol easily fanning over your lips in waves.

“I really want to kiss you right now.” He inched closer, nose bumping against yours while his gaze danced between your lips and your eyes. “To find out how your lips feel on mine.”

His words caused newfound confidence to surge through your veins. The corner of your mouth quirked into a smirk, and you leaned forward. Lips brushing against his when you spoke. “I can put it on my to-do list if you want to know so badly.”

He chuckled, hand reaching up to cup your cheek while the other slid across your back. “Baby, you don’t understand how badly I want to know.”

He pressed his lips against yours, and immediately you sunk into the pool of amber. But you could taste more than just alcohol. There were honey and warmth. The way he made you feel—the way he had always made you feel all along, even in the most platonic ways. When cracking jokes or during shared detention. There had always been clouds of sweetness and joy surrounding you whenever he was near, but now that you had finally acquired the taste, you were addicted. You were making out with your best friend, and you loved everything about it. His arms tightened around you as you caressed his heated cheeks. They traveled to the back of his neck, threading through the curls of his hair, and pressing him closer to you.

When it was time to break away, you nibbled on his bottom lips, reluctantly parting, but still remaining close as his forehead rested against yours. He stared into your eyes with a whimsical smile while he tried to catch his breath. “Do you still hate me?”

You chuckled. “You know what, Parker?” Shaking your head, you tried to catch the train of thought you were losing just by gazing into his eyes. “Just a little bit.”

* * *

it’s 4 am here, and i’m pretty sure i’m sleeping as i’m typing this lol i had way too much fun with the dialogue. let me know what you think! as always, thank you so much for reading 💞 have a sweet one, guys x

masterlist

taglist: @honeypie-holland @himarisolace @duskholland @insidiousslut @siriuslyslyslytherin @quaksonhehe @geminiparkers @writertoo18 @fl0ating @luwloki @missnxthingg @hufflepuffhollander @dummiesshort @itstaskeen @nerdyandproudofitsstuff @totallyfangirling7177 @the-fictionwriters-hairdo @starlight-starks @fire1ordzuzu @parkerlovebot @parkerlovebot @ethereal-beauty-p​ @theweekendss @tom-hlover @peterspideysstuff @miraclesoflove @prettysbliss @fancyxparker @tom-hlover @blossomparkers 

[mammonshuman92]

- Joy Ride -

(Saeyoung x F!MC)

**TW: cussing, implied seggs, my shitty writing lol

“No, wait! Y/N this wasn’t part of the bet!” Saeyoung exclaimed, following close behind you.

You spun on your heel to face him, “The deal was, that if I got a perfect score on my final exam, I got to do one thing, anything I wanted. That’s what you said, right?”

“Um, w-well yeah, but I thought it’d be like, bedroom stuff or something. Not this.” He sounded so desperate. “Besides, I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“Saeyoung!” You shouted, playfully slapping his arm and acting as if you were offended.

“Ow! What? I’ve seen your test scores. I thought this was an easy win for me.” He confessed.

“Rude.” You turned away from him and continued walking down the hallway, reaching the door of your destination. You stopped, and faced him again.

“What were you gonna ask for, had you won?” You asked, curiously.

He wiggled his eyebrows at you, “Bedroom stuffs.”

You rolled your eyes and giggled, “Geez, you horn dog!”

You opened the door, and flicked on the light.

“It’s not to late to change your mind, Y/N! I-I’ll get you a puppy! Or we can do those tik tok thirst traps you”re always trying to talk me into. Please, Y/N. Anything but this.”

His last-ditch efforts to persuade you weren’t working. You wouldn’t change your mind.

“No deal.” You said, nonchalantly grabbing a set of keys off their place on the holder on the wall, and jingling them at him.

“Get in. We’re going for a drive.”

“Y/N please, I’m begging you. Not my babies!” He was all but having a nervous breakdown in the passenger seat.

“Calm down, Sae. She will come back in the exact condition she’s in now.” You said, marveling at the jet black interior. The back light behind the dash and all the controls was the same color red as the exterior. You felt like a kid in a candy store.

Saeyoung groaned in the seat next you you. “Why did you have to pick the most expensive one though?”

The car you chose happened to be a limited edition Herrari, highly customized, and extremely pricey. It was definitely his favorite one. 

“Because of why it’s the most expensive.” You said, practically bouncing in your seat. You turned the key, and she roared to life. Adrenaline rushed through you.

Your response slightly confused him. “Because you look cool?”

You scoffed, “That’s just a perk, I guess.” You buckled your seat belt, then turned to look at him. “I’m after that customized, super charged engine.” You confessed, quickly putting it in gear and zooming out of the garage.

You were weaving in and out of traffic with ease, heading for a more secluded area. Saeyoung kept making odd little noises beside you, and you were sure you even heard him silently praying.

You chuckled at him, “Relax, alright? I’m an excellent driver. Probably even better than you.”

Oh, now he’s salty.

“No one knows my babies better than I do.” He said, matter-of-factly, crossing his arms over his chest. You laughed at him.

“There’s things about me that even you don’t know, Mr. Hacker.” Your mysteriousness has intrigued him.

“Do tell.” He prompted you.

“My folks owned a mechanic shop.” You began, “I grew up in that garage, learning to work on all kinds of cars. From oil changes on family minivans, to fully customizing sports cars. Like this one.” You gently patted the steering wheel. “I’ve always been around cars.”

“A basic background check revealed that after you first came to the RFA.”

“Yes, but the most important part is secret. It can’t be found on any files, anywhere.”

Traffic had thinned out a lot, now that the sun was starting to set, leaving the highway wide open. You accelerated, knowing that you would soon reach your destination. He did seem to be relaxing a little.

To say that Saeyoung was curious, was an understatement. He loved unearthing secrets. It’s kinda what he does. 

You exited the highway onto the all too familiar secluded stretch of road you knew so well.

Saeyoung looked out the window and turned to you, his eyes were big and curious. What were you planning? 

“Go on.” He urged.

“Well, when I got old enough, my Dad let me in on the family business that happened after hours: street racing.”

“Street racing? But, why would that be secret?” He asked.

You pulled into what looked like an abandoned lot. The thick cover of trees kept it well hidden while you were on the road. It wasn’t until you pulled further in, that he noticed several sets of lights. He was so confused.

When you got closer, he noticed that the lights were actually headlights, belonging to dozens of drool worthy sports cars.

“Well, you see, it’s kinda... illegal.” You confessed with a sheepish grin.

He looked at you with wide eyes, mouth slightly hanging open. 

“Y/N L/N! You? Illegal?” He put his hand over his heart as if he were shocked. Although, he really was.

“Oh, stop! Like you didn’t use to do all kinds of illegal things before you got out of the agency.”

“Well yeah, but this is you we’re talking about! Sweet, innocent Y/N. Well, you’re not very innocent when we-”

“Sae!” You yelled, causing him to laugh at you.

“For real though. I would’ve never pegged you as someone to be into something like this.” He said, gesturing to all the other cars in front of you.

“You should know better than anyone that you shouldn’t judge a book by it’s cover, 707.” He smiled at you.

 Although his time with the agency was agonizing, he didn’t mind the use of his old code name. Especially if it came from you.

You circled around, and parked the car at the very end of the line. You popped the hood and got out of the car. Saeyoung followed suit, and propped the hood open. His car wasn’t the most customized car there, but it was one of the rarest which quickly drew in a flock of enthusiasts.

“Shall we, 606?” Saeyoung was smiling as he extended his hand out to you. You took it, intertwining your fingers in his. 

The two of you walked around, hand-in-hand, looking at all the other cars and talking specs with the owners. Saeyoung was in Heaven. His “precious babies” wish list was getting longer by the minute. You couldn’t help but giggle at him.

“So, what about all of this makes it illegal?” He asked. 

You were now sitting on the little grassy hill behind all the cars, watching as one after the other raced each other. 

The empty lot used to belong to a mall that was demolished long ago, leaving behind the giant lot and the long stretch of road attached to it. It became abandoned after the new highway was built. It was the perfect place for racing though.

“Some of these cars have parts in them that make them illegal.” you explained, “the parts themselves are in fact legal, like the engine and spoilers and stuff. But after they’re customized, they make the car much faster and it’s no longer ‘street legal.’ They’re not as worried about the car parts as much as they are about the racing, though.”

Saeyoung nodded in understanding, turning toward you slightly, “So, how exactly did your parents get into all of this?” He asked, gesturing around you.

You pulled your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around your legs, “My dad’s always been a gear head, so when he overheard a conversation about some underground racing ring, he had to go see it for himself. He ended up meeting my mom at one of those races, too. Our whole family is car crazy.” You said with a laugh.

“Does it bother you? I mean, the legality of it all?” He, more than anyone, knew the toll getting mixed up in illegal activity to take on a person. Granted, his was far worse than some illegal car parts, but still.

“Kinda, but we just wanna race fast cars. We don’t want to hurt anyone, which is why we come all the way out here. There’s far worse criminals than us.” That doesn’t justify it, but whatever.

As you were talking, you noticed some of the people around the two of you started to scramble. You jumped up from where you had been sitting. 

Saeyoung, immediately reverting to fight or flight Agent 707 mode, was on his feet in an instant.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” He asked, voice heavy with concern, scanning your face.

Just then, through the trees right before you turn into the lot, you saw flashing lights. Someone behind you shouted.

“Cops!”

You turned to Saeyoung, “C’mon, we gotta go! Now!”

You ran to the car, pulling Saeyoung by the hand behind you, and got in the driver’s seat. You wasted no time starting the engine, thinking over your escape plan.

Several cop cars were pouring into the lot. You buckled the seat belt and took a deep breath. Saeyoung seemed surprisingly calm, given the situation.

“You’re not nervous?” You asked.

“About the cops? Nah. The driving I’m sure you’re about to do in my most precious baby? Absolutely.”

“You haven’t even seen driving yet.” You said with a devilish grin, prompting him to buckle up.

People all around you jumped in their cars and sped off. You put it in drive and accelerated quickly, going the opposite way as the majority. A few others following suit, seeming to be aware of this most unused exit.

“Isn’t that the only way in here?” Saeyoung asked, referring to the entrance the cops kept flooding in from, you shook your head.

“When the mall was still here, there were several ways in and out. Some of those are impassable now due to the demo of the building, or because nature took over and it’s now overgrown. However, there are still a couple ways out.” You assured him, “And, aren’t you the one who said to always have an exit strategy?” He grinned slightly.

“You’ve learned well, 606.” You smiled at the use of your favorite nickname.

The exit you took was a little different than the highway you took to get here. It was considered a “back way” out. The secluded road was a little curvier, with some small hills thrown in. 

During the daylight, the scenery was beautiful but at night it could be dangerous if you weren’t careful. To make sure you were always prepared, your father made you drive all over the area around the racing lot, until you knew every entrance and exit like the back of your hand.

The speedometer steadily climbed, the car hugging every twist and turn, like it was made specifically for this road. After a couple random turns, you were sure you had long lost any cops that may have followed you. You let up on the gas a little, letting your current speed slowly fall back into the “Saeyoung’s most precious baby” approved range.

“Whoa.” Saeyoung said quietly, he hadn’t said anything since you first got in the car.

“You okay?” You were worried that maybe he was on the verge of losing it. A lot of people can’t handle going such high speeds. They either get really scared, or puke. Or both.

“That was...amazing!!” He yelled, his sudden outburst startling you, before laughing at his reaction.

“Oh, yeah? Does that mean I can drive your cars more often?”

He turned to face you, giving you his sweetest smile.

“Absolutely not.”

“What?! Why?” You protested.

“Y/N, this is a limited edition Herarri.”

“Sae, c’mon. You’ve got to open up the engine every now and the-”

You stopped mid-sentence when you noticed a set of headlights pop up behind you. Saeyoung looked at you curiously, waiting for you to finish. He turned around in his seat to look out the back window when he noticed that you kept looking in the rear view. Then, flashing lights.

“Shit! I was sure I lost them.” You hissed, quickly stepping on the gas. “How did they find us?” 

“Now what?” Saeyoung asked, turning back around in his seat.

“We lose them for real.”

The speedometer slowly kept climbing, reaching the triple digits. You flew down the straight stretch of highway, the flashing lights behind you barely keeping up with your speed.

“Sae?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.”

“Huh? What do you mean? Y/N?”

Getting off the road and laying low was your best option right now. Home wasn’t too far from your current location, and in order to make it there with enough time to hide the car in the garage and throw them off the trail, you couldn’t compromise your speed.

You pressed harder on the gas pedal, the arm on the speedometer rising rapidly.

“Y/N?” By his tone, you could tell Saeyoung was getting nervous, but you didn’t let up.

“Remember the turns up here? Y/N?”

The lights behind you were getting further and further away. You were losing them. You were going to make it.

You were quickly approaching the turns he had mentioned, the ones right before the house. Almost there.

“Hang on!” You instructed right before the first turn.

“Y/N! No, no, no, no!”

The car beautifully drifted around the turn, losing the cops that more much, and Saeyoung losing his mind.

You went around the second turn with ease as well, the back tires losing traction, spinning freely. It was all so smooth, even at these high speeds.

You straightened out after coming out of the last turn, cops unable to catch up. The house was only about a few blocks away, as fast as you were going, you’d be there in no time.

Using his phone once you got in range, Saeyoung had the garage door open, awaiting your arrival. 

You checked the rear view one last time, making sure they still hadn’t caught up. You were in the clear.

You screeched to a stop in the garage, quickly parking and bailing from the car. Saeyoung quickly slapped the button on the wall to shut the garage door while you turned off the lights.

The two of you quickly went inside, going right to Saeyoung’s computer. He pulled up the live security feed all around the perimeter. You watched the cops drive past the front of the house on the monitor. After a few minutes of no activity, Saeyoung decided the coast was clear. You let out a heavy sigh.

“Y/N..” Saeyoung said, voice quiet. His back was to you, still facing the monitors.

“Y-yeah?” You replied sheepishly.

You were in trouble. Big trouble.

“What you did... that was..”

“I’m sorry! I swear I won’t ev-” You started to apologize profusely before he cut you off.

“Awesome!!” He yelled, turning to face you, eyes wide with excitement.

“I’m sorry, what?” Surely you hadn’t heard him right. 

“It was like we were in an action movie! It was incredible!”

“You do realize that your last job was as a secret agent, right? But, you think my driving was like an action movie?” You were so confused.

“Oh yeah! I mean, I can drive too, don’t get me wrong. I just never expected something like that from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It means that my amazing, talented, beautiful girlfriend kept a truly awesome secret from me! Not fair, by the way.” He dramatically pooched out his bottom lip.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you Sae, it’s just that my family could get in trouble..” 

“It’s okay, I understand. But..” He trailed off.

“But?”

“Well, after taking my most cherished and most expensive baby out drifting, she’s going to need some pampering.” He sounded serious, but the face he was making didn’t match. He was up to something for sure.

“Okay..? No problem. I am a mechanic, after all.”

“Then it’s a deal.” He said with a smirk. He promptly scooped you up and threw you over his shoulder.

“Ah! Saeyoung, what the hell?” You screeched, making him laugh.

“What? I’m paying up front. And I must say, I’m looking forward to doing business with you.” He said with a smirk, carting you off to to the bedroom, both of you giggling the whole way.

[a-lil-perspective]

Nepenthe

Your chest fills with a soft gasp. You uncurl your sleep-infused joints, shifting on your back within the bed. Full, tranquil breaths usher you along. You flicker your gaze over to the chrono. Your lashes bat away a lingering bleariness as you acclimate to your obsidian-colored surroundings. You become acutely aware of a calloused hand nestled in your hairline, a thumb now smoothing away the furrow manifested between your brows.

In the pitch black, you feel his eyes cast heavily over you.

“Can’t sleep?” Your voice is still weak with slumber. You reach out a drowsy hand, intuitively finding his jawline and cradling it. There’s a pause, and then you feel his features rearrange with a smirk underneath your fingertips.

“Distracted by something beautiful is more like it.”

“At this hour?” You hum. “Must be a real work of art.”

“Mhm,” his hand slides down from your hair, tapping your nose on the way before ghosting over your now slightly part lips. “You certainly are.”

Something like a giggle escapes you, and you drape the back of your free hand across your face to hide the silly blush he can’t even see in the shadows inking the midnight room. His warm breaths grow closer, peppering across your skin. You gather yourself, hollowing your cheeks. “Well don’t stay awake on my account. You should rest.”

“Trust me...” his knuckles stroke along your cheekbone with a tenderness that nearly makes your heart give out. “It’s a good reason to be awake.”

“But not the only reason.” You scale his words footnoted by affection, bypassing directly to the underlying meaning while he proceeds to mouth your neck in lieu of an explanation.

“You had a nightmare,” you whisper after a moment, stifling a shiver and gliding your fingers through his hair unbound from its usual crimson accessory.

He shakes his head, forcing a reassuring smile. “They don’t visit me when I’m with you.”

“Lies,” you accuse gently, eyes softening as you unravel his plight. Your hand wanders from his jaw to the nape of his neck, in which you collect your evidence in the form of a cold and clingy sheen of sweat that’s clearly been settled for some time. You listen to his deep, burdened inhale that manifests from your discovery. If you squint hard enough you can make out his broad chest swelling with the intake. You mentally count the seconds his breath is held in stasis, and the heady silence that flanks. Four. And then his exhale billows heavily and he’s pressing his forehead to yours in defeat.

Your heart aches for him. You part the dark curtain of hair spilling over the both of you and imprint a sweet kiss to the corner of his lip. “It’s alright, Hunter; I’m here.”

He makes a pained sound against you.

“Was it the boys?”

His silence speaks for itself, waxing the anguish.

“Wake me next time.” It’s a useless plea, you know. You can never remove a soldier from the battlefield, nor stop the tape of death that rolls infinitely behind his closed lids.

From his glued position, he manages a fervent shake of his head. “Seeing you sleep peacefully... it’s soothing to me.”

You frown, fingers threading through his saturated scalp. You peel away from his face and crunch upward into a sitting position.

“I’ll be right back,” you murmur, loving lips tacking against his earlobe as you gently detangle. Hunter’s grip tightens in protest.

“I promise; right back,” you plant a chaste kiss to his cheek and roll out of his hold and off the bed, dashing to the refresher. The faucet shoots on, and you’re back seconds later with a wrung cloth monitored thoughtfully; not too hot or cold. You’ve long learned the extent of Hunter’s restlessness that flourishes in the wake of direct heat, and similarly, an unanticipated chill proves catastrophic to his sensitized nerves and he shoots into overload in no time flat. You, ever the attentive companion, fortunately discovered the most ideal temperatures to coat items before application.

You gingerly drape the rag over the back of his neck, and his shoulders slope at the contact. He nods his thanks and you take up your spot beside him on the edge of the bed.

His head remains cast downward, eyes presumably skimming the dark floor where he no doubt is attempting to shrug off all his troubles onto. You rub between his shoulder blades.

“Do you want to call them?” You ask.

He takes a shaky breath. “I think... that might help. Yes.”

You twist your body around, flopping ridiculously across the bed to reach the nightstand you could’ve just gotten up and walked around to. You fumble briefly for the comm seated there before straightening back up and activating a sequence. The light on the device blinks silently in working to establish a connection. A tremor burgeons from the mattress, a byproduct of Hunter’s bouncing knee. You still his disquiet with a reassuring squeeze. A voice finally crackles to life on the other end.

“Hello?” The greeting is interrupted by a seismic yawn.

“Hey Wrecker,” you greet gently. “Sorry to wake you.”

“Oh, hiya!” Sleep quickly disbands from the large man upon recognition of your voice as he inflates with something more peppy. “What’s up?”

“Oh you know, checking in,” you pause, glancing over at Hunter. “Sarge and I just wanted to say hi.”

“Hey vod!” Wrecker addresses his brother then. “Everything good?”

“Everything’s fine, Wrecker,” Hunter does his best to withhold the weariness lacing his words. “Just wanted to hear your voice. You can go back to sleep now, bud.”

Wrecker hums contemplatively. “Y’sure that’s all? Ain’t sounded like ya slept a wink.”

“I‘ll get there, don’t worry about me.”

“Need a good Wrecker cuddle?”

An unfiltered chuckle sounds through Hunter, and you relish the closest thing to at ease he’s sounded all night. “Maybe later, Wreck. But I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Ohhhh,” Wrecker drawls cheekily, his wicked grin palpable as he recalls that Sarge is already occupied with a warm body. “Well ‘f ya change your mind lemme know! Nighty night you two.”

“Goodnight, Wrecker.” You can’t help your own splitting grin.

Hunter snorts softly as the comm ends. “Feels like I’ve been caught in something scandalous.”

“Yeah, but he’s loyal,” you snicker, contacting the next member.

“Present.” It comes as no surprise that the engineer’s voice rings through with an unnerving level of chipper. Absolutely preposterous, this man. “Where am I needed?”

“In bed,” Hunter grumbles. “Get to sleep, Tech.”

“And yet you are the one who called me,” Tech glides right over the explicit command, the sound of his trinketing flooding the background. “Anyway, I look forward to showing you my newest creation—”

“Goodnight, Tech,” you sever his impending presentation with a snort. “Thanks for picking up. Puts Hunter’s mind at ease. He’s restless tonight.”

“Ah, yes. We will need to work on his subpar development regarding healthy sleep patterns.”

Hunter’s face twists with a frown that doesn’t hold that much weight. “If that ain’t the pot callin’ the kettle black.”

“Indeed. I just thought you might enjoy the humor in that.”

Hunter flashes a smirk he figures his younger brother is probably matching. “You know yours is my favorite, vod’ika.”

“That is good to hear.” A pause. “Goodnight, Hunter. Should you still find yourself restless in the coming hours, I’m happy to assist with my ‘useless trivia’ that inevitably puts you to sleep.”

“By that point you should find yourself asleep,” the ori’vod points out.

“Very well,” Tech relents. “I shall, for you.”

Hunter just shakes his head, unconvinced he won’t discover a sleepy genius slumped over the nearest workbench here within the next few hours.

Another round of brotherly charges are exchanged and then you’re left with one last call to make.

The last member acknowledges in a far less amiable manner.

“Crosshair.” You innately grow solemn with it. “Got a second?”

“Don’t really have a choice now,” he responds curtly, a lingering husk of sleep in his voice.

“Sorry Cross,” Hunter interjects. “My doing. Just wanted to check in on you boys.”

“At two in the morning.”

Hunter manages a wry smile. “Can’t say hi to my vode whenever?”

There’s silence on Crosshair’s end for a moment.

“What’s going on.” He’s returned bearing more sage.

You feel Hunter straighten beside you. “Nothin’, vod. Don’t worry about it.”

“That doesn’t work on me, Hunter. Try again.”

“I’m fine,” Hunter said rushingly. “Promise. Just gets a little stuffy in my head sometimes. But you boys always make it better, y’know?”

Crosshair quiets. “Get some rest. I’ll be here if you need me.”

“Thanks vod. Appreciate it.”

You imagine Crosshair’s eyes searing into you through the comm as his attention shifts. “Keep me updated.”

“I will,” you assure. The connection ends. You eye Hunter, grazing your fingernails along the side of his head, tucking inky strands behind his ear. “Did that help at all?”

Hunter huffs a tired laugh. “Think it just made it worse. Now none of ‘em will sleep because of me.”

“They’ll be just fine,” you begin guiding him back under the covers. “Now to make sure you are.” He resists you for the briefest of moments.

“I am fine, honey.”

“You will be,” you agree, lying back. Hunter soon follows and sprawls out over top of you, wriggling until he’s positioned ideally with his head on your chest yet within proximity of your neck to plaster kisses with ease when the mood strikes.

Hunter makes a little choked sound, and you realize he’s clearing his throat. “Thank you... for doing that for me.”

You flatten his head to your chest with something fiercely protective. “I would do anything for you.”

“Which, by and large, is entirely unnecessary.”

He earns himself a long-suffering sigh at that.

“It is necessary. Because you are my everything.”

“I—”

“Shh,” you rebuke him. “Dammit, Hunter—just let someone take care of you.” You chew your lip. “Let me.”

He inhales deeply through his nose. It is entirely plausible for Sergeant Hunter to be bested in a battle-of-the-wills on the rarest of occasions; this being one of them. You spread your hands across his back and begin a deliberating massage. He groans lightly, his neglected aches and pains woven into the limelight by your touch. You quickly get caught up in your administration. When your breath suddenly hitches, Hunter lifts his head in curiosity.

“I’m just… you...” Words feel thick on your tongue. “You are a remarkable man, you know that?”

The corded muscles of his back tense. Anyone else would bask in such awestruck reverence but not Hunter, who makes haste to override his obvious discomfort with a thoughtful hum.

“I know that’s what you believe,” he answers neutrally.

“Because it’s true.” You reposition the wicking cloth at his neck. “Your brothers and I... we would all be lost without you.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

A pinch to his bicep. “Maybe you’re too hard on yourself.” Too damn stubborn, you nearly add.

His demeanor is colored with remiss. “All in a Sergeant’s work.”

One-hundred percent success rates and elite statuses aside: Hunter carries his tediously bashful disposition in total part.

“You don’t have to be Sergeant around me, you know,” you cup his face, tilting him up to meet yours. “You can just be Hunter.”

He can just be himself.

He shrugs with that pained, dutiful smile. The smile that follows him into adversity, the wry humor that is as much his shield as any. “Guess I don’t know how to separate the two.”

Your eyes well all of a sudden as you gaze upon this beautiful and troubled man with so much love in your heart it sends a keeling pang through you. Of course he doesn’t know how. He’s never known how to truly feel distinguished outside the focal point of soldiering. He’s always been so different, but never an individual. Never his own man. Preordained for responsibilities since before his decant, conducive in parental devices and sibling undertakings and leadership skills interchangeably. Always carrying others but who carries him?

You choke on a verklempt breath.

“I can help you.” You sound so small and desperate, sobbing quietly underneath him as your heart breaks alongside his. “Please let me help you…”

In the dark he captures your salty, stray tear with his lips—he always knows—before moving down and swallowing your mouth. Tenderness blooms from his textured lips, soft and sultry and seeping into every capillary. A soft love note pings from you against him when he’s got you like this, cast in a smelter of dire adoration and the overwhelming need to nurture. His touch, his kiss, is a burning ember that brands you even when he pulls away.

“You already do,” he murmurs sweetly against your lips.

[havetheavengersdoneanythingwrong]

Act 2 -- Il Dottore Part 3

[tagging @hasnightingaledoneanythingwrong ]

An engineer, a man of wit and mystery, takes the field.

He must take the script.

He must take the script.

He must take the script. Correct?

--

There's a mirror in front of me.

I can see through it -- I can see that man's eyes.

What's left of them.

'My' own hands, and the spear that would no doubt pierce my skull.

'Myself' -- separated from that body. Even my name, my 'self,' would elude me. I try to call for my name, to unconsciously understand my body, to grip on and 'reconnect,' yet --

There's no controller. My hands reach out in this endless abyss of gears, locked tightly by some horrible fluid, crunching something as it desperately tried to spin.

The clicking of an overextended piston.

The ground beneath me trembled.

Even my eyesight grows blurry, staring through the mirror, towards the white-haired woman who approaches 'me' so angrily.

That speartip grows closer still, and I--

--

...

There's a horde of gears beneath me.

Perhaps I'm laying down -- the clicking of struggling gears is all I can hear, or feel, against my back -- my feet. All around me, rust falls -- like snowflakes falling from the roof of metal, hanging wires and leaking engines, steadily coating the environment in its own twisted form of 'lakes' -- pools of oil, mixed with rust flakes, populating the areas surrounding me. Forming a path of broken parts, brittle and rusted over -- pointing forwards.

...There's an ache in my head. A pounding, drilling feeling. My body flickers -- certainly, I am to exist, as I feel 'me' being ripped away-

Groping around behind me, the wall, the ground I was leaning on, my greyed hands grasped something tough --

...A book.

A play with no visible name.

Just a blank hardcover back, dyed black, flecks of rust on its form.

...I force myself off the ground, onto the wall.

One foot in front of the other.

The wall cracks beneath my feet. The brittle floor crunches, shudders, underneath even the weight of my step.

My lightest footsteps cracked the beams beneath my feet -- long since, I assumed, brought to ruin by the surrounding environment. Eaten away -- desecrated.

And yet, still only the snap -- the crack, of the wall on which I walked.

...I raised my hand -- wiped a few drops of oil from it, stepping away from a broken engine just above me -- and placed my eyes on the book before me.

...The feeling in my head -- the drilling, drives itself deeper into my temples.

[It is yours. It is your script/life/world. It is your 'existence.']

...Words, in my mind. The unimaginable language that worms its way into my mind -- whispers its meanings without being heard, to get across what words alone could not.

It ate -- tore at me, 'myself.' Taking a chunk of my mind -- my 'self,' suddenly, even--

"...What do you mean?"

[...It is simple. What you have done now is your purpose -- to stop that man. To break/destroy/harm him. Do you now understand?]

...

...The man. The one I had watched 'me' deface -- attempt to harm. Had harmed.

Through the mirror, the shattered visage of the man remained -- his body twitching, shuddering.

Muscles spasming as each jagged edge dug itself deeper --

...I found my hand moving to my mouth, distracting my quivering stomach with the piercing scent of oil and rust.

"I didn't do that. That... That wasn't me. I've been here this whole time."

[And does that matter? Whose hands are stained/coated/reveling in the blood?]

...

...I found my hands wouldn't open -- wouldn't drop this book.

'Was the voice coming from this -- or..?'

[...You are an actor/pawn/word in a story. Look at you/rself.]

...A 'thunk' -- a creaking in the metal beams -- disturbed the grounds. My eyes raise themselves from the book.

Towards 'me.'

Donning the clear mask, dripping with liquids.

A body like mine -- a gaudy, old-fashioned black outfit, long since stained and worn down with the rust, the oil, the...

...

"..."

...Not a word. The 'me' steps forward. Readies a knife.

[...You are not what you were in other times/worlds/beings. You are neither a hero/god/saviour, nor even a worker/engineer/bee.]

...The 'me' throws his knife. My body jerks -- twitches, forcing itself to the side, catching my heels, my body thrown off its balance.

[You are an actor/pawn/fool. Accept your script.]

The brittle, rust ridden ground beneath me --

-- in a moment, collapses.

--

...

There's a buzzing.

A loud screaming of scratching metals -- the hum of an old light trying to keep itself alive.

There's a warmth about me. My hand raises -- my blurry eyes, for a moment, catch a glowing, red, something, before it scatters.

And in its place, is --

...Light.

Endless light.

My eyes slowly focus in on this -- this...

...'Feeling.'

A feeling made manifest.

Feelings, made manifest.

Of what was lost to me -- such a being, unmoved by the surrounding gears, the pieces, remained. Surrounding me.

Then --

[...Are you awake/asleep/open, my beloved?]

...A thousand voices. A million voices. Speaking in unison -- a Greek chorus of words, spoken all at once, in each tone an entire person spoken.

"...Who.. are you..?"

[...If such simple questions explained me/us/you, we would not stand here.]

...There's a golden light -- it reverberates, shining off what remained of the iron, steel components of this land I fell to.

[...We were summoned, here -- for you/me/them. To help. This story of ours/theirs/us we wished to watch -- is not, we/I/you realize, as we expected/wished/wanted.]

"...Are you... a Familiar? Or are you a Servant, like they.. The... That they spoke of..?"

...A Servant. One I'd understood -- even if the memory was lost. A replica of a hero from history. But where I was now was assuredly not the 'real world' -- not a place where a Servant could even be.

[...We/I/you/them/ are the Audience. There is little else to know.]

...

"...You mentioned you were to... help."

...The drilling returns -- intensifies. My lungs quiver, and tighten -- my brain 'pulsing,' in pain. In realization, of--

[...We/I/You may not help in the way of saving you. However, I would have you hold these, my beloved, and attempt to move. To remember/believe/forget.]

...Two objects appeared at my feet --

[...I wish you/me/us/them the best.]

--and the light faded.

...

The first -- a lone amulet. A necklace. A pale silver, carefully crafted, held shut by a tiny clasp.

...Something I carried with me -- the drill in my mind, the drill tearing off the 'pieces' of me, could not remove such a thing.

The second -- a revolver.

At a glance, an old model, that I'd never seen before. Placing the amulet around my neck, I gripped and raised the gun -- a curious model, with six 'barrels' in place of the usual one. It may have been fully loaded -- but I supposed it wouldn't be the brightest idea to check.

...My eyes settle on my hands, grasping onto the gun. Colour spread throughout my fingers, bringing it from a dull grey to a light peach --

--...to what my mind was now realizing -- were normal.

And in a moment, 'He' approached me. The room, with the light removed, remained its rusted, dripping self.

Oil pooled around my feet, in a circle -- 'He' stepped forward, readied his blade.

[...You keep fighting. Despite your fate/story/script being secured -- despite your very existence being drawn/placed/muddled into question.]

...My hand gripped the handle of this revolver -- my spare hand now rising to my chest, where this amulet now lay. Warmth began to spread throughout me -- one I only recognized as 'correct,' flowing through me.

[I ask you. What gives you the right to break your role/script/self? What gives you the right to exist?]

The drill keeps moving -- it burrows further into my brain. My eyes flash to black, return -- the 'Him,' unrecognizable, his face, his body impossible to understand.

A swarming 'humanoid' mass. A coalescence of 'being,' tied only by a 'form' I could no longer perceive.

"...What gives me the right... to exist?"

...The drill, digging deeper --

--as I tried to grasp for memories, for a reasoning, I found less and less. It took hold of me, stole those 'memories,' yet --

...As the 'Him' before me stepped forward, I found my hand unconsciously grasping my amulet -- opening it up, just as my vision blacked out again --

...I found my voice.

It were humming.

A tune I couldn't place.

One so deep in my brain, that even the drill could not alter its calming, melodic tune.

With each high note, a face returned.

A coworker. A patron. A supplier.

With each low note, a time.

A creation.

Little creatures I so dearly referred to as 'Mousers.'

Even fluids -- 'medicines' I'd borne witness to.

...

With the bridge of this hummed tune, my vision returned.

And with it -- my hand, holding the revolver, raised itself slowly.

The gears beneath me, surrounding me, shuddered -- flakes of rust shooting off its surface, evaporating.

The shine of steel repaired itself -- one by one, these broken, rusted gears began to turn -- sewing itself back together with welds made as though by a miracle.

I found, in my hand, lay a small jar. 'Vick'xxx.' Something that heavily increased libido.

Facing 'him' -- me -- momentarily, I had to wonder -- 'just what could this do?'

...But the funny thing about these creations of mine were their ease of use.

And how easily I could alter the mixture -- and change how it worked.

With a toss in the air, the jar shimmered, and fell back in my hand --

This world I was in -- it wasn't real life.

It was my own mind. That pocket of 'conscious' where I now fought against this invader.

For my right to exist -- and to ignore this script.

The script, on the ground -- perhaps dropped as my mind were drilled into -- was kicked aside in a moment, an unconscious move of my leg in the effort to cement that.

The being stepped forward -- another step, then brandished the knife and dashed my way.

"...I know why I should exist."

[...And what would that be?]

In a moment, I raised my revolver. Cracking open the jar, I tossed that viscous fluid across the form of the attacker.

"Because I have things left to make. I have a job left to do -- and there are many specimens, beings in my mind, that I haven't yet put to real life."

A swarm of robots -- powered with magecraft, swarming around 'me.'

Those Mousers, holding with them the most minute amounts of oil, from the engines that once leaked -- laying them on the ground around the dashing man.

In a moment, I can see those papers I'd left behind at the Clock Tower -- the journey here, to Carcosa, to find parts for my latest, greatest creation.

I can see my coworkers, even the ones I spoke to and taught in my off time.

In a moment, the faces of each creation I'd seen and brought life to -- each little dose of magecraft, each Mystic Code I brought to existence --

--and deep in my mind, the face of a pink-haired woman who smiled ever-so-slightly, even though I couldn't even understand who she was.

"My life isn't going to be spent tormenting some man I've never even met. Least of all when my competition are beings with strength incomparable to mine."

...

"This is my life -- and I deserve to exist. I want to keep moving forward, and create what nobody before me has! If nothing else -- I have my drive, and that's good enough to me."

Lining up the pepperbox pistol, I fired one lone shot towards 'me.'

The Vick'xxx, modified with ethanol, the oils the Mousers had placed --

--the gunpowder shot struck through 'me,' through the Mask, and set him ablaze.

"...My name is Julius. No matter what awaits me if I break this script, this is my life, and nobody else's."

The blaze evaporated the man -- the gears around me, whirring, spinning at full speed, began to allow the pneumatic pistons to raise one final time.

Onwards, upwards -- the fires dwindling, leaving behind only the mask the man had, now coloured a soot black from the ashes.

[...Are you so willing to join the suffering/pain/descent of that man that you would throw away your chance to fade/die/dwindle peacefully?]

"...If that's what it means to give me freedom, then so be it."

I raised my leg up --

--and brought my foot down upon the mask.

[jokertrap-ran]

(光与夜之恋 Light and Night) Main Story Chapter 3-3: 海水与火焰 Seawater & Flames Translation

“Secretly snapping shots of me again? What, was last time not enough?"

*Light and Night Master-list *Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut *Join the Light & Night Discord (＾▽＾)~ ♪ *Main story tag will be #For Light and Night

The original plan for Lin Yao’s fitting session was postponed by her agency at the very last minute. After busying for a couple more days, the weekends were here in a blink of an eye.

Following Evan’s suggestion, I’d selected a new apartment that was small, but pretty good in every other aspect, and moved in without a hitch.

It was coincidentally sundown by the time I’d finished decorating my new home. The setting sun was lazily snuggled up high amongst the clouds that touched the building. Guangqi City was dyed in a beautiful pinkish-purple, assimilating into the very glow of the sunset itself.

I was nestled up comfortably on my sofa, admiring the beautiful scenery and enjoying the rare moment of peace.

Ding-dong!

The doorbell rang.

Delivery Man: Hello. Fresh flowers for you.

MC: ?

An’an had sent me a huge bouquet of baby's breath. It had a card attached to it, wishing me a smooth move into my new apartment.

❖☆———————————★❖

An'an: Got the flowers yet?

MC: Yeah! They're especially pretty~

An'an: You're welcome! But, seeing as you've already received them… I have a teeny-tiny request~

MC: Why do I have a bad feeling about this already…?

An'an: Aw, come on, man. Didn't I tell you that I was going to be interviewing my idol's race team next week?

An'an: It’s their test run tomorrow and it’s also a Sunday, so I’m asking you to come and check them out with me!

An'an: Please? Pretty please? Pretty please with a cherry on top? You know I love you best, baby!

MC: ...Fine.

An'an: I’ll send you the location later and see you at their training location at 10 AM tomorrow! Be there, or be square!

❖☆———————————★❖

Hence, I woke up early the next day due to the location being somewhere out in the outskirts of the city.

MC: Turn left at 998 Sunset Street and go straight till the end…

MC: Then you’ll see the Glitter Bullet race team's name… Oh, here it is.

A real race track was much more of a spectacular sight to behold compared to what I’d seen on television.

The long and winding race track was akin to that of a python’s body; so long that it seemed never-ending, surrounding a square plot of grass. The dark red tented fabric canopy bearing the team’s name stood right in the centre of the racetrack like an open umbrella.

❖☆———————————★❖

MC: What a spectacle…

Everything about the racetrack marvelled me, almost as if I’d accidentally stepped into a whole new world.

Training racecars raced past me, roaring as they went. The visceral heat and the deafening roars of the engines as they zipped past were so exciting that they made everyone's heart race.

I walked to the auditorium, finding a shaded area to sit.

Down at the tracks was what was probably a mock competition. The roaring of the racecars that zipped past was sometimes high-pitched, and sometimes low.

❖☆———————————★❖

The one at the head of them all was a red racecar that was both steady and equally speedy. After a couple of laps, it had firmly locked its place as No.1 on the racetrack.

I stared at the skull pattern on it. It looked really familiar…

I whipped out my phone and zoomed in on it using the camera and confirmed it. My eyes weren’t fooling me after all.

MC: The pattern on it looks exactly just like the pendant Osborn wears!

❖☆———————————★❖

Is that his racecar? As the thought flashed past my mind, I was compelled to raise my phone and press the button on the shutter.

Suddenly, a sharp sound rang out in the chaos of noise.

The yellow racecar that had been snapping at the red one’s heels the entire time had suddenly started accelerating, just like a lion that had just woken up, radiating an unstoppable and unrelenting aura as it went. It swerved with astonishing speed and a sharp screech of its tires, perfectly bypassing the bend in the road before swiftly overtaking the red racecar!

It was like a dash of gold light in the middle of a group, making everything in the surroundings lose out in comparison.

In a blink of an eye, that racecar put a huge distance between itself and the others.

MC: The red racecar got overtaken!

Only the last lap remained before this competition was over. I couldn't help gripping tightly to the railings as I silently rooted for the red racecar.

However, it was the yellow racecar that had been first to cross the finish line in the end.

MC: He still lost out…

I sighed, growing increasingly curious about just which godly being was behind the wheel of the yellow racecar.

MC: ...Osborn's so good at this; I wonder who won against him?

A tall and big figure came out of the yellow racecar, removing his helmet and reaching a hand up to somewhat fix his helmet-mussed hair.

MC: ...Osborn!? That red racecar isn't being driven by him!?

❖☆———————————★❖

It was at that moment that my phone vibrated to life.

An'an: I needa tell you something very important… Please don't smack me!

An'an: A last-minute issue cropped up with the latest issue of the magazine I'm on, so I've got to rush back to the publishing company right now...

MC: I'm… already here, though…

An'an: I'm so, so, sorry for making you go there for nothing…

MC: Don't worry about it. I don't have any plans for today anyway. Besides, I just saw their test run.

An'an: For real!? Did you snap any pics of my idol? Can you send them to me!?

MC: Sure thing. I snapped one aplenty…

Suddenly, I recalled the big, horrid, and terrible screw-up that had transpired earlier. My voice had never died that quickly right then and there. Not only did I fail to get a single shot of her idol, but I'd also taken pictures of EVERYTHING but him.

MC: ...Err, I'll snap a couple more and send them all to you later.

An'an: You're really the bestest bestie! Gotta go, the editor-in-chief's after my arse. Bye bye~

After hanging up, I immediately fell into a moment of depression as I stared at the stream of pictures of the red racecar in the gallery. Is there a second mock competition, by any chance? Otherwise, how am I going to explain this to her…?

??: And whose fangirl is this? What are you squatting here for?

MC: !

The sudden voice that came out of nowhere startled me. I shot up immediately only to meet a pair of eyes that had been half-narrowed into a smile.

I didn't know when he came here, but Osborn was now standing by my side. There he stood under the dazzling sunlight with both hands in his pockets, leaning lazily against the railings with his eyebrows raised.

I felt a little light-headed. Perhaps it was because I had my head down for too long and had gotten up way too quickly, but I abruptly stumbled two steps backwards.

He grabbed onto my arm with a small chuckle.

MC: ...Thanks.

Osborn: Secretly snapping shots of me again? What, was last time not enough?

He leaned down, his gaze landing on the camera interface that was still open on my phone, the smile playing at his lips never once falling.

MC: As if! I’m helping my friend take some pictures. She needs to use it for her interviews!

Osborn: Oh? So what did you take?

MC: Uh, well…

MC: I just casually snapped a couple of pictures of things like your racecar and… the red one… and all…

Osborn: Really? Then what do you think of my driving?

MC: Amazing! Never thought that you'd clinch first in the end like that!

MC: You drove fast and furious during the last lap, but you were also very steady at the wheel! And the part where you finally overtook your opponent at the very last moment was also way too brilliant!

Osborn: Then why'd you only take photos of one who came in 2nd?

I froze. That was when it finally hit me that he'd already seen the camera interface that had been on my phone display earlier.

Osborn causally folded his arms, awaiting my answer with a playful look on his face.

I could only look to the side ever so awkwardly, softly muttering in response.

MC: Because they were leading at the start, so I thought…

MC: Plus, the skull pattern that was on it was just like your pendant, so that's why I...

Osborn was stunned for a while before he let out a laugh.

Osborn: That was the pattern for the last season.

Osborn: I never knew that you'd done your research on me that well.

There was an obvious teasing lilt to his voice. I flushed red, immediately snapping in denial.

MC: I only take extra notice when it comes to patterns! I blame my work habits!

MC: Who told you to be so slow at the start…

Utterly amused, Osborn narrowed his eyes into a smile, leaning down towards me.

Osborn: Do you know that you should never say "slow" to a racer?

MC: ……

I subconsciously shook my head. Osborn nodded moments after he'd leaned in closer.

Osborn: Boy, you sure are easy to intimidate.

Moments after he backed away, he casually placed his hands into his pockets, his smile growing bigger.

Osborn: Come on.

MC:

...Where to?

Osborn: Don't you wanna snap some shots? I'll lead the way.

❖☆————— ⊹ For Light & Night⊹ —————★❖

Previous Part: (Chapter 3-1) | Next Part: (Chapter 3-5)

[chokemeanakin]

Anakin Teaches You How To Drive Headcanons- Anakin Skywalker x gn Reader

Masterlist

This wasn’t requested, but in honor of my second attempt at passing my drivers test in a couple of weeks, I had a fun little thing bouncing around my brain that I wanted to put out. have fun 😝✨

You never needed to know how to drive an airspeeder because you came from a more rural planet where transportation mostly consisted of walking, riding on the backs of various indigenous wildlife, or occasionally coming across a run-down speeder bike.

When you got to Coruscant, you always relied on taking the busy streets or the bus to get places you needed to go. Anakin insisted you take an airspeeder instead— it was safer, faster, and much cleaner than slumming it around down in the crowded alleyways.

You had to tell him it wasn’t really a possibility for you... although you knew the basics of piloting starfighters, that knowledge did not carry over to airspeeders.

Anakin offered to teach you.

He picked you up on your balcony, seated in a slick-looking, boujee yellow airspeeder.

“Where’d you even get this?” You asked him, taking the hand he offered to help you get into the drivers seat as he slid over to the passenger side.

“Oh, just some senator.”

“They’re letting us use it?”

“They’re letting us borrow it...” from the look on his face, they were not. He shrugged and said, “Look, what they don’t know can’t hurt them.”

You looked at the shiny exterior of the car. It was one of the more expensive ones, no doubt. Anakin truly had an eye for picking the finer things in life.

“If I crash this...” you warned.

“I know how to cover our tracks. It wasn’t us.”

You laughed at this, and then turned toward the controls. There were handles, buttons, levers, flashing lights. You thought a good place to start was by grabbing onto the levers.

“Alright, so these handles are to steer— turn left to go left, right to go right— the pedals by your feet are break and accelerate, this lever puts you in reverse, this one puts you in drive, there’s your headlight, that’s your turn signal—“ and on and on and on.

Your brain was whirring with all this information, sometimes Anakin’s brain moved too fast and he didn’t realize he’d left you in the dust. But it really was something you could handle— not that much different from a star fighter, after all.

So when he asked, “Got it?” You nodded your head and pressed the lever by your feet.

You didn’t move

You pressed again and again and again, jamming your foot down harder each time. You checked the dash to see if you were in drive. You were. You looked at Anakin, confused.

He leaned over and peered down at the levers by your feet. “That’s the break,” he laughed, and then stopped suddenly. “... I hope you’re not planning on driving with your left foot.”

���A foot for each peddle right? Left goes on break, right goes on go?”

“No.”

After squabbling over the senselessness of that rule, he got you to practice going between break and accelerate with your right foot only before actually beginning for real this time.

“Okay, step on accelerate, gently now—“

You pushed the pedal down and went shooting into the sky, narrowly avoiding another speeder as you yanked the steering wheel to straighten yourself out.

“Force! I said gentle!”

You lifted your foot off go and slammed it on break instead, causing you both to pitch forward and almost smack your heads into the dashboard.

“Y/n you have to go! You’re in the middle of the airway!”

“What?? What do you mean?!” You yelled in panic, desperately yanking at the levers to reverse, go forward, anything. There were speeders coming at you from both ways, and you were t-ed up across multiple lanes.

Anakin reached across you and set the settings straight. He ordered you to press go and took hold of the steering, maneuvering you safely away from the airway.

Once you were in the clear, he dropped back into his seat and let out a big breath.

“Okay, bad idea to start you out up there.”

“I SUCK!!!” You cried.

“No no no! That was my mistake! You’re doing great!”

You let out another sound of despair and then tapped on accelerate gently. The speeder smoothly flew forward a couple inches, so you pressed down harder until you got to a good speed.

“See? You’ve got this,” Anakin encouraged, reaching for the safety handle by his side. “Now you’re approaching a building, so turn the levers slowly...”

It was very jerky, but you avoided crashing into the building so it was a win in your book.

“Good!”

You decided you needed to smooth out your turns, so you kept the lever all the way to the left and made donuts in the open air. Then you practiced going the other way.

“Now make figure 8’s around the skylights,” Anakin suggested, so you went around and around these lights in circles until you were dizzy and your turns were perfect. When you wanted to stop, you let up on accelerate and abruptly jammed on break again.

“Oof— geez,” Anakin braced a hand on the dashboard. “You don’t have to slam on the pedals. Just be slow and gentle, it’ll make it a much smoother ride.”

After experimenting a bit more in the free space, you said you were ready to go on the streets again.

“Are you sure?” Anakin asked nervously. You nodded. “Alright, head for the airway but stop before going on. You have to look both ways to make sure no one’s coming at you from either direction.”

You did as told, trusting his instincts more than yours to tell you when to go. When he gave the signal, you burst across the lane and began driving. You didn’t know why Anakin was freaking out again.

“You’re in the wrong lane!” Anakin grabbed for the steering wheel to get you to turn around, but you slapped his hands away.

“I can’t learn when you’re trying to drive for me!”

“You can’t learn if we’re both dead!”

You managed to inch your way into the other lane just as another speeder went whizzing by. Anakin thanked the force this backstreet wasn’t as busy as the usual highways in the main streets of Coruscant, otherwise you’d be toast by now.

“Alright,” Anakin took another calming breath. “There’s a stoplight coming up. You know what the signals are right?”

“Yes sir.”

“Okay, so just go straight after the light.”

You peered around the area, waiting for the light to turn green. You ended up spotting your favorite cafe place and nudged Anakin with your elbow. “You wanna get some drinks?”

“Sure, but we can circle back around if you just go straight.”

“But it’s right there. Why can’t I just take a left?”

Anakin has faith in you, but he saw his life flash before his eyes. “Fine.. take a left.”

He instructed you to put your turn signal on, then explained how you’re supposed to wait for oncoming traffic to go before you and then watch for more oncoming speeders so that you could take the left turn.

The light turned green, and for some reason your jumpy brain had you slam on the gas pedal and skirt through the intersection, bypassing all speeders and causing them to stomp on their breaks to avoid hitting you.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry!” You screamed as you sped along, swirving this way and that to get the speeder under control. Multiple honks followed after you, and it wounded your feelings more than you ever imagined it would.

“Hey... they’re honking at me...” you said sadly, peering behind you at the angry cars.

Anakin straightened the levers as you started to swerve. “Just— just focus on parking. Look. A pull-through spot up ahead.”

You were actually phenomenal at parking. If phenomenal meant being crooked across the lines and taking up at least 3 spaces.

When you turned the engine off, you looked at Anakin hesitantly. He was staring straight a head, blinking the disbelieving look out of his eyes.

“I’m never stepping foot in a speeder ever again,” you decided, confidence plummeting.

This snapped Anakin out of it, and he took your hands in his. “Don’t say that! It’s your first day. Driving in a speeder is much different than a star fighter, there’s many more obstacles and rules and regulations. As far as first days go, you’re doing better than even I did!”

“Really?”

You weren’t, but he lied because he loves you.

You both went in to get your drinks and then Anakin insisted he drive the way back home.

You wanted to focus on your drink anyway so you let him. Honestly, you were done testing your luck today and were just happy you didn’t crash the damn thing.

Anakin dropped you off back on your balcony again and promised to come over later after he returned the speeder. He also promised he’d take you out driving again— “This weekend, when the streets aren’t so busy...”

With lessons from the best pilot in the galaxy, you think you’ll be driving your own speeder in no time 🥴

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Welcome to Backwater ch.8 (spicyhoney)

Summary: Turns out that Stretch has a lunch date coming his way, who would've thought? He only had to be a hero and a victim, all in two minutes.

~~*~~

Read CH 8:‘ 3.14159 Day’ on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

When Stretch left the theater it was with a new collection of question to add to his mental drop box. He told Doris he’d see her tomorrow, promising her updates to the mystery if he managed to Velma his way to any clues. On his way out, he tossed their popcorn cups into the trash, his empty and hers full, and gave Igor a little wave as he went through the outer door.

Igor didn’t smile, but he did wave back and hey, there was another positive mark to his list, looked like Igor was advancing to the rank of ‘acquaintance’. That was good, he could use a few more friends in his shiny new collection.

The bright sunlight beaming down from overhead made him squint and Stretch headed back towards the store, his mind on starting the book Edge gave him. He was already mentally groaning at digging through some kind of dry history book, but if that’s where the answers were, welp, he better start shoveling.

Loud shouts and a clanking sound jarred him from his thoughts. Coming up the sidewalk was a small dog running flat out and Stretch could only stare in disbelief at what looked like a bunch of tin cans tied to the poor thing’s tail, like it just ran out of one of the old timey movies he’d been watching lately.

Behind it two boys were running after and jeering, clearly terrifying the animal more. Its tongue was lolling out, its mouth foamy with saliva, and its eyes showing whites around dark brown centers.

Yeah, this was getting handled, right fucking now.

A touch of blue magic would’ve made this easier to deal with and it was a damn shame Stretch couldn’t use it. Didn’t mean he couldn’t make do with what he had, and he didn’t even think. He flattened himself against the window of the ‘Secret Seconds Thrift Shop’ to let the dog run past and before the boys could follow, he stuck out his foot. One boy ran right into it and it sent his forward dash into a Nascar spinout right into his friend, sending both of them headfirst into the trash cans set at the corner with a loud crash and spilling out the remnants of a dozen or so greasy lunches from ‘Mama’s’.

Both of them struggled to their feet, slipping in mounds of garbage and their clothes stained in old coffee grounds and a revolting mixture of rotten food gone almost liquid in the summer heat. Even from a distance the stench made Stretch’s nonexistence stomach roll over with an unpleasant lurch.

The taller one swung around towards Stretch, his face twisting in fury, and his shorter friend didn’t look much happier. He didn’t recognize either of them from the store and that was when Stretch realized these guys were a helluva lot bigger and older than he’d previously thought; no kiddos here, they were either adults or close to it, and here they were, out tormenting little dogs on a hot summer day like this was a damned serial killer training day.

Stretch met that furious gaze head on and asked flatly, “what the fuck is wrong with you two?”

That glare only hardened and the guy sneered, showing teeth that were already graying with rot, yeesh, he’d gone out for a old timey movie and a mystery and instead he’d found a walking cliché from an 80’s high school flick, proof positive when he snarled, “You’re dead, city boy.”

“seriously? that’s a little over dramatic don’t you think?” Stretch took a healthy step back, hands held out defensively. Both of these guys looked like they meant it, coming towards him like a couple trash zombies with fists at the ready.

A quick glance around didn’t bring any allies into view. Even this early it was hot enough out that the sidewalks were empty, the actual town kiddos nowhere in sight. He could dodge into the thrift shop, but the proprietor, Magdalen May, was old enough that she probably used to babysit for Granny Collemore on the weekends. No way in hell he was dragging her into it, even if the old lady was pretty swift with a broom when the squirrels came out to investigate her sidewalk displays.

Nah, he was on his own for this, but even if it wasn’t two on one, if these guys were ready to throw down, Stretch wasn’t in any condition to pick it up. Not without his magic.

Stretch was still pretty light on his feet, though, and he took another step back, tensed in preparation to run his ass back down to the store, yowling like a fire engine all the way. Pride wasn’t much good when you were getting swept into a dustpan.

Turned out, he didn’t have to. The garbage pail twins weren’t even close when a voice came from behind.

“That’s enough.” Softly said and Stretch knew that voice, all roughly chopped dark chocolate and never had it sounded so delicious. He spared a second to look away from the approaching menaces to see Edge standing in the doorway to the library. He was leaning against the jamb, both arms crossed over his chest and a dark frown marring his handsome face.

Tall Trash Boy came to a halt, his scowl deepening. “Didn’t know you were in town, Edge.”

“And now you do.” Cold words that even the heat of the day couldn’t melt. Edge hooked a thumb down the sidewalk. “Both of you, get lost. Preferably downwind.”

The expected argument or threats didn’t come. They did as they were told and didn’t that bring up a few more question about Edge, hell yes, it did, the town troublemakers wary of the local library skeleton? The taller guy glared at Stretch as he walked past in a wall of stench, his fingers flexing as if they were itching to test a hypothesis on whether choking a skeleton was possible.

Great, now he had a nemesis, just the gift he’d never wanted. He’d have to add another section to his mental relationship spreadsheet.

It was probably a good thing it was Edge playing the shining knight to Stretch’s impromptu fairy tale act, his reputation had already taken a hit yesterday with the locals, what with the corny rescue. He didn’t know if he could take being saved by anyone else; at least Edge was already unimpressed by him.

Edge watched them go, never looking away until they were around the corner. Only then did he turn back to Stretch, “Are you all right?”

Stretch didn’t bother to answer, not yet. He was already giving those assholes a pass, heading over to where the little dog was cowering in the alley by the thrift shop. Big brown eyes looked up at him fearfully. “hey, boy,” he said softly. He held out a hand and waited patiently for the pup to hesitantly sniff his boney fingers, hopefully without sampling the merchandise. A whip-thin tail started to wag, stirring up dust and sending a jangle through the cans tied to it as a warm, wet tongue laved ticklishly over his hand. Stretch let out a soft laugh, gently scratching behind the floppy ears. “yeah, you’re okay. c’mere, let me help.”

The dog lay patiently while Stretch worked on the rope around its tail, only whining occasionally as Stretch struggled with the knots. They were painfully tight and it took a minute for Stretch to pick them loose, freeing the pup from its tin-can torment.

“There you go, buddy.” The second it was free, the dog scrambled to his feet, shaking vigorously and that furious tail wagging trebled. The pup licked Stretch’s face with sloppy appreciation, but he didn’t hang around. With a last messy lick, he turned and trotted off in the opposite direction as the trash boys, disappearing around a corner and out of Stretch’s life.

“that’s gratitude for you,” Stretch said aloud. He stood up and dusted off his shorts, then carried the string of cans over to the remaining trash cans that were still upright and tossed them in with a rattling clang. Edge watched him the whole time, sockets narrowed, and his expression was one that was coming up blanks in Stretch’s mental filter.

He winced internally. Getting into fights with the locals probably wasn’t gonna endear him to anyone in town.

“sorry about all that, didn’t mean to stir up trouble,” Stretch let out an unsteady laugh, shoes scuffing uncomfortably on the sidewalk. “they’re probably okay guys, right, boys will be boys, all that shit.”

But Edge shook his head. “No,” Edge said curtly, “Joey is a bully and he needs discipline. I’ll be speaking with his father. I’ve seen your HP, that was hardly an idle threat.”

Um, okay, there was a revealing tidbit that Stretch wasn’t the only one with his snooping shoes on. Someone was doing Checks from the sidelines. “then i guess my thank you for the save is canceled out by you being a nosy nancy.”

“I prefer snooping Sarah,” Edge said. He wandered over to toe at the trash cans with an expression of exquisite distaste and left them where they were. Seemed like his heroic tendencies didn’t extend to the municipal sanitation workers. Not that Stretch was volunteering to help with the cleanup either, no thanks, he was much more interested in watching the shift of Edge’s hips as he walked. Here they were with the temperatures climbing high into the red and this guy was walking around in a pair of nut hugger jeans that showcased the sleek line of his bones, a flash of his iliac crests peeking out slyly from under the hem of his black t-shirt.

Stretch didn’t do small talk so much as long, rambling soliloquies of random nonsense, but he could try when the need arose and right now, that need was climbing mountains because the fact of the matter was, he didn’t want Edge to leave yet. He wanted Edge to stay, wanted to hear him talking a little longer about anything, everything, so with all the eloquence Stretch could muster, he fumbled out, “so, uh, what are you doing in town today?”

Aw, yeah, he was Mister Swingle, all right. Next he’d be asking Edge to come over this weekend to play D & D in his mom’s basement.

Good thing that Edge didn’t seem too bothered by the lead up. He only shoved his hands into his pockets, and seriously, finding room for them in those jeans had to defy several laws of physics. “My roommate had a sudden urge for pie and insisted that only Mama’s would do,” Edge said sourly.

Interesting, another mention of the elusive roommate/local scarecrow animator. “okay,” Stretch said slowly, “if they wanted the pie, why didn’t they come with?” Would’ve saved Stretch from trying to narrow down their location for a visit.

“They can only come out at night.” Said without even a trace of irony.

Um, what? Stretch tried not to gape at him, with minimum success. “are you serious?”

“No,” Edge smirked, “But my brother mentioned your predilection for vampires.”

Oh, hil-arious, looked like both bothers had jokes. “woah, i’m not licking anything, prada or otherwise. can’t blame me for hedging my bets around here in the land of the cannibal corn.”

“I can assure you, there are no vampires in town.” He couldn’t help but notice Edge didn’t throw up any kind of defense for the corn’s innocence.

“in town,” Stretch repeated, doubtfully, “yeah, that’s real comforting, thanks.”

Edge only held out a hand. “Come on, you look like you’re about to melt in the heat and it’s Wednesday, Mama’s has a lunch special today.”

His surprise at what was very obviously a lunch invitation was tempered by pure shock that it was Edge offering it.

"really?” Stretch said, warily. He still took Edge’s hand, he wasn’t completely stupid, thanks. Edge was wearing gloves but there wasn’t time to mourn the lack of bone on bone action as his fingers curled around Stretch’s. “you eat at mama’s? red said you don't stay for the dinners you make because of your special diet."

Edge had started towards the diner and he paused, one brow bone arched, "Did he."

"i mean, not judging here,” Stretch added hastily, damn, what was with the self-sabotage, here, sure it was his MO, but at some point, you’d think he’d learn. If Blue were here, he’d be trying for a new world record in eye rolling. “the stuff you bring over is great. you vegan or something?”

"Or something. I’m sure what my brother is charmingly referring to is my preference not to layer cheese and mustard over every meal.” Edge tugged on his hand again and Stretch stumbled after, following him to the diner’s front door. “I find simpler recipes more satisfying so I can actually taste the food, but I believe a piece of pie is within my range. Particularly a slice of mama’s apple.”

Fair enough and Stretch was all about taking chances. May as well take this one.

Wednesdays at Mama’s was always special menu, something to help get a fella over the hump day according to the handwritten whiteboard at the entrance. Today was pie day and there were all sorts on order, from delectably savory to sugary sweet and a few in-between.

This was the first time Stretch actually sat down in the diner to eat. Usually he got takeout and pointedly ignored the fact that the short order cook was smoking a cigarette right at the grill, hey, the ash was dropping away from the fryer, it was fine. He’d get his burger and fries handed over in a grease-spotted paper bag, take it back to eat at the wobbly table in his room. That meal combo was great, crisp lettuce and tomatoes layered over a thick beef patty and the fries were greasy, salty perfection.

Turned out the pie was pretty damned good, too, brought over to their booth by Mama herself and someday he was gonna ask about the colorful mermaid tattoos that scrolled up both her burly forearms. Not today, he’d already gotten his fill of risk-my-life jollies, for now Stretch was sticking with pie.

But next time he got into trouble he was running in here to hide. Mama could probably kick both those guy’s asses without batting an eyelash while she was lighting the Marlboro clenched between her teeth.

Stretch got a piece of chicken biscuit pie, slathered in country gravy and Edge the aforementioned apple, a slice of crumbly cheddar cheese melting over the flaky crust.

Delicious as it was, he was having a hard time giving his pie a fair slice of his attention. They both had long legs and Stretch’s gangly knees kept bumping into Edge’s as they struggled to find a place to be. He tried a few times to move out of the way but even if his magic had been in top form, his ability to bend space/time had been limited to shortcuts, not leg room.

Another painful bump and Stretch squeaked aloud when Edge caught one of his feet firmly between both his own, the leather of his boots smooth and cool against his trapped ankle.

“Hold still,” he commanded and Stretch damn near snapped him a salute. Hold still, yessir, and Edge’s foothold eased…but it didn’t move. He sat there with Stretch’s foot held in gentle captivity between his own and all the holy little angels, if this was a reward from above for the dog rescue, Stretch would take it.

It was also a helluva distraction, making it hard for him to come up with some vaguely entertaining lunchtime chatter. Stretch’s normal attempts at flirtation were about as smooth as a cheese grater. Frankly, it was a wonder he’d ever persuaded anyone to go out with him, but he had a feeling his previous knock knock technique wasn’t gonna work here.

Edge didn’t wait for him to come up with a gambit. He only swallowed his latest bite of pie and said, “That was very brave of you.”

Stretch paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “what was?”

His thoughts on what might be wrong with the pie, (which certainly tasted delicious, ugh, please don’t let it be a soylent green kind of situation) vaporized when Edge said, “Helping that dog.”

Oh, that. Stretch only shrugged and dug back into the tasty, not-human pie. “anyone who isn’t a sociopath would’ve helped that dog.”

“I’m not so sure. Plenty of locals are wary of Joey and his sidekick. They might have gone to the Sheriff, but that wouldn’t have helped the dog in time.”

“locals, right. so lemme ask you something,” Stretch licked the tines of his fork, savoring the rich, buttery flavor, good thing he didn’t have any veins to clog. “you and red both talk like you’ve been here forever, but we’ve only been in the surface a few years. how long have you been in backwater, anyway?”

Edge took a sip of his coffee, because of course he ordered a hot beverage, geez, if this guy took a vacation to hell, he’d ask Satan to borrow a sweater. “We came almost the moment we arrived on the surface.”

Okay, yeah, he’d figured that out on his own, but it didn’t really clear much up. Stretch had questions, okay, he had a list, and he was looking for some answers. May as well try while Edge was being chatty. “where did you live in the underground? ‘cause my bro and i lived in snowdin, but i got around and i don’t remember even hearing about you two, much less added you to my gyftmas card list.”

He waited as Edge finished up his slice of pie. He ate with disturbing neatness, cutting precise little forkfuls of pie and eating each one, and took the time to wipe his mouth with a napkin before he said, “I’m afraid that’s complicated.”

“complicated,” Stretch repeated, slowly, disbelieving. Everything just had to be an ordeal, didn’t it. “complicated how? locations are not complicated, not like there was a lot of places to hide under the mountain. what, were you living in caves behind the waterfalls? down in the lava pits in hotland?”

“Something like that,” Edge said evasively. “We came to the surface with the Human who fell.”

And that tidbit made literally no sense at all. “wait, what? with chara?” Stretch didn’t really want to get thinking about the kid. He’d been something of a fun uncle for quite a while now and he missed getting to play that part. But there was no way that Edge was there when everything went down with the barrier breaking, that was purely impossible. “look, that was a real confusing time, i’ll admit, but i was there when we popped out of the mountain, with the Queen and everything. pretty sure i’d’ve remembered you hanging out in the backstage crew.” At the very least, he’d remember those hips.

To be fair, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d heard a Monster claiming to be there when it happened; everyone wanted their split-second of fame, hell, Napstaton did an hour special on it, complete with a dance number, he really did rock those heels. But Edge didn’t seem the type to go after a little fake glory.

“I’m sure you would have,” Edge agreed, and that was it, infuriatingly vague, and that made even less sense. If he was glory-hunting, he would’ve at least tried to come up with a backstory. Instead, he pushed his empty plate aside. “It doesn’t matter. The point is we decided not to stay in Ebott. I believe our journey resembles yours in that regard, only in our version, I was driving when we came to Backwater.”

“can’t you give a straight answer about anything?” Stretch asked, exasperated. Seriously, was it asking too much for something to not need pie charts and graphs and ghostly intervention to figure it out? Mama briefly interrupted by plunking a fresh plate down in front of Stretch, this time loaded with a little dessert in the form of blueberry pie, a melting scoop of vanilla ice cream oozing atop. She tore off the bill from her notepad and slapped it down, vanishing before Stretch could even thank her.

“It seems unlikely,” Edge admitted. “As to why we ended up here…” He trailed off, fingers drumming on the tabletop as Stretch took a syrup-soaked bite of pie. “Backwater is…” he hesitated again, so much weight resting on those words, “I believe that towns have a soul.”

Okay, not quite what Stretch was expecting; pie and heresy made for an interesting meal. “souls are for living things.”

“And towns are alive,” Edge countered. “They have a life given to them by the people who live there. Towns have their own dreams to fulfill, they change, they grow. And this town, on top of everything else, it seems to attract broken things.” He lowered his voice, so softly, “And you are broken, aren’t you.”

Stretch went still, his fingers clenching around his fork. Yeah, okay, getting a little personal there, and anyway, he wasn’t the mystery at hand, thanks, he’d like to keep it that way.

“broken? nah,” Stretch made a careless little scoff, “little bent, maybe—”

“Bent and battered,” Edge agreed, “but unbowed.”

“whatever,” Stretch grumbled. He took a large bite of pie, mumbling out through a mouthful of crust and berries, “i’ve been dedicating the past few weeks to repressing those memories, so can we not discuss?”

Only to nearly choke as Edge asked, “How long has your soul been damaged?”

His throat tried to clench around the mash of pie between his teeth, his magic grudgingly incorporating it as Stretch struggled to swallow it down. It was still fizzling at the back of his mouth as he rasped out, “what?”

Edge leaned in closer and sniffed deliberately, drawing in a hard breath through his nasal cavity. “You have soul damage. I can smell it and I know my brother could.” His sockets sank half-closed, hooding the crimson of his eye lights as he sniffed again, “It’s unmistakable, like scorched sugar layered over ammonia.”

What in the name of fuck…? How…? He’d never even heard of such a thing, so how…?

“i…i don’t…” The words clung to his tongue, refusing to be spoken. Stretch looked down, away from that intense gaze and focused on his pie. He squished a blueberry under the tines of his fork and watched dark juice bleed across the white plate, waiting for the panicked static in his mind to clear. A long, shaky breath of his own helped a little, inhaling the lingering heaviness of grease from the grill. Around them, other people were eating their pie, laughing and talking, and not paying a damn bit of attention to the way Stretch was trying not to break down, not here, not here, damn it. “awhile,” Stretch managed to mutter out, “that what you want to hear? anything else you want to know or maybe you can just kick me in the shins? or stab me in the eye socket, see, that’d work for me.”

Edge tilted his head and maybe he didn’t like what he saw, because he reached out and took Stretch’s hand in his own. That singular touch was stabilizing and Stretch latched onto it gratefully, let it steady him. “I know it’s painful,” Edge said, low, his thumb moving over Stretch’s knuckles in a gentle circle, “but I’m not trying to hurt you by discussing this. This place can be good for the soul. My brother knows that better than anyone. When we first arrived here, he was the one hurting and not just physically, his pains ran soul deep, the same as yours.”

Stretch managed a harsh chuckle. It came out raw, like a wound. “like recognizes like, i guess.” In his chest, his soul gave a pained little throb, like it knew they were discussing it. He resisted the urge to rub at his sternum; he already knew it wouldn’t help, the ache wasn’t in the bone, it was deeper, untouchable, and that was just the way he wanted his soul to be. Anyway, it wasn’t as bad as it’d been before, it was healing, just like the doc said it would. He only needed time and due to certain events, he had plenty of that now, in hearts and spades.

“That's why you're here, Stretch,” Edge told him, “It isn't about a breakup, that's incidental. It's about needing to heal. This place can be good for the soul, if you let it,” He offered a faint smile. “I still recommend leaving when you’re sufficiently healed.” Then abruptly, “Have you started on the book yet?”

Stretch latched onto the new topic gratefully, more than ready to stuff the soul crap into the back of his mind for about the next ten years, please and thank you. Better to wallow in a little sheepish guilt as he admitted, “uh, not yet, was kinda tired yesterday.”

He expected a dressing down, and not in the sexy way, but Edge only nodded. “I’m not surprised. Don’t put it off too long.” He let go of Stretch’s hand, barely giving him time to mourn as he stood and plucked the check from the table. “I need to get going, lunch is on me.” He nodded at Stretch’s plate. “Finish your pie.”

“thanks,” Stretch grumbled, but he took a bite. Even half-mangled it was delicious, tartly sweet, and he focused on finishing his pie and nothing else. Even watching Edge leave wasn’t doing it for him right now and maybe he’d regret not taking in the view later, but for right now, he didn’t want to think about anything at all.

He was scraping up the last berry-stained crumbs when a sudden shout made the entire diner jerk, everyone turning towards the door.

“You there!” Stretch blinked at the tall, stocky Human tromping towards him, pointing an accusing finger his way. He was in a uniform, his eyes concealed behind mirrored sunglasses, and there was a star pinned to his chest, shiny gold and emblazoned with the word, ‘Sheriff’. Not to mention the gun belt strapped around his broad middle. He came to a stop right next to Stretch’s table, fists propped up on his hips as he demanded, “You causin’ trouble here in my town?”

Stretch could only look up at him wide-socketed, with the taste of berries still sharp on his suddenly dry tongue.

Well, shit. Where was the rescue when he really needed one?

~~*~~

tbc

[seeaddywrite]

not a place, but a feeling

a/n: written for alex manes appreciation week 2020, day 1. i used the theme ‘home can be a person,’ but took a lot of liberties, whoops? thanks as always to @soberqueerinthewild for catching all of my repetition, wacky tenses, & holding my hand through the last 5k words of this fic, haha.

warnings: starts with forlex, but this is very clearly a malex fic & forrest does not end up particularly happy. angst with a happy ending, as per usual. 8k+ wordcount.

                                                                  ________

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Alex mutters to himself, turning the key in his SUV’s ignition for the third time and hoping for a miracle. The engine wheezes, sputters a few times, and finally settles into a high-pitched whine that sets Alex’s teeth on edge. Apparently, the ‘check engine’ light on his dash that morning had been more urgent than he’d expected -- and now, he’s stuck somewhere between Jim Valenti’s old hunting cabin and town. Fantastic. He’d already been running late to meet Forrest thanks to taking way too long to pick an outfit for their first official date, and now he’s over half an hour late.

As if it read his mind, Alex’s phone starts to ring, Forrest’s name flashing across the display. Groaning, Alex accepts the call and tries to crank the engine one more time. The attempt results in a screech and an alarming puff of smoke emerging from beneath the hood. With a bitten-off curse, Alex yanks the key from the ignition and throws the car door open, hastily putting a safe distance between himself and the smoking vehicle. Logic tells him that the smoke isn’t necessarily a precursor to an explosion, or even a fire, but years of military training and instinct are impossible to ignore.

“Hello? Hello? Alex, are you there?”

Alex glances from the still-smoking SUV to the phone in his palm, the source of the tinny-sounding voice calling his name. Frustrated with himself, he smacks a hand against his face and answers, hoping Forrest hasn’t already hung up on him. “Hey, yeah, I’m here. Sorry -- my car doesn’t want to start, and I guess I cranked it one too many times, because the engine just started smoking.”

For a moment, the only thing Alex hears on the other end of the line is blaring music. “I should probably not be relieved that your car blew up, huh?” Forrest asks, a self-deprecating laugh clear even through the pounding bass in the background. “I was starting to think you were standing me up.”

“What? Why would you think that?” Alex asks, putting the call on speaker so he could pull up Guerin’s contact information and start a new text while he listens. There’s no one else he could call at this hour, and he needs to be able to get to base on Monday, one way or the other. Michael would probably be able to fix the SUV, and even if he couldn’t do it overnight, he’d at least get Alex a loaner car for a few days while he did. And, after that, Alex wouldn’t have to worry about something like this happening again anytime soon; he could trust that Michael would actually fix the problem entirely, unlike any other mechanics in Roswell -- or in general, honestly.

My car gave up on me halfway to town. Any chance of some help?

It only occurs to Alex after the message has gone through that he should probably be a little more apprehensive about texting Guerin out of nowhere, but he’s really not. The two of them make a hell of a team, and after spending so much time together unravelling the mysteries of Nora and Tripp, and everything that came after, Alex is more confident than ever that Michael will always be part of his life -- even if it’s not in the way he’d initially hoped it would be. They’re family, whether or not they’re sleeping together, and Alex doesn’t doubt that anymore.

“Well, you weren’t exactly thrilled about the idea of going to Planet 7,” Forrest is saying, answering Alex’s question about why he would stand him up, and Alex feels guilty for not giving him his full attention. “And I kind of pressured you into it. I thought maybe you changed your mind.”

It’s a fair assumption, Alex supposes. He hadn’t been thrilled with the suggestion of going to Roswell’s only gay bar, even after finding the courage to push his father’s hateful words and judgements out of his mind for long enough to pull Forrest into a kiss in the middle of the Wild Pony. But he’s not the kind of guy to agree to something he really doesn’t want to do for a date, and he’d assumed Forrest would know that -- like Guerin would have. But Forrest is different from Michael; he has no reason to take Alex at his word, lacks the intimate knowledge of who Alex is that Michael has somehow managed to collect through ten years of hook-ups, break ups, and hurt feelings. And that’s not Forrest’s fault -- so Alex needs to learn to communicate better, somehow, if this has any chance of working out.

“I’m still planning on coming,” he promises, looking out at the darkened horizon, visible only because of the moonlight. “Seriously, I would’ve been there already if it weren’t for the fact that my car decided that tonight was the night it was giving up on me. I’m really looking forward to seeing you.”

There’s an audible smile in Forrest’s voice as he responds, and Alex feels vaguely proud of himself for managing to put it there, despite everything. “Okay, awesome. Want me to come get you? It’s late, so I doubt anyone’s going to be able to tow you before morning. And trust me, you don’t need to rough it in the desert overnight to prove what a badass you are. I already know.”

Alex laughs, and opens his mouth to retort -- but his phone dings, signalling an incoming barrage of messages, and Alex opens them with a swipe of his thumb, once again distracted from the phone conversation.

Let me guess. You decided to ignore your check engine light again.

Or was it an oil change you put off for six months?

You realize routine maintenance isn’t actually a suggestion, right? You either get it done, or you end up stranded in the middle of the desert begging for a ride.

On my way now with the tow now. Can you give me anything more specific than halfway to town, or am I supposed to just drive and hope for the best?

Alex snaps a picture of the nearest mile marker with the flash on, and sends it to Guerin with a quick, I plead the 5th. See you soon.

“Hello? Alex! Alex, are you --”

Alex winces guiltily and puts the phone hurriedly back to his ear. “Sorry, sorry, I’m still here. What were you saying?”

Again, all Alex hears for a long moment is the thudding of the bass from whatever stupid pop song the DJ is playing, and he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. He already basically missed their date, and now he’s only half paying attention while Forrest is kind and understanding about it. Alex doesn’t deserve his patience.

“I was asking you where you are. I’ll come get you, and we can still get in a few hours of shitty music and half-off beer,” Forrest reiterates patiently, though Alex can tell he’s starting to reach the end of his reserves of understanding. And, considering the circumstances, Alex doesn’t blame him.

“No, don’t worry about it! That’s pretty far out of your way. I already have a tow truck coming, so I’ll just have them give me a ride into town, and I’ll meet you like we planned.” Alex pauses, reflecting on his words and wondering when, exactly, he’d decided to avoid using Michael’s name… and why. It’s not like Forrest didn’t already know that the two of them were good friends. It’s not like it meant anything, that Alex called Michael to help -- his car broke down, and Michael is a mechanic. None of that added up to anything that he needed to lie to Forrest about.

And yet.

“You found a garage open at this hour in Roswell?” Forrest asked incredulously. “I can’t even get fast food past eight, so you’re going to have to share some of your black market contacts.”

The expectation of a laugh is pretty obvious, so Alex manages a slightly strained chuckle. “Uh, well, I can probably hook you up with a burger at the Crashdown after hours, but that’s about it,” he retorts, even though Liz is long-gone, and the chances of after-hours snacks at the diner are a lot lower without her. “I just called Guerin, tonight. He pretty much runs Sanders’ garage these days, and lives out back, so it’s no big deal for him to come get me.”

Alex opts to ignore the fact that he knows Michael doesn’t usually drop whatever he’s doing to rescue stranded motorists who aren’t smart enough to get their vehicle to a garage when the ‘check engine’ light comes on when he’s not working. That’s just what friends do for each other, and Alex would do the same, if their positions were reversed.

“Oh.” Alex doesn’t know Forrest well enough to read the emotion in the short syllable, but he’s not naive enough to think he sounds pleased. “You two must be pretty good friends if he’s giving up his Friday night plans to come pick you up, huh?”

It seems like a loaded question, so Alex just says, “We’ve known each other a long time,” in response, and glances up as a set of slowing headlights wash over him. Sanders’ tow truck pulls off to the side of the road in front of Alex’s SUV, and Michael waves from the window, familiar curls bouncing from the motion. Alex waves back with a grin.

“He’s pulling up now, actually, so I’m going to get off of here. I’ll give you a call and let you know when I’m five minutes out, if you still want to try to spend some time together tonight?”

Alex watches as Michael hops out of the truck and starts toward him with the usual swagger in his stride. It’s hard to tell what he was doing before he got Alex’s text, because he’s wearing the same ragged jeans and worn jacket that Alex has seen him in a hundred times, but there’s enough volume in his curls to suggest he put some effort into his hair. A date with Maria, maybe? Or hanging out with Isobel, who loved to make fun of his hair if he didn’t put the effort in?

“Yeah, okay,” Forrest says, recapturing Alex’s attention for a minute. “I’ll stay and have a few drinks, and I’ll see you when you get here. Tell Michael I said ‘hey.’”

“Will do,” Alex says, and ends the call just as Michael reaches him, hand extended for the keys.

“So?” he asks, and despite the darkness, Alex knows exactly what the teasing expression on Michael’s face looks like. It’s always the same -- a furrowed brow, a mischievous glint in his eyes, even as he manages to keep his lips from turning up in a too-obvious smile. It’s a look that never ceases to make Alex’s heartbeat speed up, even now, when they’ve moved past any real chance of romantic reconciliation. “Which one was it? Check engine light or skipped oil change?”

Alex rolls his eyes, but tosses his keys into Michael’s open palm. “Look, it’s not my fault that the check engine light comes on when you need an oil change -- who wouldn’t assume that’s the problem and keep driving?” They’ve had this argument before; Alex always takes his car to Michael when something goes wrong, and Michael always has to point out that Alex sucks at taking care of an engine. At this point, Alex would almost be disappointed if the mocking stopped.

Michael shakes his head in faux disappointment and disappears to pop the hood, leaving Alex to follow behind and watch. Another wave of smoke wafts into the night sky when the hood opens, and Michael sends Alex a disbelieving look over his shoulder. “Seriously? How many times did you try to start it when it made the grinding noise? A hundred? This would’ve taken me two minutes to fix if you hadn’t kept pushing it.” He’s pulled a flashlight from somewhere and is shining the beam down into the guts of the SUV, staring at what, to Alex, looks like a bunch of hoses, wires, and smoke.

“Sorry,” Alex says sheepishly. “Don’t worry about it tonight if it’s going to take a while -- I’m sure you had plans. We can just tow it back to town and worry about it again on Monday, during actual working hours.”

There’s a clank and a thud, and another plume of smoke curls up from the engine. Michael groans, and straightens up to slam the hood closed. “Yeah, okay, I give up. Let’s just get it on the truck and I’ll figure out what you did to it when I can actually see what I’m doing.” They both take a few steps back, and Michael turns, looking down the silent road for a minute before glancing back at Alex. “I’m going to cheat, since there’s no one else around. You can just get in the truck if you want. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Michael doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s staring intensely at the SUV. After a moment, with a slide of gravel and the squeal of tires, the SUV moves up the ramp on its own. There’s a thud as the connections fasten under the guidance of Michael’s metaphysical hands, and a few minutes later, they’re on their way back into Roswell.

For once, the silence between them isn’t loaded with things they should have said. Alex is reclined in the seat, relaxed and comfortable with someone he trusts driving -- but the ease of the atmosphere evaporates quickly when Michael asks, “So where am I dropping you? Do you need a ride back out to your place?”

It shouldn’t be this hard to tell Michael that he’s meeting Forrest. They haven’t been together in a long time, if they ever really even were -- and Michael has Maria. It’s not like he’s going to be upset. But the words feel stuck in Alex’s throat as he opens his mouth to answer, and his stomach squirms unpleasantly. “Uh, no,” he says. “I’m actually … meeting someone. At Planet 7.” His eyes are locked on the road straight ahead, but Alex can’t help himself; he glances at Michael through his periphery to check for a reaction.

Michael’s shoulders have lost their comfortable slouch, and his spine is rigid. He obviously still cares about who Alex is spending his time with -- but Alex isn’t going to apologize. They’re both moving on, and they need to remember that.

“Yeah,” Michael says finally. “I kind of guessed. You’re pretty dressed up for a night of snacks in front of the TV.”

Alex glances down at himself, taking in the dark-wash jeans and button-up shirt he’d selected for the occasion. “I guess so,” he agrees, sighing. “Uh, what were you doing with your night, before you were rudely interrupted by my smoking engine?” It’s not the most graceful subject change, but Alex doesn’t really care as long as they’re away from the topic of Forrest.

Michael snorts. “Trust me, I was relieved you called -- it’s my night to babysit Max and make sure he doesn’t take off after Liz. Towing a car is way more exciting than watching him boohoo into his beer.”

“I’m surprised you’re not glued to Maria’s side, since she just got out of the hospital.” Alex had only been trying to keep the conversation moving steadily away from his own date that night; he doesn’t expect Michael to go rigid in response. He blinks, turning in the passenger seat to get a better look at Michael’s expression, but he’s gone blank.

“Maria and I are over.” The answer, when it comes, is terse and definitely over-simplified, but Alex knows better than to ask for details. If Michael wanted to share, he would have already, and while friends might have license to pry into each other’s personal life, Alex doesn’t want Michael doing the same in return, so he stays quiet aside from a soft, “I’m sorry.”

The drive loses the easy sense of camaraderie after that. Alex spends the next twenty minutes into town fighting with a small, cruel voice in the back of his head that keeps whispering celebratory words about Michael’s break-up. They’re friends now. Friends don’t think like that, but even after a decade of separation, it’s hard not to think of Michael as more than a friend. Alex hopes that he just needs some practice; otherwise, none of this is going to end well.

Planet 7 isn’t exactly in the middle of town, but Michael finds it without any direction. Alex slides out of the passenger seat when he sees Forrest coming toward them, smiling, and glances back at Michael. “Thanks for the help, Guerin,” he says earnestly. “I really appreciate it.”

Michael nods, his expression still tense, though Alex thinks that’s less about his break-up and more about Forrest, now. “No problem. If you need a ride home, just let me know.”

Forrest has reached them by this point; one of his arms falls over Alex’s shoulders, and Alex only startles for a moment before relaxing again when he realizes who’s touching him. Michael’s eyes narrow slightly, but not enough to be noticeable to someone who isn’t really looking.

“That won’t be necessary,” Forrest tells Michael pleasantly, though he’s standing closer than he ever has before when they aren’t joined at the mouth. Alex sighs inwardly -- this is what he’d been trying to avoid. He doesn’t want Forrest thinking he needs to compete with Michael. Competition and jealousy in a relationship never ends well, and Alex wants one good thing in his life. Surely that’s not too much to ask? “I’ll make sure he gets home in one piece. Thanks for bringing him though, Alien Dude!”

Michael nods at Forrest, then glances back at Alex, an unreadable expression in his dark gaze. “I’ll call you tomorrow about the SUV,” he promises. “It might take me a couple of hours, but I’ll get it up and running for you by Monday. You need to be on base by six, right?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Guerin -- I owe you one.” Really, he’s lost track of who’s one-upping who when it comes to favors, but Alex isn’t interested in keeping score, and he doesn’t think Michael cares much, either.

Michael nods at them one more time, his eyes lingering on Alex’s face for long enough to make him start to squirm, and then he’s gone, disappearing in a plume of exhaust and the groan of overworked machinery, leaving Alex and Forrest staring after his his taillights and Alex feeling strangely bereft.

“All right,” Forrest says, his voice twice as cheerful as it had been only a moment ago. “Let’s get the night started, shall we? You missed out on Happy Hour, but I scored you a feather boa anyway.”

Alex laughs, letting the teasing ease him back from thinking about Michael and into focusing on Forrest and their plans. This is the path he’d chosen, the person he’d chosen. He’s never going to give up on being a part of Michael’s life, and he’ll protect the aliens and their secret with everything he has in him to make up for what his family did to theirs. But Michael can be his family without being his lover, and Alex needs to stop confusing the two before he winds up heartbroken and alone all over again.

Sometimes, love just isn’t enough. Cosmic doesn’t mean much without commitment, without trust, and there are too many complicated feelings between Alex and Michael to make a go of it. So he smiles, leans into Forrest’s side, and allows himself to be led into Planet 7 with a warm arm draped over his shoulders.

*******

Despite the anxiety leading up to their first few dates, being with Forrest turns out to be surprisingly easy. He’s smart and funny, quick with a witty comment or self-deprecating joke, and never pushes Alex further than he’s willing to be pushed. He understands Alex’s service background and love of writing, even if music isn’t his preferred medium, and encourages Alex to dress and act in a way that makes him feel true to himself. Alex smiles a lot around him, and laughs, and starting their relationship feels like sliding into an old, worn jacket -- soft and comfortable, without any real friction.

“So, basically, you’re bored,” Maria summarizes, after Alex finishes telling her about how smoothly things are going. They’re in the Wild Pony just after opening, Maria in her usual position behind the bar, Alex sitting on a stool opposite. She’s only been back to work for a few weeks after her stint in the hospital, but there’s no sign of weakness in the way she runs her business -- or the way she’s looking at him now.

“What? No! That’s not what I mean,” Alex argues, shaking his head quickly. “I said things are comfortable between us. That doesn’t mean I’m bored!”

Maria raised an eyebrow, her brightly-painted fingernails tapping against the bar. She’s dressed fairly conservatively tonigh in a flannel shirt and a pair of form-fitting jeans, but her nails are painted in pastels, a minor homage to her usual style. “Sweetie, you’ve been dating for what, two weeks? Relationships that new aren’t supposed to be easy, and definitely not comfortable. Two weeks in is like the honeymoon! You’re supposed to want to spend every waking moment together, to have to fight to keep your hands off of each other -- and instead of telling me about how hot he makes you, you’re comparing him to an old coat.” Skepticism drips from her words, and Alex crosses his arms over his chest and stares back at her in return annoyance.

“We’re taking things slow,” he says, and winces inwardly at the defensive tone.

While it’s true that Alex hasn’t exactly had to fight to keep his hands off of Forrest, he hasn’t been fully honest about them agreeing to take their sexual relationship slowly. Alex isn’t a prude, and it’s not that Forrest isn’t exactly his type. He’s just been unsure about taking that next step. Every time their dates end up at Forrest’s place -- and it’s honestly just a coincidence that Forrest has never stayed at Alex’s. It’s just always worked out that way; Alex isn’t trying to keep him out of his personal space -- and their goodbye turns into a little more than kiss, there’s always something holding Alex back from letting the moment continue. Forrest is great about it, and smiles when Alex pulls away, but after four dates and four attempts at moving onto second base, Alex can tell he’s starting to get frustrated.

Honestly, so is Alex. He doesn’t know why he’s so reticent to sleep with his boyfriend. Forrest has always been embarrassingly up front about finding Alex sexy, and he’s never so much as blinked at the realities of Alex’s amputation or scars -- but even so, Alex can’t do it. He’s just not ready.

But he’ll be damned if he admits any of that to Maria. Alex has no desire to know how she’d read into that information whatsoever.

“Uh-huh, right. Slow.” Maria pours a shot of whiskey into two glasses and slides one across the bartop to him, eyebrows raised in challenge, and Alex makes a face, but clinks his shot glass against Maria’s and knocks it back. “Okay, great. Are you drunk enough to tell me the truth now, or --”

“Whoa, shots before the sun goes down? And here I thought I was the town drunk.”

When Alex turns, he finds himself face-to-face with a smirking Michael Guerin. He’s wearing his usual jeans and open-collared shirt, black cowboy hat tipped forward on his head, and he’s obviously trying to act nonchalant. But Alex knows that he’s been avoiding Maria ever since she broke up with him -- Maria had been complaining about it half an hour ago. With that in mind, he looks at Michael again, and sees the tense lines around his eyes and the sharp edges of his smile.

“I think I’ve got a ways to go before I’m even tipsy,” Alex retorts, shaking his head in bemusement. “But you’re welcome to join us and see how many shots it takes.” In the weeks since their last meeting, it’s gotten easier to be around Michael without worrying about saying or doing the wrong thing. They’ve relaxed back into their usual banter, supported by genuine care for each other, and Alex isn’t spending every second of every interaction analyzing microexpressions anymore. It’s a nice change, and he’s planning on doing whatever he can to make sure it sticks around this time.

“You have no idea how much I wish I could,” Michael groans, and gestures over one shoulder with his thumb. Alex follows the movement and finds Isobel and Max Evans settling into a table at the back of the bar. Isobel’s perfectly-lined eyes are rolling in what can only be exasperation, and Max just looks miserable. There are bags beneath his eyes, and his hair and beard have seen better days, while Isobel is her usual immaculate self in floral dress with a flowing skirt and an updo. “Iz decided she’s had enough of Max’s moping and wants to get him laid.”

The disbelieving noise that escapes from Alex’s throat really isn’t a reflection on Max’s looks -- he has no doubt that, if his heart were in it, the defacto leader of Michael’s little family could find someone to take home with him. But the guy is clearly miserable and heartbroken over Liz’s departure, still. There’s no way Isobel’s going to convince him to pick anyone up tonight, no matter how many beautiful women she parades past the table.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Michael says, shaking his head. “I told her she’s crazy. Max has been pining over Liz for longer than he’s known how to speak in complete sentences. There’s no way he’s moving on that easy -- but you know how Isobel is.” He shrugs, a what can you do? sort of gesture, and Alex is stopped from answering by Maria clearing her throat pointedly from behind the bar.

Michael glances her way, his shoulders tensing for a second, but his smile is only slightly strained. “‘Sup, Deluca?” he asks. “I need three of whatever you’ve got on tap.” The interaction is wholly impersonal, and Alex almost winces for Maria, who definitely didn’t miss the cool tone in Michael’s voice as he spoke to her. Obviously, he’s still upset about the break-up, or at least holding onto some hard feelings. It’s not like Alex can blame him either, as much as he wants to be able to take Maria’s side, or at least understand her perspective. But Alex knows what it’s like to love Michael Guerin, and he knows what it’s like to lose him, and he can’t understand why Maria would put herself through that if she didn’t have to. She hasn’t really explained herself, either, to Michael or to Alex, so it’s almost impossible to empathize.

“You should come hang out,” Michael invites, when Maria turns away to get his drinks. “There’s already a crowd, so she’s going to be too busy to chat soon.” He’s right; the Pony has filled up while Maria grilled him on Forrest, and there’s already a line forming at the bar. For now, the second bartender has it covered, but it won’t be long before Maria will have to devote her full attention to running drinks. “You get company, I have someone to buffer and maybe stop me from killing one of my siblings . . . it’s a win-win situation, really.”

Alex chuckles, and nods his easy agreement. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about Max Evans after what he did to Flint -- it’s not like he hadn’t had a good reason to want the man dead, considering what he’d done, but despite all of his sins, Flint is still Alex’s brother. But it’s hard to look at the guy moping in a bar full of people and see a cold-blooded killer, and Alex wants to like Max. Plus, Isobel is always good for a laugh and at least one ridiculous story, and Alex never needs much of an excuse to spend time with Michael. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “But I’m telling you, if Max starts crying into his cup, I’m out of there.”

“Deal,” Michael agrees with a laugh. He heads back to the table with Isobel and Max, his body language getting looser the further he gets from Maria. Alex wonders if he realizes how much more relaxed he seems as he rejoins Max and Isobel -- before Max’s death, that was the last word he would have used to describe Michael in his presence, but now, it’s like something has clicked between them, and Guerin is clearly most comfortable with his family.

Alex tries not to hope that extends to him.

“He’s still giving you the cold shoulder, huh?” Alex asks, once Michael is out of earshot. He’ll go join them in a minute, after he has a chance to say goodbye to Maria and try, one more time, to figure out why she’d ended a relationship that seemed to make her genuinely happy.

Sighing, Maria nods. “Guess so. I was hoping that it’d get better, once he finally started coming back to the Pony, but --” she waves a hand in Guerin’s vague direction, the golden bangles on her wrist clacking together. “I get a ‘hey, how are you?’ and a ‘I’ll take a beer, please,’ and that’s about it. He doesn’t even try to get out of paying anymore, and I never thought I’d be bummed about that.” Her nose wrinkles, and Maria hunches forward over her elbows on the bar, looking run down. “I miss him, you know?”

Alex knows. Intimately. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have broken up with him?” he suggests leadingly, hoping that he’ll get a reason without having to ask, explicitly, why Maria had ended things. The suggestion sends a brief shock of something through his chest, but Alex doesn’t let himself stop to analyze it.

Maria rolls her eyes, but there’s a lingering sadness in them that Alex could pick up from across town. He knows Maria too well to fall for the act she’s putting on, and they both know it. “I had to,” she says finally, the words slow enough that Alex can tell she’s thinking it through even as she answers. “I didn’t want to, but—“ The sentence hangs in the air between them, but Maria doesn’t finish; instead, she shrugs. “I didn’t doubt that he loved me, you know. That wasn’t it— I know he thinks it was. But when you went missing, he just... didn’t think. Didn’t stop to ask for help, or wonder what he was walking into. He just started off on this crusade to get you back, all on his own.”

Alex opens his mouth, ready to tell her that Michael would have done the same for her, and that kind of recklessness probably isn’t a healthy, positive trait in a stable relationship, but Maria silences him with a look.

“Every time I called, every time I needed him— it wasn’t like that. He was always there, he always showed up for me— I’m not complaining! But Michael never jumped without looking, without thinking first, when it came to me. He was never desperate, or past reason, you know? He always managed to keep his secrets, or protect his family while he was saving me. But he didn’t do that when it came to you. Michael thought you were in real, mortal danger, and his first instinct was to do whatever was necessary to save you, and screw whoever else it might hurt.”

What the hell is he supposed to say to that? He sees where Maria is going with her explanation, now, and he’s not proud of the small, smug feeling hiding beneath the incredulity growing under his breastbone. “Maria, that’s not --”

“And,” Maria interrupts, raising her voice as if determined to be heard, whether Alex wants to listen or not. “As stupid as it sounds, considering the sci-fi horror movie our lives have become, I want someone to be that desperate at the thought of losing me.” Maria laughs, then, a short, self-deprecating sound. “I don’t want to play second-fiddle to the one great love of his life, Alex. As much as I love him, as much as I believe he loves me, dating isn’t fair for either of us.”

Alex stares at her, his lips parted as he flounders for the right words. He’s torn between trying to convince her that she’s wrong, that he and Michael are doing well at being friends and that it’s enough, and telling her that maybe she’s right, that it was never going to work out, and he wants her to be happy.

“That’s not— he’s not—“ Alex can’t argue, really. He knows, deep down, in the same part of his subconscious that knows the sky is blue and the grass is green, that Michael would do anything for him, and Alex would do the same in return. Even when they couldn’t look at each other without wanting to scream or cry, they’d always done their best to protect one another, and Alex doesn’t think that’s ever going to change. He’d promised Michael, once, that he’d keep him safe from his family, from the government, and Alex isn’t going to go back on his word on the off-chance that Michael and Maria might manage to work things out.

“Look, Maria,” he says finally. “Helena asked him to build a weapon of mass destruction.” The words feel the words like they’re being torn from his throat, but Alex perseveres. “And he did it. If she’d wanted him to build a bomb that could kill everyone in town, or more— he really might have done it, no matter who got hurt, just like you said.” Another full shot glass appears in front of him when he pauses, and Alex throws it back without a second thought, hoping the liquor will ease the ache caused by reliving everything that’s gone wrong with Guerin. “And how am I supposed to live with that? Knowing what he might do? What I could do, if our roles got reversed?”

The question is as good as admitting that Alex still has feelings for Michael, and he knows it. Hiding things, especially feelings, from Maria DeLuca has always been all but impossible, and this time, she’d barely had to give him a nudge before he spilled his guts. Damn it. How is he supposed to go over and drink with Michael and his family now?

“See? The fact that you didn’t even try to deny it is pretty telling, Alex,” Maria says, her lips quirked at the corners. “Instead, you immediately jump to how dangerous the lengths you’d go to for each other are. And yeah, maybe it’s a bad idea for you to be together -- I don’t know. That’s for you two to figure out.” Soft hands tighten around his. “But I had to make a choice for myself, too, and now I’m sure I made the right one.”

The noises of the bar and growing crowd around them fill the silence until Alex squeezes Maria’s hands and moves to pull back to say goodbye, before Guerin comes back to ask what’s taking so long -- the last thing either of them need is for Michael to overhear this conversation. But Maria’s grip tightens instead of releasing, and when Alex glances up at her, eyebrow raised in question, she’s staring at him with a strange intensity that tells him he really, really doesn’t want to hear whatever she’s about to say next.

“Don’t you think that Forrest should have a chance to make that choice?” she asks, and Alex yanks his hands free as he slides down from the barstool, more than ready to tell Maria to have a good night and leave. “I know you don’t want to hear it, Alex, but dating him is no different than Michael dating me. And--”

“And what, Maria?” Alex demands sharply. “You want me to tell you that I’m not sure about Forrest? You want me to admit there are times when we’re together that I have to remind myself that he’s not Michael, and I can’t expect him to know stupid things like the fact that I never remember to get a freaking oil change? Yeah, okay! I’ve been in love with Michael since I was seventeen. I can’t just flip a switch and stop feeling that way, even if it’s the right thing to do!”

Flustered at the sudden deluge of feeling and irritated by Maria’s pushing, Alex barely registers when Maria’s gaze jerks to one side and widens. “Alex -”

But he’s been holding back for weeks, months, years of watching Michael with other people and trying to open himself up to dating, too, and Alex isn’t ready to stop talking now that he’s started. So he ploughs forward, ignoring her interruption. “But you can’t compare yourself with Forrest, either -- it’s not the same. We’re dating! It’s fun, but he’s not in love with me. It’s not --”

“Alex!”

“Oh, no, don’t interrupt him on my account.”

Fuck. Like he was free-falling from a plane without the guarantee of a parachute, Alex’s stomach sinks and flips.

Forrest.

Alex spins around to find the guy he’s supposed to be dating standing less than a foot away, back and to Alex’s right, just a little in front of the crowd that now stretches from the entrance to the bar itself. Horror and guilt bloom in his stomach, making him feel nauseous. Alex struggles to make his mouth form words, his mind spinning as he tries to put together an explanation for whatever Forrest had just heard -- and what had he heard? How long has he been standing there? Alex honestly has no fucking clue, and the horrified, apologetic expression on Maria’s face suggests that she doesn’t, either. “I --” Alex shakes his head and forces a smile on his face. He can only hope it doesn’t look too fake. “I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight,” he says, biting his lower lip.

Both of Forrest’s eyebrows lift high enough that they disappear into his hairline. “Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty obvious,” he drawls, arms crossed defensively over his chest. Alex’s heartbeat speeds as the uncomfortable moment stretches between them, and for once, he’s grateful when someone drops a quarter in the jukebox and starts blaring an old country song at top volume. It cuts through the awkwardness a little, at least. “I came to meet a couple of friends who wanted to talk about plans to expand Open Mic night -- so, imagine my surprise when I came over here and heard the guy I’m dating talking about still being in love with his ex.”

Alex grips the edge of the bar, hard, and looks down at the floor. “I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he says quietly, the words barely audible over the din of the bar. “Can we maybe go somewhere to talk about this? I know I owe you an explanation, and I didn’t mean to --”

But Forrest shakes his head before he can even finish the sentence, lips thin and eyes hard. “Look,” he says, and the timbre of his voice matches the look in his eyes. “We haven’t been dating long, and you really don’t owe me an explanation. I’ve known you have history with Guerin since we met at the barn, and it’s not like I haven’t had plenty of clues since then that you’re not over him.” He runs fingers through his vibrantly blue hair, looking away from Alex while his jaw clenches and unclenches. When his gaze meets Alex’s again, the anger is still obvious, but this time, resignation is, too. “I mean, come on. You called him to come pick you up for our first date, when I could have come to get you just as easily after the car died. And last week, when you were talking to Liz in the car? You should have seen the way your face lit up when you started telling her about how he’s thinking about going to college or whatever. And that song -- fuck. How did I miss that the song was about him?”

Forrest paces in a small circuit around the barstools in their immediate area, and Alex remains silent, unable to say or do anything to defend himself or correct Forrest -- because everything he’s said is true. Alex may not have realized it, and he’d truly gone into this relationship with the best of intentions, but he’d never really wanted Forrest. He’d liked the way he felt with Forrest, enjoyed being flirted with and pushed out of the comfort zone he’d hidden within for so long, and Alex had mistaken liking Forrest’s company for romantic feelings. And all the while, he’d been trying to push away real romantic feelings for Guerin, like he’d been doing for the last decade of his life.

God, he’s such an asshole.

“So. Here it is. I’m going to go home, get drunk, and hate you for a while. You’re going to leave me alone. And then, in a few months when I can look at you without wanting to either yell or cry, we’re going to be friends. Because there aren’t enough gay guys in Roswell, and I think we could both use a friend who gets it.”

It’s such a Forrest way of breaking up with Alex that he almost laughs. It didn’t seem like anything could ruffle Forrest’s feathers -- it had been one of the things that drew Alex to him from the start. That constant calm, the feeling that no matter how chaotic and out of control Alex got, Forrest would be steady. But a desire for control, or something easy, isn’t a good enough reason to be with someone, not when Alex has always thrived in high-pressure situations, has always sought out the adrenaline rush. Maybe it’s a side effect of his ruined childhood, but Alex has always preferred the chaos of his time with Michael to anything else.

Alex swallows, his smile small and a little sad when he nods at Forrest. “Okay. I can do that. But seriously, I really am sorry. I really thought that I could move on, and I wanted to try with you because you always made me feel so brave.”

Forrest sucks in a breath, shakes his head again, and disappears into the crowd, headed toward the exit.

Alex doesn’t go after him.

******

It takes Michael about twenty minutes to find him after Alex leaves the Wild Pony. He’d considered sticking around and drinking until the shame and guilt melted away into an alcoholic haze, but ultimately, Alex has enough problems without adding alcoholism to the list. So he’d said goodnight to a still-apologetic Maria, avoided the stares and whispers that came from being dumped very publicly in a small, gossip-mongering town, and slipped out into the street.

He walks home, thankful for the house he bought that’s only a mile or so from the Wild Pony and the fact that he’s able to walk for a mile without the pinching and aching his old prosthetic had caused. He’ll be sore tomorrow, probably, but it’s worth the night air and the chance to clear his head. The confrontation with Forrest had been so public that Alex is feeling more embarrassed than guilty, at this point, but he knows that when that dies down, he’ll be angry with himself for hurting someone that way. No, Forrest hadn’t been in love with him, but that didn’t excuse the way Alex had treated him -- and he’s going to have to deal with that, somehow.

“You know, I’m pretty sure normal people don’t walk down abandoned alleys at this hour,” a familiar voice says from behind him, and instead of jumping at the unexpected presence, Alex lets go of the tension he hadn’t known he was carrying. Michael Guerin’s voice has always meant security, to Alex, even when it wasn’t guaranteed.

“Good thing neither of us are normal people,” Alex shoots back, stopping to wait for Michael to catch up. When they’re shoulder to shoulder, he starts forward again, falling into step with Guerin without even thinking about it. “I thought you’d still be at the Pony-- it’s awfully early, if you’re trying to keep that town drunk title.”

Michael huffs a laugh. “What do you mean? They ended the night with a floor show, so I figured the bar was closing.” He should probably be offended by the joke, Alex thinks, or at the very least embarrassed that Michael most likely overheard everything Forrest said, but he’s not. Instead, he’s just glad that Michael cared enough to chase after him, even now.

They walk in silence for a while longer before they arrive at the fence around Alex’s yard. He opens it with his key and gestures Michael inside -- he’s come this far, after all, and he isn’t trying to make an excuse to leave. Alex kills the security system and leads the way into the kitchen, kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of his jacket as he goes. “You want coffee?” he asks, heading straight for the coffee pot that’s served him well for the last several years.

Michael shrugs. “Sure, if you’re making it anyway.” He leans against the wall of cabinets a foot or so away from where Alex is measuring out coffee grounds, one foot propped casually behind him, arms hanging loose at his sides, and Alex can feel the weight of his stare as he flips the power switch on the coffee pot. But neither of them say anything, and the anticipation of the moment when someone finally breaks is enough to make Alex’s pulse speed up.

“So, are we going to talk about this, or --?” Unsurprisingly, Guerin is the first one to give in and speak.

Alex turns to face him properly, fidgeting with the bottom of his henley as he does. “Do you want to?”

It’s a fair question. Every time Alex has tried to talk to Guerin about their relationship, about the chance of moving forward, Michael’s been the one to say ‘no,’ or to walk away, and Alex doesn’t know if he’s brave enough to try again without some reassurance that this time will be different. He doesn’t mind fighting for Michael, doesn’t mind protecting him and loving him from a distance, if that’s what he needs, but there’s a limit to the number of times he can put himself on the line and be vulnerable only to have it thrown back in his face.

There’s a beat of silence, but ultimately, Michael nods. “Last time we talked about this, I couldn’t unravel what your father did to my mother from you and me,” he says quietly, his grease-stained fingers drumming idly on his own arms. “And I needed to know if I could find something -- someone -- who didn’t have the same power over me that you always have. Being with you has always made me feel like I’m in free fall, and I couldn’t be sure there wasn’t about to be a fiery crash landing.”

It hurts more than Alex expected, to hear that, but he knows he’s given Michael reason to worry. “Yeah,” he sighs, flipping the coffee pot off when the light comes on, signalling that it’s done brewing. “Is that still how you feel now?” If the answer is ‘yes,’ Alex doesn’t know where this conversation will lead, but he needs to know either way.

“Alex, I’m pretty sure I’m always going to feel out of control when I’m around you,” Michael says bluntly, taking a step forward, his gaze intent on Alex’s face. “You and me, we’ve never been easy, and my bet is that if we try this, we’re going to have to put some effort in to make it work -- but my mom never got the chance to be with Tripp. She had a lot more reasons than I do to be afraid, or to run in the other direction, and she didn’t, because she knew that love was worth it.”

Reading Tripp’s journal had been an emotional experience for all involved, but Alex wonders if he missed Michael having this revelation that day. He’d been caught up in his own thoughts, his own regrets for himself and his father, and the people they might have been if Tripp survived, so he supposes it’s possible.

“I don’t want to spend any more time wondering if we can be happy together,” Michael continues, suddenly close enough that Alex can feel his breath against his face. As usual, his mere proximity makes Alex’s cheeks feel warm and his stomach feel tight. He couldn’t speak now, even if he wanted to interrupt. “I don’t want to wake up every day for the rest of my life with the same hollow feeling in my gut when I realize you’re not in bed beside me. I don’t want to watch you date anymore assholes who make you smile, and I -- fuck, I want to be able to remind you to get your damn car serviced so you don’t end up stranded on the side of the road!”

Alex’s laugh is a little wet, and he’s reaching out to touch Michael’s stubbled cheek before his mind registers the action. He’s utterly overwhelmed with Michael’s admission, blown away by the honesty and the affection and the care, and God, he wants. He aches for Michael in that moment like he’d spent the better part of a decade aching for him in another part of the world, homesick for a person who wasn’t his anymore, and Alex wants to reclaim that home now more than ever.

Michael swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively, and continues, “I still can’t look away, Alex. And it hasn’t been our time, but now -- now I think it could be. If you still want to try this with me.”

This time, Alex’s laugh is incredulous. “I thought you heard what Forrest said at the bar,” he says, his expression impossibly fond as he looks back at Michael. “I’m in love with you. And I’m done running.”

The impulse to do it again will come back, he knows. Alex’s spent his entire adult life running, in some way or another, and that’s not going to vanish overnight because he has Michael. But he wants to stay, now. He wants to make a home with the man in front of him, wants to tie their lives together in every conceivable way and spend the rest of his days protecting Michael and making him happy. And that’s a pretty solid foundation on which to build.

Michael’s smile is wide and earnest in a way Alex has so rarely seen, and he drinks it in, promising himself that he’s going to take every opportunity to make Michael smile that way in the future.

And then, without overthinking, without worrying about what happens next, Alex closes the remaining distance between their bodies and seals their lips together in a hard, affirming kiss. Michael’s arms close around him, and Alex allows himself to melt into the warm, strong chest in front of him, content in the knowledge that Michael won’t let him fall.

For the first time since he went to war at eighteen, Alex Manes is officially home.

[suckmysupernatural]

Sunshine - Chapter 1

Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2226

Pairing: Sam x OC Sunny

Series Summary: The Winchesters meet a cheerful hunter named Sunny, who quickly captures Sam’s attention. Little do any of them know what lies in store when Sunny gets invited to join the brothers. Who can say how Sam, Dean, and Sunny will be some training days, a handful of hunts, romantic dates, a kidnapping, and one vengeful demon later.

Chapter Summary: Sam and Dean meet an upbeat hunter with incredible skills

Warnings: show-level violence, language

A/N: I’m so excited to finally be sharing this series with you guys! 2 1/2 months of writing and it is seeing the light of day. A big thank you to @emptycanvasposts​ for beta-ing and helping to correct my many, many grammar mistakes. Also thank you to @erin-fox-winchester​ for hyping me up and giving me amazing notes that made this series so much better.

A/N 2: I’m now doing a forever tag list!!! Send a message, ask, reblog, or reply and I’ll add you <3

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The sleek black Impala raced down the road towards Norfolk, Virginia. Sam and Dean had been alerted of a vampire nest in the city, so they decided to make the long drive from Lebanon. Sam was passed out in the back seat as Dean rocked out to classic rock music to stay awake. They had been on the road for a total of 20 hours, stopping once at a motel for sleep. Dean looked down at his phone, checking the directions; he nodded to himself, satisfied with the results. 

Ozzy Osborne’s “Crazy Train” suddenly blared from the speakers, Dean turning up the volume to wake up his brother. This was Dean’s version of an alarm clock, and boy was it alarming. Sam jolted upright, looking for the source of the sound. After realizing it was just his brother, he brought his hands up to his eyes in an attempt to rub away the grogginess Sam felt.

“One hour out, man. You hungry?” Dean asked over his shoulder, chuckling at the brother’s reaction to the noise. Sam awkwardly climbed into the front passenger seat, his legs getting caught under him and almost causing him to tumble face-first into the dash. Dean bit back another laugh upon seeing the taller brother’s struggle, only to be met with a glare.

“Yeah, I could use some food,” Sam responded as he tried to suppress a yawn. The two brothers continued their journey in relative silence, nodding their heads along to the music. Before they knew it, they were passing a sign welcoming them to Norfolk. As soon as a diner was in their sights, Dean pulled into the parking lot. The brothers went in to eat, taking their time as they knew that the vampires wouldn’t be a problem until nighttime. 

“So, I was looking for a place the nest might be. There is an abandoned house on the south side of town. All of the victims were within a ten-mile radius of it. I’m thinking this one is open and shut. We can head there tonight and take ‘em out. Thoughts?” Sam offered up his research to Dean as they settled down in a booth. Dean looked over the map that Sam had marked up with the locations where each victim went missing and was found. It all seemed to point to the old house. Nodding, Dean agreed. It was nice when they didn’t need to go searching. 

 They made the plan to set out for the abandoned house just before sunset, letting themselves relax as they ate their meals. 

----------------------------------------------------------

The sun had just set as the brothers approached the house. As soon as they saw the multiple cars parked out in front, they knew they were in the right place. No one had owned the home in years, and usually squatters didn’t drive BMWs. 

The two men could hear the commotion from inside as soon as they reached the porch steps. They held their machetes up, prepared for whatever was going to happen. Or at least, they thought they were ready for anything. The front door swung open, revealing a vampire attempting to run from the house. Before either brother could make a move, the monster’s head was swiped clean off. The body dropped, revealing a woman that had both brothers in shock.

She had a machete in hand, but other than that, her appearance didn’t line up with the classic hunter look. She had on bootie heels that added an extra couple inches to her height, although she was still a lot shorter than both of the brothers. Her jeans were tight and she wore a loose floral shirt that flowed as she moved. Her hair was up in a high ponytail, out of her face but still stylish. The strangest of all was the smile that grew on her face as she saw the brothers. 

“Oh, hi! You guys must be hunters,” she said to them cheerily, her eyes looking down at the machetes in their hands. Dean wore a confused face, not used to cheery people, especially cheery hunters. Sam, on the other hand, was transfixed by the woman that stood before him. She was beautiful, and that smile, god that smile. It was so perfect that he was surprised that it didn’t twinkle like in cheesy cartoons. 

“Um… yeah,” Dean said, realizing Sam was not going to say anything. “I thought there were like 6 or 7 vamps in this nest. The number of deaths…”

“Oh, yeah,” she nodded simply, “it was six. So, do you two have names to match those handsome faces?”

Sam opened his mouth to respond when he saw movement behind her. Both brothers were about to warn her of the threat but she gave them a quick wink before twisting. She moved fluidly, slicing perfectly through the remaining vampire’s neck.

“Make that seven. Anyways, names?” she asked again while wiping her machete off on the now-deceased vampire’s jeans. She started walking towards them; her demeanor still bright. The brothers both looked at her in shock. 

“Um… I’m Dean, and this is my brother Sam. Do you mean to say that you just took out seven vamps all by yourself?” 

“Well, nice to meet you, Dean, Sam, and yes I did,” she responded, offering her hand to shake. “The name’s Sunny.”

“Sunny?” Dean asked, his eyebrow raised as he shook the woman’s hand. It fit perfectly with her upbeat attitude. It was almost hard to believe that this woman was real. 

“Yeah, it’s a nickname. My friends started calling me Sunshine, you know, cause I’m so positive. It didn’t take long for it to become shortened to Sunny. It’s what everyone calls me,” Sunny flashes another smile to the brothers. Sam clears his throat, finally speaking.

“So - um - Sunny, wanna go grab a drink with us?” he asked, trying not to make it sound like he was trying to pick her up. Even though that was definitely what he was trying to do. He was drawn to Sunny and didn’t want to say goodbye just yet. Dean looked over to his brother and poorly attempted to suppress a grin. It was rare to see Sam so flustered over a woman. Hell, he didn’t even know how long it had been since his brother had a date. 

“Sure, sounds great! I’ll follow you guys,” she smiled. The three hunters walked back in the direction of the Impala. It wasn’t until they passed a cluster of trees that Sunny started to break off from them. Behind the foliage was a bubblegum pink car that seemed to match the woman’s personality perfectly. 

“Holy shit is that -” Dean’s eyes were wide.

“A 1955 Cadillac Fleetwood? Just like the one Elvis had? Yes, it is,” Sunny smiled with pride. The car was her most valued possession and she loved to see people’s reactions to it. Turning from the brothers, she climbed in and started the engine. Dean bit back a moan at the sound, looking over to his brother. 

“Marry her, Sammy. Just fucking marry her,” Dean said, his tone serious. Sam rolled his eyes as he started to walk towards the Impala. It didn’t take long for the brothers to get in and pull onto the road. This time, however, Sam couldn’t keep his eyes off of the side mirror, the pink car following not far behind them.

Soon they pulled into the bar’s parking lot. Sam had found one on his phone, giving Dean directions. It was nicer than their usual stops, not some roadside biker bar. He had a feeling that wasn’t Sunny’s scene. The Cadillac pulled up into the spot right next to the Impala, Sunny climbing out and gently closing the door. The three of them walked into the joint and were immediately met with the smell of booze. It was a familiar scent for them, the hunting life and alcohol went hand in hand. Dean made a beeline to the bar, leaving Sam behind with Sunny.

“What can I get you?” Sam asked her. She flashed him one of those heart-stopping smiles before responding. 

 “I’ll have an Old Fashioned,” she said. Sam nodded, leaving her to join his brother. Sunny found an empty table and sat. It didn’t take long for the brothers to return, Sam with her drink and a beer in his hands and Dean with a whiskey neat. Sam hands Sunny her glass as Dean speaks up.

“I’m surprised, didn’t take you as an Old Fashioned gal,” Dean points out. He had thought she would have gotten a sugary drink that requires a tiny umbrella. 

“Just because I’m feminine doesn’t mean I can’t handle my alcohol. I am a hunter after all,” Sunny laughed, bringing the glass to her lips. She wasn’t surprised by his question as it was one that most men tried to use as a pick-up line when she went to bars alone. “And I think it's a bit obvious by now, but I’m full of surprises.” She winked, causing Sam to almost choke on his beer. Sunny was definitely something else. 

The three hunters all nursed their drinks until Sam asked the question that both men had been wondering since they met her. 

“Okay, so how did you do that back there? Take out that many fangs? And that one that came up from behind you?” Sam blurted out. If it had been either of the brothers, they would’ve been outnumbered and blindsided. The vampire had moved silently, not doing anything to reveal its whereabouts. 

“Oh, that. I felt the air shift,” she said like the answer was obvious, taking a sip.

“Wait, what?” Sam asked as both brothers looked at her, completely confused. 

“So you know how we always have to be aware of our surroundings? Always on high alert? Well, I’ve managed to hone that in, taking the nerves out of the equation. I am fully aware of every part of my body, every sense. Sure, the vamp might’ve been completely silent, but as he moved near me the air was softly pushed in my direction. I could feel it on the back of my neck, so I knew he was right behind me.” Both brothers absorbed the information, surprised by the woman that sat across from them. 

“So, you’re just a human?” Dean asked bluntly. It was hard for him to believe she didn’t have secret powers. The question made her throw her head back in laughter.

“Yes, Dean, I am 100% human. I just don’t do things like most hunters,” she shrugged. Sam was in awe of her. She had such calming energy to her, he never wanted to leave her presence. 

“Can you teach it? Your technique?” Sam asked, leaning forward slightly. 

“Honestly? I’ve never tried it. I rarely meet other hunters and most of them are men who assume I’m afraid to chip a nail. If they want to underestimate me, that’s fine. I just let them take over and move on. There are plenty of monsters out there,” she said. It was surprising to hear, as she was obviously a fantastic hunter. Dean and Sam had barely seen her in action but they knew it to be true. To think that others thought she was just a pretty face was frustrating to Sam. 

Sam looked over to Dean and Sunny quickly noticed that they seemed to be having a conversation with just their eyes. They were brothers, so this wasn’t surprising. It was something she used to do with her sister. It only took a couple of seconds before they both looked back at her. 

“Why don’t you come back with Dean and me to our bunker? We would like to learn from you if that’s alright. You’d have a room to stay in and everything. That is if you want.” Sam was trying to not to keep his hopes up. There was no reason for this woman to follow two strangers and agree to train them. Looking into her eyes, he knew that he could get lost in them. She took a minute to think it over, taking a sip of her drink. 

“You know what? Why not? It’s not every day you get such an interesting offer. I can’t even remember the last time I worked with anyone,” Sunny accepted.

“Wait, you are just going to come with two guys you barely know?” Dean asked in disbelief. 

“Well, I’m pretty sure you both know that I could kick your asses in a heartbeat,” she stated simply. Both brothers exchanged a look. She was probably right. This decision seemed like the right one for Sunny. She usually didn’t trust male hunters, expecting them to be sexist assholes. These two were different, though. Dean seemed impressed by her skills, shocked only that she was human. He didn’t seem to care that she was a woman. 

Sam was something else entirely. She could tell that he genuinely was curious about how she worked. There was something about him that made her trust him. Maybe it was the kindness in his eyes or the way that he spoke to her like she had some sort of wisdom to impart. Whatever it may be, she had a feeling that the two of them were going to get along well. 

It also didn’t hurt that he was quite handsome. 

Chapter 2 ->

[coraxaviary]

Firebird (I)

TARGET PRACTICE

Summary: Female pilot Irene Mayweather runs into trouble while doing a target practice flyover for Easy Company at Fort Benning. Through trial, she earns her callsign.

Word Count: 4.1K

Author’s Note: I mostly started this series to have something to post, but now it’s gotten out of hand. Welcome to my first delve into publicly posting fics. Future Firebird installments will have more Easy content, but this first part is more of an introductory vignette for Irene.

Warnings: Blood and injury. Not gratuitous.

There was a sudden slice-patter of bullets punching through metal, and moments later, thin shafts of sunlight were streaming through the body of the plane. They were all around now, shooting through the floor like a needle through fabric, leaving circles of emptiness in their wake. The drone of the plane receded into the background, the whistling bullets and screeching metal ringing in her ears.

The first time, Irene told herself that the soldiers had missed badly, blowing out a controlled breath and clenching her gloved hands harder around the joystick, forcing herself to check the dash to see if she’d messed anything up. She would not dissolve into hysterics if someone accidentally shot up the belly of the plane.

Irene let out an inadvertent scream when she heard more shots whizzing through the air, the bursts from something like a machine gun, barely able to tamp down the feeling of panic enough to keep her hands on the joystick and her eyes on the horizon. They continued without ceasing, sparking and bouncing in the inside of the small plane. No one told her that the soldiers were going to shoot at the plane. They were supposed to shoot the target that she was towing. A dull patter coming from the tail of the plane told her that they were shooting the target. But the men below were also shooting at her.

Ruptures in the fuselage revealed concerning patches of sky and ground, and Irene could do nothing but grit her teeth and keep flying. Bursts of fire sprinkled more and more patches of light into the plane, and she nervously ripped her eyes off the floor, where she was seeing more of the base below than she should have been able to.

A bullet ricocheted inside the cockpit, right past her cheek, and Irene cringed away from the ping as another spray of gunfire dashed a line across the floor. Irene yanked her boot back just in time to avoid getting her right foot shot completely through. She screamed again, right as something above her was punctured and sparks rained down from her left side, and she cringed away. She felt something make a clank inside the plane, and she tried to hope no one had hit anything essential. The plane groaned. Irene gasped as she felt her body pulled starboard, and she yanked her joystick back to where it had been before she jerked it sideways.

She risked a look out the side, craning her head for as brief a time as she could manage to look at the wings. Something was busted on the starboard wing, and a trail of smoke was leaking out from one of the flaps.

Irene hurriedly checked the other wing. Something else was wrong there, too. Suddenly, the port wing burst into flames. Yellow-orange licks of fire persisted in the air, creating a trail of thick black smoke. “Aw, f–”

A bullet sliced near her shoulder, and she smelled burning hair.

She was almost panting, but she kept her breathing in check, in and out, fixing her eyes on the view ahead, through the windshield. The airfield was closer now, and she’d be out of the range of the firing field in a minute. Her heart was beating faster and faster, blood rushing past her ears. The thrum of the plane all around kept her present, and she tried to think of it as an extension of herself. There were only a few more seconds now, and Irene eyed the airfield desperately, willing someone to tell the troops to stop shooting at her feet.

Right after considering the repercussions of someone hitting the fuel tank, a final spatter of bullets ripped through the plane floor and Irene felt an unmistakable piercing pain shoot through her left leg. It flashed like lighting up her calf and into her thigh, and Irene felt herself start panicking in earnest. She resolutely did not look at her leg, knowing she’d fall apart in the sky if she did. If she fell apart, the plane did, too.

The bullets seemed to stop, and Irene held her breath for a few moments before she hissed in pain, the dull throbbing in her leg bringing tears to her eyes after the initial white-hot blinding shock faded away. She wanted to clutch at her leg, but she couldn’t; the landing strip was growing closer and with effort, Irene leaned over slightly to put down the landing gear. The plane rattled in the air, sending tremors up her shot-up leg.

The shift in weight put another ounce of stress on Irene’s left foot, and she screamed, a burning ache rushing up the whole left side of her body. She yanked on the landing gear lever, somehow, surging forward with her mouth stretched open in a grimace of agony. The handle plunged down with no resistance, and Irene knocked her joystick askew with her dropping arm, startled and disoriented. The landing gear lever wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

She righted herself, tugging the joystick back on-center with a responding pang from her leg, which was starting to feel as if it was on fire. She risked a glance downwards and regretted it. Blood was making rivulets in her pants, with reddish shadows soaking through, growing sluggishly with each second. Another jolt of the plane as Irene started to descend sent a spasm of shocking pain down her leg and she moaned around clenched teeth, gripping the controls and pumping the landing gear again. Nothing descended. She turned around stiffly, trying to ignore the shuddering of the plane’s metal as air rushed past the holes and caught on something bent around on the port wing. It whistled through the bullet holes, sending icy lower-atmosphere air through her uniform.

Something like a small bit of spattering, barely detectable over the hum of the engine and the rattling of the fuselage, caused Irene to look down again, thinking it might be hydraulic fluid, and blackish-red beads of thick blood were spotting the floor of the cockpit and rolling into the bullet sockets. She groaned, biting back a scream as another particularly violent tremor of air resistance shook her leg around. The flames from the wing crackled. It must have gotten inside somehow, and there was heat emanating from the left side of the body of the plane.

The landing strip was upon her. She tried the landing gear for the third time, and the plane did not respond. The pneumatics must have been shot through, and Irene felt a fresh wave of panic rip through her body. Her hands were sweating beneath their flight gloves from a combination of pain and fear, and Irene let out a yell of frustration, with the wind sweeping her voice away. She let go of the landing gear lever and reduced her speed, trying to put up the landing flaps. They responded, to Irene’s relief, but that feeling was short-lived.

She was going to land, or die trying. Her leg was now in so much pain, Irene could have mistaken the few bullets she took for a leg-full of artillery flak or grenade debris. She swallowed another sob of pain, telling herself that the men overseas were taking a lot worse. She was going too fast, and descending much too quickly. She pulled up on the flaps and nose, trying to slow down while still landing on the strip, and the asphalt was coming closer and closer.

She could make out the individual trees surrounding the landing area, and the planes parked all around. She ground her teeth, holding on with every fiber of her being on the joystick, and yanked up farther. The nose tilted up, and the black-grey of the landing zone still grew rapidly – much too rapidly for Irene’s liking. She pushed her right leg against the floor, bracing herself against the accelerating air that was blowing at a tremendous force against her, and she tried, in an attempt, to push her other leg more firmly.

All she got was a blinding flash of pain, and she blinked away stars, inadvertent tears streaming down her face and being whipped away by the sharp wind gusting through the aircraft. She took a large breath, abruptly ending a scream she didn’t know she was making, and the plane hit the ground.

The force of the impact rocked Irene almost out of her seat, and she kicked her right leg against the side of the dash, thrown out of her seat momentarily. Her left leg hit the side of the plane, and she gasped for breath, pulling at the joystick and trying to turn the plane to land sideways. She was sliding too fast, and felt the screech of metal dragging along the runway. She absently registered the yells of men who were on the airstrip, and she bit the sides of her mouth hard as she tried to wrangle the plane. If she slid all the way to the end, she’d hit a tree or unpaved ground and maybe then she’d go up in flames.

She pulled and pulled, her left leg feeling like it was going to tear itself apart, ligament from ligament. The screeching of the belly of the plane on the ground rang with an ear splitting volume, and the sight of the trees at the end of the runway grew with each passing millisecond.

The plane halted, though not before the nose crunched into the nearest tree. Irene sat blankly in the cockpit, heaving breaths and still gripping the joystick, her ruined plane thrumming. She flicked off a few switches and her leg throbbed wildly with a pain she’d never felt before in her life. She made a bad attempt at lifting it, but any move made it hurt so bad she gave up, slumping back in her seat as the flames climbed on the port side.

There was a yell from a ways away, and some voices. Irene was still staring at the beginning of the Georgia forest, unable to do anything on account of her leg. She supposed she could, theoretically, but she didn’t have it in her to make it hurt even more. Some more blood dribbled onto the floor, dripping through the hole-spattered floor.

She made another move to try and leave the plane, and her leg gave out. She slumped against the side of the inner wall, watching orange flames lick up the outside of the port fuselage.

“Hey! Hey,” a voice said, suddenly close, and Irene moved her head, looking around for the speaker. “You alive in there?”

Irene got out a “yeah,” before her voice devolved into a broken pattern of groans.

There was the sound of the top of the cockpit being forced open – metallic screeching, not dissimilar to the sound of broken landing gear dragging on the runway. Light flooded the interior of the plane as the screeching stopped. Irene blew out breath after breath, trying to dampen the sounds she was making, but another sob ripped its way free as her leg was rocked by the force of people climbing atop the plane. In the light, she could tell that her pants were soaked through on the bottom with red.

Hands descended from outside the plane, and they lifted her out somehow, with Irene screaming and clawing at her leg, and the plane groaning. Flames crackled. They cleared her of the ceiling of the plane, and more hands reached out to receive her on the ground. She was carried away, and she watched as the fire grew and consumed it. One of the wings finally fell off with a bang and a hiss, and Irene looked away, unable to see her Wildcat dying in front of her.

“Ya hit?” said a voice, and Irene felt herself being laid down on the ground. Her leg hit the runway with less grace and she let out a short yell.

She was going to try for something sarcastic like no, whaddya think, but “leg” was all she could manage, pointing with her right hand. She felt someone tearing back the bloody pants on her lower leg, someone muttering to themselves, the plastic and fabric rustling of an aid kit. Irene gritted her teeth and stared up at the sky, her other leg writhing in pain and her hands clenching and unclenching. The pain took over her consciousness.

Someone patted her down for more injuries. She heard her plane popping and sizzling in the fire, and someone yelling in the distance to put the fire out. The sky was blue and very bright, so she closed her eyes, entire body jerking when someone started to twist a tourniquet around her calf.

“Calm down,” someone else chanted from above. Irene opened her eyes, and there were a few men attending the medic, who was twisting the cloth tighter and tighter. Irene felt it biting into her skin like a knife was going through her leg, somehow worse than the initial bullet wounds, and she started to scream through her teeth. “It’s okay,” someone said from above. “Just two bullets.”

“ ‘M calm,” she said through a dry throat. Irene suddenly wanted to laugh, but she couldn’t manage it.

“And some shrapnel,” he added. Irene thrashed as something jabbed deep into the flesh of her leg; the guy held her down. Moments later, there was the pattering of running feet – a lot of them. Irene didn’t bother to look at what was going on. She was attracting a crowd, or something. There was a needle-like jab in Irene’s other leg.

“She okay?” said a foreign voice from above. No, thanks to you.

“Does she look okay?” said the guy from before. The pain started to diminish slightly.

“We didn’t know–” said another person before being cut off by the original man.

“You didn’t know not to shoot down your own planes?” said the man disbelievingly. There was a sound like the other man was trying to say something. “You paratroopers are even more stupid than I thought.”

“We’re sorry, we didn’t–”

“Get out of here. You can find her later when she’s not bleeding out of three holes you made,” said the guy.

The other boots slowly retreated, and Irene felt herself being lifted again, her leg going numb and her head lolling back as they took her somewhere.

✕

Irene looked up from the bed. It was night, and she had fallen asleep some hours before, after the surgeon fixed her up. She was lucky, they told her: both bullets missed the bone and the artery. The shrapnel piece that had lodged in her shin was the more concerning thing, and after they’d gotten it out, Irene heard the clang of the sliver in a pan. She’d recover in no time, they said.

Irene wasn’t particularly angry, for some reason. But when she turned around to see who was sleeping next to her bed, a spark of fury reignited. Her Wildcat was probably unsalvageable, her leg had been ripped up, and she’d had to land without gear because of these guys. These guys who were so mindlessly stupid they’d shoot up a target-dragging plane instead of the target. It wouldn’t be hard to conclude that somehow they’d stupidly mistaken the Allied brand on either wing for targets. It was beyond unintelligent. What were they thinking?

They weren't thinking, probably. That was the issue.

He’d probably come to see her and apologize, or something, but he hadn’t even been able to stay awake for that. Irene squinted at his face, trying to make out his features in the dark. He was still in a training uniform, helmet in his lap. There was a white card spade on the brim, and the guy looked rather disheveled. In his sleep, he was frowning, but kind of soft-looking.

“Rough day?” Irene said loudly to the man. He jerked, startled out of his sleep, and sat up straight in the chair, running a hurried hand through his hair. He looked at Irene, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Despite the situation, Irene snorted, holding back a laugh at the sight of the disoriented soldier.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep…” he trailed off, rubbing at his eyes. He looked around, seeming to realize it was dark. “Oh God, what time is it?” he said futilely, tugging at the sleeve of one arm of his uniform to check a watch. He groaned.

“Who are you?” said Irene, looking at the guy, unimpressed.

“I, uh–” he said, looking around at the hospital room. “Shifty.”

“Relax, there’s no one else here,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Shifty what?”

“Uh, Powers.”

“Well, Shifty Uh Powers,” said Irene, tired. “You a paratrooper or something?”

“Yeah. Well, I’m gonna be,” he said nervously, looking like he wanted to leave but couldn’t. “You know, I am so sorry for what happened earlier today,” he said, wringing his hands in an un-soldierly way. “We weren’t told–”

“You weren’t told what?” retorted Irene calmly, watching him squirm. “Not to shoot at an American volunteer pilot with Allied stars on the wings?”

“Well, no…” he trailed off.

“God, you are dumb,” said Irene, settling into the pillows. “You don't have to be told that.”

“I–”

“Did your platoon send you to apologize or something?” said Irene, almost smiling but struggling to keep a serious face. “Cause you’re doing a fine job.”

“Uh, no…” he trailed off. Irene raised an eyebrow. “I felt bad, so I came and then–”

“You felt bad, so you came and fell asleep?” asked Irene. Shifty looked at her helplessly. Irene laughed, anger gone. This kid was a fool. “Gosh. You gotta buy me a drink, first,” she said.

Shifty looked confused at Irene’s sudden perceived mood change. It was a look Irene was used to. She had been told she was confusingly temperamental. In reality, she considered herself someone who didn’t take life too seriously. Apparently that included death, too, considering today’s events. Irene thought she should have been more mad, but if Shifty could be forced to buy her a whiskey or three, she was getting more out of it. Maybe she could squeeze a few bar visits out of the rest of the guys.

“Take me when my leg’s all good,” said Irene, leaning closer. “We can dance or something.”

“O-okay,” said Shifty, looking torn between interest and guilt. Irene was enjoying this too much.

“Everyone who claims to be sorry’s gotta prove it by making up for my pain,” said Irene, pointing at her leg, which was buried under sheets. Shifty cringed almost imperceptibly. “With fun.”

She grinned, forgetting the pain in her leg for a second. Shifty looked mystified. She almost laughed again, but she was feeling too strung-out from the day to put out any more jabs.

“Go back to your billet,” said Irene. “You’re tired.”

Shifty got up hesitantly, and did what he was told. He shut the door gently behind him.

Irene breathed in the stale air of the base hospital. She’d be flying again soon. But in the meantime, she’d milk this for all it was worth.

✕

“God, we all saw you fallin’ outta the sky and thought you were done for,” said Elizabeth. Irene rolled her eyes.

“Yeah right. I had control of the plane,” she said.

“Uh, you landed without gear. That’s the definition of outta control,” Elizabeth responded, moving down the chow line and placing both of their trays on the counter. Irene followed her, clicking along on the ground with crutches at a strange tripod pace. One of the kitchen workers served them food, and Elizabeth pushed the trays farther down.

“No, I was in control. Gotta be in order to land,” said Irene, having nothing to do except adjust her grip on the crutches, which were wedged under her armpits uncomfortably. They were a little too tall for her, since most of the injuries on-base were supposed to consist of men. Irene barely cleared the women’s flight requirement as it was. She was five-foot-two on her better days, and jumping to get into her bunk at the worst.

The man serving the dessert globbed a scoop of apple cobbler on each plate. Irene looked at him harshly, jiggling her right crutch slightly. “Think I could get more? Since I’m, you know…” she said. He looked at her without amusement.

“Move down. You’re not dying,” he said.

“You know, I could be,” said Irene, Elizabeth already moving away and somehow carrying both trays. “I could have a disease that’s eating me from the inside–”

Elizabeth elbowed Irene in the side. “Leave the poor man alone,” she said, and nodded to an empty table. “Let’s sit there.”

Irene let herself hobble after Elizabeth, glancing at the kitchen man. He was kinda cute, actually, Irene thought. Maybe–

“Hey,” said Elizabeth, snapping a finger in front of Irene’s face. “You’re on crutches and you’re still eyeing men?”

Irene smiled sardonically. “You know me, Liz.” She got to the table, fumbling a bit with her crutches before awkwardly lowering herself to the bench, and then she leaned her crutches on the side of the table. They started to slide away, and Irene caught them and just placed them on the floor, leaning over with one leg preventing her from sliding away, too. She straightened, and caught Elizabeth staring sympathetically at her leg. “Brighten up. It’s me injured, not you,” she said, reaching over to steal some of Elizabeth’s dessert.

Elizabeth smacked her hand away, tutting. “So, you think they’ll let you stay on-base?” she asked, starting to eat.

“I hope,” said Irene, picking up her fork, trying to ignore the seriousness of the question. There was a good chance she’d be removed from the base altogether, and someone would maybe try to revoke her license and give her some civilian equivalent of an honorable discharge. Which, she supposed, was just a boot to the behind. She’d rather the women be considered real Army girls sooner, but it was taking longer than anyone had originally thought. A Purple Heart would have been nice.

“I’d hate for you to leave,” continued Elizabeth. “It wouldn’t be half as fun.”

“Aww,” said Irene. “Gonna get emotional?”

“Shut up,” said Elizabeth. “We’d be losing one of the best pilots out of the crew, just saying.”

Irene smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “Never thought you’d admit it.”

Elizabeth looked like she was going to slap Irene – playfully, albeit forcefully – when Margaret plunked her tray down next to Elizabeth, looking at Irene.

“Hey,” said Margaret. “Your leg hurtin’?” Irene considered the question for a moment, deciding whether or not to go with the truth or something that would make both of them less concerned. She hadn’t been serious this whole time with Elizabeth, though, so she decided on telling it how it was.

“A little,” she admitted. Margaret awwed in sympathy, and Irene cringed slightly. “Not that much. I got painkillers from the doctor.” She started to eat in earnest, not really seeing much value to this small-talk conversation.

“Hmm,” said Margaret. “Hope it heals fast.”

“Me, too,” said Irene, chewing.

“So,” Elizabeth said, looking to change the subject. She probably saw through Irene’s bright exterior and sensed her discomfort. “You think we’re gonna get callsigns?”

“Callsigns?” asked Margaret. “What’re those?”

“They’re like nicknames, for you and your plane or something,” said Irene, swallowing. “I think the men get them. Has something to do with the radio.”

“I don’t know if we get to choose or anything,” said Elizabeth. “But, uh, a girl can wonder.”

Irene laughed briefly, amused by her friend’s enthusiasm for the air. “What would you be?” she asked Elizabeth.

“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said. “But I got one for you.”

Irene looked at her in disbelief. “How long have you been thinking about this?” she asked.

Elizabeth shrugged and smiled. “A few days.”

“Well then, what is it?” asked Margaret. Irene nodded, looking at Elizabeth.

“Well, when we saw you with that flaming Wildcat in the air, and then when it really caught fire on the runway…” she trailed off, smiling at Irene with a mischievous grin.

“What?” asked Irene. “You gonna call me something ridiculous?”

“No,” said Elizabeth. “I think it’s really accurate.”

“Come on,” said Margaret.

Elizabeth almost laughed before she said it. “Firebird.”

There was silence as Irene looked at Elizabeth in disbelief. “Firebird? Cause I was going down in flames?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, cause you landed it in flames. And came out, very much alive and screaming.”

They all looked at each other, and then burst out laughing. Irene put her head in her hands, heaving with laughter. When the laughing died down, Irene looked back up at Elizabeth.

“I love it,” Irene said, shaking her head, grinning. “I really do.”

[seagreen-meets-grey]

When Lightning Strikes Ch. 7

When your life is nothing but a cloudless sky, lightning can come and strike you so unexpectedly, you won’t even know what hit you.

Or: When Hiccup and Astrid meet, it is as if lightning strikes.

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 8] [Chapter 9] [Chapter 10] [Chapter 11] [Chapter 12] [Chapter 13] [Chapter 14] [Chapter 15] [Chapter 16] [Chapter 17] [Chapter 18] [Chapter 19] [Chapter 20]

Crossposted on ao3 and ff.net

_______________

Destiny and fate were interesting concepts. The idea that there was one sole purpose to one’s life, one goal that would guide the way to fulfillment – it didn’t make sense to Astrid. She didn’t believe that there was only one main road in life, one that lead her to whatever fate awaited her. She understood the thought behind the sentiment, about how whatever struggle one had to overcome, their choice would be the one they were destined to make. The right choice, after all.

But making choices was what determined the road. Life was a labyrinth to her, one with innumerable turns and crossroads and junctions, and every single one opened up to new paths to take. People could tell her all they wanted about how the roads she decided to take were the ones destined for her in the end – she would keep rolling her eyes at them and live her life by the standard that she was free to create her own paths and laugh in the face of destiny.

Facing her choice between marrying Eret and going for Hiccup proved her take on fate again. She could either decide to go one way or the other, both paths resulting in different, lifechanging avenues anew.

Blinking the little sleep out of her eyes that she got last night, she thought of the dress hanging in her wardrobe, in-between everyday clothes like a swan in a pig stall. She rolled around in her large bed, so empty without Eret next to her.

She could still change her mind. Take the other road. Plunge into the unknown. But then her phone rang, the loud tune pulling her the rest of the way from her slumber, and she reached for it with a sigh. She stared at the name showing up on her screen until her phone went quiet and notified her that she had one missed call.

Throwing it away to the foot of the bed, she grumbled and pulled the covers over her head. Three and a half hours were way too short to be rested. Not a minute later, her phone started ringing again, muffled by the blanket it had landed on. Astrid rubbed her forehead and stretched her arms, closing her eyes for one last moment. She couldn’t prolong this forever.

_______________

After leaving his house in a hurry that afternoon, Hiccup jogged around the building to where he had parked his car. He fumbled with the keys, shivering from the wind and the increasing amount of cold rain drops landing on his neck and rolling down his back.

He ducked into his car and dropped the keys only twice before he started the engine. It stuttered, spluttered and lurked a few times in tune with his stomach.

“Come ooon,” he pleaded, “don’t leave me hanging, don’t–“ His eyes fell on the fuel gage and with an exasperated groan he let his head fall on the steering wheel, jumping when his forehead honked the horn. For a minute, he sat there staring at the rain now pelting against the windshield, entertaining the thought of rotting away in his useless car for eternity.

A bright flash in the sky and the faraway sound of thunder shook him from his reverie and he felt determination flood back into his system. Grabbing his keys and pulling the zipper of his jacket up to his face, he got out of the car and had half a mind to lock it behind him before sprinting off to the next bus station.

Out of breath and cursing the puddles on the street that had soaked his feet through his shoes, he reached the stop, dashing under the small roof. In the company of a woman playing on her phone and a moody-looking teenager listening to loud music, he tapped his feet impatiently. According to the schedule plastered to the wall behind him, the next bus downtown should have arrived one minute ago.

Hiccup couldn’t stand still, pacing back and forth in the crammed space, earning judging looks from the teen. Wringing his hands, he stuck his head out every other second to see if the bus was somewhere to be seen. Five minutes passed, eight minutes, ten, twelve. Still no bus.

Swearing colorfully under his breath, he kicked at a pebble that had the misfortune of lying there on the ground. He could feel every second fly by, forever lost to him. Chancing another peek down the street, his heart leaped into his throat when a vehicle came around the corner.

_______________

The deep gray blanket of clouds parted on their way to the hair salon, one lone ray of sunshine breaking through. Ruffnut cursed and blindly reached to the backseat, producing a pair of sunglasses from the mess that was piling up everywhere in her car.

The beam fell on Astrid’s face. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the way it warmed her skin for too short a while until it disappeared behind the clouds again. The dark sky did nothing to soothe her nerves. Every forecast she’d repeatedly checked over the last week had predicted sunshine and warmth, only for the weather to pull a one-eighty on her now. She didn’t like the taste of rain in the air, feared that the wind would mess up her hair later the moment she stepped outside.

She sent a silent thanks to her friend when she parked right in front of the building. Should it start raining while they were inside, they’d need only seconds to reach the safety of the car.

The sound of scissors and hairdryers and the smell of various hair products greeted her when they entered the hair salon. Most of the chairs were occupied with women with tinfoil in their hair, reading a magazine while they waited for the color to seep in. A handful of stylists were working their magic with several other people, washing and cutting and chatting away.

“Good morning, can I help you?” A young woman with long hair somewhere between dark blonde and light brown appeared from a side room.

Astrid opened her mouth but Ruff beat her to it. “Astrid here needs to get laid tonight, so please make her hair look dazzling.”

Recognition flashed on the young woman’s face and with a smile that meant she’d met Ruffnut before, she waved Astrid over to a comfy looking chair in front of a big mirror. In it, Astrid watched Ruff wave at her before she left the salon, off to pick up the veil from the cleaner.

“I’m sorry for my friend,” she said when she set down. “She doesn’t know how to be normal.”

“Don’t worry, I met her before. She came here last week to ask who’d be doing your hair and tried to talk me into dying it pink. I figured you’re not a fan of pink.”

“Not at all.” Astrid shook her head. She wasn’t surprised. In fact, she’d wondered why Ruff had been so anti-chaotic during the whole ordeal so far. Maid of honor or not, she was still Ruffnut Thorston, and this little pranking attempt of hers gave Astrid some sense of normalcy, for which she was immensely grateful. She was anxious and stressed enough, and even though walking out of here with pink hair – if Ruff’s prank had worked – had ended in murder, it helped her breathe away some of the stress.

“Now, Miss Hofferson–“

“Call me Astrid.”

“How do you want your hair today, Astrid? I’m Marie, by the way.”

Astrid looked at herself in the mirror for a moment. “Honestly? I usually have it in a braid or ponytail because it’s practical. I don’t care much about hairstyles.”

Marie wiggled her fingers with a grin, obviously excited. “Alright darling, I got you covered. Let’s do this!”

_______________

It wasn’t the bus.

Hiccup’s shoulders sagged, only to go rigid again when it dawned on him that the bus wasn’t coming. He turned to the schedule again and let his finger run down the plastic cover, stopping under the information for when the next bus was supposed to arrive. It was more than an hour until then.

Cursing himself for moving to the outskirts of the city and even more for not filling up his gas tank sooner, he stepped back into the rain and walked down the street in quick steps. Fumbling out his phone with cold fingers, he typed in his destination and let the app calculate the time needed to walk there.

When he came to a crosswalk and looked up to check if he was good to go, he saw a long vehicle stop at the bus station. Oh great, it seemed like the universe had it out for him. He uttered a long sigh, fully aware that it was too late for screaming and waving at the bus driver while running back like an idiot.

The app had finished loading the calculation and the time display on the screen sent another wave of anxiety through him. Even if he ran, he wouldn’t make it on time. If only he had a car…

In a moment of clarity, he raised his hand and smacked his face. Why hadn’t he thought of this before?! While looking up the number of Berk’s cab company, he reached for his wallet with the other, only to come up empty.

“Figures,” he groaned and turned on the spot to run back home.

_______________

“And I was like, can someone please tell me why men are all imbecile spawns of hell?! No offense, honey, I know you’re getting married today, but boy, they can suck my non-existent dick.”

Marie had been working Astrid’s hair for nearly two hours now, first washing it and then trying a bunch of different hairstyles until they found one that they were both happy with. Ruff hadn’t yet shown up again and Astrid was wondering what was taking so long at the cleaner. She hoped her maid of honor hadn’t decided to rent a boar on the way to make the ceremony interesting.

“It’s okay,” Astrid assured Marie, “I know what you mean, believe me. Before I met Eret, I was in a situation similar to yours. I had already settled for staying single forever because I thought being in a relationship meant losing my independence. But there are good ones out there.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Marie reached for a tube of haircare oil that smelled of coconut and summer when she combed it into Astrid’s hair. “But right now, I don’t care about any of them. Maybe one day, I’ll bump into a Shawn Mendes kind of guy and he’ll be nice and perfect and not like Kevin at all.”

Astrid smiled at her through the mirror. “Personally, I wouldn’t go for Shawn Mendes. But regardless of that, you should know that you don’t just bump into the perfect guy and everything immediately works out just the way you want it to. Relationships need work and the myth of the one perfect person for you is just that – a myth.”

Marie smirked. “I sense a story coming. Dish, girl, dish.”

“There’s nothing to dish. I just realized lately that when you think you found the one you want to spend your life with, someone else can sweep right in and show you the truth.” Astrid didn’t know why she was telling her this. She didn’t even know this girl. But maybe that was the reason; she could just talk this off her soul and remind herself that she was doing the right thing.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. I decided to not throw this relationship away because of these uncertain feelings I have for someone else. Because if I dump Eret now and try things with the other guy and that doesn’t work out, I’ll just regret it because I threw away a life of happiness and comfort.”

Marie was quiet for a minute, running her fingers through the strands of Astrid’s hair one last time to make sure every hair was where it was supposed to be. The bell over the front door jingled and through the mirror, Astrid saw Ruffnut walk in, holding up a clear bag with the veil.

“Well,” Marie mused and put her hands on Astrid’s shoulders, “I hope that everything works out for you.” She gave the chair a twirl. “Go get him, girl!”

_______________

Ignoring the mess he’d made while searching for his wallet, Hiccup called himself a cab while he ran back outside and didn’t stop walking. If he already started heading in the right direction, it shortened the route the cab would have to take, right?

The guy on the other end of the phone informed him that it would be a few minutes until a cab was available in his area. Hiccup didn’t care anymore, his stress level already through the roof and unable to rise higher – or so he’d thought.

As it turned out, the way he had to go wasn’t necessarily the way the cab was coming from. One mile later, his phone rang and a bored-sounding cab driver asked Hiccup if he still required his services or if he got the address wrong.

Apologizing for the misunderstanding, Hiccup told the driver where he was. He didn’t dare to walk away from his spot this time. But standing still was even worse than realizing he was at the wrong place. He kept looking at his phone without really seeing anything but the time, almost dropped it a few times and then once for real, paced around a lone trashcan, his head swiveling up and down the street in search of the cab. He messed up his hair – see, good thing he didn’t put any energy into combing it – and was soaked by the time the car pulled up at the sidewalk. The driver only raised his eyebrows at Hiccup’s state, and had this been a less stressful situation, he would have apologized for getting the seat wet.

He told the driver the address and promised to pay double if he made it quick. The man only shrugged and floored it while Hiccup grabbed the handle on the door and glanced at the clock for the umpteenth time. Although he was finally moving faster towards his destination, he now really started to panic.

_______________

As soon as Astrid and Ruffnut left the hair salon and made it back to the car without a strong gust of wind ruining all of Marie’s hard work, Astrid wanted to go back inside. The atmosphere in the salon had been weirdly peaceful and calm, and as long as Marie hadn’t been done with her hair, Astrid had had an excuse for not being somewhere else right now, for not moving forward with the day, for not facing the source of her nervousness.

Not much later, she was having breakfast at her parents’ house. Her father was quietly reading the newspaper, occasionally sipping from his giant mug of coffee. Her mother was listing all the things that still needed to be done and arguing with Ruffnut who was lounging in her chair, smearing chocolate spread all over her shirt.

When Wilma glanced at her watch, her eyes widened and she stopped trying to get Ruff to rub the chocolate off her shirt with a washcloth. Standing up, she started to simultaneously clean the table and collect several makeup utensils from all over the house. All the while, she was ranting about wasting time, Ruff doing a bad job by not dragging Astrid out of bed earlier, about the weather, and at some point, while she was disappearing upstairs, Astrid was sure she heard her blaming politics.

Her dad looked up from his newspaper shortly to roll his eyes with Astrid. When Wilma came back downstairs, Ruff planted herself in the doorway.

“You!” She poked her finger in Astrid’s mother’s chest. “Give me that.” She snatched the utensils from her hand. “Now go and scream into a pillow or something. I got this.”

Wilma put her hands on her hips and looked like she was about to dive into a lecture that started with young lady, but Astrid’s dad interrupted her.

“Let’s all just keep calm, okay? We still have a lot of time on our hands. Why don’t we just have breakfast without ripping each other’s heads off, and then we worry about what comes next.”

Wilma wasn’t having any of it. “A lot of time? Have you looked at the clock recently, Frederick?”

While her parents continued bickering, Astrid gave up resisting the fuss made around her and let Ruff apply her makeup in-between bites of bread rolls and scrambled eggs. She had just closed her eyes so that Ruff could give her a touch of eyeshadow to cover any evidence of lack of sleep, when she heard the front door open.

“Hello, everyone!”

“See?!” Wilma snapped at her husband. “He’s ready!”

“Not at all,” Eret answered and Astrid couldn’t contain a smug smile. “I just came here to give you,” he put a hand on Astrid’s shoulder, “an update. I just met your aunt Ruth and she told me she brought three of her lady friends along.”

“What?! She can’t just do that. Do we even have enough room for more people? And why would–“

“Wilma!” Frederick interrupted her.

Eret continued as if her mother wasn’t in the room. “She said something about them all being lonely and needing some company tonight, I don’t know. Anyway, I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“Thanks,” Astrid mumbled. Eret might have sounded completely calm to everyone else, but there was a tension at the edge of his voice that was obvious to her. It kind of grounded her, knowing that she wasn’t the only one feeling this way, and that her nervousness didn’t stem from her being uncertain about what she was doing. (Which she wasn’t, because she had made her decision and was sure about it, alright?)

“I told Dagur to rearrange the seating a bit, I’m sure he’ll figure it out.” His hand left her shoulder and she heard him turn around before he added, “Oh, by the way, Dagur’s sister isn’t coming, he said she’s on vacation with her new boyfriend. Which means that Dagur’s without a date tonight, so I can finally hook him up with Theresa!”

She smiled at his jaunty enthusiasm. Ruffnut was still not done with the eyeshadow – Astrid was only slightly concerned about that – so she blindly reached her hand over her head for Eret. He squeezed it once and she felt him coming closer to her face, but Wilma chose that moment to barge back into the conversation.

“Don’t you dare! No kisses! Traditionally, you’re not even supposed to be here. So get out and get yourself ready! Then at least one of you is.”

Eret laughed quietly but she could feel her mother’s deadly stare even through closed eyes. Astrid had to have inherited it from somewhere which meant Eret knew the extent of the Hofferson Death Glare. He said goodbye and the front door fell shut behind him.

Astrid’s heart was beating uncomfortably in her chest and her head felt dizzy. Taking a deep breath and refraining from biting her lip lest Ruff yelled at her for ruining the lipstick, she willed herself to calm down. That stone in her gut meant that she was generally nervous, nothing more.

Only when she dropped a glass of orange juice a while later did she pause to think for a second, but that turned out to be a mistake. Thinking made her go down the route of impactful decisions again and it had a tiny voice in her mind ask her if maybe signs of the universe were real after all.

_______________

They were moving excruciatingly slowly. Every time a car or even a bicycle passed the cab on another lane, it made Hiccup’s knee twitch. The driver looked at him in the rearview mirror oddly from time to time and seemed to have forgotten about the extra money Hiccup had promised to pay him if only he stepped on it.

When the car came to a full stop on the road, Hiccup threw his hands up in frustration. “Seriously?!”

“Traffic, man,” the driver said lackadaisically, leaning back in his seat and drumming his fingers on the stick shift in a bored manner.

Hiccup wiped a hand over his face and pulled his phone from his pocket. It was clammy from his soaked jeans. The app told him that it would take him sixteen minutes to reach his destination if he walked. Less, if he ran.

Crawling halfway over the center console, he peeked out the windshield to gauge how long the traffic jam would go on, ignoring the sideways glance of the driver. Upon seeing only very little movement far ahead, he gave the man a few bills and climbed back to his seat to get out.

“Hey,” the driver called after him, “that’s not double!”

Hiccup stuck his head in again to call back, “And I’m not there on time,” before he slammed the door and navigated his way through stuck cars until he reached the sidewalk. Orienting himself once more, he figured out the fastest way to the venue and started to run.

His days on the couch, the lack of healthy food and his relationship with exercise in general quickly came to bite him in the ass as he had to stop one street over to catch his breath. As winded as he was and as much as he’d love a raincoat right now, the thought of Astrid lent him a new wave of energy.

Ten minutes later, the place came into view, one final sprint away. He just had to pull himself together one last time.

_______________

Putting on the dress was a feat on its own. She couldn’t pull it on over her head because it would ruin her hair so she had to step into it and have Ruff close it on her back. The zipper was thin and the fabric sat tight on her so, naturally, her skin got stuck in it several times before her mother took over. She sent Ruff away to do her job and make sure everything at the venue was ready and going smoothly.

“We’re going to arrive to either a perfect arrangement or a crime scene,” Wilma mumbled when Ruff was gone.

“Don’t forget the fire, the explosions and the wild horde of boars,” Astrid added. “And her brother.”

Now that they were alone, her mother seemed to calm down considerably. All that was left for them to do was to drive to the wedding. Astrid wondered if it was her who was shaking or if it were her mother’s hands that delicately stroked over her back where hopefully no trace of the zipper was visible.

“This is really happening, hm.” Her mother’s voice was no further above a whisper, more than twenty years’ worth of nostalgia sewn into it. “You’re finally leaving the nest.”

“I’ve left the nest years ago, mom.”

“But you were still a Hofferson until now.”

“I’m keeping my name. I’ll stay a Hofferson.” When the issue of last names had come up, Eret had suggested she take his. But the Hofferson inside her had screamed in protest, unwilling to give up her family name and the notion of independence by making herself all his. She knew that he’d never think of her as his property, but it still didn’t sit right with her to change her name. So she didn’t.

Wilma came around to stand in front of her and Astrid was surprised at the strange sight of tears welling up in her mother’s eyes. She figured it made sense for her to get emotional on a day like this, but she’d never seen her cry before.

“You know that you’ll always be my little girl, right?”

“I know, mom. Come here.” She pulled her mother into a hug and the two of them stood like that for a long while. Astrid felt like a little girl seeking out the safety of her mother’s arms. Right here, right now, she didn’t have to worry about decisions and destiny and consequences and whether she was making the right choices for herself.

She felt the arms around her squeeze one more time, then her mom straightened up, took a step back and gave her daughter a firm nod that conveyed more than Astrid could ever put into words.

“Are you ready to do this?” Wilma asked, voice both breathless and strong.

Astrid knew what it meant; she could see it in her mother’s eyes. She took a deep breath. “Yes.”

Her father was already waiting outside. Her mother fastened the veil in her hair and gave her the bouquet before she opened the door for her and lead her to the car.

When they neared the venue – which was a generic party hall rather than a beautiful old mansion, but it would do – there was no fire to be seen, no wild animals disturbing the scene, no Thorston twins’ shenanigans. Ruffnut was, for once, trying to contain the chaos instead of causing it, which Astrid had to give her a lot of credit for.

Her dad parked the car and opened her door. With a steely resolve, she climbed out of the vehicle and held her head up high. Nobody had to know that mere days ago, she had still been contemplating running away and leaving the man waiting for her inside, friends and family by his side.

She noticed the storm clouds in the distance, hanging lower than the blanket of ashy gray that had accompanied her on her way to the hair salon that morning. Her chat with Marie seemed like it had been years ago. Astrid squinted her eyes and watched closely as the clouds moved forward, passing a row of houses. They were coming fast. She hoped they wouldn’t ruin the photos her parents wanted to take with her before the ceremony and all the ones she had to take afterwards.

The photographer was already waiting for them, leading them to a set of trees decorated with white and rose gold ribbons and flowers, and the letters A and E made of wood hanging from a branch. It wasn’t the most elegant decoration, but it was more than Astrid had expected her maid of honor to organize. In all honesty, she kept waiting for sex toys to fall out of the trees or a banner that said all kinds of dirty things.

But the photos turned out great and the storm kept a distance during all of it. It was time to head inside and face the road she had decided to take. On her way to the building, she was still chancing glances upwards, waiting for a pigeon to fly by and drop a present on her head. But there was no bird shit and signs from the universe weren’t real.

The music started when she stepped over the threshold, walking arm in arm with her parents. The guests all stood, ohs and ahs sounding from every corner as she walked down the aisle. Eret’s eyes flitted over her appearance and fixated on her face, smile as soft and proud as his gaze.

She gulped, taking her place next to him and giving a tiny wave to her parents when they left her to take their seats. The officiator started talking but she barely listened. For some reason, her eyes kept wandering over the rows of guests, searching for an anker she knew wasn’t there. Finally, she looked back at Eret, and the ceremony went on.

_______________

Something was strange about this place. Hiccup couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was there. It was hard to concentrate on anything while his brain and body were begging for oxygen, his muscles were jittery and exhausted and all he wanted to do was lie down on the pavement and sleep for days.

But he didn’t have that luxury. All he could think of was arriving to the wedding on time, before she could say I do without him telling her how he felt. Maybe it would make a difference, maybe it wouldn’t. But he’d rather do it while there was still a chance of it making one, despite it being a naïve hope.

Bending over and wheezing for air, he collected his senses. Just do it, the Shia Labeouf in his mind shouted at him. A determined jolt went through his limbs and he straightened up, jogging down the driveway of the centuries-old mansion towering in front of him.

His hand was shaking as he lifted it to the doorknob. Ignoring the strange tug at the back of his subconsciousness still trying to tell him something, he opened the door.

_______________

The officiator, an old school friend of her dad’s, held a long speech about true love. She could tell that Eret found it a bit cheesy, judging from the looks he threw her every now and then, but that, ultimately, he saw himself in the man’s words.

Astrid caught comparatively little of the speech. She heard sentiments about solidarity, trust and togetherness here and there, but her mind was elsewhere. She was assessing her feelings, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions kicking and jumping through her heart. There was nervousness, naturally, whereas she couldn’t care about the attention of the crowd any less. Then there was a mixture of giddiness, bubbling about in her chest, and a touch of fear as she was boarding a ship that would set sail as soon as she said the words. She could then only stay on that ship forever or jump into the cold, relentless ocean to escape.

Behind her eyes, the tiredness was beginning to press against her skull. She’d gone to bed so early last night, but when she’d been lying there alone in the silent darkness, she’d become a victim to her own doubts. For fear of dreaming of Hiccup and the porch again, just when she’d closed the gate to that road, she’d tossed and turned in her sheets for hours until exhaustion finally won over.

In the morning, she’d known that she had dreamed about something, although she couldn’t remember what it had been. All that remained was a faint feeling of easiness, lingering like a warm glow coating her heart. She couldn’t help but think about the possible what-ifs again. What if she said no? What if she had told Eret weeks or even months ago that she didn’t feel ready for this yet? What if she had never agreed to come with him to Dagur’s party?

Rain was rapping against the windows now and from where she stood, she could see the branches of the trees bowing to the wind. Someone switched on a second row of lights.

“And now the rings,” the officiator’s voice cut through her thoughts. Eret’s cousin, a small boy in dress pants and suspenders, jumped up from his seat at his cue and carefully carried over a tiny white pillow with the rings on it.

Astrid took a shaky breath. The officiator spoke again, leading up to the traditional questions.

In that moment, her attention was diverted when the door to the room opened. Her heartbeat stilled for a second when she saw a tall figure enter. She didn’t know why she was simultaneously disappointed and relieved when she recognized her cousin Beth’s husband.

“Do you,” the officiator started, calling Astrid back to the situation. Hearing Eret say I do suddenly pulled her down to earth and planted her feet on the solid ground, and the door stayed closed.

“And do you, Astrid Hofferson, take this man as your husband?” When she opened her mouth, she couldn’t imagine a different answer. She’d built this relationship with Eret and got her life together with him. She didn’t want to throw away all they had grown to be and what she’d come to call her life, where she felt safe and secure and loved and where she was happy, happy with the way things were.

“I do.” The roaring applause of the guests turned to white noise as Eret pulled her to him. She grinned into the kiss, feeling the waves lap against the ship’s hold as it left the harbor and the space between her and the dock became too large to jump.

This was what she’d wanted for longer than what she refused to think about anymore. Ignoring the still lingering notion of what if, she wouldn’t allow herself to think about another man while she was now married. However, although she knew she’d made the right decision, that didn’t mean that the entire Hiccup-conflict was immediately resolved. But it would soon be, because she couldn’t do this anymore now, and she wouldn’t. That brief chapter of her life had to come to a close.

She didn’t have time to further think about it, shaking hands and sharing hugs with every guest in the room. Photos had to be taken inside, and when it was time for the soup to be served, her face hurt from smiling.

When the rest of the dessert was being carried away by the catering staff, the band asked everyone to join the newlyweds on the dancefloor. Astrid had to take off the veil since it reached all the way down her back and wouldn’t survive the night if she kept it on. Then she danced with Eret, with her parents, with Eret again, with his grandparents, with Ruffnut and Dagur and even with Beth’s husband who told her about his weak bladder and apologized for taking a bathroom break in the middle of the ceremony. It was an incident Astrid didn’t want to be reminded about, for a reason different to what he might be thinking.

After a while, the party became a blur, people mingling everywhere and with everyone, drinking and laughing and dancing. Astrid was listening to her neighbor Larry telling her great-uncle Greg some story about a man that had once lived across from him and who he swore had been an undercover cop, when her mother tapped her on the shoulder. Astrid leaned in closer so she could hear her better over the music and the ruckus of conversation and frolicking party guests.

“There’s a young man outside asking for you.” Astrid frowned, in her mind going through all the people who would want to talk to her who weren’t already here. Her mother gave her a meaningful look and Astrid could tell she had a suspicion who it might be. She felt her heart rate go up at the implication.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she turned around to head outside.

“Astrid,” her mom called after her and met her eyes with a serious expression. “You made your decision. Don’t throw that away now.” Earning strange looks from Greg and Larry, she held eye contact with her daughter until Astrid walked away.

The rain had let up, quietly drumming on the canopy over the patio in an even rhythm. She heard thunder roll in the distance and inhaled the fresh air. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind but she was sure she didn’t want to change anything about her decision – only for that foundation to tumble the moment she saw him.

Her heart quivered in her chest. The sight of him leaning against a wooden beam, soaked in rain and rumpled from the wind, knocked her next breath right out of her so unexpectedly that she lost her voice for a second.

He noticed her and turned around, those green eyes shining like emerald beacons in the night when he set his sight on her. “Wow, you look…” He gestured at her dress with the little splotch of sauce on it, at her hair that was flowing down her back in waves, with small flowers woven into it.

His gaze set her cheeks on fire and she averted her face, biting her lip to keep it from breaking into a wide grin. “Thanks.” She glanced back at him and let the smile loose, anyway, twisting it into a smirk. “Not bad yourself.”

Hiccup looked down at himself, a bit of water running out of his hair and down his face at the motion. “Fancy, huh? I made an effort to get the November rain look right.”

“You know, I think that outfit goes with an umbrella.”

“One might think that,” he said in such a dry tone that it made Astrid snicker.

His face lit up at the sound and she could see the small gap between his front teeth when he cracked that lopsided smile she found so adorable.

She cleared her throat, snapping out of the bubble they were creating. “So… What are you doing here?”

He sobered up at her question as well, raising a hand to rub his neck. “Well, I…” He seemed to be struggling with his words, every line of his face immerged in countless everchanging emotions. “I wanted to come by and, um… And tell you…” After a beat of silence, he ran a hand over his face and gesticulated with the other. “I was at the other place first, but no one was there except some plumber guys.”

Astrid grimaced apologetically.

“I think they were as confused about me as I was by them, so we just stood there gaping at each other for a minute until one of the guys asked me what I was doing there. They told me about the water damage but didn’t know where you were now.”

“Sorry, we told the guests but didn’t send out new invitations. Where did you get the address anyway?”

A light blush covered his cheeks. “Saw Heather’s invitation. Anyway, so I looked up where events were held today, used a few of my dad’s contacts; most of them probably think now I’m some kind of stalker. I got it down to a few possible places and checked them all. Crashed a wedding, a bingo tournament and a funeral. Apparently, I look like the dead guy when he was young, because his widow fainted when she saw me. I think I yelled something about waiting for her in the afterlife and disappeared as fast as possible.”

Astrid burst out laughing, picturing him awkwardly talking his way through the situation, moving his hands and shoulders with every breath, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights.

“Yeah, so then I checked here and asked that woman out here if I was at the right place.”

“That was my mom, by the way.”

Recognition flashed over his face. “Makes sense. You have the same nose.” He blushed. “Sorry, that probably came out weird.”

Trying to figure out if he was serious, she pondered inviting him in. She was conflicted, because she really shouldn’t.

An idea popped up in her head. It was crazy, absolutely insane and, above all, very stupid. What if, she thought, what if she just threw everything to the wind and ran away with him, right now? Looking into his eyes, out here alone on the patio, it seemed possible.

But then reality came back to her in the shape of the ring pressing against the skin on her finger. It was like a punch to the gut; it doused her heart in gasoline and threw a whole pack of matches on top. Rushing for the fire extinguisher, she decided she wanted him around as a friend, if not to prove to herself that she’d made the right decision.

“Hey,” she said, “do you want to come inside? I’m hereby officially inviting you so don’t listen to Dagur, he can’t throw you out. I’m the bride, I have the last say.”

Hiccup’s eyebrows scrunched together and her smile faded. “No, I better leave.” He took a step closer.

“Why? Because of Dagur? Don’t worry, I can reign him in.”

He shook his head. “No. I mean, yes, but no, that– that’s not what I mean.”

“Then why not?” She mirrored his movement, ever drawn to him like a magnet. He took another step towards her, deep green irises glinting in the light of the patio. She could see the long scar on his chin, could count the freckles on his skin, wanted to feel the stubble on his jaw. Her fingers prickled under the phantom sensation conveyed by her imagination.

He slowly raised his hand to put a strand of hair behind her ear, stroked lightly over her cheek, leaving trails of tingling fires. Thunder grumbled directly above them and the clouds burst, releasing an ocean upon the earth. He leaned in until she could make out every shade of green in his eyes. His lips touched the corner of her mouth and her brain shut down.

It took her a few seconds to realize he wasn’t standing directly in front of her anymore. Her hand automatically went to the spot where he’d just kissed her. It tingled and crackled like it was loaded with sparks and she didn’t know how to speak.

“Goodbye Astrid,” he whispered, voice cracking, when he sent one last sad smile her way before turning around and walking away.

The sight of his retreating figure knocked her brain out of its stupor. “Wait,” she called out, running after him into the rain. “I’ll see you around, right?”

He looked back at her with eyes so full of pain it broke her heart. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” With that, he left, hands buried in his pockets, head hanging low on his shoulders. There was one more sound of thunder in the nearer distance, but Hiccup took it away with him.

She stood there for a long while, hair and shoulders gradually soaking through, and stared after him until he had long disappeared from her sight. She knew he would always be her biggest what-if.

With the last drops of rain running down her face, she went back inside to her wedding.

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- End of Part 1 -

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