#also she casually was talking about how she sublets her apartment instead of getting another roommate legally (she's not allowed to sublet

[vernonfielding]

Life Writes Its Own Stories

Chapter 5! (And AO3, of course.)

Amy had entertained the idea of becoming a cop for a while in high school. She’d been in her sophomore year, when all of the Real Life conversations were just starting at school: The AP kids were obsessed with the PSAT and everyone had to go to mandatory career fairs and Amy had even started getting a few college brochures at home. Amy’s plans – though thoroughly detailed and organized – only went as far as getting into a really good college, and then figuring out the rest from there. But she’d spent a lot of time imagining herself in different jobs, and her fantasies had carouseled around becoming an internationally renowned cancer researcher, the next Sonia Sotomayor, or the youngest captain in NYPD history.

(She’d occasionally daydreamed about life as a journalist, maybe working overseas somewhere. But an actual career had seemed profoundly unrealistic. Until, one day, it wasn’t.)

She’d eventually ruled out the first two careers – scientist and judge – because science kind of bored her, if she was honest, and she didn’t have the gravitas or the social intelligence to be a leader like Sotomayor. So by default she’d leaned into the captain fantasy.

At the same time, she started to notice how many late nights and weekends her father worked, and how some nights he came home with such a deep weariness in his shoulders that her mom just hugged him and held on. She saw, too, how cops were treated. Sure, there were the folks in their neighborhood who greeted Victor Santiago by name, who were proud to have a cop in their community. But she also heard the slurs shouted from passing cars and the hissed insults when she walked with him down the street. She knew what her friends in school said about cops. Some of their hate and distrust was earned – not by her father, but by other cops – but it still upset her. Victor Santiago was a kind, decent man, in a difficult, often thankless job.

Now, sitting at her desk at 10 p.m. on a Friday night, she felt angry on his behalf as she pored over the papers she’d been studying all week. Her father – and Jake, and other good cops – worked so hard for the people in this city, and these dumbasses in corrections were just blithely stomping all over people’s rights.

The irony of it, Amy knew, was that when her story ran most readers wouldn’t know, or care, that these jerks weren’t representative of all cops – they weren’t even part of the NYPD. Which meant that the good guys would get dumped on all over again. And there wasn’t anything she could do about it, other than write the truth.

Sometimes, Amy thought, this job sucked too.

The newsroom was quiet at this hour, the crackle of her police scanner unnaturally loud. Amy tipped the sound down a bit and stretched, lifting her arms over her head and looking around. Charles was the only other person in the newsroom, typing furiously. She assumed he was working on his personal food blog because the city desk deadline had passed an hour ago. Holt’s door was closed, the office dark beyond the blinds he’d left up. Amy sighed and flipped to the next page. There was another code she didn’t recognize so she added it to her growing list of numbers to look up later.

Beside the stack of papers, her phone suddenly vibrated, and Amy instantly smiled to herself. The screen lit up with a text from Pineapples: “OMG I have a killer story for you, literally killer. Call ASAP.”

Amy laughed out loud before she could stop herself, and slapped a hand over her mouth. She replied: “Stop it! You know I can’t write anything right now.”

“Oops sorry. Hold on, texting the Times.”

“Don’t you dare,” Amy wrote.

Jake replied with a shrug emoji, followed by a devil emoji and then a series of farm animal emojis.

Amy glanced at the time on her phone, and then the stack of papers in front of her.

She wrote: “What are you doing right now? I need dinner.”

“It’s 10 p.m.”

“I know,” Amy wrote. “Been a long day.”

She realized, belatedly, that she was acknowledging that she was working at 10 on a Friday night, and also that she had no friends to ask to dinner.

“Never mind,” she quickly typed. “I’ll grab something on the way home.”

“Meet me at Mario’s on Dekalb.”

Amy turned off her computer and stuffed her papers and her notebook into her purse and was out in three minutes. She called a goodbye to Charles over her shoulder but if he replied, she didn’t catch it.

Jake was leaning against the brick wall outside the pizza place when Amy walked up, slightly out of breath. He stood up straight when he spotted her.

“Hey,” she said. “Thanks for meeting me. You probably have way better things to do on a Friday night than talk to an annoying reporter.”

He grinned. “Usually, yes. But Rosa and I spent all day on a missing dog case for one of the Vulture’s gross frat bro friends so I haven’t eaten since- actually I don’t remember when.”

Amy gaped at him and said, “Is the Vulture a person?”

“Oh yeah, he’s our captain. Pembroke,” Jake said. “He’s the worst.”

“And Rosa is-”

“My partner.”

“The one who thinks talking to me is a terrible idea,” Amy said.

“That’s her,” Jake said, still beaming. “Shall we?”

He led Amy inside the pizza spot and up to the counter, where he tried to convince her to get the all-meat pizza that somehow had five different kinds of sausage on it. Amy opted for veggie instead. They took their slices the couple blocks down to Fort Greene, where they climbed a play structure, cold and empty this late at night, and ate with their feet dangling over the side of the slide tower.

It was an unseasonably chilly night, and Amy zipped up her jacket. Jake, she noticed, was wearing a leather jacket over his hoodie now, and for some reason the contrast made her grin – like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be cool and sexy or cozy and sweet.

“What’s so funny?” Jake said, when she ducked her head to hide her smile.

“Nothing.” Amy took a huge bite of pizza, and Jake watched in what could have been alarm or awe as she chewed – and kept chewing – and finally swallowed. “This is really good pizza.”

“That was kind of disgusting,” Jake said, “but also impressive.”

“Thank you.” Amy made a show of dabbing her lips daintily with a napkin and Jake laughed. “Did you really have a tip for me tonight, or were you just messing around?”

“Totally messing with you.”

“Thank god,” Amy said. “This story is killing me.”

She droned on for a bit then, filling him in on the reporting so far. Holt had just that day given her another two weeks to work on the story, which Amy desperately needed and was grateful for, but it also added even more pressure. When she told Jake she was compiling a list of penal codes she still needed to look up, he offered to go over it for her to save her some time. Amy hesitated, because she didn’t technically need his help for that kind of work. Eventually she told him she could handle it, and he shrugged and focused back on his pizza. She got the sense he was disappointed.

“Everyone’s been really supportive at work, at least,” Amy said. “I was worried that they’d all be mad at me, since the other reporters have to pick up my slack while I’m busy with this stuff. But even Gina’s been leaving me alone, mostly.”

“Linetti?” Jake said.

“Yeah. You read her column?”

“Sometimes.” Jake popped the last bite of crust in his mouth and balled up the wax paper the slice had come on, tossing it toward a trashcan at the edge of the play area. “We grew up together.”

Amy grinned as the paper neatly landed in the trash. Then she frowned and said, “Wait, what? You know Gina? Gina Linetti?”

“Oh yeah,” Jake said. “All the way back to kindergarten. I actually sublet her apartment now.”

“How is that even possible?”

“Subletting isn’t that weird,” Jake said.

“Shut up, loser,” Amy said, when Jake grinned at her. “How is it possible that you are friends with Gina and I had no idea?”

Jake shrugged dramatically. “I guess you’re just not that good of a reporter?”

“Jerk,” Amy said, but she actually couldn’t help but feel a little bit like an idiot.

Gina was nosy as hell, and she’d known for a long time that Amy had a source in the NYPD who was based in Brooklyn. That she hadn’t let it slip that an old friend of hers was a detective at the Nine-Nine seemed like a deliberate omission. There was no way Gina would have been able to resist not lording that kind of connection over Amy.

She was also a little annoyed that Jake hadn’t said anything, though she wasn’t going to let him know it.

“Hey,” Jake said, contrite. “I was kidding, obviously.”

“Right, I know.” Amy tried to sound casual.

“Look, I would have said something but it didn’t even occur to me.” Jake leaned back against the play structure and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Gina and I never talk about work – or my work, anyway. To be honest, I’m not sure she even remembers that I’m a cop.”

“That’s crazy,” Amy said, scooting back so she was sitting beside him.

Jake shot her a cynical look. “When she got her first reporting job, I told her that from now on everything I said about work was off the record. And she said, and I’m basically quoting here: ‘Fine, but you can’t talk about work anymore because it’s boring and I’m not going to be bored if I can’t even write about it.’ So I stopped talking about work. Like, ten years ago.”

Amy tried to process that but finally just shook her head. “Yeah, still crazy.”

“Well, that’s Gina.”

Amy didn’t get the sense that he was bothered by Gina’s lack of interest in his professional life – which was awful, because the line between personal and professional was incredibly blurred for most cops, to the point where it basically didn’t exist. In other words, if Jake was like almost every other cop she knew, his badge was his identity. It was everything.

But she supposed that indifference-bordering-on-negligence was a known hazard of a friendship with Gina. And Amy didn’t want to feel sorry for Jake.

Still, Amy wasn’t Gina – and she wasn’t bored.

“So, a missing dog case?” Amy said. “Really?”

“Oh yeah, it was such a waste of time. The Vulture’s always trying to give me and Rosa worthless cases but this one might have been the dumbest. The dog looked like a rat, Amy!”

Amy laughed, and Jake laughed with her, and then he launched into the Case of the Rat-Dog – capitalization noted – which had a surprising number of twists and turns, including a foray into a gelato shop that was really a mob front, and ended with the dog having simply run away to live with a better family than the Vulture’s frat-bro friend. Amy was in tears by the end and actually whooped in celebration when the dog found his forever-home.

“I can’t believe you spent your entire day tracking down a happy dog,” Amy said, wiping tears from her eyes. She was sitting cross-legged on the play structure, huddled into her jacket.

“I guess they can’t all be super cool undercover assignments,” Jake said with a sigh.

“You’ve gone undercover?”

“Sure, all the time. Once I spent six months with the mafia. But that story will wait for another night,” he said, and stood up, hissing and shaking his right leg as he got to his feet.

“Leg fell asleep?”

“Yeah,” Jake said. He pulled out his phone and his eyebrows shot up. “Which is what happens when you sit on a playground for two hours. Good lord.”

“We’ve been here that long?” Amy pulled out her own phone to check.

Jake nodded and held out a hand to her, and she took it and let him haul her to her feet. His hand was warm from his pocket and the touch sent a spark up her arm, making her shiver in a way she wasn’t sure was from the cold. He didn’t let go right away, and when Amy turned toward the stairs to climb down from the play structure, he tugged her in the opposite direction.

“You know we gots to slide,” he said, jerking his head that way.

“Jake, we’re too big-”

But Jake was pulling her in front of him, and he manhandled her onto the top of the slide and said, “Ladies first!” and gave her a shove. Amy screamed as she slipped down, surprised by how fast she was moving. She hit the lip at the bottom and toppled off, just barely managing to stay on her feet.

A second later Jake yelled, “Yippee ki yay, mother fucker!” He raced down, and when he hit the bottom he flew right off and slammed into Amy, knocking them both back into the sand.

Amy grunted as she landed hard on her back, surprised more than hurt. She felt Jake on top of her, and looked up to find his face inches from hers. She stared into his wide eyes, her heart pounding, and then he rolled off and scrambled to his knees at her side.

“Oh my god, are you okay? I had no idea that was going to happen, usually the kids’ slides aren’t that fast.” Jake’s hands hovered over her, like he thought he should be checking her for injuries but wasn’t sure if he should touch her. “Oh god, you’re hurt, aren’t you. Should I call someone? I should call 911. No, I can take you there myself. Can you walk? I can carry you to my car, I’m only a couple blocks from here-”

Amy bit the inside of her cheek. “Jake-”

“No, don’t talk-”

“I’m fine,” Amy managed before she broke down, laughing so hard she was practically wheezing.

Jake went quiet, and Amy sat up and tried to say something encouraging but just ended up collapsing into more laughter.

“I hate you,” Jake said, obviously fighting a smile. “Sincerely.”

“If you have a car,” Amy said, breathless, “could you give me a lift home? Or would you rather carry me?”

Jake smirked at her, then stood and brushed the sand off his legs before offering her a hand again.

+++

Late night dinners became a regular thing.

Jake got the feeling that Amy had reservations about how much time they were spending together, though she never said anything directly. She came armed every time with a question or request for him: a penal code she didn’t understand, his thoughts on something another source had told her, where she might track down some key piece of information she was missing. He helped when he could, but they inevitably ended up chatting about personal stuff after a few minutes.

He didn’t mind. They were both surprised to learn how similar their jobs could be, once they looked beyond who carried a gun and had the power to arrest people, and who actually knew how to use a semicolon and had the power, in theory, to take down the president of the United States.

They both regularly got phone calls from people who swore that airplane contrails were really secret government vaccination programs. They both had at least old person who sent them literal letters – like in envelopes, with stamps and everything – offering unsolicited advice on their jobs. Amy had an old woman who called her once a week to correct her grammar (“It’s not my fault! The copy desk is supposed to catch that stuff!”) and Jake had an old man who called every Tuesday to complain about the trash cans blocking his driveway after the garbage trucks came through (“I don’t know why he doesn’t call sanitation. Am I supposed to arrest the garbage man? Or woman?”). And, it turned out, both of them always answered those calls and listened and agreed that yes, their grandchildren should call more often.

“She just seems kind of lonely,” Amy said one night, as they shared a basket of deep-fried pickles at a bar all the way out in Bushwick. They tried to avoid the neighborhoods around the newsroom and the precinct and either of their homes, and though Amy didn’t always love the commutes, she had to admit it was kind of nice to shake up her routine.

“Yeah, Fred too,” Jake said. “Sometimes I wonder if he isn’t putting his own trash cans in the driveway just so he has an excuse to call me.”

They also shared somewhat pathetic dating lives. When Jake asked one night if she had a boyfriend, Amy shook her head and said she was determined to focus on her job for the moment. “I get it,” Jake said. “The NYPD doesn’t play very well in most relationships.”

They texted every day, and met up two or three times a week. Every now and then one of them would turn down the other’s invitation – they did have friends, or he at least assumed Amy did – but they usually made up for it in a day or two.

Only once did Jake hesitate with his reply, when Amy texted him late one Thursday afternoon. He’d had a rough day and he wasn’t sure if he could be his usual charming, and admittedly silly, self. After an hour, though, he texted back a thumbs up.

Amy had picked some weird sausage-based restaurant for this meeting, and Jake was relieved he didn’t have much of an appetite. He smiled when he saw her and gamely ordered a beer.

“You have to at least split a sausage platter with me,” Amy said. “My coworker swore this place is amazing but he has very questionable taste and I am not going into this alone.”

“Yeah, a friend of mine actually recommended this to me once but I couldn’t go through with it,” Jake said.

Amy ordered the platter and while they waited for the food she filled him in on the progress she’d made on the detention center story. Jake listened and nodded along, quietly drinking his beer. When he ordered a second pint, Amy looked him in the eye and said, “What’s up, Jake?”

He frowned and thought about saying nothing, nothing was up, but he didn’t really feel like lying. Instead he just shrugged, which felt passive-aggressive and pathetic but he wasn’t sure what else to do.

“Look, you don’t have to tell me anything,” Amy said, voice dropping as she leaned forward. “But you’ve obviously got something on your mind, and if you want to talk, you can.”

Jake was dismayed to feel the prickle of tears in his eyes, not from any particular grief or sadness but from the gentle tone of her voice, from the kindness she was showing him. He took a deep breath and turned away from her, willing himself not to cry. The waiter arrived then, setting a truly horrifying pile of sausage between them, and Jake couldn’t help but laugh. He blinked a few times, and his eyes were dry as he faced Amy again.

She answered his grin with a small smile of her own that didn’t reach her eyes. But as she picked up a fork and stabbed at one of the sausages – the look on her face could only be described as equal parts terrified, disgusted, and stubborn – Jake blew out a breath and decided to go for it.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he said, opening his napkin and spreading it carefully over his lap just to have something to do with his hands. “One of my CIs died today.”

“That’s awful, Jake.” Amy dropped the fork, the sausage landing halfway on her plate and the table. “I’m so sorry.”

Jake shrugged, feeling a little like an asshole for coming across so callous, but he really didn’t do well with emotions. “He hadn’t been an informant for all that long, like three months maybe.”

“Still, you get to know them and rely on them,” Amy said. “They’re like your sources. Oh my god, I’d be devastated if something happened to you.”

Jake looked up at her and stared, feeling a little gut-punched.

“It’s not like that,” Jake said, softy.

“Not like what?”

Jake held her gaze, trying to ignore the tension that seemed suddenly strung between them, like a physical thing. He could feel his breathing coming too fast, could feel the slow flip of his stomach.

“Not like us,” he said.

He quickly looked down at his plate, coughed and cleared his throat.

“I mean, informants have a pretty short life expectancy as it is,” he said, trying to shift the subject. “They’re usually criminals, more often than not they’re talking to the cops just to keep themselves out of trouble or get a competitor off the street.”

“Right, of course,” Amy said. He glanced back up to see she was focused on her sausage again, cutting it up into bite-sized pieces but not actually eating. “Still, I’m sorry. Do you know what happened to him?”

“You mean, did he get nailed for snitching?” Jake said. Amy snapped her head up in alarm, already protesting, but Jake held up a hand and smiled faintly. “It’s okay, it’s the first question we ask. In this case, no, I don’t think so. He was found dead of an overdose.”

“Oh, that’s- good?” Amy said, flustered.

“Better than being shot, but that’s also an occupational hazard,” Jake said. He realized he felt hungry, for the first time since learning about his CI that morning, so he stabbed a sausage too. “One interesting thing, it looks like he OD’d on that new drug, Jazzy Pants.”

“Whoa, wait, new drug?” Amy said. “What’s this?” She was already digging into her purse, presumably for her notebook and pen.

Jake laughed and waved her off. “I swear, I don’t know anything else about it. The Vulture won’t let us investigate it because the Seven-Eight has a task force.”

“The 78th,” Amy muttered to herself as she wrote it down.

“Um, one more thing,” Jake said. Amy put away her notebook and looked back at him expectantly. “You won’t write about any of this, right? Like the CI, or, whatever?”

“Of course not.” Amy looked truly surprised. “Jake, this was personal. I would never do that to you.”

Jake let out his breath and nodded once. “I know. I know you wouldn’t. I just-”

“I get it,” Amy said. “Reporters have a certain reputation. But we’re not all vultures.”

Jake actually laughed at that. “Trust me, I know you aren’t a vulture.”

Amy rolled her eyes at him, but she also gave him a fond smile. They were both quiet for a while, a comfortable silence falling between them as they finally got to work on the sausages.

Jake realized after a few minutes that – despite the sausage already heavy in his stomach and the emotionally charged conversation they’d just endured – there was a lightness in his chest and his head that he couldn’t identify. It wasn’t quite happiness or relief, but something close to peace. He looked across the sausage mountain at Amy, and he smiled.

CHAPTER 6

[gffa]

Time to cry about STAR WARS fic? Ha ha, trick question, it’s ALWAYS time to cry about Star Wars fic. This is what life is now. Crying about Star Wars, especially via fic. STAR WARS FIC RECS: ✦ Broken by lilyconrad, obi-wan/anakin & ahsoka & rex & cast, NSFW, sith!obi-wan (sort of), dark themes, 17.5k wip    The Twins are unstoppable enforcers of the Emperor’s will, the sun and moon that hang in the black void of his rule. It is said they are not the same age and that under their hoods they do not look alike, but they fight as one entity, silent and terrible as an eclipse in a spring sky. ✦ Capture and Release by Rocket_Sith, obi-wan/anakin, mild bondage, 19k wip    Anakin’s past comes back to haunt him unexpectedly during a mission. What starts as Obi-Wan’s attempt to help him face his fears takes on a life of its own and evolves into so much more. ✦ Heart of Kyber by Eirian Erisda, obi-wan & cast, 3k    With part of the Open Circle Fleet docked for some much-needed shore leave after a harrowing battle, Obi-Wan gives the rest of the 212th the slip and wanders planetside alone. ✦ The Cry of the Fallen Jedi by crowleyshouseplant, ahsoka/barriss, 5.1k    Barriss looks for Ahsoka after she disappears into the Sith Temple. ✦ untitled by fireflyfish, obi-wan & anakin & cast, ~1k    Prompt: Number 6 their vices with Obi Wan please ✦ tap, tap, tapping on the glass by skymurdock, obi-wan/anakin, modern au, ~1k    .so while I am screaming at this big bang (what do you mean you don’t want to move come the fuck on you got this far) here is a small destressing thing based off of Just Like Heaven. ✦ The Light You Leave Behind by laventadorn, obi-wan/anakin & anakin/padme & ahsoka & bail & asajj & cast, 28.6k wip    Ahsoka has left the Jedi Order, and Anakin is haunted by the last words he spoke to her on the steps of the Temple: “I understand, more than you know, wanting to leave the Order.” ✦ He Watched by temple_mistress, obi-wan/anakin, NSFW, 22.1k    Obi-Wan secretly watches Anakin in lightsaber practice. Anakin is not having any of it. At all. ✦ Temple History by sanerontheinside, obi-wan & anakin, 1.4k    There was no way his Master wouldn’t see that bruise, and so now Anakin was hiding. ✦ Sofa, So Good by Smitty, obi-wan & anakin, 10.9k    Why would anyone want Obi-Wan’s grody old couch? ✦ The Curious Feeling of Falling by Eirian Erisdar, obi-wan & anakin & qui-gon & cast, 2.6k    There is a common misconception that Obi-Wan Kenobi has never felt the pull of the darkness. ✦ A Falcon in the Dive by Eirian Erisdar, obi-wan & cast, 1.8k    A dive is so very different from a fall. Obi-Wan dives into the unknown. From the Temple gardens to Naboo, Mandalore to Utapau, and in the Unifying Force to another Falcon altogether. ✦ untitled by stonefreeak, obi-wan & yoda & mace & cast, ~1k    “Disturbing, these findings are.” Master Yoda’s ears droop slightly, as his clawed hand gently lays the datapad he held back on the table. ✦ Meet the Skywalkers by frodogenic, anakin & piett & luke/mara & han/leia & jacen & jaina & anakin solo, 34.8k wip    Newly returned from the Unknown Regions with Darth Vader, Admiral Piett doesn’t expect much of a welcome from the New Republic. And not in a million lifetimes would he have predicted that their very first guest would be Luke Skywalker. After all, Vader is still his mortal enemy…right? ✦ untitled by stonefreeak, obi-wan & cast, ~1k    Obi-Wan is tired. So, so, tired. He rubs a hand over his tired eyes, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep and not wake up until the war is over. full details + recs under the cut!

✦ Broken by lilyconrad, obi-wan/anakin & ahsoka & rex & cast, NSFW, sith!obi-wan (sort of), dark themes, 17.5k wip    The Twins are unstoppable enforcers of the Emperor’s will, the sun and moon that hang in the black void of his rule. It is said they are not the same age and that under their hoods they do not look alike, but they fight as one entity, silent and terrible as an eclipse in a spring sky.    Chapter 4: This is an update rec and will focus on this chapter, rather than the fic as a whole. This fic continues to break my heart, but also utterly engross me–it’s still not a happy fic, it’s almost assuredly never going to be a happy fic, you gotta roll with that when you start it, but it’s well-told and has this really sharp edge to everything, it doesn’t try to oversell what’s happened, but instead lets the horror of all of this breathe, lets what happened with Obi-Wan and Anakin have the room to settle and is almost understated, so much is unknown, but it still carries the weight of just how awful it is. This is one of those chapters that really hit me with how much has been lost between these two, how much of who they were is just gone, even if bits and tattered pieces remain somewhere long buried, it only hurts more because they can never really fully come back from this, it can’t be undone. Seeing the reactions from Ahsoka and Rex, the interaction Dooku has with both of them, drives home just how little is even there anymore, even when they’re set off by something or other. They’re truly feral here and the final scene of the chapter has this incredible frantic energy without trying too hard, I just felt the chaos and sheer intensity of it! But, really, my favorite thing about this fic is how it takes the bond between Obi-Wan and Anakin and twists it to something so much more desperate and dark, the one thing they have when all other lights go out for them, the one thing they hold onto when everything else must have been pain. I loved seeing them through Dooku’s eyes, the way it was such a waste of who they’d been, that the fic does such a lovely job of showing how terrifying The Twins are while still making the audience sad for how much was lost to get them there. It’s dark, but it’s so good for me. ✦ Capture and Release by Rocket_Sith, obi-wan/anakin, mild bondage, 19k wip    Anakin’s past comes back to haunt him unexpectedly during a mission. What starts as Obi-Wan’s attempt to help him face his fears takes on a life of its own and evolves into so much more.    Chapter 6: This is an update rec and will focus on this chapter, rather than the fic as a whole. There is a whole lot of talking in this chapter, which I can see why it was being difficult, because it’s a lot of hard stuff to articulate, especially for characters who aren’t sure they’re on the same page and the stakes feel very high (because everything feels very high for Anakin Skywalker), but it’s also this really warm, not quite fluffy, but certainly softer scene between them, where they’ve worked hard to get to this point and it finally allows a bit more breathing room for what they need to talk about. The sense of how long it takes to pull the words out of Anakin, how he wants to spill everything everywhere, but is also so terribly afraid, the way the restraints have come to mean something safe and comforting to him through association, all of it just left me tearing through the chapter and feeling really content with the characters afterward. It was something much softer than they all too often have and it was lovely for that. ✦ Heart of Kyber by Eirian Erisda, obi-wan & cast, 3k    With part of the Open Circle Fleet docked for some much-needed shore leave after a harrowing battle, Obi-Wan gives the rest of the 212th the slip and wanders planetside alone.    I can’t tell you how much I just quietly fell in love with this fic, how it gets the balance of Obi-Wan’s character down so very well–how entirely Extra he is about slipping away from the Jedi Cruiser, how casual he is about it and the mild chaos he knows he’s going to leave in his wake, how it’s fine, and yet how he’s also a man weighed down by the war and being a Jedi with his face plastered all over the HoloNet sometimes. It’s a nicely sharp fic about Obi-Wan trying to regain a bit of anonymity and how well that does/doesn’t go, a lovely look at the everyday people’s reactions to the Jedi who are fighting for them and how Obi-Wan feels about it all, plus a really just pitch-perfect satisfying ending. I loved this for the characterization, but also because it hit my id in just exactly the right ways. ✦ The Cry of the Fallen Jedi by crowleyshouseplant, ahsoka/barriss, 5.1k    Barriss looks for Ahsoka after she disappears into the Sith Temple.    Oh, this was a really lovely story about Barriss looking for Ahsoka after the end of season two of Rebels, all the history between them that you felt looming in the background, the almost gentle tone of this, even among such terrible events, the guilt and pain Barriss still carried with her, the depth of her sorrow and what she owed Ahsoka, all of it was very pretty and very heartbreaking and very lovely a read. ✦ untitled by fireflyfish, obi-wan & anakin & cast, ~1k    Prompt: Number 6 their vices with Obi Wan please    This isn’t really precisely fic, but more a series of headcanons written in a style very much like a fic, which I’m always weak to! And I liked this piece for how it’s about the things Obi-Wan likes and about the characterization underneath that, what a person’s vices says about them and the life they live, as well as how, even amongst all these people that Obi-Wan cares about, there’s that certain focus on Anakin, how much Obi-Wan loves him. It’s a lovely piece that I enjoyed this take on Obi-Wan! ✦ tap, tap, tapping on the glass by skymurdock, obi-wan/anakin, modern au, ~1k    .so while I am screaming at this big bang (what do you mean you don’t want to move come the fuck on you got this far) here is a small destressing thing based off of Just Like Heaven.    Oh, no, I wanted so much more of this one, ahhhh, I would have read a full 30k of this AU, where Anakin’s ghost-of-sorts is haunting his apartment and runs into his ex Obi-Wan, who is subletting the apartment. It’s a short thing but it’s so much fun and already has plenty to get me engaged with it and some great “what the utter fuck” as the characters realize the situation they’re in. Utterly delightful! ✦ The Light You Leave Behind by laventadorn, obi-wan/anakin & anakin/padme & ahsoka & bail & asajj & cast, 28.6k wip    Ahsoka has left the Jedi Order, and Anakin is haunted by the last words he spoke to her on the steps of the Temple: “I understand, more than you know, wanting to leave the Order.”    Chapters 5-6: I already loved this fic and what it was doing and what it was trying to do with the terrible situation the prequels characters found themselves in with the war. But after chapters 5 and 6, I’m even more in love, because it’s so considering of everyone’s points of view and how easy it is to lose track of yourself, to make one side or the other the enemy, when they’ve been a friend to you for a long time. The nuance, care, and delicate consideration in these chapters just had me over the moon, because it felt so much more real and impactful and full of depth, that it’s easy to sometimes want to blame the Jedi for things that are much more complicated than they first appear and yet without losing the warmth and compassion of Padme’s character, how very, very much she feels things and cares. I read these chapters with such with so much emotional engagement because of that, they’re so good and sharp for that. But this fic is also very much on top of things with the relationships between the characters, especially the strain between Obi-Wan and Anakin, as it’s obvious what’s coming or at least looming on the horizon with Anakin and how of course Obi-Wan sees it, but there are so many other things that are pressing on them for time and getting in the way. My fannish heart was completely wrapped up in everything between them, how painful it was in just the right ways and how much I felt for both of them. This is one of the fics I most look forward to whenever it updates, but I also entirely recommend reading it now if you can stand wips, because there’s some great stuff already put down! ✦ He Watched by temple_mistress, obi-wan/anakin, NSFW, 22.1k    Obi-Wan secretly watches Anakin in lightsaber practice. Anakin is not having any of it. At all.    This is one of those fics that I suspect you have to be in a certain mood to read, it’s very softened edges and big, dramatic confrontations and love confessions, it’s one of those fics you read when you want something kinder and sappier to read for these characters because you’re tired of getting your heart broken by canon or more wrenching fics, and I greatly enjoyed it for doing exactly what it wanted to do, giving me something that was all about their relationship and then nicely satisfying porn. Because, oh my god, Anakin just being so hungry for getting up on Obi-Wan’s cock and riding him until he screamed his Master’s name was exactly what I wanted, that he was so beautiful while wrapped up in the throes of it, that he was this incredible tight heat and clenching muscles as he rose and fell on Obi-Wan, that this was all he seemed to want in the world, to have his Master finally in him and their spirits connected, it soothed my heart and soul. If you’re looking for something with their sharp edges and heavy weight to everything, this isn’t it, this is something fluffier and happier, even in its angsty moments, you know it’s going to work out, the characters are much softer and emotionally open (well, okay, Anakin is always spilling his feelings everywhere, let’s be honest), and it’s for when you just need them to be all sappy in love and to roll around in that for awhile and then read some very nice sex of Anakin wanting nothing more than to sit on Obi-Wan’s cock for like the rest of his life. And I enjoyed it for exactly that, that it was just the right length for what it was doing, and it was entirely kind-hearted and warm! ✦ Temple History by sanerontheinside, obi-wan & anakin, 1.4k    There was no way his Master wouldn’t see that bruise, and so now Anakin was hiding.    Oh, this was a lovely look at Anakin’s younger years, trying to fit in and struggling with it, especially because it’s not preachy or unbalanced, but instead this really warm-hearted, kind look at a tough situation and how these characters dealt with it. Moppet Anakin is adorable and I felt so much for him, loved him so much, but, ahhh, the moments between him and Obi-Wan, the way a Master looks after a Padawan, just had me utterly melting at how perfect and good this was. ✦ Sofa, So Good by Smitty, obi-wan & anakin, 10.9k    Why would anyone want Obi-Wan’s grody old couch?    You may want to read The House That Obi-Wan Built first, but all you really need to know is that Obi-Wan decided to train Anakin on Malastare because he needed something different and they’ve started sprucing up the place they got. I also had to reformat this fic to get it into readable shape (but it was just a find & replace job), which I mention to encourage others through that because, oh, every moment of this was joy. The author does an absolutely fantastic job with their dynamic, that older brother and younger brother dynamic that works so well for them here, BUT ALSO that Obi-Wan is an absolute shit cook and he’s kind of a dick sometimes in that way older brothers are, especially when responsible for their brother’s training, but it’s always done with love, and it’s so sharp and engaging and fits the characters, especially for something that was posted in 1999! But then I’ve always liked anything by Smitty and this fic really holds up, it’s absolutely charming and sharp and was an incredible bright spot in my reading this week, which was already pretty great. ✦ The Curious Feeling of Falling by Eirian Erisdar, obi-wan & anakin & qui-gon & cast, 2.6k    There is a common misconception that Obi-Wan Kenobi has never felt the pull of the darkness.    This is a lovely bird’s eye view of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s life, the pull he’s felt towards darkeness and the strength of his character that’s required to pull away from it, that it’s never been easy for him. It’s told in snippets, from when he was still just an infant to his time as a Padawan to his time as Anakin’s Master to Tatooine, the anger that has followed him all his life and how he’s risen above it, in ways that are rarely easy. It’s a bittersweet look at the character in exactly the way I was looking for. ✦ A Falcon in the Dive by Eirian Erisdar, obi-wan & cast, 1.8k    A dive is so very different from a fall. Obi-Wan dives into the unknown. From the Temple gardens to Naboo, Mandalore to Utapau, and in the Unifying Force to another Falcon altogether.    A bittersweet and painful look at the greater scope of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s life, from when he was young to the final days of his life, told through snippets and themed with a falcon in a dive. The metaphor worked very well for me, but also the fic captured that sense of how much good there is in Star Wars, but also how much sadness and loss and how much heartache it causes me. It’s not a long fic, but it was just the right length to accomplish what it wanted to do. ✦ untitled by stonefreeak, obi-wan & yoda & mace & cast, ~1k    “Disturbing, these findings are.” Master Yoda’s ears droop slightly, as his clawed hand gently lays the datapad he held back on the table.    This is part of a larger story universe, which I think should be read in order for this part to make sense! Another shorter addition to the Supreme Chancellor!Obi-Wan universe and I really enjoyed it because it’s another one that shows how delicate the whole situation is, that even when the Jedi finally have more room to actually do something, they have to move so very carefully and they’re trying to juggle all these factors and trying to do what’s best in the situation and it’s just really not easy. But it’s also so satisfying to see some of the bad things starting to be exposed and how you can feel shit’s going to hit the fan pretty soon. ✦ Meet the Skywalkers by frodogenic, anakin & piett & luke/mara & han/leia & jacen & jaina & anakin solo, 34.8k wip    Newly returned from the Unknown Regions with Darth Vader, Admiral Piett doesn’t expect much of a welcome from the New Republic. And not in a million lifetimes would he have predicted that their very first guest would be Luke Skywalker. After all, Vader is still his mortal enemy…right?    Chapters 9-10: This is an update rec and thus will focus on this chapter, rather than the fic as a whole. Two more chapters of this fic that’s super fun and delightful, for Anakin’s family just totally and utterly ruining his cool, while still obviously caring very much about him. I mean, he’s still Darth Vader, he’s still pretty terrifying, but his grandkids and his son are still Skywalkers and still can never quite be properly cowed or not pipe up with their thoughts. I especially enjoyed seeing Luke again, though, there was some interesting almost plotful stuff with Piett and what to do with the Executor now that they’re moving ahead with rejoining the galaxy and some nicely light-hearted moments with all the cast. ✦ untitled by stonefreeak, obi-wan & cast, ~1k    Obi-Wan is tired. So, so, tired. He rubs a hand over his tired eyes, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep and not wake up until the war is over.    This was short, not even quite 500 words, but I really enjoyed it, as a way of showing how Obi-Wan is distant from the war and how difficult that is, but he does what he can, how it affects the way he strategizes, and just how much he’s handling at once. I really do enjoy this AU so much and this was a lovely addition to it!

[anavoliselenu]

Complete me chapter 6

“You weren’t,” Justin says, “and it’s going to bite him in the ass. Maybe not because of this girl, but because he’s living in a fantasy world, and eventually reality is going to catch up to him.”

“I know,” I say. “Ollie’s always been a master of denial.”

The limo arrives and the valet holds the door open while the bellman moves to the end of the car to load the trunk with our luggage. Justin lingers to tip the staff, but I go ahead and get in, my mind still on what he said about reality. Because he’s right. Eventually reality catches up with everyone. The only question is, can you survive when it does?

The moment Justin gets into the limo, I can tell that he knows what I’m thinking. His expression softens, and he settles in next to me, silently taking my hand. He doesn’t say anything until we are off of the city streets and on the A9 heading toward the airport. The gap in the conversation doesn’t matter, though. I understand exactly what he’s talking about when he turns to me and says simply, “Different realities, Selena. You and I are together, and we can withstand whatever the world throws at us.”

I draw in a deep breath, forcing myself not to ask the question that seems lodged in my throat, begging for release: Are you sure? Can we survive? Can we really make it after the bubble bursts?

Justin goes on, either unaware of or ignoring my unspoken words that seem to me like such an elephant in the room. “Ollie has the chance to have what we have. To be part of something special. But he’s scared and now he’s sabotaging his own happiness.” He reaches out and strokes my cheek with the back of his hand, the gesture so sweet I am certain that I will cry. “I’m not scared,” he says. “Not about that. And neither are you.”

I nod, because he’s right. There are still a lot of things that I am afraid of, but being with Justin is not one of them.

“What did Lisa have to say?” Justin asks, and I have to once again marvel at how perceptive this man is. I am not afraid of being with Justin, but I still have sharp bouts of fear with regard to running my own business. And as a business consultant, Lisa is not only a friend, but also a potential colleague.

“She says one of her clients is moving to Boston and wants to sublet a space in Sherman Oaks at a pretty steep discount.”

“That’s excellent news,” Justin says.

“Maybe,” I say. “I’m still not sure I need it.” My start-up business has been a frequent topic of conversation between Justin and me throughout our time in Germany. Not only did I legitimately want his thoughts—after all, who better to take business advice from than a self-made billionaire?—but talking about my entrepreneurial adventures kept the focus off the trial.

Justin is convinced that I should go ahead and set up shop somewhere and hire myself out as an app designer for small businesses while I work on larger projects. I see his point, but that doesn’t mean I’m not nervous.

“At the very least, you should meet with her and talk about the possibility. She’s sharp and has a good reputation and a solid client base. She can help you.”

I make a face, but I know he’s right. I know, because we already had this argument after he told me that he had his office run a background check on Lisa, just to make sure she was legit. I’d aimed a few choice curses in his direction and told him that I’d handle my own goddamned due diligence. He told me to say thank you for taking that burden off my shoulders.

The night had ended in a bath with candles, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t been irritated.

The bottom line, though, is that I like Lisa. The times we’ve talked, we’ve hit it off. And I’m new enough to Los Angeles to crave the addition of a few more friends to the small circle I’ve gathered since I’ve moved to LA. Resolved, I email back that I’d love to meet with her. Then I drop my phone in my purse and try not to hyperventilate.

Beside me, Justin laughs. “You did good,” he says. “I’ll even take you out to lunch to celebrate. How do you feel about fish and chips?”

“Fish and chips?”

“I need to make a stop in London.”

“All right. Sofia?”

“Do you mind?”

“Of course not.” I don’t know much about Sofia other than that she had a rocky childhood, and that she and Justin and his friend Alaine were tight during his tennis days. I know that she’s been in and out of trouble recently, and that Justin has been frustrated by her inability to get her shit together, as he puts it.

I also know that she was the first woman he slept with, but they’ve been only friends for a long time.

“Is she okay?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says, then runs his fingers through his hair. “She’s missing again.” He looks ripped, but he reaches for my hand, and I squeeze it tight.

“Whatever you need,” I say. “Anytime, anyplace.”

I have never been to London, and I can’t say that I’m seeing much of it on this journey. We went straight from Justin’s jet to his limo to his office. During the course of that ride, I saw traffic and people and buildings that are significantly older than any we have in either Texas or Los Angeles. But I didn’t see the Tower Bridge or Buckingham Palace or even a British pop star. In a way, I’m glad. This is hardly a vacation stop. On the other hand, who knows when I’ll be back this way again?

Now we’re at the London office of Stark International. It’s located in the Canary Wharf business district, and Justin’s office takes up one half of the thirty-eighth floor. The building is ultra modern, as is the furniture. Justin spent most of the short plane ride at my side, organizing a plan for locating Sofia while I made some notes about a smartphone app I’ve been pondering and sent Jamie and Evelyn both emails telling them we were on our way home and mentioning that I am—gasp—seriously considering leasing office space.

Now, I’m alone. I stand idly by the window and stare out into this dreary, overcast day. I have a view of the Thames, but not much else, and even that famous river doesn’t really draw my attention. My thoughts are twisting and turning when Justin comes back to his office, flanked by two efficient-looking women carrying electronic tablets and taking diligent notes.

He dismisses the one on the left and continues the conversation with the remaining woman. She’s in her late fifties, tall and slim and with the look of someone very capable. He introduced me to her earlier as Ms. Ives, his permanent London assistant. As far as I can tell, one of her primary duties is acting as the liaison between Sofia’s residential treatment facility and Justin.

I’m still fuzzy on why such massive resources are devoted to Sofia’s mental health. I understand that she’s a friend, but as far as I know, Justin doesn’t assign assistants to keep tabs on all of his friends.

“Let me know the moment you get through to Alaine,” he says to her. Alaine is now a chef in Los Angeles, but since he and Sofia and Justin were tight in their youth, Justin is hoping that he’s heard from her. He moves behind his desk and glances down at the neat piles of paper. “And since I’m in town anyway, bring me the projections on the Newton project.”

“Of course, Mr. Stark.” She pauses in her exit to nod at me. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Fairchild. I’m sorry the circumstances couldn’t have been more pleasant.”

“A pleasure to meet you, too,” I say. I remain by the window until the door shuts behind her, then I move to Justin’s side. “Any luck?”

“Unfortunately, no. She checked herself out of the most recent rehab facility about a week ago, and no one’s heard from her since.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

He grimaces. “It’s not the first time, but usually she turns up after a few days back in her apartment in St. Albans, drunk or stoned off her ass and ready to go get dried out again.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-nine. A year younger than me.”

I nod, digesting the information. “And she’s in rehab voluntarily? I mean, a judge didn’t put her there?”

“Sometimes I think it would be easier if one did,” he says flatly. “But no, it’s voluntary.”

“I see,” I say, but of course, I don’t. His desk is the size of the bathroom I share with Jamie, and made of chrome and glass and polished teak. I hop up on it, letting my legs dangle as I think about what he’s told me—and about what he hasn’t. “I get that you’re worried something happened to her,” I say. “What I don’t understand is why. She’s an adult and she checked out legitimately. Maybe she just decided to travel. To go hang with some other friends. They said she was almost dried out, right? Maybe she wants to prove to herself that she can operate sober on her own.”

I expect him to shoot me down. To tell me—rightfully—that I don’t know a thing about this girl. Instead, he seems to seriously consider my words.

“She may have done just that,” Justin says. “But if you suddenly couldn’t find Jamie, what would you do?”

Considering that happened not so very long ago, he knows exactly what I would do. Completely freak out. “Point taken, Mr. Stark.”

“There’s another reason, too,” he says. His voice is casual, his movements equally so as he moves to the window where I was standing only moments before. I join him, and we both look out over this industrial section of the city. But it’s not the view that has captured my attention. It’s the reflection of Justin’s face in the glass. His voice and manner may be casual; his expression is not.

I don’t say anything, and after a moment, he continues. “She and I had an agreement. I’d foot the bill, and she’d finish the treatments. I don’t like having my conditions ignored.”

I nod. Knowing what I know of Justin, what he is saying makes perfect sense. The only thing I don’t understand is why, and though I’m almost certain he will shut me down, I decide to voice the question. “Why are you paying for the treatment? And not just this one round. There’ve been others, too, right?”

The silence that hangs after my question seems unusually heavy, and I am not sure how much longer I can stand the weight of it bearing down upon me.

When he finally speaks, the words are soft, but there is a harshness to them that I don’t understand. “I’ve been paying Sofia’s way for as long as I’ve had the money to do so.”

My question is once again “Why?”—and it bursts past my lips before I can think better of it.

I am looking at him now, not at his reflection. But Justin is still looking through the glass, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s seeing the city or the past. Is it me that he is standing beside? Or is Sofia next to him?

I squeeze my hands into fists, because I do not want to be jealous of a ghost, and yet I feel those tiny green seeds begin to sprout inside me.

Justin still hasn’t answered my question, and I think that perhaps I have gone too far. But then he finally speaks, and I am suddenly cold—chilled to the bone for Justin, and for the innocent girl who was his friend.

“She was Richter’s daughter,” Justin says. “And he didn’t leave her a dime.”

It takes me a minute to fully comprehend what he is saying. “Sofia is Richter’s daughter, but he left all of his money to you?”

“He did,” Justin says.

“So that’s why you take care of her? Why didn’t you just sign the money over to her?”

“That wasn’t an option,” he says. “For one thing, she had issues even back then. She’s brilliant but impulsive, and she doesn’t make the best choices. So I set up a trust. She can access money for her needs. I bought an apartment for her. I pay for her treatment. The bottom line is that she has a life and property because I didn’t give her that money. If I had, she probably would have died from an overdose. At the very least, she would have either drunk, injected, or snorted it away.”

I nod because that all makes sense.

“But the truth is that I would have helped her even if there had been no inheritance.” For the first time since he has started speaking, he turns to face me. “She knew about what he did to me. Her friendship helped keep me sane.”

“Oh, God.” I’m not sure if he can hear the words through the hand that I have pressed against my mouth. But I am certain that he can see the horror—and the sadness—in my eyes. “She knew what kind of a monster her father was.”

“She did,” he says. “And we survived him together. In the end, I was better suited at survival than she was. But dammit, Selena, she was there for me.”

I am nodding, tears trickling down my cheeks. “Alaine, too?”

Justin shakes his head. “He didn’t know anything. I value his friendship, of course. But my relationship with Sofia runs deeper.”

I take his hand and hold it tight. Those tiny green tendrils have completely shriveled up. There is no jealousy. Instead, I am as desperate to find this woman as Justin. This poor girl who shared what little strength she had with Justin, and suffered through her own kind of hell simply from knowing that the blood of a monster flowed through her veins.

“You’ll find her,” I say. “When have you ever not gotten something you want?”

As I had hoped, that draws a small smile to his lips. He pulls me into his arms and holds me tight.

“The trial must have been hell for her,” I say. “Her father. You.” I keep my cheek pressed against his chest as his reply rumbles through me.

“We didn’t talk about it. She didn’t like to think about the fact that Merle Richter was her father. I spoke to her a few hours before you arrived in Germany, actually. I kept expecting her to bring it up. She never did.”

I don’t know what to say next, so I am relieved when Ms. Ives’s voice comes across the intercom, telling Justin that she has Alaine on a video call, and does Justin want her to put it through to the wall screen?

Justin tells her to go ahead, and immediately a decorative mirror on the far side of the room turns opaque, then blue. And then, suddenly, I see Alaine’s face.

“Justin,” he says, “I was so pleased to hear about the dismissal.”

“Thank you. You remember Selena?”

“Of course. It is a pleasure to see you again, Selena. Hopefully next time it will be in person with a glass of my best wine.”

“I’d like that.” When I met Alaine, I hadn’t been able to place his accent. Since then, Justin has told me that he grew up in Switzerland. It’s still not an accent I would recognize easily, but listening now, I can hear the influences of both French and German.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t available when you called earlier. Your message said it was about Sofia?”

“She’s gone again,” Justin says. “Checked herself out a few days ago and took off. I haven’t been able to find her, and I thought she might have called you.”

“You are in luck, my friend,” he says. “I know exactly where she is.”

I meet Justin’s eyes and see the flash of relief. “Where?”

“Shanghai.”

“Shanghai?” Incredulity laces his voice. “Why? When did you talk to her?”

Alaine’s brow furrows. “Three, no four, days ago. Do you remember David, that drummer she was intrigued with a few years back? Apparently his band is booked for a week in a club there. She said she might be in Chicago, too, if a job the band is hoping for comes through.”

Justin presses his fingertips to his temple. His expression is an odd mix of softness and concern. It’s a paternal expression, the kind I imagine I’d see if he was worried about our own kids one day.

Our kids? I stiffen, but in surprise, not fear. The thought came unbidden, but it is not terrifying. On the contrary, it’s soothing, as if I’ve been given a sneak peek into the future, and it is a future with Justin and a family.

“She called you?” Justin asks Alaine. “I’ve been trying to reach her by cell, but it just rolls over to voice mail.”

“It was a video call,” he says. “I asked if she’d talked to you, but she didn’t want to bother you during the trial. I’m surprised she hasn’t called you now that it’s over, but knowing Sofia, she hasn’t seen the news.”

“Can you conference her in through the account she used?”

I see Alaine’s eyes shift up, as if he’s examining the various options on his computer monitor. “I think so. Hang on.” Alaine’s image stays on the screen, but a smaller box appears in the corner. It’s a snapshot of a girl with spiky black hair tipped with red. She has a multi-pierced ear filled with tiny silver rings. Her elven face is small and delicate and her skin is unnaturally pale. Her deep brown eyes are ringed with pitch-black kohl. The only color comes from her lips, which are wide and full and striking with bloodred lipstick. It’s hard to tell her age, but even though Justin said that Sofia is almost thirty, she looks barely twenty to me. Then again, I have no idea how old this image is.

“I think this will do it,” Alaine says, then almost immediately adds, “Well, damn the girl.”

It takes me a second to understand what has happened, but then I see that a red X has appeared as a watermark over the image. “What is that?” I ask.

“She’s closed her account,” Justin says. “You don’t have another contact number?”

“Other than her cell phone? No.” Alaine’s mouth is curved down into a frown. “I swear I don’t know what she’s thinking half the time. But she said she’d call after Shanghai and let me know where they’re going next.”

“Tell her to call me, too. For that matter, hook me into the call.”

“Will do. And, Justin, don’t worry. She will turn up. She always does. And we both know that she is a mercurial soul.”

“She’s a disturbed soul,” Justin says.

“Aren’t we all?” Alaine says, but there is a sparkle in his eyes, and it’s obvious that he doesn’t understand the fundamental truth of his words.

As soon as the screen goes blank, Justin calls Ms. Ives back in and gives her a list of instructions, including searching the file for David and then tracking his current band to Shanghai. She takes meticulous notes and promises to contact him the moment she has information. As soon as she’s left, Justin folds me into his arms.

“Are you okay?”

“Frustrated,” he says. “But I’m fine.”

I see the worry etched on his face, but when he looks at me and smiles, it all seems to fade.

“Thank you,” he says.

“For what?”

“For everything.”

My answering smile is so broad it’s almost painful. “Anytime, Mr. Stark.”

“I think I’m done here for now,” he says. “You’ve never been to London, have you? Do you want to stay the night? We could go to Harrods. Catch a show in the West End. See a few sights.”

“No,” I say. “I just want to be with you. I just want to go home.”

“And that’s another reason that we are perfect together,” Justin says. “I want exactly the same thing.”

Chapter Ten

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Stark, Ms. Fairchild. Would you care for a glass of champagne?”

“Yes, thank you,” I say, taking the glass gratefully. Justin and I are seated side by side in the rich leather recliners. There’s a polished table in front of us and equally shiny wood trim throughout the interior of the very large cabin. The seats are so comfortable I’d happily have them at home. The flight attendant is tall and slim, with a mass of curls piled on her head in a way that manages to look both cute and professional.

I sip the champagne, sigh, and have to admit that there’s something to be said for the billionaire lifestyle.

“What happened to the other plane?” I ask Justin. We’d flown from Munich to London in a small jet, similar to the one he keeps hangared in Santa Monica. While comfortable, it pales in comparison to this one.

“This is the Lear Bombardier Global 8000,” he says. “We’re crossing the Atlantic, remember? Not to mention all of the United States. I thought traveling in a plane with sufficient fuel capacity made sense. Plus it’s easier to get work done with an actual office. And sleep in an actual bed,” he adds, trailing his finger lightly up my leg and giving me shivers.

“This thing has an office and a bed?”

“There’s a bed in the stateroom,” he says.

“Wow.” I want to get up and explore, but the attendant has already asked that we fasten our seat belts as the plane is now taxiing toward the runway.

Now, she’s standing next to the jump seat. She’s speaking into a headset, presumably communicating with the pilot. A moment later, she hangs up, then walks toward Justin and me. “Mr. Stark, you’ve had a telephone call from Mr. Maynard. He tried to reach your cell, but apparently the call didn’t connect. When he realized you were on board, he called the tower and asked that we get a message to you to call him at your earliest convenience.”

“Can we hold on the runway?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll call him now,” he says, then pulls his phone out of his pocket. I watch from beside him, frowning as he’s put through to Charles. I can’t imagine why Maynard would be calling—could the court have changed its mind? Is it even allowed to do that?

I study Justin’s face, but his expression gives me no clues. It’s gone completely blank and totally unreadable. A boardroom expression designed to give nothing away to competitors—or to me.

After a moment, Justin stands, and though I reach for his hand, he doesn’t reach back. Neither does he meet my eyes. He heads to the back of the plane and disappears into what I assume is the office.

I try to focus on my book, but it’s impossible, and after I’ve read the same page over at least three dozen times, Justin finally returns. He nods at the attendant, who radios the cockpit, and by the time Justin has fastened his seat belt again we are once again readying for takeoff.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing to worry about.” He stills wears that bland, corporate mask and I feel my heart constrict, as if a giant fist is squeezing it tight.

“But I am worrying. Charles wouldn’t radio the tower unless it was important.”

He smiles, but it seems forced, and I see no corresponding humor in his eyes. “You’re right. He wouldn’t.”

“Then what is it?”

“There’ve been some time-sensitive developments on a couple of matters that I’ve been chipping away at.” His voice is level, his words perfectly reasonable. I, however, don’t believe a word of it.

“Don’t shut me out again, Justin.”

“I’m not,” he says firmly. “Not everything is about us.”

I tense, the sting of his words as potent as a slap. “I see.” I finger the book in my lap. “Well, never mind.”

“Selena . . . ” His voice is no longer cold.

I tilt my head to look at him, my own mask firmly in place. “It’s fine,” I say.

His eyes search mine, the near-black one seeming to see so deep into me that it is almost dizzying. I hold his gaze for as long as I can before I have to look away or else risk him seeing too clearly that I’m certain his words are all bullshit. What I don’t understand is why.

I turn my head, ostensibly to look out the window as the plane gathers speed, rushing forward to its inevitable climb. And as the wheels lift off, I can’t help but think that we have reached the point of no return, Justin and I. Like this plane, we will either continue to move forward, or we will crash.

There are no other options.

And as I glance sideways at Justin with his papers spread out and his face a mask of secrets and fears, I cannot help but be very, very afraid.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the narrow bed in the stateroom, feeling hollow. I brought the empty champagne flute back with me, and now I hold it like a baton—one hand on the base, and one hand on the rim, the fragile stem stretched out between my hands.

It would be so simple, I think. Just a contraction of muscles. One quick movement and—snap.

One second, maybe less, and I’d have the stem in my hand, its top raw, the edge of broken glass as sharp as a knife.

My skirt is hitched up so that I can sit like this, and beneath the material that is stretched taut across my legs, I can see the marred flesh of my inner thighs. I can imagine tracing the stem along the edge of the most jagged one. The pain as I press the glass into soft flesh. The release as I tug it down, my skin yielding and the horrible pressure in my chest finally lessening as the valve is open and all this shit that has been building can finally explode out of me.

I want it—oh, God, I want it.

No.

I squeeze my eyes tight, desperate for Justin’s hand. But he is not here, and it is just me, and I am not certain that I can do this alone.

Slowly, I run the rounded rim of the flute against my thigh. Just one snap—just a little pressure—

No, no, goddammit, no.

I will not do this, and I lift the glass, prepared to hurl it away from me, but a firm tap on the door startles me and I jump guiltily. I don’t expect it to be Justin—he returned to the jet’s office as soon as we reached altitude two hours ago, and I haven’t seen him since. Instead, I assume it’s Katie, the flight attendant, who promised to wake me when dinner was served.

“I’m not hungry,” I call. “I’m going to sleep a little longer.”

But then the door bursts open and he’s right there. Justin.

And there I am holding the goddamn flute.

I shift my position so that I’m sitting with my legs out and my back against the polished wood siding. I casually put the flute on the nearby table, hoping that he doesn’t realize the dark direction in which my thoughts were traveling.

He stands there for so long, I fear he isn’t going to say a word. His face is firm, his eyes sad. “You should have called me out for bullshit,” he finally says, and I allow myself the tiniest bit of relief. He didn’t see the glass; he didn’t realize what I was thinking.

“Of course it’s about us,” he continues. “There’s nothing in my life that isn’t about us. How could there be when my world revolves around you?”

“Don’t,” I say, still unbalanced and edgy. “Don’t shift the focus by plying me with romantic platitudes.”

I see the spark of anger fire in his eyes as crosses the stateroom in three long strides, the door clicking shut behind him. “Platitudes?” he repeats, his tone hard. “Jesus, Selena, are you telling me you don’t know what you mean to me?” He reaches out to touch me, but stops with his fingers only inches from my face. “Haven’t I told you every single day that we’ve been together?”

I can feel the heat rolling off him. A violent passion. A sensual need. I close my eyes and draw a shuddering breath as my blood pounds through me in response. Oh, yes. I know how he feels about me; I feel the same way. Alive in his arms. Lost out of them. He is everything to me.

And that is why I am willing to fight so hard.

Slowly, I open my eyes and tilt my head to look at him. “I know,” I say. “But that doesn’t make it relevant. Maynard didn’t call about stock prices or your corporate logo or what they serve in the goddamn lunchroom at Stark Tower.”

He’s staring at me as if I’ve gone mad, and maybe I have a little. But dammit, I want him to understand.

“We’re not attached at the hip, Justin. Everything’s not about us. And that’s fine. Hell, it’s good. I don’t want to steal your autonomy any more than I want to hand you mine. But I have memorized every line of your face, and I recognized the shadows I saw in your eyes. So don’t trivialize something that really does affect us by making it sound like some minor irritation that’s going to require us to reschedule dinner next Thursday.”

He raises an eyebrow as he looks at me. “Well,” he says, and that simple word holds both surprise and acknowledgment.

After a moment, he takes the last step toward me and sits next to me on the bed. He gently takes my hand and uses his fingertip to trace lightly upon my skin. He says nothing, though, and the silence hangs heavy between us, full of both questions and hope.

I remember my thought as we took off—that we are either going to keep moving forward, or we are going to crash. Finally, I can take it no longer. I reach for him, then stroke my hand down the side of his cheek. “I love you,” I say, though the words seem too big for my throat.

“Selena.” My name sounds as though it was wrenched from him, and when he pulls me close and holds me tight, I close my eyes, wanting—no, needing—to hear the words back. He has not said that he loves me since my first week in Germany. Not since the trial prep began in earnest and the attorneys warned him that he was risking jail and his future if he didn’t testify.

I need to hear it now, though. I desperately need him to say those three little words. Not because I doubt that Justin loves me, but because I cannot shake the fear that we are on a collision course with the real world, and that those words are our only shield once our shiny, protective bubble shatters.

He says nothing, though. He simply holds me, his arms closing tight around me as if that is all the protection I need.

When he does speak, his words surprise me. “The press has been going hot and heavy suggesting that I bribed someone to get the charges dropped.”

I stiffen and pull back so that I can see his face. “Those fucking bastards.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “I agree completely with your assessment, but the truth is I’ve been accused of worse.” I search his face and see nothing of my own anger. Whatever is bothering him, it isn’t this ridiculous accusation. That’s just one part of the story.

“Okay,” I say. “Go on.”

“Apparently the prosecutors and judges weren’t thrilled with the allegations. The prosecution released an official statement that the charges against me were dropped after additional evidence was brought to the court’s attention.”

Considering that’s exactly what happened, I’m still not seeing the problem. But I say nothing, content to wait.

“Now the press is pushing to see the evidence.”

Oh . . .

I squeeze his hand tight. “Justin, that’s—” I cut myself off, because I don’t know what to say. Horrible? I think of how wrecked he was after the dismissal and try to magnify that a million-fold if those photos are released to the whole goddamned world. My chest constricts and my skin feels prickly merely from the thought. I can’t even imagine how Justin must feel—or how brutally the release of those photos will rip him apart.

I suck in air and try again. “Surely they won’t. The evidence is sealed, right? What did Maynard say?” I’m babbling, but I know nothing about the law, and even less than that about the law in Germany. Does the press have a right to see the evidence? Will the court or the prosecution turn the photos over to save its own reputation?

“Vogel is on it, and Charles is staying in Munich to work with him. He’s optimistic, but it’s too early for me to have any real sense of the outcome.”

“I see.” I want to tell him that it will be okay, but I can’t quite bring the lie to my lips. Because if those photos are released, it will rip him apart. And, yes, Justin is strong, and I know that he will heal. But like the cuts on my thighs, that wound will never go away. Part of him will have died, and nothing will be the same again.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he says as he brushes the pad of his thumb across my lips.

I open my mouth, drawing him in, then close my eyes and savor the taste of him. “Aren’t you the one who told me that pain and passion go hand in hand?” I murmur when I finally release him.

I watch as his eyes darken, then gasp as he pushes me back onto the narrow bed. Desire—hot and heavy—slams through me with such force and power it makes me dizzy. I need him—I need his hands upon my breasts and his body against mine. I need his tongue in my mouth and his cock deep inside me.

I need to feel the connection between us. I need to revel in it, to bathe in it.

I need to feel what I already know—that Justin is mine, and that I am and always will be his.

His hands are holding fast to my wrists, keeping my arms stretched above my head. He holds me tight, and I wince from the pain of my skin twisting in his grip, then cry out again when he violently kneads my breasts through my thin cotton shirt. “Do you like that?” he asks.

“Yes, oh, God, yes.”

He lowers his mouth to my breast, suckling through my shirt before shoving it up, then tugging my breast free from my bra. He is straddling me at the hips, and I am breathing hard, unable to move as his hands hold me down and his mouth closes over my now bare breast. He draws the nipple in between his lips, sucking so intensely that I arch up, then cry out when he bites down, his teeth drawing tighter than the little silver rings from the night before.

He pulls away, tugging the nipple with him, and I arch up, wanting more—wanting that sensual bite, that seductive sting.

“Tell me what you need,” he demands.

“You,” I say. “I need you.”

“Goddammit, Selena,” he growls, “that’s not what I mean. Tell me what you need.”

And that’s when I realize—of course he saw the flute. Of course he knew what I was thinking. Justin knows; hell, he always knows.

“I need you,” I repeat hoarsely. “That’s all I need. I wasn’t going to do it, I swear. I thought about it, but I wasn’t going to do it.”

“Oh, baby.” His mouth closes over mine, and he is kissing me, wild and hungry and with so much fervency I feel as though we will both get lost in it. His hands move over my body and I writhe under his touch, every sense firing. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I brought you there, and I’m so fucking sorry.”

“No,” I say. “It’s me. Only me. And you’re what keeps me strong. Oh, God, Justin, please,” I add, because I cannot have his hands on me and have this conversation at the same time. “Now, please, I need you now.”

“Selena.” My name is an anthem as his fingers thrust aside the negligible material of my thong and his fingers sink deep inside my already dripping cunt. “Oh, baby.”

I shift my hips and struggle against his hand that still holds me fast. Whatever anger or hurt I’d felt moments ago has completely evaporated. This is Justin, the man that I love. The man that I need, and I want him inside me. I want him touching me. I want—dear God, I simply want.

He releases his hold on me to unfasten his pants and free his cock. I tilt my head up, then suck in air when I see him, thick and hard. I shift my arm, my fingers itching to stroke him.

“No,” he says, and I have to bite my lower lip to hold back my cry of disappointment as I comply, keeping my arms stretched high above my head.

“Hurry,” I beg. I spread my legs wider, desperate for him. I am liquid flame. I am hedonism personified. I am lust and need and passion.

And then he is above me, his mouth upon mine, wild and wet even as the head of his cock slides over my sex, cruelly teasing me but never entering me.

I arch and writhe, begging him with my body, and when that doesn’t work I nip his lower lip with my teeth and demand, “Now, Justin, fuck me now.”

And then I moan as he thrusts hard inside me. My skirt is around my waist, my thong shoved to one side. He balances with one hand beside our joined bodies. The other hand is twined with my fingers above my head.

The plane hits a pocket of air, and I cry out in alarm and pleasure as we free-fall, then slam back at altitude, the motion thrusting Justin even deeper inside of me. I want my hands to be free—I want to cup his ass and push him hard inside me—but he is giving me no leeway. He breaks the kiss and as he balances above me, he looks deep in my eyes. Our bodies are touching only where his hand circles my wrist and where his cock is thrusting so enticingly in and out of me.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, going deeper with each stroke, his body rubbing my clit with each motion. “I want to watch your face as you explode. I want to know that I’ve taken you to the brink, and then I want to go over the edge with you.

“Come on,” he urges as the storm rises like a wellspring of colors inside me. “Come on, baby—oh, yes,” he groans as my body explodes around his. The orgasm ripples through me, making me arch up and cry out and writhe with a wanton desperation. I’m not sure if I’m trying to escape this riot of sensation or if I’m trying to make it go on and on. All I know is that Justin has not stopped thrusting and the muscles of my sex are still spasming around him and I am clawing at the cover on this bed and arching up and trying to breathe and—

“Oh, God,” I cry as one final, violent jolt of electricity cuts through me just seconds before Justin finds his own release. I collapse, limp, onto the bed and though my eyes are heavy, I cannot pass up the joy of watching pure sensual satisfaction play across his face. Then he smiles at me, his expression so tender that I can think of nothing more than curling up next to him.

As if in answer to my thought, he lowers himself beside me, and the hand that just a few minutes ago held so fast to my wrist now traces lazy strokes down my arm.

“Welcome to the Mile High Club,” he says, and I burst out laughing.

I roll closer and nestle against him, sated and satisfied and happy. “You are what I need, Justin. You’re all that I need.”

I have surrendered to this man completely, and now, once again, it feels wholly right. Between Justin and me, sex is as necessary as conversation. It is our method of discovery. Our sharing of trust. And our ultimate surrender.

It is, I think, his “I love you” spoken with his body, if not with his words.

I’m drifting, neither awake nor asleep, when Justin’s words bring me fully back to myself. “No matter what the German court decides, there’s a good chance those pictures are going public.”

There is no emotion in his voice, and that chills me more than anything. I don’t move. We are spooned together, my back against his chest, his arm draped over my waist. I keep my eyes closed, as if that somehow makes the words less real. “Why would you say that?”

“I think your earlier thought was right,” he says. “I think my father might be the one behind this.”

“Justin, no.” I roll over now—I have to see him. “Do you really think so?”

“It makes sense. If I go to jail, his asset stream dries up.” Despite the fact that Justin’s father makes my mother look as sweet and cuddly as the Easter Bunny, Justin has continued to support the man.

“Even if you’re right, that only explains how the court got the photos. Why on earth would you think that he’d make them go public?”

He rubs his fingers together, symbolizing money.

I shake my head, not following.

“Tabloids. Internet sites. So-called news programs. They’ll all pay a lot for information if they think it will sell ad space or papers.”

“Shit,” I say, because he is right, and that pretty much sums it up. “Maybe it’s not him.”

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