#and brooke freezes and takes a deep breath and walks out without so much as acknowledging jenna

[rhysismydaddy]

Felons pt. 1 (Nessian)

Nessian multichapter. Next part out probably Monday. As always, this one just sets up some stuff so it’s kinda boring. This one’s probably going to be long. And an emotional roller coaster. Just letting you know :) 

Lightly based off the book The Witness. I say lightly because I’ve actually never even read this book, but my mom told me about it. ALSO no offense to anyone who’s from/lives in Nebraska lol.

Cassian swiveled around in his chair and looked at his partner with raised brows. “She’s in Nebraska?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”

Someone’s a little testy today. He ignores the tone and repeats, “But... Nebraska? What the hell is she doing there? And why did it take us so long to find her?”

Azriel gives him a tight look, and he realizes the reason for his pissy attitude. He’s annoyed it took him so long to track her down. 

Before he can tell his partner it isn’t his fault, he says, “She isn’t doing much. She’s completely off the grid. Which answers your second stupid question, too.”

“Okay... how off the grid are we talking?”

The woman had grown up in a penthouse, for fuck’s sake. He couldn’t imagine her living in the middle of nowhere without any of the comfort she’d lived with her entire life. 

“No cell phone or bank records for the last two years. The last time she was seen by any sort of traffic camera was before that, and it was in Atlanta.” He scrolls through something on his desktop with a frown. “From what I can tell, she took all her money out in cash and hoped on a bus.”

Nothing about that sounded like the woman he’d been reading about, but he wasn’t about to argue with Azriel in such a bad mood. “So she went straight to Nebraska?”

“I don’t know.”

His least favorite answer. “How’d you find her, anyway?”

“Well, I figured that unless she was sleeping under a bridge, she had to be paying rent somewhere. So I went state by state, looking at new property purchases under her known aliases.” Azriel sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. “But that didn’t pull up any results, so I looked at all the IDs on new renter’s insurance purchases until I matched one to her.”

His eyebrows rose. “That’s...”

“Tedious as shit.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why it took so damn long,” he mutters. “She’s been careful, Cass. I mean really, really careful.”

A laugh bubbled out of him at that. “Well, she should be. She’s a felon.”

~Nesta~

Nesta’s breath clouded in front of her as she ran up the hill, panting like crazy. Even though she’d taken up running after the move, she still fucking hated it. Especially when it was cold. 

Which, in Nebraska, was somehow year round.  

Even the summers here were cold compared to back home-

No. Not home. 

This was home now. 

California was slowly, painfully becoming a distant memory, and she had to constantly force herself to remember that Mackenzie Brooks had never lived there. She was born in Michigan. She has no family or friends. Her hobbies include reading and running (the last of which was a definite mistake to include). 

And she was her. 

God, it honestly was a miracle she hadn’t slipped up yet. 

Maybe it was still the fear that drove her. Maybe it was just that she knew she could never go back to her old life. No matter that she wanted to.

No matter that she’d picked up and left without a word.  No matter that her sisters probably thought she was dead. 

Thankfully, she made it to the top of the hill before she passed out or died, and she bent over, sucking down the freezing air. It was only October, but it was already cold enough to force her to wear three layers and a beanie. 

Despite being miserable and cold, she forced herself to go through her training course. 

Because it couldn’t just be enough to be fit enough to run away anymore. If the person chasing her was faster... 

Nesta punched her hand through the target, satisfied when the wood cracked down the middle. Her knuckles luckily had gotten used to the abuse, so when she ducked under the branch and struck again, another target went flying. 

By the time she was done, her hands and arms were tired and her body was aching for a bath. 

Or two hours on a warm, sunny beach. 

Since only one of those things was bound to actually happen, she trudged back to her cabin, praying the hot water would hold out long enough for a full bath. 

One thing about Blair, Nebraska was that somehow, the less than ten thousand people who lived here were always experiencing a water shortage. 

It rivaled the cold ass weather for her least favorite thing about the place as a very close second. 

Noticing who was parked in front of her small little house, she grimaced and amended her statement. Lack of hot water was actually third, second only to the one and only Sheriff Marks. 

He spun around when he finally heard her steps, smiling a big, ugly, fake smile. “Miss Brooks.”

“Marks.”

According to small-town social guidelines, she was being beyond rude for not calling him Sheriff. But he was a short, ugly, annoying man, and she didn’t hold an ounce of respect for him. 

And because she wasn’t completely fake, she didn’t bother hiding it. 

“What are you doing on my property?”

His smile dimmed as his eyes beady eyes narrowed slightly. “I wanted to see how you’re doing. You never come into town. And here in Blair, we take care of each other.”

That right there was the reason for her dislike; Sheriff Marks was an insatiably curious man. 

And ever since she’d shown up a year ago, he’d been trying to put together the puzzle of why a moderately attractive young woman would move to the middle of butt-fucking nowhere. 

“I’m fine.”

She wanted to walk by him and go inside, where she could blissfully lock him out, but she had a list of rules now, and not putting her back to people she didn’t know or like was at the top of it. 

“Okay, sure, but-”

“Listen, Marks. I appreciate this... gesture, but I moved here to be left alone. I’d appreciate it if you would respect that.” It was the most she’d ever said to him, and he looked a little shocked. “I think I’ve made it more than clear.”

His face went somehow even ruddier, and for a split second, she regretted the harsh words. 

She couldn’t have people caring about her, though. When people cared, they stopped by more and felt entitled to know your business. Neither of which were things she wanted. 

So she just raised a brow and shot a meaningful glance to his cruiser. 

“Yes. It’s perfectly clear exactly who you are.” 

She almost rolled her eyes at the attempted insult, thankful when he finally turned to leave. As he was pulling away, she united her muddy shoes and got her house key from her sock, grimacing at how tight her back was when she stood up. 

Inside, she went through and made sure every door and window was locked, a habit she’d picked up two years ago and hadn’t been able to shake. 

God apparently was looking out for her today, because when she finally made it upstairs, there was enough hot water to fill the tub. 

When she sunk down to her shoulders and closed her eyes, enjoying the moment of peace. But then images of her sisters’ faces, the ocean, and her old home popped up uninvited in her head. 

It was always quiet moments like these when she found it the hardest to shake the memories of who she used to be. And since Nebraska was always fucking quiet... 

Nesta reminded herself of why she was here; why it had been necessary to leave. She reminded herself that her family was safer with her gone, that she was safer. 

But the hole in her chest refused to listen and close up. 

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she was too tired to even brush it away and chastise herself. Because for the first time in twenty-five years, she admitted she was lonely. 

She’d been alone for most of her life, but there was a difference between alone and lonely. Even when she’d isolated herself from her family and friends, they’d still been there for her. 

But now... she had no one here. And she’d never felt so alone in her life. 

It was horrible enough to make her consider going back, despite the risks. 

This is home now, she told herself, dunking under the water to wash away the thoughts hounding her. You didn’t work your ass off to get safe just to bitch out after a year. 

Coming up and gasping for air, she went through her cover, just like she did every night. 

“My name is Mackenzie Brooks, nickname Mackie. I’m from Michigan, but I moved to Nebraska last year to start over. I like to read and run. I’m twenty-five.” Taking a deep breathe, she finished, “I don’t have any family.” 

No amount of time under the water could ebb the sting of those words, though.

~Cassian~

Cassian was honestly a little surprised he hadn’t gotten fired. 

He absolutely hated his orders, and he’d made that more than clear. They’d come straight from Command and “weren’t negotiable,” but that didn’t mean he hadn’t tried. 

Calling his boss a two-faced asshole might’ve been a bit much, but it felt justified in the moment.

Because in all the time he’d spent searching for Nesta Archeron, he’d always pictured the day he’d finally track her down and slap some cuffs on her wrists, haul her away to jail.

He’d never imagined he’d be given orders to find out what she knew first. 

And he’d also never imagined having to do so in fucking Nebraska. 

An hour in the state, and he already hated it. He was from Boston, so he didn’t mind the cold weather, but the lack of buildings over thirty feet was a shock to the system. 

That, alongside the fact that everyone here was wearing some form of plaid, only worsened his mood. 

It wasn’t like he cared about her or anything, but he’d never really liked undercover work. Deceiving a woman--no matter that she was a criminal--never felt right to him. 

But orders were orders. 

He had to find out why she’d run, what she knew about what had happened, and if she had any proof. The goal was to get it all recorded, so he had to carry around a stupid little tap recorder in his jacket pocket. 

Maybe she’d meet him and just spill her guts immediately. That’d be ideal, but it seemed pretty fucking unlikely. At the very least, he’d have to get her to trust him enough to talk about the events of two years ago.

He drove the crappy old truck Azriel had gotten him through the small town, gaining the eyes of pretty much every person he passed. 

Not a lot of new people, apparently.

Ignoring them, he drove to the address of a small house on the outskirts of town. Or home for however long it took him to get close to her. 

Gods, I hope she’s talkative, he thought, walking up the creaky stairs and shouldering the door open. 

Quiet and small, but at least it was clean. 

Throwing his bag down, Cassian grabbed his laptop and started to get to work. 

~

Three hours and a trip to the grocery store later, he’d learned absolutely nothing Nesta--or Mackenzie Brooks, rather. 

There had been nothing online, and no one in the store had much to say besides, “She moved here a year ago. Keeps to herself.”

Great. 

Luckily, he had a reason to go see her. They were neighbors. Kind of. 

Her house was further out of town than his, and she owned the land around it, so she didn’t actually have neighbors. But he lived within a two mile radius, so he counted it. 

Which is why he found himself sitting in her gravel driveway, eyebrows high on his forehead, staring at the place.

And for the first time, he questioned if Azriel was right. 

Because the woman he’d read about... she definitely didn’t seem the type to live here. 

The porch was missing floor boards, the roof was caving in on one side, and the paint on the outside of the house was peeling off. The only thing that looked somewhat new was the front door. 

It had three locks and seemed to be a little heavy duty compared to the house, which made it stand out in a pretty obvious way.

Stepping out of the car, he walked up to get a better look, avoiding the holes in the floor. The house was quiet, and he knocked on the door, finding it to be solid and heavy. 

No answer. 

He knocked again, waiting a few minutes. Then he decided to be nosy and peek in the window. 

A couch and dining table were all that was visible, furthering his opinion that she couldn’t actually live here. 

She’d grown up in one of the nicest apartment buildings in California. Her father had been a wealthy real-estate tycoon. She’d gone to private school and sailing camp, for Christ’s sake. 

There was no way she lived here. 

That theory was proven very soundly incorrect a second later when he felt something tap the back of his head. Repressing the jump that rose from not hearing anyone sneak up on him, he straightened and turned around. 

And found himself looking down the barrel of a shotgun into the surprisingly beautiful, angry face of Nesta Archeron. 

“You have five seconds to get the hell off my porch.” 

Shock ran through his system like lightening. For a few reasons, the least of which was the gun. 

For starters, pictures didn’t at all do her justice, because she was probably the most attractive thing Cassian had ever laid eyes on. And that was with mud splattered on her face, hair in a ponytail, and athletic clothes covering her thin frame. 

Then there was the fact that Azriel had been completely correct. Nesta Archeron, pampered little trust fund princess, was living here. In Nebraska. Completely off the grid. By herself. 

The gun was also a surprise, but not as much as the way she was holding it. Her feet were squared, her shoulders lined up to absorb the kickback if she fired. She looked... she looked like she knew what she was doing. 

She raised a brow, reminding him of the fact that he still hadn’t spoken. 

And remembering who he was supposed to be, what he was supposed to do, he ignored the gun and smiled broadly. “Or what?”

“Or I will shoot you,” she responded calmly, hand pulling back the fore-end to load the gun with a snap. 

“You aren’t going to shoot me,” he assured her. “I brought you a pie.” He held up the baked good and grinned. It was from the grocery store, but it still counted, right? “It’s blueberry.”

“What? Who the fuck are you? And why are you here?”

Sticking out a hand that she ignored, he said, “Cassian. I’m here because I just moved in to the place about a mile from here, and I wanted to meet my neighbors. I gotta say, I’m loving the hospitality.”

Nesta ignored the joke and asked incredulously, “You moved here?”

He nodded. 

She just narrowed her eyes, not buying it apparently. 

Good God, “stand-off-ish” didn’t begin to cover it. 

He was having a difficult time wrapping his head around the fact that this was the same woman who’d gone to UC Santa Barbara, liked to surf, and had dated a movie star.

“But what about the-”

“I hate pie.”

He scoffed, leaning against the crumbling wall of her house like he was unbothered by the rejection in her voice. “No one hates pie.”

Nesta shrugged, jerking her chin towards his truck in a clear get the fuck out manner. 

“I’ll leave if you tell me your name,” he bargained, acting like he didn’t know who she was already.

There was a pause of silence, and a bit of sadness seeped into her bright blue eyes. “Mackenzie.”

Mackenzie Brooks, one of her aliases.  

“Pretty name.”

“Leave.”

“Sweetheart, I honestly can’t believe you’re trying so hard to get rid of me. I’m the best looking guy around here.”

That might very well be true, considering he hadn’t seen a single person under the age of fifty when he’d gone out earlier. 

“And what if I’m not looking for a man?”

“I have a female cousin you could date instead.”

Her lips twitched, and it made him a little too happy to see. “If I take the pie, will you leave?”

“Counteroffer. We split the pie, then I’ll leave.”

Her eyebrows go up. “Who the hell offers someone half a pie?”

“I was planning on giving you the whole pie, but I didn’t know you’d be so beautiful. And feisty.” He ran his eyes over her slowly. “A quality I never even knew I liked.”

“The urge to shoot you just increased.”

Cassian waggled his eyebrows. “So passionate.”

Nesta just sighed, finally lowering the gun. She engaged the safety and leaned it against the door, then snatched the pie from his hands and walked to the porch railing. 

He noticed she didn’t turn her back to him the entire time, and she she kept the gun in arm’s reach. 

What the hell had she been through?

His train of thought was cut off when he heard a splat. Nesta came back to him, one crumpled half of the pie lying upside down in the lid, the other in the original container. She shoved the crumpled half toward him. “Now leave.”

“How did you even cut it? Do you have a knife hidden between your breasts?”

It was a miracle she didn’t slap him for that one. She just narrowed her eyes again and said, “Yes.”

He honestly believed her. 

Cassian sighed, knowing he had to actually leave now. “Well, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but it’ll do. It was lovely to meet you, Mackenzie.”

“Please just leave.”

Ouch.

He laughed and walked to his truck, calling out, “I’ll see you soon, neighbor!”

Nesta frowned at that, but he ignored it and grinned back. 

She stood on the porch watching him drive away until he was a certain distance, then picked up her stuff and unlocked the door. 

Well, Azriel had definitely been right: she was being very, very careful. 

But why? 

Cassian had no idea, but he was definitely going to find out. 

_____________________________________________________

Part 2

@sjm-things​ @santas-dwynwen​ @thebitchupstairs​ @sayosdreams​ @perseusannabeth​ @cursebreaker29​ @a-bit-of-a-cactus​ @elriel4life​ @girl-who-reads-the-books​ @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln​ @highqueenofelfhame​ @tswaney17​ @rowanisahunk​ @superspiritfestival​ @studyliketate​ @over300books​ @justgiu12​ @maastrash​ @aesthetics-11​ @bamchickawowow​ @b00kworm​ @sleeping-and-books​ @musicmaam​ @hizqueen4life​ @maybekindasortaace​

[hotchley]

hotchner’s hoodie

What’s up, I’m Sumayyah, I’ve been on CM tumblr for just over a year and I never cross-posted my first four fics until now, which is only because I changed my url, and now my laptop is going to die in 11 minutes so..

This is for @themetaphorgirl‘s PSOLC verse. You should read it. This is no longer compliant with that canon, but you know what, it is fine! I am literally doing this for the sake for a masterlist <3

Trigger Warnings: child abuse

read on ao3!

Aaron Hotchner was completely fine. He was not freaking out, he was not stressed and he most certainly was not about to burst into tears. He was a cool, calm and collected seventeen year old that was responsible, wise beyond his years and more mature than Alex Miller and James Blake put together. 

Okay maybe he wasn’t the last one, but he was still a responsible teenager. He was not a child. He would not start crying over stupid, insignificant events.

But he could not find his hoodie. On any other day, not knowing the location of his hoodie would be greeted with a shrug, and the general acceptance that it would turn up somewhere. One of the younger kids- most likely Spencer- would have taken it because they were cold and had forgotten to put in the laundry. And that was fine. It had been fine since he’d met them and realised they needed at least one responsible person in their lives, if only to keep them alive. 

But this wasn’t any other day, and as childish as it made him feel, he just really wanted to feel the soft and warm material of the hoodie against his bare arms. He wanted the familiar smell of the floral laundry detergent Lincoln House had ended up with when Penelope had worn the hoodie as soon as it came out of the wash and declared that they needed a new one. He wanted the one small piece of home that had not been tainted by memories of pain, tears and fear to remind himself why he went back there.

He would never tell the others, but the hoodie hadn’t been his choice. It had been Sean’s. They had gone together with his mother’s credit card- his father would never let him near his money- to buy him some extra clothes before he left for school. He’d spent the entire time worrying about what they would come home to and had been too stressed on making sure Sean was never out of his sight to properly look at what he was buying, just putting things that weren’t tacky or expensive in the basket and hoping for the best.

But then Sean had rubbed the front of the hoodie he was still searching for- he had could have sworn he left it in the bed drawer- and started laughing. Told him that it was so soft and nice and cuddly and warm that he had to buy it. And when he had hesitated, not sure whether buying something like that would land him in trouble, Sean had gasped. Said it was blue, just like his eyes and because he wouldn’t take a teddy to remind him of home, this could be the same thing.

He’d been unable to say no, so he’d gotten it, hidden it amongst the various textbooks and notebooks, and never taken it home. His father still didn’t know about the little indulgence. His mother did. She’d been so worried about him, but he’d been determined to take one good thing to the school with him.

So yes, he had never told anyone else why he was so attached to an old hoodie, but it was because he didn’t want them to know the truth. He didn’t want them to ask why he’d never said anything to the school, why he’d never trusted them enough to tell them, or the question that kept him laying awake at night: why had he left his mom and little brother in that house with that man?

His hands were starting to shake as he reached the bottom of the drawer with no sign of the hoodie and he reminded himself to breathe. It was just a hoodie, it wasn’t anything special. And if his father could see him… 

He didn’t want to think about that. Not when he had just been home for the weekend because his mother had told him about how Sean had been so brave when he had been getting his vaccines because he wanted to be like his big brother superhero and not ask for help. Most people would’ve found it endearing.

Hotch found it sickening. He’d never wanted Sean to be like him: a seventeen-year-old too afraid of rejection to ask for anything.

He pushed the thoughts of his father from his mind. He couldn’t find his hoodie anywhere in his room, which meant one of the kids had to have it. Lessons were finished, the library was closed, but there was still a decent amount of time before dinner, which meant that they would probably all be in the Lincoln House common room.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and went down. He could hear them all laughing about something from the hallway and smiled. They were an odd group, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he would be there had he not been the RA for his floor, but he loved them. And he never wanted to stop hearing that laughter.

Which was why it made sense that it stopped as soon as he walked in. Everyone was sat in their usual seat: Alex and James were snuggled up on one of the sofas with Spencer in her lap, Emily was laying next to them, doing something on her phone. JJ and Penelope were sat on the floor, Derek crouching behind them and Dave was watching them all fondly from the armchair.

“Hey guys,” he said, even though they were all aware of his presence. “I was just wondering if anyone had seen my hoodie.”

They all looked at each other, the younger kids sheepish, the older ones smirking. He fought back the urge to let the tears spill and swallowed the lump in his throat. He was meant to be the responsible one.

“Look if one of you kids was wearing it and got jelly or mud or whatever it was on there I won’t be mad just tell me so I can put it in the wash,” he said, trying to keep his tone as gentle as possible so he didn’t scare the younger kids.

Derek snickered.

He sighed. “If it was used to put out a kitchen fire, I will also not be mad.”

Emily looked like she was two seconds away from dying of repressed laughter.

“And if you put Spencer in it and then dragged him round because he didn’t want to move and then somehow got water all over it, I won’t shout.”

JJ and Penelope gave each other identical smiles.

“If you decorated it with football and unicorn stickers because you thought it needed a bit of brightening up, that is fine but can you please, please just tell me where it is?” he repeated, his tone turning pleading at the end.

Both Alex and James gave him a concerned look, probably wondering why he was getting so worked up, but neither said anything as he schooled his features back into neutrality.

“Oh go on, put him out of his misery,” Dave said.

Hotch breathed a sigh of relief. He would get his hoodie back and everything would be fine. He would be fine.

“Hey Aaron. You left it at Roosevelt when you came to practice and then I forgot to give it back earlier. I promise I kept it safe, I know how much it means to all of you over here,” a very beautiful female voice said.

Hotch felt his heart stop and he squeezed his eyes shut. No. This was not happening to him. Haley Brooks was not sat there, laughing with his friends when he wasn’t there. She had not heard him go over all the various trials and tribulations his hoodie had suffered through. She had not just told everyone that when he had said he needed to speak to Gideon, he’d been lying because he’d gone to meet her and practice so he didn’t look like an idiot. And she most definitely was not stood in front of him, wearing it.

“Aaron?” 

“I- yes. Erm, thank you. That was- that’s- it’s really, really nice on you,” he stuttered, already aware that his cheeks were completely red.

“On you?” she repeated with that angelic smile. 

Oh god, had he really said that?

“Of you. It’s really nice of you to bring it over here. And you, umm, you look really pretty wearing it. Not that you don’t look pretty when you don’t wear it, you do, and I never say anything but-“

She rubbed his arm. His bare arm. “It’s fine, Aaron. I know what you meant. And it wasn’t that much effort to walk over here. Besides, I got to see Penelope and meet the rest of your family. They’re all amazing by the way.”

He stopped staring at her eyes and started staring at his arm, willing the goose bumps to go down. “Well thank you anyways. And they are, aren’t they?”

He could’ve punched the air. He got a whole sentence out without stuttering once.

“So you seemed pretty desperate to get it back,” she said, starting to take it off. The t-shirt she wore underneath had some musical reference on it, he didn’t know what one but he swallowed as he tried to keep his eyes on her face, not any lower. “Any particular reason?”

“No, no reason. I just-“ he was just what? There was nothing he could say without sounding pathetic. “It’s nothing. In fact if you’re cold why don’t you keep it? I can just grab a different one or something, my room is just up there, it’s fine.”

“Aaron, it’s your hoodie, you have every right to wear it. Here, move your arm and I’ll even put it on for you.”

“Haley, it’s fine. If you don’t wear it you’re going to freeze and if you try to get to Kennedy then you’ll be late for dinner,” he said.

She laughed, and although it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard, he couldn’t help but feel like she was mocking him. “Come on Aaron, let me put it on you.”

No, she couldn’t do that. She just couldn’t. If she touched him, he would flinch at the pain and she would ask why. She would know. They all would.

“Yeah Aaron, let her,” Emily teased, having put her phone down to watch him and Haley.

Aaron. Aaron. Why was everyone calling him that? He squeezed his eyes shut. “Seriously, it’s fine. I’ll just grab a jacket from upstairs and then we can head to dinner.”

“Oh come on Hotch, stop being difficult, let Haley touch you,” Derek teased.

 Stop being so difficult you little bitch. Stop moving Aaron, or I’ll make it worse for you. Keep your mouth shut or Sean will wake up. Imagine what it would do to him if he saw his older brother crying like a little girl. That’s right. Don’t make a sound, or you’ll be sorry.

“Aaron, you’re shaking,” Haley said, concern colouring her voice.

Shaking like a little terrified child, you’re not a child anymore stop acting like one. You’re a disgrace to this family. You need to learn what happens to disgraces. They get hurt and nobody loves them, nobody ever respects them.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t, I’ll be good, just don’t,” he mumbled, legs giving out as he fell to his knees, bowing his head, leaving his hands on his thighs, away from his back and face.

“Aaron?” Haley whispered as she knelt in front of him. 

He shook his head. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t see the rejection in her eyes as she realised he was damaged beyond repair.

“Hotch,” she said, this time more firmly.

He lifted his head just enough to see her mouth, pressed into a thin line as concern was written all over her face. When she realised he was looking at her, she smiled.

“Hey. There’s nothing to be sorry about okay? You haven’t done anything wrong. I promise. You’ve been absolutely perfect.”

“Weak,” he whispered.

“No, you’re so strong Aaron, you always have been. You’ve been strong for a little too long, that’s all. It’s okay though. You can let it go. You’re safe. I promise. Just let me hold you for a few minutes.”

And that was what broke the barrier. Feeling someone touch his back- a mess of scars and bruises- with a gentleness he’d only ever seen, never felt. 

He let himself cry, completely forgetting that the rest of his friends- no, his family- were right there. 

When the tears finally stopped falling, he realised he felt a lot warmer. At some point, Haley had slipped the hoodie onto him. He felt lighter now he was wearing it. He felt happier, knowing she hadn’t run, hadn’t questioned him, hadn’t had the response he had thought they would all have.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

He jerked back to reality. She was still sat in front of him. The rest of the kids were watching them, the younger ones on the brink of crying. Dave and Emily looked like they were ready to break into his house and kill his dad. James and Alex were watching, the concern in their eyes enough to make him want to cry again. They cared. They loved him.

“No,” he managed to choke out.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. And you never have to hide around any of us anymore,” she said.

Hotch nodded, still feeling a bit like a ghost.

“We’re always going to be here if you want to talk about it,” Alex said softly.

“And if you want to punch something, I’ll join you,” Derek added. Emily and Dave nodded in agreement.

“You can always come home to mine,” JJ suggested. “I told my parents about you, they think you’re really cool.”

“If you ever want a soft toy to cuddle in the night, I have loads!” Penelope exclaimed. Hotch managed to laugh.

Spencer moved off Alex’s lap and walked towards Hotch, his own eyes full of unshed tears. Haley shifted to his side and Spencer threw his arms around the older boy in a tight hug. Hotch realised he was shaking as the tears fell.

“I may be small, but I’m a genius and if he ever hurts you again, I’ll work out a way to make his life a living hell,” he whispered.

Hotch started laughing at that too.

“See. We’re here for you, no matter what demons haunt you,” Haley said.

Everyone nodded.

He smiled. “Thank you. All of you.”

“We’re your friends. You don’t need to say thank you,” Emily said. When everyone stared at her, she flushed and started picking at her nail polish again.

“She’s right you know. They’re your friends.”

He picked up on the fact that she excluded herself. “And what are you?” he asked, wondering why he was asking. She was probably going to say something like acquaintance, and then he would just be sat there like an idiot.

“Are you going to be okay with them? It is a little bit cold- do not give me that look Aaron Hotchner- and I need to grab a hoodie. And don’t even try and give me yours, I want you to wear it, it’s cute on you.”

He blushed. “Thank you, I- yes. I mean yes I’ll be fine with them, not yes like you need a hoodie and you can go, because you don’t need me to tell you what you can and can’t do, like that wasn’t what I was trying-”

She pushed his hair off his forehead, laughing slightly. “I know. But you wanted to know what I am to you right? Maybe this’ll help you work it out.”

And then she kissed his forehead before waving goodbye to everyone and leaving.

Hotch remained sat there, completely shocked.

Penelope squealed and he winced at the sound.

“Get it!” Emily shouted.

His blush became even more prominent. “Shut up.”

“Err, no. Haley kissed Hotchner!” Derek said, laughing.

“Oh my gosh, Haley and Hotchner. You guys could be called Halner! No wait, how about Hotley?”

“Penelope, shut up,” he pleaded, but he smiled as he said it.

She matched his grin. Derek and Emily were high-fiving. Dave looked smug. Alex and James looked so proud. JJ had a small smile, one that showed she was happy for him but was still a little grossed out by the thought of romance. Spencer looked horrified. That made his smile even wider.

Things were far from perfect. And one kiss wasn’t going to solve his issues. But with a group of his friends that loved him, that he could trust with his life and a girl who had done the opposite of running for the hills, he could finally start to heal.

[just-horrible-things]

Caution for: a little gore and body horror

---

Atna

Between the encampment palisades and the edge of the forest is a cleared zone, empty as a fresh page. The smooth expanse of fallen snow belies the broken earth beneath. Dusk gathers, and the first gusts of the night wind moan in the trees. A weary figure trudges out from the treeline. Without skis to spread her weight, she ploughs through snow up to her thighs. The makeshift sled behind her is heavy, laden with an unmistakably human form.

The call goes up from the sentries, and the figure -- dark against the snow and featureless in the gloom -- stops to wave her arms in response. The dogs, loosed, run out to greet her, barking up a storm. They race across the open snow only to prance around her, throwing up great white plumes. When she continues her slog, they race back and forth ahead of her, churning the snow unhelpfully in their enthusiasm.

Two more soldiers emerge from the gates to meet their returning comrade partway. "Captain!" the scout calls in acknowledgement. She is too weary to salute. "What happened?" the Captain demands. "This man is hurt, his ankle is broken." "Where is Ionas?" "He's not here? He was just ahead of me --" "You split up? Vanei, scrip, are you stupid?" The scout does not hang her head. "He went ahead to warn you! We only split at the brook."

As the Captain approaches the sled with lamplight, she examines the injured man. His furs are strange, bound close against his body. Beneath the coat of snow thrown up by the dogs, they are marbled dark and light like no animal she has ever seen.  In place of hat and scarf he wears a hood made from a single length of fur wound around head and neck and crossed over itself until only his eyes are visible. "Atna," the Captain breathes. 

She rounds angrily on the scout. "Dellie, what are you thinking?" "He can't walk. Nightfall would have killed him! He's done us no harm, we couldn't just--" "You split up, broke with orders, and endangered yourself and your partner for this? You know as well as I do that the forest isn't safe. Ionas may be dead already. I hope this atna's life is worth his!" "I'll go back," Dellie promises, "It's not far, I'll follow his tracks –" "You will do no such thing. You need decontamination. And I'll not have anyone else touch the atna. You're both going into quarantine immediately. If Ionas lives, he'll be joining you. Come on, hurry now. Did any of the dogs touch him?"

By the time the little party reaches the gate, a small crowd has gathered to see the atna. At the Captain's angry words they salute and disperse. But a handful of the scrips make themselves busy very nearby, and trail carefully after as the injured man is dragged to the quarantine tent.

"Stoke the fire," the Captain orders Dellie. "You're shaking like a fish, and he can't be any better. Once it's warm enough you will strip him and burn everything. Be sure to check his mouth. Yourself as well -- strip to your underthings and burn the rest." "I barely touched –" "Don't argue with me, scrip. You handled him enough to tie him to your skis. Everything burns." "This is my only coat." "You'll have another from the stores." "My mother made it!" "Then you should have been more careful with it! This is not up for discussion. Who knows what contagion he might be carrying?" Dellie's shoulders slump. "Yes, Captain." "Move then, hurry it up!"

The inside of the tent is warmer than the outside air, but not by a lot. In the large central fireplace, the coals burn low. No one has been using the tent, so the fire is tended only often enough to keep the fire alive. Dellie brushes the snow off the atna and herself, then parks the sled close to the fire and starts raking out ashes in preparation to pile on more fuel. The man is silent and still, and Dellie could almost forget he's there as she shovels coal and fans the fire to life.

But as the flames begin to take and the fire breathes in in earnest, he finally speaks. Dellie almost drops the poker in her surprise. His voice is low, and she thinks tight with pain and stress, but it is hard to decipher tone through the foreign sounds and the muffling of the fur over his face. "I don't understand you," she tells him uselessly.

She can guess that he might want to be untied, and she can't imagine that he's any danger to her in his current state. So she sets the poker back on its stand and crouches beside him to start undoing buckles. It's warm enough now to take off her gloves, which makes the whole process easier. The atna lies still even once the straps are removed, but he speaks again and it could be gratitude.

Dellie spends a little longer fanning the flames and nudging the coals around. It's not often she gets to bring a fire to a roaring blaze like this, but the injured man is an excuse to bring the temperature of the tent up to a heat like she hasn't been able to enjoy in months. She shrugs out of her coat to soak up more of the fire's glow, letting it seep through her shivering flesh and lift the cold from her bones.

Her orders are to burn the coat, but she folds it out of habit and lays it across the bench beside her gloves. Her eyes skim over the familiar curls of her mother's embroidery. Her heart twists at the thought of destroying it. She turns away.

Crouching beside the atna, she takes a deep breath. His eyes are shockingly green, brighter in the firelight than they were in the shade of the trees. They watch her steadily. "Come on then," she sighs, more to herself than to him. He doesn't fight her as she sits him up, but he doesn't cooperate much either. He makes a low, breathless sound that could mean anything at all.

Dellie leans him against her body as she searches for the fastenings of his clothes to start undressing him. Layers cross over layers and she isn't sure where to begin. There's no buttons, only the many lengths of leather thonging that hold the furs against his body. She chooses a knot at random and starts to pick it undone. The atna lifts one shaking hand to stop her. His eyes, very close to hers, crinkle in a smile, and he reaches for a different knot instead. Dellie watches his gloved fingers grope clumsily at the hanging tail of the cord, then reaches hesitantly to drop. He lets his hand drop. 

The knot unravels easily with a simple tug. He says another incomprehensible thing, then indicates two more knots for her to undo. When the third loosens Dellie can suddenly see how to unfold the furs. With his cooperation, she peels them off his body.

Underneath the outer layer, his clothes are shockingly vibrant. Pink and blue like summer flowers mingle and flow together. The fabric is thin and clinging and seems to be his only layer beneath the fur. No wonder he was freezing so fast. Dellie lays him back on the sled -- it'll do as a bed for now, while he needs to be as close to the fire as possible -- and gets to her feet. Clumsily he begins to unwind the wrap from around his head and neck, while Dellie inspects the garment she's just taken off him.

She can't really call it a coat. It looks like nothing more than a collection of fur scraps fastened together at odd angles. It seems as though it should fall apart in her hands into patches and cords, but it holds the shape of his arms and upper torso remarkably well. It reminds her of holding an animal skin. Not all the patches are of the same fur, but there's a kind of haphazard elegance to it. It didn't come together this way by accident, but by some exotic design.

She bundles it up and throws it into the fire.

The atna gives a strangled yell and lurches forwards. He's so weak still that he can barely push himself up to sitting. As he tries to get his good leg under him, he pitches forwards towards the flames. Dellie yelps and grabs him to pull him back, but he squirms with remarkable vigour, hands grabbing in the air as she wrestles him away from the flames. "You -- moron -!" she squeaks over the babble of his strange language "-- do you want to burn --!?"

He fights her for a couple of seconds more, then stops. The stink of burning hair fills the air. She lets go only tentatively, half expecting him to throw himself back at the fire. He glowers up at her, panting, then starts talking again. Dellie doesn't understand a word. But she gets the distinct impression that he's cursing at her. "I'm sorry!" she snaps. "I don't like it any more than you do. But it's going to happen whether you like it or not!"

She grabs at the head-wrap in his hands, and he pulls it closer against his chest. "Dja!" he growls, and that's one word Dellie does know. No. "Yes," she hisses back. "Dja!" Her hand snaps forwards and manages to catch a fistful of fur, but he rolls away from her and she loses her grip. The fur is trapped under his body as he lays sprawled on the canvas floor, glaring daggers at Dellie.

"Is everything alright in there?" calls a voice from the door-flap. "Yes," Dellie grouches. "He doesn't want me to burn his clothes." "No surprise there." Mannel ducks into the tent just far enough to see. "Can you handle it?" "Yeah I think so." "Well, I brought new clothes. Don't touch them until you're both decontaminated." "I know, I know." He leaves the thick bundle on the side beside the door, ducks back out, and returns a second later with a second bundle. "Good luck in there," he chuckles. "Call for backup if you need it."

Dellie sighs dramatically. She looks at her unwilling charge, still face down and looking fit to kill her if he could only get up. "We saved your life, you know." He says nothing.

Dellie stomps over to the bench where she left her coat and gloves. "Look," she says, picking the gloves up. "It's not just your stuff." She chucks them one at a time into the fire to join the shrivelling husk of the atna's garment. The wild-coloured fur has burned away, but the leather is reluctant to catch. The smell of char intensifies as the fire finds the furry insides of the gloves.

The man is staring at Dellie with naked incomprehension. It takes the hard edges off his anger and leaves him looking lost and vulnerable. Dellie holds her hands out for the fur. "Come on," she coaxes, "It has to happen." "Dja," he growls, and starts blabbering again.

Patience exhausted, she resorts to force. He is still weak from the cold and he has a broken ankle. The conclusion is foregone. He fights her as she wrestles the fur wrap off him. He lashes out with fists and elbows. He tries to headbutt her. He even bites like a feral animal, sinking his teeth into the sleeve of Dellie's jacket hard enough that she cries out with pain as well as surprise. She feels fewer compunctions after that about pinning him until he hollers.

Inevitably, the fur goes into the fire to join the rest.

Dellie starts to worry about putting too much on at once and smothering it. But the first piece is smouldering now and starting to burn away. The stench is enough to make her gag, but the smoke exits through the top of the tent and they will not choke on it. It just feels like she might.

Between the fire and the exertion, she is starting to get over-warm. She peels her fur trousers off and adds them reluctantly to the pyre, then paces to the edge of the tent to cool off a little while the fire chews through their clothing. She thinks about taking her jacket off too. But she can still see the indentations of tooth-marks in the leather.

Piercing green eyes watch her with suspicion. When she is still for a little while, the atna pushes himself carefully up to sitting. But he doesn't try anything else. Dellie returns to the fire, scrapes away the ashes and adds a few more coals. She looks at the coat that her mother stitched for her. She looks at the atna. "I should have left you to die," she grumbles.

He fights her again as she peels off the rest of his furs, but the fight goes out of him when she has to pull them over that broken ankle. He holds still so that she can go gently, and contents himself with lowering blackly at her while she unlaces the cords and threads his foot out from the furs. He is silent, this time, as his clothing goes into the fire. Dellie dares to hope that he's done with making this difficult for her. But when she comes back for the rest of his clothes he gets frantic again.

His struggles are outright frenzied as Dellie tries to pull his colourful shirt over his head. His voice pitches up through anger into desperation. She has to sit on him to stop him pulling away. He shrieks like a rabbit and bites her again and again. He was so human just a minute ago, but now he is every bit the wild thing that she knows the atna are.

"What's going on in here?" "Captain," Dellie answers breathlessly, still wrestling with him. "He's -- fighting me, Captain!" "Do you need support?" "I can handle it -- I think!" She gets the fabric over his face and at least it stops him biting. "I'm not sure!" "I'll have someone standing by."

The colourful shirt is firmly caught around both arms, and he will not relent. Dellie gives up, grabs the knife off her belt, and starts cutting into the fabric where it's pulled taut. He jerks sideways and the knife slips, scoring a shallow line up his arm. He shrieks again. Cursing, Dellie lets go of his arms. He pulls the shirt down off his head immediately, and freezes when he sees the knife. "Stop fighting me," she snarls.

Miraculously, he does hold still while she slices the shirt clean up the back. His eyes are wide and wild, his lips pulled back from his teeth as if he's more dog than man. But he holds still. Dellie cuts the sleeves off him too, and drags the rags out from under his body. He doesn't make it any easier for her, but he doesn't fight it either.

The brief spell of cooperation breaks the instant she takes the knife to the waist of his leggings.

"You animal," Dellie curses him as he struggles underneath her. She has to drop the knife for fear of cutting him. He wails and babbles and snarls, and she pins him with a knee on his bare back and strips him like a recalcitrant toddler. There is laughter from the door-flap, where her promised reinforcements form an audience of two.

When she finally has both his leggings and his boots off, the atna scrambles away as if afraid for his life, dragging the broken ankle behind him. He cowers against the back wall of the tent while Dellie straightens her clothes in a huff. Into the flames the last of his clothing goes.

"You rescued a wild animal, Dellie," Alan laughs. "What did you think was going to happen?" "I should have left him," she agrees. "Maybe his own kind would have come back for him, like with baby birds." "That would have saved me a whole lot of trouble. Ugh, the Captain wants me to search his mouth -- he'll bite my fingers off! Can't we get one of the dog trainers in here?"

As she approaches, the atna does indeed bare his teeth at her again. He curls up a fraction tighter. "I really don't know if I can do this without help," Dellie confesses. He's more lively now than he was, and she isn't as confident. "Decontaminate first," Mannel suggests, "then I'll come in and help." "You lazy bastard," Alan accuses. "You just want to get out of work."

Shaking her head, Dellie returns to the hearth and strips down. Her jacket goes into the fire. Her boots she sets aside. They didn't touch the atna -- maybe she can keep them if they go through quarantine and nothing grows. Her socks go into the fire. Her leggings she will burn, but she leaves them on the bench for the moment, lest she smother the flames.

The Captain only said she had to strip down to underthings. She could keep her shift and hose. But Dellie thinks about sharp seeds burrowing into fabric, lying dormant waiting for the host to sleep. She shivers, and peels off the woollen things too.

There's a barrel of carbolic among the stacked supplies. Dellie ladles it liberally over herself, making sure to soak her hair to the roots and to rub it into her skin from top to toe. It itches on the skin, and even in the growing heat of the tent she will be cold with wet skin. But it eases Dellie's nerves to know that it is killing any foreign germs that the atna has left on her skin. She fills a bucket, and hauls it over to the atna.

The brief reprieve hasn't calmed him down at all. He snaps his teeth fiercely and balls his hands into fists. Dellie stops a pace short of his reach, casts a rueful glance at her thoroughly amused backup, and takes a deep breath. Then she throws the content of the bucket over him.

The atna sputters and gasps, anger momentarily displaced by shock. He goggles up at Dellie. "Wash with it," she tells him slowly, miming rubbing her own skin like she was a moment ago. "Dja," he refuses. "Look. You wash yourself," she jabs her finger at him, "or I wash you."

He flinches back when she moves forward, and tries to hit her as she grabs his arm. She fends him off long enough to demonstrate rubbing the antiseptic into his skin. He pulls violently away from her. She lets go and watches bemusedly as he scoots frantically backwards along the tent wall away from her. "Wash," she orders him again. Very reluctantly, he puts his hands on his own arms and mimics her gesture. "That's right! Just like that. Thank fuck, he gets it."

She stomps off to refill the bucket. It's the last of the carbolic -- "Fetch me some more, would you?" -- but it should be enough. The atna flinches when she brings it close and turns his head away, eyes screwed shut in anticipation of another dousing. But this time she just sets it down on the canvas beside him. She dips her hand to demonstrate, and wets her hair a little more. He stares flatly at her, so she cups a palmful and splashes it over him. 

When she reaches to touch him again, he snaps out another quick sequence of syllables and pulls away. Dellie withdraws her hand, but she points firmly at the bucket. Reluctantly, he dips his hand in and wets his hair.

Every single step requires a similar level of prompting. Dellie demonstrates persistently. It's like he's never washed before, and perhaps he hasn't. Do atna bathe? Frequently she has to threaten to do it herself. She can't understand why he is so afraid. She itches to just get on with it. But so long as he will do it himself she won't force him. He seems so scared. 

He is particularly reluctant to uncurl, preferring to hide his belly behind his arms and legs wherever he can. When she prompts him to wash that area, he shuffles awkwardly round to put his back to her. "What's he hiding?" Mannel chirps from the door. "I can't tell. Get in here and help, and we'll find out." Mannel saunters in in no particular hurry. "Wow, it's hot in here," he remarks. "I hope you're not intending to keep it like this all week."

They corner the feral atna between them. He repeats his foreign no over and over. Dellie despairs of communicating. All his squirming and flailing is futile. Between the two of them they have no difficulty securing him. Mannel kneels behind the atna, holding his arms behind his back, while Dellie levers his legs down to expose his stomach.

"Vanei," Mannel gasps.

The skin of the atna's stomach is marred by a ragged-edged patch of brown the size of Dellie's palm. She takes it for mud at first glance, or perhaps a scabbed-over wound. But as she takes in the rippled texture, she realises that it is tree bark.

The atna takes advantage of her shock to wrest his legs out of her grip and curl up again, still babbling in his garbled foreign tongue. "What is that?" she wonders aloud. "I don't know." Mannel twists the man's arms harder to make him holler and stop trying to kick Dellie with his one good leg. "But it can't be anything good."

It only takes a brief tussle to pin him again. Dellie sits on his thighs as he shrieks his head off. "Shut up!" she yells back in his face. "Shut up shut up shut up!"

His frantic squirming stills momentarily as she brushes cautious fingers over the patch. Dellie can hear Alan at the door, explaining the situation to whoever is outside. Mannel nudges the bucket towards her with one knee, and she snaps out of her confusion. She splashes carbolic liberally over the whole area. Then she touches the bark again. It doesn't easily come away from his skin. "It's stuck," she informs Mannel. The atna's voice is low with a different kind of urgency as repeats "dja" again. But Dellie still can't understand another word of his jabbering. "Creepy," says Mannel.

Dellie forces her fingertips under the edge. The bark seems glued down, separating only stickily and reluctantly from the skin. There is warm wetness beneath, and Dellie jerks her hand back in surprise. The liquid is clear and colourless on her fingertips, both slicker and tackier than the carbolic. She grimaces at Mannel. Their unwilling patient's protests have taken on a fresh pleading tone. There's nothing to be done to reassure him. She prises the bark away from the skin carefully, sliding her fingers sideways beneath it to widen the gap. Near the centre there is heat, and the atna howls. Dellie falters. "Gods alive," she swears, "I think it's growing into him." "The poor fuck." "Just stay still," she tells the atna. "We can heal this. -- I hope." His struggles have grown weaker. He still pulls against Mannel's grip, but he is panting hard. His eyes are mad and inhuman.

There's nothing else for it. With her fingers far enough under the bark to get a solid grip, Dellie pulls. The atna convulses. His voice rises in another raw howl, climbing and climbing until it breaks. Red blood wells up and soaks her hands as the bark comes free. As she feared, it was not just stuck to his skin. As she pulls, a wet tangle of pale roots slides sickeningly out of his abdomen, dripping with his blood. The wound left behind is deep. Dellie stares in horror for a second, then lurches away as bile rises abruptly in her throat. She hears Mannel shouting for a medic as she empties her stomach. He sounds far away.

By the time the nausea has receded, the medic is already in the tent. The atna is on his back on the floor again, with Mannel's hands clamped over his abdomen. The firelight paints the scene in stark, dizzying colours.

The medic spots Dellie staring. "Get that abomination into the fire," she commands.

Dellie jumps to do as she's told, and the tent spins. She tries not to look at the blood-soaked mass of bark and pallid fibres as she grabs it one-handed. The slimy feel of it has her gagging continuously until she can cast it into the flame.

She turns back just in time to see the medic forcing something - probably concentrated carbolic - into the wound. The atna shudders and screeches. Dellie winces hard in sympathy, but the hard-faced woman isn't dissuaded. "Hold his legs," she orders.

Dellie starts forwards. The medic grabs a piece of white rag and shoves it firmly into the wound. The sight of the fabric disappearing into the man's belly turns Dellie's stomach again. She stumbles, as her limbs go limp. Darkness closes in, blotting out the sight of all the blood.  She barely feels herself fall.

[thewatchau]

Gathering the Hunt: Green Joins the Party Part 18

Green of course belongs to @autumnleafauthor

The following works contains possibly dubious horse behaviour, but Firefly's a weird horse

Bard's Note: Thanks to @theshapeshifter100 as always! And as someone who has ridden horses, all horses are weird, frankly. I'll elaborate more in the end-notes. :)

---

Ivy got up and parted the bushes, revealing a fast flowing, bubbling brook. Firefly looked up from drinking only to return to it, only bothered by a bored Otto. Ivy refilled her skin, and once she stood up, threw caution to the wind and splashed Green.

“HEY!” she squealed before recovering and splashing back, giggling. Ivy let out a small shriek in return, and her legs moved to a defensive stance without thinking, however she didn’t go any further.

She splashed Green again, but missed, catching Firefly and Otto instead. Otto let out an indignant squawk and flew into the tree to sulk and dry off. Firefly meanwhile whinnied and looked over, not impressed.

“Sorry!” Ivy tried to placate, but Firefly snorted and stomped into the brook, sending water flying everywhere!

Green laughed loudly. “Looks like someone else is joining in!”

“Yep,” Ivy dove for the bank. Firefly nickered and followed, going to a brief canter to disturb the water as much as possible, and splashing Ivy. She then trotted up to the bank and shook her mane, getting water everywhere.

“Firefly!” Ivy shrieked and Firefly whinnied again, sounding like she was laughing. “Otto’s been a bad influence on you,” Ivy grumbled, shaking herself off.

Green could hardly stop laughing, looking on at this spectacle while drenching her feet in the cold water. Firefly meanwhile decided that this other laughing human needed a bath too, so reared up and plunged her hooves into the water, sending a wave towards Green.

“HEEEEY!” she squealed again, and decided to splash the horse back, though it didn’t have quite the desired effect since her victim was already wet from top to bottom.

Firefly shook off her mane to add insult to injury, then trotted off daintily towards dry land, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

“Well, at this point we might as well go swimming!” Ivy declared. She wasn’t the best swimmer, and was actually a bit scared of deep water, but didn’t see a problem with a shallow brook.

“We might as well!” Green giggled and removed some of her more expensive clothes, leaving her in her riding trousers and an undershirt. Ivy was surprised that Green agreed and followed suit.

Soon the slightly older woman had her boots off and her trousers rolled up. It didn’t take long because she had no real outwear on. It was a hot day, so anything more than a shirt and trousers seemed a bit much.

Since Ivy was already soaked, she just walked into the brook, sat down and let the water flow around her stomach.

Green meanwhile, took a look at the brook bed, shrugged and planted herself face first into the water, then flipped on her back and spit out of the liquid theatrically.

Ivy startled at this, but was relieved when she came back up. Taking a deep breath Ivy leaned back and ducked her head under the water. The water was freezing, but on a day like this it wasn’t so bad. Feeling the solid ground below kept her at ease and she came up, quickly catching her hat from floating downstream and shaking off her now dripping hair.

“That is refreshing!”

“Y-you can c-call it that-t!” Green was shaking a little from the sudden cold, but recovered quickly and began to grin.

Ivy was happy to chill in the brook, occasionally leaning back to her head under, memories of the Rúnach not bothering her today. The sun was shining, birds were singing… This sounded like a line in the Tale of Chara and Frisk.

“Perfect weather to play catch, hmmm?” Ivy asked, seeing if Green got the reference.

“Hmmmm, it does look like it!”

“Can’t imagine that we’ll have a bad time?” Ivy grinned.

“Oh never!”

Ivy continued to grin and stood up, water slopping everywhere. Her clothes clung a bit, but in this sun she expected to dry out quickly. Deciding that she’d had enough water time, she left the brook and walked across the bank in bare feet, hat in one hand, boots in the other.

She then put them under the tree and began to wring out her hair. It was long and thick, so this was going to take a while. Green joined her, picking up her discarded clothes and wringing her hair as well, although there wasn’t nearly as much of it.

“That was a good lunch stop,” Ivy spoke, still wringing out her hair. “I’d say we should get going, but it’s July, we have so much time to move until the sun goes down.”

“True, true, but I would like to get some more distance behind us,” Green added, shaking the last bits of water from her hair.

“Makes sense, but we should dry off first,” Ivy then groaned when she realised that Firefly still had all the bags and tack on, and they had gotten splashed too. “Firefly I swear if my journal got wet…” her messenger bag was oiled to be waterproof, as were some of her saddlebags, but not all of them. She couldn’t remember which bag had her journal. Thankfully, it was fine, the worry had made Ivy feel like she was having a heart attack.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Green said while Ivy searched, “that’s the good thing about having a horse for service and not for company!” Green winked.

Firefly stomped her hoof in protest, looking irritably at Green before nuzzling Ivy in the shoulder.

“Okay okay!” Ivy patted her soaked horse’s neck. “She was just joking!”

“Of course I was, dear Firefly!” Green backtracked, “I’m sure you’re wonderful company.”

Firefly side eyed Green, but clearly hadn’t forgiven her as she looked for more affection from Ivy. Up above them Otto croaked a laugh before flying down to land on Green’s shoulder, where he stuck his tongue out at Firefly.

“I swear you two are worse than children!” Ivy cried, while Green adjusted her balance.

“Hey there bud!”

“Sorry about that,” Ivy tried to call him over, but Otto was having none of it, playing with Green’s hair and trying to steal her glasses.

“H-hey! C’mon, not the glasses!” Green giggled.

“Otto, knock it off, we’ve talked about this!” Ivy protested. Otto responded by flying high up into the tree and lifting up his tail, pooping next to where Ivy’s boots were. “Mature. Really mature Otto.”

Green chuckled as she observed the spectacle, not wanting to interfere with Ivy’s ‘parenting’. Meanwhile, Otto stayed up in the tree, and after some persuading, Firefly went back to grazing. Ivy was now sweaty from dealing with them, and she looked back at the brook.

“Do you mind babysitting?” she asked Green. “I fancy another dip.”

“I’ll try my best, you go on,” Green smiled. “I’ll yell if I need you!” she waved Ivy towards the brook, before taking a seat underneath the tree and watching the animals. Her own horse hadn’t reacted to the shenanigans, grazing calmly.

While Ivy went back to the brook, Otto and Firefly looked at each other, coming to a truce. Otto croaked loudly once and Firefly dropped to the ground, rolling on her back.

Green reacted quickly, standing up. “Hey, Firefly, if you’d like to do that, at least let me take the luggage off you first!” it was a worth a try.

It didn’t work. Firefly paused for a second, still on her back, and continued rolling. Most of the stuff inside there was sturdy enough to take it, maybe getting crumped. The food… that was another matter for Ivy to discover later.

The bay horse rolled into an upright position eventually, and Otto swooped down, croaking with laughter, flying circles around Green’s head.

Green did an overly offended gasp,” Are you laughing at me?”

Otto landed on Firefly’s saddle and made another laughing noise, eerily similar to that of an actual human.

“KNOCK IT OFF! BOTH OF YOU!” Ivy yelled from the brook, having either heard or sensed what was happening. Pretty much everyone ignored her.

“YOU ARE!” Green playfully picked up a small piece of wood, and hurled it in Otto’s general direction. Otto flew off his perch and went back into the tree, laughing while Firefly nickered.

There was a rustle of bushes by the brook and Ivy appeared, sopping wet and red faced. “I told you both to stop it!” she snapped, looking at both Otto and Firefly. Otto tucked his head under his wing, appearing unbothered as Firefly got to her hooves and nudged Ivy’s shoulder.

“Nope, you don’t apologise to me. Don’t get all soppy with me,” Ivy turned her back on Firefly. “You know who you need to apologise to.”

Firefly turned to Green, and with what could only be described as a sigh, nudged Green in the shoulder while Otto laughed in the tree.

“It’s okay darling, no harm done,” Green patted Firefly before turning to Ivy. “Ready to continue our journey?”

“Yeah,” Ivy glared at Otto,” but he’s not getting any more treats today!”

Otto squawked in horror, but Ivy would not budge. “That’s what you get!” she called up.

Ivy then packed up her stuff, put her boots and hat back on before vaulting onto Firefly’s back. Green followed suit.

“And, off we go!” Ivy kicked Firefly to a walk and Otto took to the air, still sulking.

They set off along the road again, with Otto flying high above as he sulked. He came back down every now and again to see if Ivy had changed her mind, but flew back up when it was clear that she hadn’t.

“Is he going to be okay?” Green chuckled, amused.

“He’ll be fine. He’s just sulking,” Firefly bobbed her head in agreement. “No need to lick my boots you know,” Ivy addressed her horse, who let out an offended nicker.

Green chuckled again. “Like a family, the lot of you.”

“I suppose we are,” Ivy smiled fondly. “I did raise them both.”

Green matched the smile and the two fell into silence for a little bit, and Ivy’s mind began to whir. It went to her original predicament with Green; making a deal with the Fae.

“It doesn’t have to be immediate,” she thought out loud with dawning realisation.

“What doesn’t have to be?”

“The whole, soul deal thing,” words fell and stumbled out of her mouth, which seemed to struggle to keep up with Ivy’s thoughts. “If we don’t find something when the deal is made, the soul hand over doesn’t have to be immediate, right? I can haggle a date.”

Green though about it. “Well, it can be bound to a condition. Like, when you’re satisfied with what you’ve received, or say, ten years later… why?”

“Just a thought,” Ivy shrugged, a little pleased with herself for thinking of it. “I’d been operating on the idea that the exchange was immediate, but it clearly doesn’t have to be, I can just say that that can have my soul in 50 years time or something.”

“Well, they’ll have to agree, I imagine a bargain will be in order, but technically, yes, you don’t have to trade your soul immediately.”

“Okay,” Ivy nodded, glad to have a more informed approval. “That’s a weight off, I suppose.”

“If you look at this way,” Green was still thinking about it all. “I’d still prefer offering something else of value, like an expensive or emotionally valuable item, or my services?”

“I agree,” Ivy shifted a little uncomfortably, still uncertain. “But, if we can’t find anything, there is a back up plan.”

“It’s still not a good one,” Green looked at Ivy sternly.

“I never said it was a good one!” Ivy protested the look, “I just said it was an option. Better than giving it up immediately”

“I know, I know,” Green trailed off, “I just don’t like the thought of any of us giving up their soul at all…”

“That’s understandable, and thank you for helping me,” Ivy felt guilty at how nervous she thought Green looked. “You don’t have to go further than the research and Nathan and Paultin bit. You don’t have to go into the Fae or Imagination Realms.”

“But I will help you. What sort of Watcher would I be if I gave up because I was scared?” Green smiled, nervous, but hopeful.

Ivy sighed, not sure what else she expected. “Thank you,” she repeated. “But you don’t even know Jen, or my mother.”

“But I know that they’re important to you. And anyone you’d give your soul for must be a pretty decent person,” Green winked, meaningfully this time.

“I hadn’t actually realised I was going to be giving my soul away until a few days ago, but yeah. Jen’s a sweetheart,” the soul thing seemed obvious now, but Ivy did sometimes overlook the obvious.

“Tell me about her!”

Ivy was a bit thrown off, and just started talking. “Er, professional dabbler. Might have dabbled in more things than me. Absolutely passionate about so many things. She has this cart that travels with her, and it’s filled to the brim with stuff, which has just enough room for two people to sleep next to each other.”

She paused when she realised that she hadn’t actually said anything about Jen herself. “Easily excited, and kind.” She added. “Definitely kind.”

“And definitely sounds like a person worth risking my life for. What do you like best about her?”

“That look on her face when we found something new. Her eyes would light up and she’d look so excited and…” Ivy trailed, going a little red from embarrassment. “I sound like I have a crush on her…”

“Would that really be so bad?”

“Er, well, I, don’t have, much experience, in that,” Ivy mumbled, definitely embarrassed now.

Green had a thoughtful look on her face. “Describe to me how you feel when that happens. When you find something new and she gets excited.” Green herself had little experience in love, but she knew of her many friends and their tales.

Ivy fumbled for an answer, not used to looking at her feelings like this. “I’m happy, because she’s happy? I don’t know.”

“Try to tell me more,” Green pushed. “How does this kind of happy feel? Is it like the happy when you get a present? Or have the prospect of a lovely meal?” she was reversing the comparisons of what her friends said it wasn’t like.

“I don’t know!” Ivy cried. “It was back in April, I don’t remember! I just remember, happy,” Ivy pulled her hat over her face, embarrassed and frustrated.

Green laughed loudly at this. “There might be a distinct possibility, just telling by you trying to hide your feelings!”

Ivy’s burned even more scarlet. “It’s not something I’m familiar with…”

“It wouldn’t be, for sure. Many people take their good time with love, like me.”

“Charles was always better at this,” Ivy grumbled. “How so like you?” she tried to push the conversation away from her.

Green saw this, but complied, much to Ivy’s relief. “I’ve never quite seen anything as a romantic feeling. After I’ve spent so much time overreacting every time someone was special to me, since other people liked to tell me at what young ages they fell in love, even if it was only friendship what I was experiencing… I guess I’d just like to take my time and be sure.”

“That sounds like me,” Ivy nodded, “everyone was getting boyfriends and girlfriends when I was a child. I tried, I had a boyfriend, because I wanted to fit in. It fell apart pretty quickly, and I’ve never really tried again. I’ve been told people had crushes on me, but I could not tell. People should just say it, or write it on their foreheads or something!”

Green laughed at that. “I get that sentiment, for sure. I’m often surprised by how easily I can tell if other people are in love, but I can never tell with myself…”

Ivy shrugged, “I suppose it’s easier to see from the outside. I know my brother had many admirers at school, not that he noticed half the time!”

“Exactly!”

Ivy cleared her throat, feeling awkward. “Anyway, love life aside, err,” she floundered for a new conversation, but came up short.

Green couldn’t think of any topics either, staring off in the distance awkwardly.

---

Ivy's fear of water comes from this fic here.

This is interesting to re-read after all this time. We did this RP I think in 2019. Ivy is heavily based on me, I don't think that's any secret, down to sexual oriantiation (ace), and likely, down to romantic oriantation, which I've recently figured is on the aromantic spectrum, somewhere. With that in mind, and the bit on Jen, maybe Ivy did have a crush, she most likely doesn't know her own feelings too well and is doing her best not to focus on it, because that's complicated and messy (in her head) and I'm going to disappoint, I don't think it comes up again.

Bard's Note: Okay, so horses and water are a kinda funny combo. They either hate it or love it, and not always on a per-horse-basis, no, some will change their opinions CONSTANTLY. One day they will try to take a flying leap over a half-inch puddle, the next they will intentionally go out of their way to step in the deep, flooded hoofprints that other horses left behind. Not to mention how much a lot of horses love swimming. I'm sure there's an internal logic behind it, maybe the weather or mood or how clean they feel or whatever, but damned if I knew what it was sometimes.

As for the crush bit, I think that's honestly part of self-discovery? Trying to figure out the difference between crushes and not-crushes (not to mention the different types of crushes) is tricky for us aces (and from what I've heard, for aros too), especially if you tend towards being more isolated and self-reliant? Bc you're learning how close friendship works at the same time and it's hard to tell the difference between "holy cow this is my person" and "holy cow this is MY PERSON (romantically)". So I wouldn't worry too much. Maybe one day Ivy and Jen can reminisce about it and be like "hey Jen funny story I thought I had a crush on you once".

[salchat]

Angels is Green - a Stargate Atlantis short story

Of course, he had been there before, to that planet they called Earth.  He had been there before they returned to his galaxy, those brave few, unaware of the dangers they would wake.

The first time was when he was very young and the small ones had come across him in his time of testing, on the planet where his hive had left him, alone and feral and near the point of starvation, not having had the courage to hunt and to feed.  They had taken him to their ship and somehow nourished him and studied him in their detached yet compassionate manner, their huge, inscrutable black eyes blinking with impartial curiosity.

Perhaps they had regarded him as a pet, for he had run wild about their ship, and, perhaps also they had underestimated his intellect, because he had successfully manipulated their technology and managed to beam himself down to the surface of a planet.  He had spent a strange day communing with the odd inhabitants.  They were definitely human, their skins brown and soft and without the sheen of moisture that protected the skin of wraithkind, but their speech was crude and their manner of living primitive in the extreme.  He felt no urge to feed, presumably due to the small ones’ mysterious replenishing of his cells.  So he made himself known to the humans and they, having no knowledge that he might be dangerous, played with him happily enough; simple games involving running along the sands of their seaside home and splashing in the waves.

The small grey ones had found him, blinked and twittered at him amiably, behaved in a similarly indulgent manner toward the primitive humans, and taken him back to their ship.  They had eventually returned him to the planet where they had found him and at last his hunger had driven him to feed and he had taken his place as a full adult member of the hive.

The second time was much, much more recent, although still long before the lifetime of any of the humans who had repopulated Atlantis.

He had found an Ancient ship.  He had made it work.  He had travelled.  And, the ship’s hyperdrive having, at best, one or two journeys left in its decaying circuits, he had searched the database and found that far off planet of his youth.  That it was in a different galaxy had surprised him, but, not one to brook a challenge, he had directed the ship to take him there, had landed undetected, in a remote spot, and set out to explore.

The humans had advanced.  They had tainted the air with the bitter scent of fossil fuels, they had grown in number and clustered into cities of dark and dirty streets that reeked of poverty and disease.  They were no longer the simple, playful creatures that he had known, but separated themselves into those who worked long and hard and ate little and those who dressed well and ate much and apparently lived solely to be entertained.

The one that had, soon after joining the hive, been given the name ‘He who goes far’ or ‘He who finds a way’ or simply ‘Wayfarer,’ quickly realised that the overcrowded streets of a huge and often noisome and fog-bound city were excellent feeding grounds and, moreover, that he needed to do very little to blend into such pleasantly gloomy surroundings.  All he required was a suit of clothes; an elegant coat or a many-layered cape; a hat such as might be worn by a gentleman of the time, or one who aspired to be a gentleman; and perhaps a tall cane and a handkerchief to complete the ensemble.  These things were easily acquired in the usual course of a night’s feeding.  

Thus attired, Wayfarer found that he had no difficulty at all in passing for a normal human, because there was such a wonderful variety of what was regarded as normal in this place of transience.  There were constant arrivals of tall wooden ships, from which all manner of humans came forth, emanating through scent and taste and mind-sight their tantalising glimpses of desert-heat, ice-cold, jungle-rich, mountain-clear; so many impressions that, strolling among the wooden piers and stagings of the docks, Wayfarer nearly reeled from such life-rich promise.

And, though green skin, a spiracled countenance, pointed teeth and a feeding slit might have set him apart even amid such a myriad of individuals, the fact that disfiguring disease was rife also worked to his advantage.  It galled Wayfarer to be thought of as disfigured when his form, amongst his own kind, was considered decidedly pleasing, but expedience was everything in such a situation and he was, after all, glad to be able to hide in plain sight.  When glances or outright gasps of horror followed him down a filthy alley, he merely shrugged his shoulders in the manner of the locals and continued on his way.

The city and its great river teemed with life during the day and scarcely less so at night.  The humans swarmed the streets along with their animal or hand-drawn conveyances and swarmed the river in their little floating craft, and their business of buying and selling, gossiping and jeering, posturing and posing, living and dying took place in plenitude and abandon wherever and whenever they swarmed.  Wayfarer gloried in the abundance.

He loved best the narrow streets where houses overhung their boundaries and light was a rare commodity and he walked freely among them, becoming a familiar figure to the inhabitants, from the children who played amongst the filth to the watchman who tipped his hat warily in the blackest hours of the night.   

And Wayfarer observed that even in such poverty and deprivation there was often an undaunted spirit, a camaraderie of squalor, that led cross-shawled women to pass a shared bottle from gap-toothed mouth to wizened, grasping hand while calling out their raucous cries to tempt a passing stranger to the delights of their ravaged bodies.  Wayfarer would tip his hat at their earthy humour and greet their mock-refined responses with a hissing acknowledgement, leaving shrieks of alcohol-roughened laughter and broad winks and gestures in his wake.

The men brawling outside the public houses, the women scrubbing their doorsteps in a vain attempt to stave off the tide of dirt, all lived and laboured in common hardship, their solidarity as thick in the air as the blanketing fog.

But when that great, grey swathe slid up from the broad bends of the river and covered the city, sometimes for days at a time, there were dark deeds done in its choking miasma by those minds pushed too hard by the cruelties of life.  Wayfarer’s subtle stealth had no need of the fog’s heavy, grey cloak but he found himself venturing forth from his comfortable lodging more frequently than usual, prowling the alleys where hurried footsteps echoed over the damp cobbles, where yellow gas lamps barely penetrated the gloom.  Scents hung on the air, trailing behind tattered threads of mind-sight; scents of hunger and grief, lust and passion, fear and pursuit, and the sharp bitter tang of sudden, slashing violence.  He followed the dreadful spoor and rid the city of those who would prey on their own kind, those who would kill not for the gain of a few coins or trinkets that might feed themselves or their family, but for the bloody joy of the taking of life, the perverted ecstasy that hung in the air around their slain victims as thickly as the enveloping fog.  Such distorted figures of humanity found themselves the victims and were taken and given swift judgement.

It snowed and those without shelter died and the little barefooted children called out to Wayfarer in their hoarse voices, by turns false with bravado and then coaxing with a deep and true hunger.  Sometimes he would flick them a coin or two, because, he told himself, perhaps he would have need of their lives when his own hunger was great.

And once, strolling, cane in hand, down a dark, filthy alley, he was presented with an opportunity; an easy kill, a small morsel to stave off his growing need until nighttime presented greater opportunities.

The snow lay dirty and grey, the cobbles slick with grease and wet filth, and a scattered flock of bony, ragged children hurtled by, surrounding Wayfarer briefly, darting beneath his cane like silver fish.  One fell, but the others, swifter, had passed on and did not heed their fallen hive-mate.  The child picked himself up slowly, cursing like the man he would almost certainly never become; damning the snow and the cold and above all, condemning his own infirmity.  Wayfarer observed as the boy picked up a bent stick, padded at one end with a wrapping of rags.  He fitted it under his arm and leant heavily, his breath rasping in and out, releasing the vapour of his diseased lungs into the freezing air.  The child would surely not last the winter.  And yet his small life force might serve as a piquant appetizer to the night’s pleasure.

The boy raised red-rimmed eyes in a pale, gaunt face.  “Spare a penny guv’nor?”

Wayfarer rotated the cane in his long fingers, as if to screw it between the cobbles.  His feeding hand itched.

“Spare a ha’penny?  A farthing?  For Christmas, guv’nor?  For the little babby Jesus?”  The child’s voice was stronger than his emaciated frame, the curl of his lips a valiant attempt at winning humour.

“I will spare you what I have if you approach.”

The boy pulled himself up straight and contrived to fold his arms across his narrow chest while retaining a grip on the crutch.  “What’s your game, then, Mister?  I ain’t got nuffin for the likes o’ you to be a-thieving.”

“I am no thief.  I am merely curious and my sight is poor.  I would see the face of the one on whom I would bestow a gift.”  Fingers of fog crept up the alley, carrying with them the scent of the river and the stench of the tanneries.

The boy tipped his tattered cap further back on his head and looked directly into Wayfarer’s eyes.  “If you ask me, it’s a good thing you don’t see so well, with a phiz like that.  I bet you’d crack a mirror.”

Wayfarer added his hissing laugh to the boy’s rasping bray, not grudging the child his crude jest.  He held out his hand, his fingers crooked.  “Come.”  He let a faint imperative drift forth from his mind.

“Alright then, I ain’t afeard.”  The boy’s scent belied his words, but he thrust out his chest, took a firm grip on his crutch and hobbled boldly forward.

His cry, as Wayfarer’s fingers grasped the front of his ragged jacket, was easily stifled by a quick suppressing touch of the wraith’s mind.  Wayfarer tore the thin shirt open, adjusted his grip and applied his feeding hand over the bony ridge of the child’s sternum, enfolding the small, limp form within the wings of his cape.  It was, after all, daylight, even though it would be easy to stir ghosts within the fog to mislead any passers by.

The child began to struggle as the barbs penetrated his flesh, but his feeble attempts were no challenge, nor even a minor inconvenience to Wayfarer.  Then the struggles ceased.  The wraith sighed, a long, sibilant sigh of satisfaction.

He set the small body down on the cobbles, opened his cape wide, like a set of double doors and stepped back.

The child shuddered once all over and then was still.  

And then the boy’s wondering eyes travelled from his dirty, bare feet, planted squarely amid the grey slush, up over his two healthy legs, and his lungs expanded and contracted smoothly, without a whisper of a rasp.  His chin tipped back so that his round-cheeked, glowing face mirrored the wraith’s in a strange symmetry and his mouth fell open, the breaths in his newly-healed lungs coming quick and urgent.  

Would he speak?  Would he thank his saviour?  Would he scream in primitive incomprehension?

“I reckon the vicar got it wrong,” he said.

Wayfarer, who would later be called Todd, raised an eyebrow.

“All wrong,” whispered the child.

“How so?”

The boy swallowed, licked his lips and took a step back.  “‘Cos they ain’t white and shining with big fevvery wings.”  He shook his head, a smile slowly forming.  “Angels is green.”  

He spun around on his strong legs and jumped in the air, a young, wild human animal full of life and joy.  Then he ran, whooping and laughing, stumbling and righting himself, born a cripple and suddenly with a healthy unfamiliar body.

The fog swirled and the boy was gone.

  Wayfarer examined his thoughts.  Why had he spared the child?  Why did he take only those who made victims of their own kind?  Why, also, did he linger here, far, far from hive-mind and queen and home?  

Perhaps he would not stay much longer.  Perhaps he would return to that Ancient hulk, coax it to one more journey through the vast emptiness and then destroy it and all it contained.

And this place would remain, for these humans to grow and progress as they would, to fight amongst themselves with no great enemy from the stars, to develop and perhaps one day to strike out into the stars themselves.

The fog thickened and darkened and figures moved within, both real and phantom.  Footsteps and the tap of a cane echoed off the high walls and fluttered like shadows of sound, slowly diminishing into the gloom.  

And a few of those short human lifetimes later, as the sun’s rays touched the far side of that world they called Earth, Wayfarer was there again to see a sweeping bridge golden in the dawn light and a great bay lined with dwellings and industry.  He recalled the boy who had named him angel and his feeding hand itched to deal out summary judgement.  Because here, there were lives; many, many lives and some of those with black hearts whose minds declared their blackness to his questing tendrils of thought.  And perhaps there would be just a few, a very fortunate few, who would earn this green angel’s blessing.

Thanks for reading!  Find more of my stories on fanfiction.net or AO3.

https://m.fanfiction.net/u/11112812/Salchat

https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salchat

[storiesbykiki]

Drowning Lessons

Growing up in Maryland, right next to the Blue Ridge and Appalachian mountains, hiking was a common pastime for a lot of people. We were city folk, but we still managed to get up in the hills every now and then. Today was one of those times.

We were walking the Catoctin mountains, off trail, following the creek up to the summit. We usually went to the Billy Goat trail further west, but we had been to that one many times, and already knew most of it.

As we were walking, one of my siblings took a fall and sprained their ankle. He and my mother went back to the visitor center to get some ice and to rest, leaving us to continue hiking.

Summer was in high heat, the sun blazing through the gaps in the leaves. The heat brought out the cottonwood and dog wood pollen into the air, casting a slight golden haze across the sky, leaving the air heavy with it.

Because of the heat, water was consumed often. Sometimes stopping in a cleaner part of the stream to cool our feet in the rushing water as it tumbled over the small cliffs in a roaring cloud.

“How far do you want to keep going?” My father asked me.

“Probably a few more minutes at least.” I wanted to find whatever lake or spring supplied the waterfalls and creeks of the ridge. We ate a small meal and continued on.

After a quarter hour, I needed to relieve myself, and headed away into the trees to do so. I found myself next to a tall gum tree, looking down into a slight depression in the ground. Probably as good a place as any to do my business.

The blanket of pollen weighed down constantly, making me rub at my eyes with a wetted sleeve just so I could see a little easier.

As I was just about finished, the gleam of something in the depression caught my eye. Walking down to it, the source revealed itself to be an old flashlight, the glass fogged up with condensation, and the triangulations of the metal handle felt as cold as ice in my hands.

“How’d you end up here?” I murmured to it. I gave it an experimentory click to see if it still worked.

The dim glow of the bulb flickered to life before going out. Maybe the light wasn’t that old after all.

A wind caused the canopy to sway above me, like an undulating tapestry of greens and gold, it lifted the oppressing mass of pollen from the air.

As the wind settled, I noticed the angle of the sun had changed. What time was it? I checked my phone, but it was dead. Checking my wristwatch, it was dead too.

The woods around me were silent, not even the sound of the brook could be heard over the quiet. I just needed to get back to my family.

As i turned around, the flashlight lit up. I thought nothing of it until I noticed how bright it was shining. I thought it was dead.

I turned it towards me, the bulb dimming fast, flicking on wherever I turned it to where it had been pointing.

My curiosity got the better of me, and I walked off into the woods. The dead leaves and tough Southern grass crackled and hissed under my shoes. The woods were silent aside from my breathing and the noise of the grass.

I wasn’t sure how long I had walked, no one ever goes out here this far, so there was no trail, or even litter, to gauge myself by. The hot, humid air kept me to my thoughts as it felt too difficult to pull breath into my lungs.

Eventually, the sound of the stream broke through the haze, and I made for it, thinking I had finally found where I had left my dad.

The stream bubbled around a large, mostly flat rock in the middle, making a deep pit in front of it. I could see what looked like a building a few yards away. What the hell was someone doing living out here?

After I hopped across the stream, barely landing on the rock to steady myself, I approached the cabin. Upon closer inspection, I saw the windows turned black and warped with years and the sun-bleached door falling off its hinges, the siding just as bleached and splintering in some spaces, giving the whole place a ragged, desperate edge. Whoever had been living here had hopefully been long gone.

The silence around me pressed in, feeling almost violently watchful in its intent. But for a forest to stay this quiet for this long…… I ducked into the house, seeking shelter.

As my eyes adjusted, I saw how dilapidated it was. The one side room it had was empty,the rest of the house looking almost normal. Cobwebs and flies crowded the fireplace, and a stained, rotting bed crouched in the corner next to a broken window. A thin layer of dust had settled over the remaining objects in the room. Everything in the house looked like it had been placed there, and then forgotten. Like whoever had been here had simply . . . left. The silence held such gravity, I couldn’t even hear the stream, despite it being so close.

The sense of wrongness that I had been having only grew as I went further into the house, finding nothing to explain its existence in the mountains. Surely there was something here.

I gave up after fifteen minutes, giving in to reason. I needed to find where my family was.

I tried to get back over the creek the same way I had originally crossed, hopping on the rock and then to the bank. I only realized that the bank was that the bank was too far away to jump to from this direction.

Still, the silence pressed in. The small eddies and waterfalls next to me remained quiet. The heat peacefully invaded my mind. I need to take a rest, I thought, sitting on the flat rock.

It was cooler here, the rough surface of the rock was cool against my legs and under my hands. I could feel the small grains of dirt gently staining my pants. The trees leaned over me like a blanket, protecting me from the sun’s rays and the noise of the world. Maybe I could rest here a while, I’d been missing for some time, and a few extra minutes couldn’t hurt, right?

I found myself drifting off among the deafening stillness of the forest. My senses called out to me, as if from a distance, and I watched myself dip my hand into the creek, my reflection stared back and blinked.

I blinked back.

The sun glared down into my haven of silence, beating down on my neck as beads of sweat began to form. It was so hot, maybe I could cool off in the creek.

I stretched out my hands to the water, watching as the reflection’s hands reaching up to meet me, their fingertips breaking the surface.

EVerything fell into place at once and the noise of the world came crashing down on my ears.

A head followed the arms, the skin grey and taught over the bones of the creature. The skin of it’s lips had been sewn together and then torn, showing the teeth all the way up to the gums. A horrible, constant shrieking sound issued from its mouth, making my blood run cold and the water begin to freeze around it.

I jumped to the bank, falling in the river and i felt its hands close around my ankle. I kicked out, trying to free myself from the clammy hands.

My shoe came off and I ran blindly away into the woods, praying to whatever gods would listen that I was going in the right direction.

I could barely hear the sound of my own ragged breathing over the wailing that followed me, barely a yard behind me.

I burst into the clearing by the main stream that me and my father had been following, colliding with a man I didn’t recognize.

* * *

The man was someone searching for me. I had been gone for a week without realizing it. The EMT’s had looked me over, given me drug tests. They all came back negative.

After the incident, my family was much… tighter. Didn’t want to lose me again, I guess. I showed them the scars on my ankle that had been left by that thing in the woods. I just told people that it was from getting stuck in some rocks.

* * *

I never look out the windows when I can’t sleep. I always see the face, fell and twisted, staring at me.

Waiting. Waiting for me to go back into the woods.

None of this keeps me up for too long. The thing that does, though, is the face of the monster. I can barely use the bathroom mirror without seeing it.

After all, we share the same face.

[sennextheassasinkingoflight]

Redemption, My Love

Chapter 9  Cursed TV 2020  Lancewain Explicit Cross Posted to AO3 i highly recommend reading the tags on AO3 but in short:  Past mentioned child abuse and rape/noncon, religious fanaticism, Enemies to friends to lovers, slowburn, trauma, angst, eventual fulff. ETC. ++++Gawain++++ In less than a second Gawain's eyes flick across the clearing around them. Quickly he snaps his head towards The Weeping Monk. The ring of steel fresh in his ears and all encompassing. The Monk is standing over him. He has seconds to move. Instinctively he pushes the boy away from himself and rolls back, sticky hot blood coats his face and chest and he gets to his feet. He’s unbalanced and slips on moss slick stones as he draws his sword. Lancelot places himself between Percival and a man in red, one already growing cold at his feet. A second glance around the clearing and forest edge tells him that there are eight more. It’s unavoidable now for any choice but combat. He hadn't truly thought they would find another way out of this, but between the exhaustion of traveling, The Monk's wounds and Percival's lack of skill he had clung to hope.

“The boy was right. Your tracks led us right to you.” One of them says, stepping forward and addressing him. He glances to the side and glimpses Percival wiping at his eyes, and The Weeping Monk ready to defend him. He would have no choice but to thank him if they survived this. Right after he asks him how he hadn’t smelled them coming so close. Of course he himself hadn’t heard them either, the more rational side of his mind supplies. He tucks it away to deal with later. For now there is about to be bloodshed and he needs to be ready.  Four to one. He grips the hilt of his blade tighter aware that he has certainly seen worse odds. Survived worse odds. Side stepping, he moves away from the creek until he is side by side with the other Fey. He contemplates telling Percival to run, but if anyone gives chase he will be unable to aid the boy. Instead he looks The Monk over, notes the tension in his stance, ready to spring, to attack. Percival shifts behind him, switching his weight between his feet.  “Oh ‘ell look at t’is boys. T’e Abbit will ‘e proud a us, fer t’is. The ‘eeping Monk. ‘e r’lly is a traiter. Helpin’ t’e Fey!” The obvious leader of the group calls out and the others rally a cry behind him. Gawain watches as they fan out around them. Circling them like wolves circle their prey. He doesn’t have a choice regarding The Monk now. Either The Weeping Monk will stab him in the back, or will guard it. He turns his back on the lesser of two evils and prays for a miracle. “Percival, stay low. Do not fight them unless you have to,” rasps The Monk Behind him, voice low, dangerous and airy.  “Do as he says.” Gawain hears his own voice say and shakes his head. He never dreamed a day would come when he agreed with The Weeping Monk so easily that he didn’t even have to think about it. That he would tell another to obey those orders. “Yes sirs.” Percival manages. He can hear the boy shift, hear the steady shallow breathing of Lancelot beside him, too shallow for combat, the silence in the woods and the babbling and bubbling of the brook. The rest of the world falls away as he focuses on the men baring teeth and swords at him. “‘’ell Boy’s. Get’em.” Gawain meets them head on. Neither he nor The Weeping Monk wait for their enemies to reach them first. He blocks the blow from one and turns into an arced swing felling another of the paladins. Turning back he catches the first with his foot and as he falls drives his blade deep through his side.  Turning, he ducks beneath another blow, only to feel the impact of a blunt object against his side and sees The Weeping Monk take a knee. He stumbles, draws his blade back and lashes out, catching another paladin in the shoulder, just enough to draw blood. His own ribs, bruised and fractured send stinging pain through his side and he gasps for air as he blocks another blade from making contact with him. Rolling to the side he narrowly avoids being stabbed, catalogues the bleeding on his arm as non lethal and dances out of the way of his opponents. He catches the arm of a paladin, holds it steady against his side as he thrusts his blade through another red clad man and turns as the body struggling in his grasp goes limp. Another blade is removed from a paladin's stomach and Gawain lets the corpse fall away, locks eyes with Lancelot briefly and turns back to the others. He notes that Lancelot is breathing heavily, and grimacing in pain. Likely from whatever had brought him to his knees earlier. There isn’t time to let it distract him as the leader of the group comes at him. This paladin is slightly more skilled than the rest, and Gawain takes a several moments longer to bring him to the ground, but succeeds with a well placed thrust of his blade, just beneath the heart, through the lung and spine.The sound of shouting causes him to turn in a hurry; Lancelot is engaged with two Paladins, and one falls as he too turns to see what's happened. Seeing a moment of vulnerability the Paladin attempts to put an end to The Monk. He turns back to his opponent as Gawain, closer to the boy, rushes forward. Percival is trapped beneath a paladin and Gawain can’t see if he has his knife or not. Before he can reach him, the man stops struggling and gurgles, choking on his own blood instead. The hilt of a knife glistens red as it protrudes from the edge of a long, jagged slice on the man's neck. The sound of breaking bones reaches him as Percival struggles out from beneath the man covered from head to toe in dark red blood. Gawain offers him a hand up which he takes and they turn to Lancelot who drops the corpse of the final paladin to the ground and picks up his own blade. They share a look. “Stay with Lancelot. I’m going to ensure none got away.”  Percival nods at him, but doesn’t move. The blood has caught in tear tracks on his face, and the image is almost the reverse of the monk's own marks. It takes Gawain aback for a moment. Finally, taking a deep breath and wincing at the pain in his side, he leads the boy, more forcefully than necessary, by the shoulders until he stands between the monk and himself. Lancelot gives him a nod and reaches out for the boy. As soon as Percival is in Lancelot's grasp, Gawain's sprints up the hill. It doesn’t take him long to walk the perimeter. He finds no signs that any escaped the skirmish. When he returns to the clearing, Lancelot is washing blood from Percivals shirt, while the boy bathes silently down stream.The water is freezing, but Gawain would have told the boy to do the same. He kneels across from the Monk and starts on another of Percival’s clothing items. He notes the monk's cloak is gone, but says nothing. It’s not as though they have much in the way of spare clothing and while he doesn’t know him well, he has a hunch that he’s given it to Percival to stay warm with. “Any injuries?” “No, he is… Shaken. But he is unharmed.” He acknowledges this with a nod, and waits. When Lancelot doesn’t continue he presses. “And you, Lancelot?” “I’m fine.”  Blue eyes flick up to meet his own and linger, he seems surprised at the use of his name. “ I’ve only aggravated my ribs. You?” “I’ll have a few new bruises. Nothing terrible, nothing new.” He glances down stream towards Percival, and finds him wrapped in Lancelot's cloak and sitting on a rock. “That cut is bleeding, fairly bad.” It catches him off guard, he had forgotten about it in the midst of battle and his panic for Percival. He looks at it now and pushes away the torn edges of his sleeve to get a better look. “Seems I’ll need stitches,” he notes but doesn’t stop working on the task at hand. “How is it you didn’t notice them?” The accusation is clear despite the even tone and the radiant calm of his voice. “As I said before, the scent is thick. They’re all I can smell...mostly. It’s overwhelming enough I can’t tell what is old and new.” Gawain considers this for a moment, and grinds his teeth. “I will not hesitate to kill you if you do what you did in that thicket again.”  Lancelot looks up at him, grinds his teeth and nods. Taking another deep breath and pursing his lips Gawain continues, “Still, I owe you thanks, for saving our lives three separate times today. Thank you.” Lancelot shakes his head and sits back on his heels. “Don’t. It is the least I can do.” Gawain loses himself studying the look on the others face. Without his cloak he looks rather handsome, young and very lost. Far from the deadly wraith of the stories. “Are you finished with that? I’ll lay it out to dry.” Gawain glances down, embarrassed and shakes his head, “yes.” He hands the garment over and Lancelot wrings it out. Standing he walks to the narrow bend in the stream and crosses. “Squirrel?” The boy startles, expectedly, and turns towards him. “May I?” Percival nods, and Gawain sits next to him. He wishes he knew what to say, to do. He knows his words will be empty and meaningless right now, but perhaps in the future they won't be. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you were very brave, Percival. What you did wasn’t easy.” The boy looks at the ground and nods. Percival looks up at him now, large brown eyes red and swollen from tears. Instinctively he reaches for the boy, and Percival clings to him, gripping hard enough it will leave bruises where it digs into skin instead of armor. The words he may have said die in his throat, instead he lets his actions speak. ++++Lancelot++++ He wants to give them time.To avoid intruding on a private moment, but the light is fading faster as night grows closer. The dark will bring wild animals drawn by the smell of blood, and it is unwise to linger longer than they must. Percivals clothing will take some time to dry, but between his extra shirt, and Gawain's extra trousers they can dress him suitably enough to travel. Beggars coast is still a days ride over the fields, and strategy says to make that jaunt during daylight. Still, the smell of blood is turning his stomach and with every moment they dally it grows more dangerous to remain. He searches through his saddle bag for the shirt; Bliant had washed it while he was injured. It would be large on Percival but it would be better than just the cloak. Squaring his shoulders he approaches slowly, and more noisily than he normally would. Combat put the best soldiers on edge, he didn’t need to spook Gawain, nor did he wish to frighten Percival more than he already had been. He remembered vividly the first time he took a life, and though he did not wish to care for the boy, his heart ached for his sadness. He scolded himself internally. He should not get attached, nor should he allow the boy to get attached to him, and yet with every passing day that is exactly what was happening. Even Gawain did not look at him quite like an enemy, but more as one might look at a soldier of unknown origins. Like he was truly beginning to question The Monk’s allegiances. Gawain turns and acknowledges him so he approaches less cautiously. Percival is still burrowed into the knight's chest, but he isn’t crying. The smell of blood lingers on his skin, masked slightly by the boy's own scent, the smell of the creek, Lancelot's own cloak, and the recognizable scent of Gawain's blood. He glances at the offending wound pointedly then turns to Percival. “Percival, I brought you my extra shirt.” His voice is steady and calm. Holding the shirt out to the boy he tries for gentleness that he does not feel and Percival looks at him, takes the shirt and hiccoughs a thank you. He can’t hear it, but he's certain that's what it looks like when the boy says the words. He turns back to the horses and starts checking their tack. He doesn’t need to do it per se, but he wants to give Percival a little privacy, and he is hoping Gawain will understand the look he gave him. Sure enough the Knight joins him, just as cautiously as he had approached them before. “You think we need to get moving.” Straight to the point, no hesitation or beating around the bush. “Yes. The scent of blood carries farther than one might expect,” he responds casually, not making eye contact, and focusing on keeping his voice steady. Finally, after several long moments of silence he glances to his left and watches Gawain think, jaw clenched and eyebrows knit together in serious consideration. The bronze light of twilight glints off his hair, highlighting strands of lighter blond and red, softening his features. The treetops are coated in the same golden glow, and to the west, orange and vibrant pink color the horizon. “I agree with you. But… I am not certain we should go out into the flatland to camp. What are your thoughts about remaining in the forest?” He has never been asked his thoughts before and for a moment he doesn’t know how to answer. It has been his responsibility to be nothing more than obedient to Carden and the others over him. Or inversely, to give orders in their place. To speak of his opinions is not something he has experienced freedom with. The result of speaking his mind openly was always punishment; so, he hesitates, meets Gawain's eyes to show he is thinking, clenches his jaw and unclenches it several times and decides to answer carefully. He knows that he has plenty of experience to make a decision on the matter, but he wishes to remain in Gawain’s good graces and knows after his earlier actions he is on thin ice. “I’ll defer to your wisdom, but I think I would rather our chances on the flatland.” He finally utters the words, looks away from Gawain's eyes and to the right, past his shoulder instead. He focuses on breathing through his mouth, and it’s almost worse— the taste of blood sits heavy on his tongue. Though he isn’t sure if he is actually tasting it, or if his brain is filling in the missing details based on the scent of it. He catches Gawain studying him again as he asks more questions. “Why?” Gawain asks like his opinion matters at all. Without looking back he studies the bark of the tree in his line of sight and answers politely, “If there was one group of Paladins there is bound to be another nearby. On the flatland we can run, even in the dark without much trouble. If we get attacked in the woods, we are limited in our escape options.” Gawain shifts in his peripheral, a nod of his head, he can feel the others gaze on him, scrutinizing.When he answers he sounds torn, upset by his own words.  “Unfortunately, I agree with you.” He tilts his head to the side and turns to more fully face the knight of the Fey. That was not what he had expected. It doesn’t matter that he can see the bags that hang beneath the knight’s eyes, of the exhaustion and worry he carries in his shoulders, that he agreed so readily and without much persuasion concerns Lancelot to his core. He shakes his head to avoid those thoughts for now, and tucks them away to consider this evening when he is on watch and Percival has inevitably fallen asleep again. “Your wound needs tending before we do anything.” He glances at the brown red sleeve of Gawain's left arm and wrinkles his nose. Gawain follows the look and sighs. “Are you any good?” He looks up fast enough to make his neck ache. “At?” “Stitches.” Gawain isn’t looking at him now, the ground much more interesting than his face had been a moment ago. “Yes.” The admission is barely a breath among the sounds of the creek. Gawain nods, “Would you mind?” He motions to his arm with his chin. “No.” Gawain nods again. “Alright, let me take Percival my extra set of trousers.” “Percival, We need to get ready to move. See if you can make these trousers work until yours have dried.” The Green Knight's tone makes him flinch and he knows the harshness is meant to get Percival’s attention and nothing more, but it unsettles him as he watches the scene unfold. The boy looks up at him and blinks slowly twice over before he reaches out a trembling hand and takes the offered item from Gawain. Lancelot swallows back the words in his throat. His words will be of no use here. He tears his eyes away from the deep set frown and glistening green eyes of Percival’s face and focuses instead on listening to their surroundings, focusing on anything but the fact that ultimately Percival being forced to take a life is more blood on his hands. This is his fault and he wonders what Gawain will do when he realizes it. He digs in Goliath’s saddle bags for his set of needles to keep his mind focused. The sound of buckles being undone catches his attention but he stays focused as he cuts a hair from Goliaths mane. He threads it and turns to Gawain who is rinsing his shirt in the stream. It makes sense. He waits patiently for Gawain to finish and join him. It would be a lie to say he isn’t startled by the lack of raised scarring from the Archangels or from the other atrocities inflicted on the other man. He forces his eyes not to linger over the scared expanse of The Green Knight's chest and arms. Instead he focuses on the wound to his bicep, presses the skin together to see where to start the stitches and clenches his jaw. Whether he is gentle or not he does not know, Gawain barely makes a sound as he works, though his breathing hitches a few times. Lancelot knows this is not his first time getting stitches on the battlefield. Finished with stitching the wound, he reaches for the bandages and the small container of salve Bliant had sent with them. He smears the thick herbal smelling paste over the wound and holds his breath in the process. The herbs certainly smell better than the blood, well most of the blood, but at this proximity are too strong. With practiced efficacy he bandages the wound. Then without thinking it through he says, “I also recommend that we don’t light a fire. I know it would be convenient, may even seem necessary,” he glances in Percivals direction, “to warm him up and for the benefit of warm food, but…“ He trails off unable to say what he means. If they light a fire and there are more paladins around, then the boy may have to repeat his actions again, and right now, in the condition he is in that could be deadly. “I know. I’m worried about him too.”  “I...“ Gawain smiles sadly at him and turns to redress in his spare shirt and don his armor. Silently he checks the tack on his own mare. They work in silence going over their supplies. Eventually, Gawain leads his own horse over to Percival, swallowed in the depths of clothing and cloak. He follows with Goliath in tow. Neither of them talks about the good it will do to remove him from the sight of the battle field. It goes unspoken between the soldiers the way experienced musicians change keys without more than a subtle glance and tlilt of the head at one another. ++++Nimue+++ Waking to pain and numbing cold was not what she expected. Not that she could really say she expected to wake at all. The last memories she has are of pain and shocking cold. The memory of falling and hitting water at an achingly speed, unable to even cry out, paralyzed by fear and agony. She tries to open her eyes but they won't obey. They feel heavy and she resigns herself to leaving them closed. She tries to open her mouth but that too refuses to obey and she wonders if maybe she is dead. Her hands are warm though, warmer than the rest of her and she can’t figure out why. She tries to open her eyes again and still the most she gets is the flutter of her eyelashes against her cheek. The cold makes her over sensitive and she is acutely aware of the loss of heat in her right hand. “Merlin! Wake up. Merlin!” Pyms voice says, loud and far away. She would smile if her cheeks weren’t so stiff. “What? What is it?” The voice of the aged magician, her father, responds and the previously weak grasp on her left hand renews its hold, tight, almost painfully so. “I think she might be trying to wake up.” “Why?” “Her eyelids fluttered, and her mouth twitched.” Nimue tries to open her eyes again and fails, instead she wills the stiffness in her fingers away and tries to squeeze her fathers hand. She feels the barest twitch of her own fingers, stiff as those of a corpse and wants to cry. She’s here, but she can’t communicate it. She feels something warm and damp on her forehead; the liquid trails down her temple and gets lost in her hair. “Please wake up Nim. Please.” Pym’s voice breaks above her. She wants to but even now the icy depths of the dark lake call to her. She doesn’t hear what Merlin whispers next as her mind drowns, sinking deeper and deeper into the hollow shell of her body. When she surfaces again, she doesn't know how much time has passed. She does not try to move this time. There is hot pain in her shoulder and stomach and even her leg aches. She can hear raised voices, closer than they had been before but she can’t focus long enough to make out all the words and understand what is being said. It comes in snatches of conversation. “Move, could die.” “Don't. All. Dead.” “Medicine?”  “Hidden.” “Gods, Arthur.” Whatever they're talking about, she can't be bothered to try and follow. Instead she tries to push the pain she feels away, ignorant of the fire now burning in her veins chasing away the ice and the numbness that had grasped her before. Everything is agony and she willingly sinks back into the dark embrace of the water that soothes her forehead and throat, and protects her body.  The third time she comes to, bright light filters through her eyelids and she tries to turn her head away from it. She feels like she is being tossed about by the waves of the ocean, the current of the river. It hurts all over, and the fire is still in her veins burning hotter than it did before. There is screaming nearby and it startles her. She tries to open her mouth to respond in some way, to comfort, or correct but words don't come, and she finds her mouth is already agape. A heavy weight settles on her body and she feels like she is being suffocated. She tries to cry out but her throat is raw, and she tastes blood in her mouth. She tries to move her arms and legs to get away from the weight settled over her, it reminds her of the time she was pinned down in the forest by the paladin. She can hear the whispers of the hidden near her and tries to call out to them. Panic grips her and she tries to fight against it. She almost succeeds, almost gets her eyes open but then she is being dragged down, down, down, into the abyss below the waves. This time she does open her eyes. The room she is in, if it can be called a room, is dark, lit only by a single flickering candle. Her throat aches, and her lips are chapped when she runs her tongue across them in an attempt to wet them. To seek relief. She is thirsty. She blinks away the blurriness in her eyes and tries to look around the room. It makes her head spin, but the familiar scent of the forest fills her nose and she relaxes a little. Her right hand is warm and she looks for the source of that heat. Pym is slumped over in a chair next to her bed, hand wrapped tightly around her own, and head lying on the edge of the cot. Nimue smiles, the barest tug on her lips, and feels the skin split and blood well up. She’s too tired to attempt to wake Pym for something as simple as a glass of water. Instead, she closes her eyes and drifts back to sleep. 

[artificialqueens]

If You Ever Wanna Be in Love (I'll Come Around), Chapter Five (Branjie) - Athena2

Previously: Brooke and Vanessa’s night of babysitting turned into them kissing Now: They both deal with the aftermath and find themselves pulled together once again

A/N:Thank you all so much for the amazing feedback and comments you’ve been giving this fic! They really do mean a lot to me and I appreciate them all. It would be great if you could leave some on this chapter as well. Thank you so much to Writ for betaing and helping me out with this chapter, you’re the best.

“I kissed Brooke,” Vanessa blurts to A’keria. Saying it makes it real, proves it wasn’t a dream or hallucination. It really happened, and Vanessa knows it doesn’t mean anything, but her lips are still tingling.

“What the hell happened?” A’keria asks.

“We were babysitting, and her niece chanted for us to kiss and…yeah.” Shit, it sounds lame like that. But on that rug, with the sunset illuminating every inch of Brooke’s face, her cheeks glowing, it was almost…magical. Almost real. It’s not, though. It barely lasted five seconds. Vanessa kissed her abuela longer than that as a kid, scrubbing sticky lipstick off her cheek after.

“Damn. One six-year-old is all it took.” A’keria mutters.

Vanessa swats at her. “Hey! She was loud enough for the whole building to hear, okay? We had to!”

A’keria rolls her eyes. “Yeah, she really forced you. Who would win, two adult clowns or a first-grader? Not you, apparently.”

“You calling me a clown?”

“You and Brooke. Might as well open up a circus.”

Vanessa groans. “It was just so the kids would quiet down. She’s gonna be my fake wife at the carnival to shut Paul up some more, and that’s it.”

But does Vanessa want that to be it? That can be the end of the fake-wives-and-girlfriends thing, but Vanessa knows she doesn’t want it to be the end of their friendship. She can’t lose Brooke in her life, laughing at work stories and sending each other selfies, someone who just gets her, who didn’t ask her to change anything.

They were thrown right into the fire at first, forced to act married. But things have slowed since then, the intense blaze now a cozy fireplace warmth, with more of Brooke unraveling before Vanessa’s eyes. How sweet she was around her family. How she sends Vanessa pictures of dogs she sees. How excited she was after realizing she made mac and cheese. And the kiss–but Vanessa’s not thinking about that.

“If you say so.”

“We’re friends. Not every relationship has to be romantic.”

“No, they don’t,” A’keria agrees. “But if your feelings for her go beyond friendship, I don’t think you should deny that.”

Vanessa shrugs. She’ll deal with that when–and if–she has to.

—

“Hytes!”

The men on the museum board favor last names for address and Brooke can’t argue without being called whiny. She snaps her head up, trying to focus. Her brain is a slow computer with too many tabs open, pinging between guests and her speech and kissing Vanessa—

“Yes, Greg?”

Ugh. Greg. He hadn’t believed Brooke was department head the first time they met, had called the museum director to accuse her of lying. The resulting pride that erupted in her after Greg found out that Brooke is, in fact, department head, had left a stream of tension between them at every board meeting.

“Check with the guests for the T-Rex opening again. Some are major donors, so we need them.”

Brooke nods wearily. So much of the museum came down to donors, and she knows it’s important, but she wishes this entire exhibit opening didn’t have to fall on her. But her shoulders are more than strong enough to carry it.

“Unfortunately, with the expenses of the T-Rex,” Greg continues, “Your department might face cuts if this doesn’t go well.”

The words slice at Brooke’s stomach. “Cuts?” she demands. “But funding got cut last year–”

“Then you’ll just have to do well, won’t you?”

Brooke nods. She could punch Greg, but she has to channel that energy into this exhibit instead. She can’t face more budget cuts. She cried after letting Ariel the intern go last year, and she won’t lose Plastique this year. Cuts would also mean less events and kids programs. How many kids like her come through those doors and gain a new passion for paleontology? How many find a safe space, or realize they’re not alone? How many dream of ages past as they walk through the rooms?

Brooke won’t let them down.

All she wants is to text Vanessa after, to rant with someone who knows that higher-up board-member nonsense. Vanessa said that one racist library board member told her ‘someone like her’ didn’t even belong in a library, and Brooke just wanted to hold Vanessa and comfort her. Now, selfish as it is, she wants Vanessa, because somehow Vanessa has come to mean comfort to Brooke. She writes a text asking Vanessa for coffee and freezes.

Vanessa doesn’t need Brooke’s problems weighing her down. She knows how caring and empathetic Vanessa is, how she takes on the feelings of others, hurts when her friends are and sad when a kid at the library cries. Makes it her mission to cheer them all up. Brooke loves it about her, but she can see Vanessa caring too much and getting stressed, and she won’t let Vanessa do that. They’re friends, and they share things, but this seems too big, something Brooke wouldn’t want anyone to carry with her. She won’t hurt Vanessa with it.

She deletes the text.

—

Vanessa hovers outside Brooke’s office. Something’s up with Brooke. Her replies have been short and half-hearted all week, and though it could be nothing, and she knows she has no right to expect essay-length texts from Brooke, she knows in her gut something’s wrong.

Vanessa finally knocks, and the Brooke that greets her isn’t unlike normal Brooke. But Vanessa looks closer, for things she would have missed before but are obvious to her now. Brooke’s eyes are dull, rimmed with dark circles. Her hair is messier than normal, like she’s been tearing her hands through it. And then she sees Brooke’s hands, usually so sturdy and clever and quick. They’re trembling a little, just enough for Vanessa to see. She has to restrain herself from grabbing those hands, running her thumb over the smooth skin until Brooke is calm.

“What’s wrong?” Vanessa asks.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” She can see the wheels spinning in Brooke’s mind, the worry in her eyes. She’s seen Brooke nervous before, but this is different. This is tense and stressed Brooke, trying and failing to keep her professional put-togetherness, and it hurts Vanessa’s heart. Vanessa puts her hands on her hips, daring Brooke to lie again.

Brooke sighs. “It’s the exhibit. I need to make sure all the donors are coming, and if there’s not a good turnout my department might lose funding, so everything…everything has to be perfect.” She takes a deep breath, and Vanessa wonders how long she’s been holding that in, letting it poison her.

“Perfect’s a lot to ask,” she says softly.

“I can do it. It has to be,” Brooke says simply, and Vanessa wonders how many times perfection’s been asked of her before, how many times she’s worked herself into the ground to deliver it.

“Who said? That asshole Greg?” She’s heard enough from Brooke to know Greg is not someone she wants to meet.

Brooke nods weakly, and all Vanessa wants is to smooth that wrinkle between her eyebrows.

“Can I help with anything?”

“I don’t think so. I just have to wait for replies. And finish my speech–” she grabs notecards off her desk, “–which is horrible.”

“I’ll listen to it! No arguing,” she says when Brooke protests. “Read it.”

Brooke does, talking about how great it was to bring the skull here and the importance of museums. It’s a good speech, one that’ll have rich people opening their checkbooks. But something’s missing–that breathless, childlike passion Brooke has when she talks about dinosaurs, the excited inner child that comes through in her smile. Brooke is going for cool and professional, and it’s good, but it’s not her. At least, not the Brooke Vanessa knows.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Vanessa says gently, “But can you make it less formal? A little more fun, more like you?”

“That’s how I had it the first time,” Brooke admits. “I just–”

“You wanted it to be perfect,” Vanessa finishes. “But it’s perfect when it’s like you too, you know.”

Brooke smiles, and Vanessa knows she’s gotten through to her. “Thank you, Ness.”

Vanessa wrinkles her nose. “Ness?”

“That’s what Sophie calls you. I kinda like it.”

“Okay, Brookie.”

Brooke swats at her playfully, and Vanessa drops into Brooke’s desk chair. Her desk is neat, of course, littered with tiny dinosaur figures and pens in a C-3PO mug. She smiles at pictures of Brooke on fossil digs, in graduation robes, giving presentations.

“Brooke Lynn Hytes, dino expert.” Vanessa shoots a horrible imitation of Brooke into her desk phone.

“I don’t sound like that!”

“Sure you do.”

“‘Sure you do,’” Brooke mimics in a raspy voice that Vanessa admits is accurate. She could sit here all day, but lunch is almost over.

“I gotta go, but take a break,” Vanessa orders. “I know you’re working too hard.”

Brooke nods, and her smile loops in Vanessa’s head all day.

—

Brooke types the last sentence of her speech, sitting back in awe. Her speech for the opening of a special exhibit, a childhood dream come true. It hadn’t been easy to get here. There were the doubtful years of college when Brooke learned paleontology was a lot more than digging up bones, when professors–usually male–approached her in lectures and asked if she had the right room, maybe you’re looking for the teaching department, sweetie? There was the struggle of needing a perfect application for one of only a few internships, the job prospects that made her toss and turn at night, wondering if she should go the teaching route, suck it up and teach earth science to bored college kids needing an elective. And then those first bones shone through the dirt, glittering under the Montana sun, and Brooke had known that this was all she ever wanted.

She reaches for her phone to tell Vanessa. It’s strange—Brooke never would’ve thought of sharing this with anyone, would’ve just kept it to herself. Another day at work. But she’s done it, and all she wants is for Vanessa to know, to share it with her. Lately she’s sharing more and more with Vanessa, from funny memes or restaurant recommendations to the book of Mary Oliver poems she’s going to give Vanessa as a thank you for helping with the speech. She loves when Vanessa sends stuff back, selfies of her in a witch hat, or pictures of crafts she’s done. The fact that Vanessa did something like tiny She-Ra swords and thought of Brooke, wants her to experience it too, makes Brooke warm and fuzzy inside.

There’s a missed call from her mom, and Brooke calls her back first, trying to calm her heart. There’s no reason to think anything bad happened, she reminds herself.

“Mom?” Brooke asks hesitantly.

“Brooke!” She’s too cheerful to report bad news, and Brooke relaxes. “Your dad and I were wondering if you and Vanessa want to come for dinner some time?”

Shit. “Um–”

“We’d love to see her again.”

“I’d have to check.”

It’s not fair to ask Vanessa again. The agreement was one work dinner and one family party, but they’ve strayed so far from that Brooke doesn’t know where they stand anymore. Brooke planned to say they broke up if her mom asked. She never thought her parents would like Vanessa so much. But she should have expected it, because who doesn’t love Vanessa seconds after meeting her?

“Well, I hope so.” Her mother’s voice is so loving that Brooke’s guilt burns hotter. “Vanessa’s such a good fit for you. You’re so happy around her.”

It’s not real! Brooke wants to yell, and she almost tells her mom the truth. But that would crush her, crush the person who always wanted Brooke to be happy. The person who brought her to the park and coaxed her to join the other kids, even though Brooke was too nervous to ask for her turn on the monkey bars and sat under the slide instead, dreaming of worlds where she wasn’t told to come out of her shell. Who brought her to museums and science camps and encouraged her to keep going in college. Who tried to find women for Brooke to date after she came out, wanting her to have someone she could be happy with.

How could she disappoint her mom like that?

She swallows the lump in her throat. “I-I’ll check, Mom, okay?”

“Okay, honey. Love you!”

“Love you too.”

Brooke sighs, shrugging out the tension in her shoulders. She needs the big guns for this one.

—

“I don’t know what to do, Nina.” Brooke burrows herself deeper into Nina’s couch and takes another sip of wine. “Everything’s a mess.”

Nina occupies the couch’s other end, just like their college days, giggling on a cramped twin bed. Brooke wishes they were back in that freezing cinder-block room, where her biggest concerns were finding edible dining hall food and finishing homework and herding drunk Nina, who just wanted to re-enact every Disney movie ever, into bed. Not the absolute disaster things have become. One little lie. One little lie to stop endless questions about dating, the well-meant hopes that she’ll find the one. Now, the lie is a skyscraper about to collapse in front of her, and all she has to mend it is duct tape.

What was she thinking, agreeing to this? One smile from Vanessa and she was gone, fake ring on her finger and knees touching on her parents’ couch like teenagers, watching movies and bringing coffee and texting nonstop. Now she has to break her mom’s heart and tell her they broke up, or do the act all over, pretend to be in love again, and then what? They keep doing this for the rest of their lives?

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” Nina says finally. “You said Vanessa liked your parents, so why not ask her?”

“Because where does it end? We do this again, my mom loves Vanessa more, she keeps asking to see her. I’m supposed to ask Vanessa to do this for every birthday and holiday and whatever? Next thing you know we’re spending Christmas there–”

“Brooke.”

“–And my mom loves weddings. There hasn’t been one since my sister’s so she’ll start asking about that–”

“Brooke.”

“–Then we’ll have a fake wedding, and what if she starts asking about kids? Oh my God, I’m gonna have to kidnap a child and they’ll make a Lifetime movie about me—“

“Brooke! Breathe, okay?”

Brooke realizes how fast the words are tumbling out, how little she’s breathing. She forces a deep breath, willing her lungs to accept the air. Nina pats her shoulder gently, and Brooke nods that she’s okay.

“I think you should just ask Vanessa,“ Nina continues. “There’s plenty of time to figure things out after. You can tell your mom you broke up later.”

“But it’s not fair to keep asking Vanessa. And the longer this goes on, the more it’ll crush my mom when it’s over. It’s easier to end it now, before she really gets attached to Vanessa.”

It’s not just her mom, Brooke realizes. The more they do this, the closer Brooke gets with Vanessa, and the more it will hurt when it ends. Vanessa has become one of her favorite people, and she can’t lose their friendship. What if asking Vanessa to do this again ruins it?

“Honey, I get that. Vanessa did ask you to the carnival though, so maybe she won’t mind going to your parents’ again? It’s one more event each way, so it’s not totally unfair.”

Brooke shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Don’t forget yourself either,” Nina says. It’s familiar, something’s Brooke’s heard since they were eighteen and Nina made sure sleeping and eating didn’t get sacrificed to Brooke’s studying. “You can’t keep fake dating just to please people.”

Brooke nods. “You’re right, Nina. How’d you get so smart?”

“Just born that way, I guess.” Nina sips wine with a smug smile. “And I want a lead role in the Lifetime movie.”

—

The carnival grows closer, and preparation is in full swing. There’s a running tally, currently at seven, of how many game booths Yvie’s told off on the phone for not following safety rules. There’s the list of food trucks Vanessa and Silky assembled from their personal rankings, plus a new Greek one Brooke told her about. There’s Nina and A’keria’s practice sheets of face paint designs, from fierce tigers to questionable butterflies.

Aside from the kids, this is what Vanessa likes best about her job–having different activities to do, things that let her be creative and not have to sit still at a desk like she did in school, or spend hours refolding the same shirts like when she did retail. She can run outside to test paper airplanes for a craft, or arrange displays, or help kids with homework, and maybe that’s why she never wanted another job. What other job would let her have this much fun?

The added bonus is that it distracts her from Brooke and dinner with her parents. She shouldn’t need distracting from Brooke, but try telling her brain that after seeing Brooke in a fire-engine red skirt the other day, the fabric wrapped around her legs like a second skin. Not to mention the fact that she kissed Brooke pops into her head at random moments, and she can still feel those soft lips against hers.

Is there something more to her feelings? But they’ve been faking a relationship, and that’s bound to rub off. How many movie co-stars got together after playing love interests? Not that she and Brooke are exactly movie stars, but hey, their performance was convincing. Sure, she talks on the phone with Brooke for hours at night, just like high school minus the tether of the phone cord, and brought her cookies once, but those don’t have to be romantic. The speeding up of her heart around Brooke, the way she’s drawn close to her like a magnet, how her eyes can’t leave Brooke when they’re together, aren’t anything either.

So having dinner with Brooke’s parents again shouldn’t be a big deal. If this were a real relationship, a second parent meeting would be much more serious, requiring Vanessa to wear her best dress and bring fancy wine. But they’ve already passed the test, and it’s just dinner. Brooke is nervous, she knows, never planned things to get this far and felt awful for asking, but Vanessa gets it. If the situation was reversed, she doubts she could crush her mom, always on lookout for girls Vanessa can date, like that either.

And she did ask Brooke to the carnival, which wasn’t part of the agreement. Another dinner isn’t unfair. One more dinner, and Brooke will end things on her side, and Vanessa will go back to saying her wife is sick when parties come up. Vanessa hates to think of Brooke’s parents being upset they broke up, but she can do it.

A’keria’s wrong. She’s not in love with Brooke.

At least, she doesn’t think so.

—

Dinner is just them and Brooke’s parents, and Vanessa lets herself go. They want to know more about her, and she tells stories of summers at the beach as a kid, sand clinging to her legs as she built sand castles with her mom, how she and brother splashed for hours, how her dad hoisted her on his shoulders to watch the nightly fireworks. She talks about her college roommate Shea–they kissed once, incidentally, but Vanessa leaves that out–and how they threw a party on the dorm roof. She talks about the time she, Silky, and A’keria misread the recipe and made 30 pancakes instead of 15 and passed them around the apartment building.

Everyone laughs, and it’s hard not to love this, not to want this. A girlfriend like Brooke with her nice family, who reminds Vanessa of her own family even if they’re nowhere near as chaotic. Talking about memories must spur something in Brooke’s mom, because after dessert she pulls them in the living room and whips out a photo album.

“Here’s Brooke as a baby,” Brooke’s mom says, and Vanessa melts, her heart damn near exploding at baby Brooke, wrapped snugly in a white blanket patterned with pink hearts. Her hair is lighter than it is now, almost white-blonde, but her smile is exactly the same. Her eyes are wide and shining with joy.

“Here she is in kindergarten.”

There’s five-year-old Brooke outside a red brick building with a huge grin on her face, modeling a pink tutu, in a blue dress at graduation.

“And here’s Brooke in middle school—“

“Mom, I’m begging you,” Brooke groans, but the page flips to a picture of teenage Brooke whose reluctant smile reveals wire-covered teeth.

Brooke buries her face in her hands, and Vanessa gently pulls them away.

“Hey, everyone looked horrible in middle school,” Vanessa soothes. “I bleached part of my hair once and looked like Cruella DeVil.”

Brooke brightens. “You owe me a picture of that.”

“Fine.”

The pages turn, and Vanessa doesn’t notice how late it’s gotten, doesn’t notice anything until thunder tears through the sky, bringing pounding rain with it. Everyone jumps, and the reality that they have a half-hour drive in pouring rain and darkness hits, making Vanessa squeeze herself.

“I didn’t realize it was so late,” Brooke says. “Wanna go, Ness?”

If Vanessa could focus, she’d notice her face flushing over the nickname. But she can’t, because she very much does not want to go out into that storm.

“Maybe we can wait it out?” Vanessa suggests, and Brooke nods.

It’s still going strong half an hour later, and Vanessa’s jumpy, rubbing sweaty hands on her legs.

“I don’t think it’s gonna let up,” Brooke’s mom says in worry. “I’d hate for you to drive in this dark anyway. Maybe you should stay here for the night.”

Vanessa turns to Brooke, who’s biting her lip. Vanessa knows Brooke doesn’t want her to feel uncomfortable staying here, but Vanessa would much rather be in this cozy house than driving in that storm. Brooke gives a nod that lets Vanessa know it’s her call.

“I think we should stay, Brooke,” Vanessa says quickly. “There’s no point driving in this or waiting for it to stop and driving home at midnight or something.” She appeals to reason, not wanting her fear to show.

Brooke agrees, her gaze softening as she takes in Vanessa. Vanessa suddenly realizes she’s folded up into herself, alert for the next crash of thunder.

Brooke’s mom smiles. “I’ll get the guest bed ready…” She heads down the hall and Brooke turns to Vanessa, eyes soft and tender.

“Are you sure you want to stay?” Brooke asks. “I don’t want you to think you have to.”

“I want to,” Vanessa insists.

Thunder rumbles and Vanessa jumps, curling into Brooke’s side on instinct. Brooke seems shocked at first, but softens into the touch.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Brooke says softly. She lowers a tentative arm around Vanessa and her muscles unclench. “We’re safe in here.”

“Sorry,” Vanessa whispers. “I know it’s just a storm—“

“Don’t worry. Everyone’s afraid of something,” Brooke soothes. “I’m really afraid of flying. Small spaces too.”

Vanessa nods shakily. It’s so embarrassing to be scared of thunderstorms as an adult. No one judged her as a kid in her blanket nest, snuggling stuffed animals to protect her from the rain lashing at the windows. Even her brother would stop teasing and let her hold his favorite Batman action figure. Her mom would bring her hot chocolate and comfort her, and Vanessa shouldn’t need comfort anymore. But Brooke is offering it, holding her securely enough to fend off a storm herself, and Vanessa lets her, the safety of Brooke’s arms better than her childhood blankets.

When Brooke’s mom says the guest bed is ready, Vanessa thinks she would rather sleep in Brooke’s arms.

—

The guest bed is a cozy cloud of soft white cotton sheets, and Vanessa wants to jump right in.

Brooke grabs two pillows. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” she says, assembling a makeshift bed with the pillows and spare blankets.

“Oh, you don’t have to–”

“I don’t mind. Really,” Brooke insists.

Brooke’s gaze lingers on Vanessa, and Vanessa tries to catch all the feelings that flash across Brooke’s face. Does Brooke look…hopeful? Like she wants Vanessa to resist, pull her into the bed? Or is she hoping Vanessa lets her stay on the floor so they don’t have to sleep together? Is she worried about making Vanessa uncomfortable? Is Brooke uncomfortable? Vanessa doesn’t want to make Brooke uncomfortable, doesn’t want to force anything, so she agrees, wondering if that’s sadness or something else on Brooke’s face. Vanessa slides between the sheets, and the bed feels way too big with just her in it.

“It’s weird, sleeping in my parents’ house.” Brooke’s voice rings faintly from the floor, and Vanessa moves to the edge of the bed to hear her better. It reminds her of the sleepovers she had as a kid, snuggling in her Little Mermaid sleeping bag and sharing secrets with her friends, everything more exciting when it was past their bedtimes.

“Sleeping in other places doesn’t bother me,” Vanessa says. “I stayed at my parents’ last Christmas and slept like a baby. Even better than a baby.”

“Is the bed okay?” Brooke frets. “I can–”

“It’s fine.” Vanessa pauses. It could be the sleepover memories rubbing off, but she wants to talk with Brooke, talk all night about everything and nothing, in a way she hasn’t since she was thirteen.

“What were you like in school?” she asks, eager for more of the Brooke in that photo album, of the joy in her eyes that Vanessa recognizes now sometimes.

Brooke props herself up on her elbow and peeks up at Vanessa. “Quiet, mostly. You know how some kids just walked in a room and made friends?”

“Yeah.”

Brooke sighs. “I couldn’t do that. I usually read by myself at recess, watching the other kids. I could never think of anything to say, and when I did it was either too late or I was too afraid to say it. I thought everyone would laugh at me. They usually did.”

“I’m sorry,” Vanessa breathes into the space between them.

Brooke shrugs. “It’s okay. I had some friends, but I didn’t mind being on my own. Or I got used to it, anyway. I don’t know if things would’ve been different if I wasn’t as nervous around people, y’know?”

“I get it,” Vanessa says. She would say more, but she knows it’s hard for Brooke to open up, and she doesn’t want to push her.

“What were you like?” Brooke asks.

“I was funny. I made one joke and suddenly I was the class clown. I didn’t always want to be, though,” she admits. “I was smart. I loved reading, loved learning—when I could focus, cause ADHD’s a bitch. But everyone thought I was stupid, ‘cause I was so restless. That’s why I decided to keep being funny instead. I didn’t realize there’s no reason I couldn’t be both.”

She had been friends with everyone—cheerleaders, drama kids, honors students. She had cracked jokes in class and had the charm to win over anyone. But it had been exhausting at times–sometimes she just wanted to curl up in the library and read, but there was no escaping the funny, popular kid gig, no way to try new things or change herself.

“Right,” Brooke agrees. “It’s like you were stuck in a box. Whatever people called you, that’s what you were.”

Vanessa nods, because that’s it. Brooke always gets her, and it’s a relief to have that understanding.

“God, school sucked, didn’t it?” Vanessa mutters. “At least we never have to go back.”

“Shit, yes. You couldn’t pay me to do high school again.”

They keep talking–about school, about childhood, about themselves–until Vanessa’s not even aware of the rain anymore, until there’s nothing in the world but their secrets and laughs floating through the darkness. They keep talking until Brooke’s eyes start drooping, her words growing farther and farther apart as she drifts off around 2am, and Vanessa settles and tries to do the same.

But she can’t sleep. That hole in the mattress where Brooke should be is a hole in Vanessa’s heart. Why didn’t she insist Brooke get in the bed with her? Vanessa usually sleeps well, but her best sleep is always with someone there, with warmth and safety beside her.

As a kid, she slept with her entire stuffed animal collection so no one felt left out. Through all her relationships, it was sleeping with someone that she loved the most–waking up in the night and feeling the safety of someone there, letting arms curve over her waist, the morning sun shining off her girlfriend’s face. There was such intimacy and tenderness in seeing someone sleep, seeing them so vulnerable and knowing that you loved them and would protect them. Maybe it’s better Brooke’s not next to her. Maybe it would bring up those feelings.

Vanessa peers down at Brooke. She’s curled up on her side, lips parted slightly. Vanessa’s heart beats in time with the gentle rise of Brooke’s chest. Sweet Brooke, who held her in the storm and always praised her and brought her coffee just because. Who always thinks of others first and never makes Vanessa do anything she’s uncomfortable with.

She looks at Brooke’s face, soft and untroubled and angelic in her sleep, and her heart swells, and shit, she knows that feeling. She tries to stop it, but it’s like using an umbrella for defense from a hurricane. She wants Brooke here, wants her warmth and intimacy because—

Because she’s in love with Brooke.

[tdpholidayexchange]

Moonlight Romance

Okay! This is my gift to @tdphttydatlalok

———

“Where are you taking me?” Ethari asked, stumbling over tree branches and rocks as he was dragged through the forest. The blindfold over his eyes prevented him from seeing anything other than the glowing of the runes dotting the path they walked along and the full moon lighting up streaks of white hair just enough for Ethari to see through the blindfold. Hair belonging to Runaan, the one pulling him through the trees like an excited child.

“Calm down, you’ll love it.” Runaan chuckled in front of him, only pulling Ethari more. “I’ve been meaning to bring you here for quite awhile.”

“Is- Is this an assassin place?” Assassin’s had little hang out and training spots that were practically forbidden for non-assassins, Ethari didn’t want to cause any issues, especially not with-

“Maybe, maybe not. It’s called the Whispering Brooks. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of it.”

Ethari gave an unsure sigh, pulling out of the assassin’s grasp “I have a bad feeling about this.” He admitted.

Runaan stopped momentarily. Before Ethari could even register, he was being kissed lightly.

“Dont.” Was all that was said before Ethari felt Runaan draw back, then began tugging him once again.

At some point, they strayed from the path entirely. Ethari could see absolutely no light at all, only relying on touch and a few of Runaan’s warnings in order to not trip or fall. He was absolutely sure of nothing, he kept his ears strained for odd sounds or alarming noises but all he heard was their footsteps over the leaves and the sound of his own breathing. He was sure he was digging his nails, at least what he had of them, into Runaan’s hands but if the assassin had a response, Ethari couldn’t hear it. 

“We’re almost there.” Runaan said after a time, and sure enough, things became considerably lighter shortly after. So much so that Ethari had to blink even behind the blindfold because of the sharp contrast to the near black moments earlier. 

A hand on his chest stopped him from walking. Runaan himself had stilled. All was silent, except for the crickets and an occasional frog. Ethari tried to focus on that instead of how uneven his own breathing was. Specifically because he suddenly felt Runaan breathing on his shoulder.

“Keep your eyes closed.” Runaan warned in his ear. His voice was clear but quiet, not much more than a whisper. Did he sound… Worried.

Ethari felt a hand reach back to the blindfold’s knot, then slip it off. Ethari almost flinched as even more light filled the area, only to blink once it dimmed. 

He gasped in shock and adoration as he laid his eyes on the scenery in front of him. They were in a clearing filled with many small streams and rocks that cut through the grass.

A single tree with many glowing blue crystals dangling from it like glowing weeping willow leaves hung over the spot and coated everything in a gentle blue light.

Oh wow…

“What do you think?” Runaan asked beside him. When Ethari glanced back, the assassin was smiling brightly, though worry was definitely there, hidden in his eyes and the way he seemed to be fidgeting with his coat. Runaan never worried…

Something was wrong. Or at least off…

“Runaan, is something up?” Ethari asked with concern, forgetting the scenery  for a moment to focus solely on the assassin, who seemed startled at the question.

“Why would something be ‘up?’” The assassin asked haltingly. Well by the reaction, something wasn’t wrong, but clearly Runaan was hiding something!

“You’re acting strange is all.”

“No I’m not.” Was all Runaan said for a moment, only boosting Ethari’s suspicion.

“Fine, then swear on the moon’s face.” Ethari watched Runaan freeze, smirking. Runaan was far too serious and ‘moonshadow-like’ to actively lie in the moon’s very name.

Runaan simply stared for a moment, his ears twitched in alarm before sighing. “… fine. Something is 'up.’”

“Well?” Ethari prompted.

The assassin went quiet, looking serious as he always did when making decisions, with his eyebrows bunched together and a frown almost like a pout on his face. It always had been adorable for Ethari… When Runaan finally spoke again, it was a quiet fact, leading to an admittance Ethari was sure. “The other assassins like to call this the Promise brooks.” Runaan stepped forward, reaching into his pockets. “They call it the Promise brooks because this is where whispered promises become truth.” Suddenly, the assassin was getting on one knee.

Ethari’s eyes widened in surprise and shock as Runaan pulled something out of his pockets, only to gasp once he saw the large, cylinder-like horn cuffs in Runaan’s hands.

Engagement cuffs.

Ethari brought a hand up to his mouth in surprise, tears were actually begin to form because…

Was this actually happening?

Runaan continued with a smile, seemingly unshaken by Ethari’s reaction. “I want to promise my heart to you. If you will accept it.”

This was actually happening!

“Only if you accept mine in turn.” Ethari managed out. His own voice sounded like it wasunderwater, second to his own heart beginning to thump wildly in his chest. All he could focus on was Runaan’s eyes and his smile-

Oh dear Lunaris Ethari was in so deep…

Runaan rose and stole another kiss, a proper kiss. Deeper and longer than the small pecks of earlier. Ethari held onto Runaan’s hood for dear life, only working to make the kiss continue as Runaan slipped the two clasps onto his horns ever so carefully.

The crystals glowed even brighter than before above them, almost as if they were acknowledging what was happening and blessing it. Now Ethari realized why Runaan brought him here of all places. Not just pretty sights… This must be an assassin thing after all.

When the kiss broke, they stayed like that for a moment, holding each other close and simply standing in the light of the crystals and enjoying the moment of joy.

Ethari was engaged… To Runaan.

That actually happened!

A giddy excitement overtook him, causing him to giggle. 

Giggle, of all things.

With a laugh of his own into Ethari’s cheek, Runaan finally asked “How about we go tell everyone? I’m sure Tiadrin and Lain are waiting to see if you said yes.”

Wait what?

“You told them you were going to propose?” Ethari asked, drawing back with a confused tilt of his head. The clasps on his horns jingled from the movement, not yet properly fitted, but that could be done in time.

“They were the ones who suggested it was time.”

“Oh really?” Ethari asked with a light huff, letting go to cross his arms. He wasn’t mad, just.. interested. “They had to tell you?”

Runaan laughed once again, then left a kiss on Ethari’s cheek next.

Damn those kisses…

“I would’ve been too nervous to do it without them pushing me to.” He admitted. “But whatever the reason, do you still accept?”

Ethari gave a sigh, despite the smile on his face. He rolled his eyes.

“Always.”

[doctorgerth]

Hello love~! I'm here to request wedding headcanons for Zoro, Sabo and Ace~

These were so cute and fun to write!! Hope you enjoy, my dear friend ~

Wedding HCs for Zoro, Sabo, and Ace

Zoro:

- nervous as HELL

- he doesn’t show it, remaining as stoic as ever, but he is sweating buckets in that suit!

- it’s not that he has cold feet, he just hadn’t imagined he’d ever commit to someone forever like this

- but, he fell for you in such a way, immediately knowing that you two were meant to be together until the end of time

- he would’ve been fine without any ceremony, but he knows a wedding means a lot to you, so of course he said yes to the idea

- the crew really wanted to throw you an extravagant wedding, but both you and Zoro agreed on a small ceremony on the Sunny

- he begged Nami and Robin for help to plan and design the entire thing, since he has no fucking clue what he’s doing, and Nami complied (with only a small fee)

- Nami and Sanji (lol) are your bridesmaids, with Robin being the maid of honor!

- Usopp and Franky are the groomsmen, with Luffy being the best man!

- Zoro is the one who asked (dared? demanded?) Sanji to be your other bridesmaid and he only agreed if he could also escort you down the aisle

- Zoro complied though he was definitely hesitant; the idea of the ero-cook being arm and arm with his future bride before he could even lay eyes on her makes his blood boil

- Brook is of course playing sweet music on his violin

- Chopper is the ring bearer and flower child (let it be known he is absolutely adorable in his little suit!!)

- Jinbe is the officiant!

- it’s a wonderful ceremony because the entire crew is actually dressed to the nines! Franky still isn’t wearing pants, but he does look fancy from the waist up!

- Zoro is as handsome as ever, in a full grey suit; his cherished swords aren’t decorated around his waist for once, but they are laid aside in his line of sight of course

- once Brook starts playing the traditional wedding song, Zoro perks up, craning his neck to look for you

- his breathing and heart rate increase rapidly; it’s time and he is about to e x p l o d e

- it takes a lot for Zoro to get nervous, why is he on the verge of hyperventilation??

- what if you see him and change your mind? what if he can’t really make you happy for the rest of his life? what if you realize there’s someone way better out there? what if you realize you don’t actually love him…?

- Luffy notices Zoro’s apprehension and places a reassuring hand on his shoulder, offering him an ear to ear smile to let him know everything will be okay!

- the blinding pure white of your dress instantly catches Zoro eye

- your beauty and grace somehow makes every single one of his fears disappear

- he even completely dismisses the fact that you’re linked arms with that shitty cook

- you look up at him with the most loving eyes and he questions how he could have ever doubted the love you have between each other; a kind of love that is meant to withstand anything and everything

- Zoro hardly even listens to anything that comes out of Jinbe’s mouth, he’s just too focused on you and your genuine, happy smile

- once you are officially proclaimed as Mr. and Mrs. Roronoa Zoro, he grabs you instantly lifts you up into a passionate kiss

- the entire crew erupts into applause - both Franky and Sanji are weeping - and the real party begins!

- you end the ceremony with a lavish and lively party full of booze, food, music, and friends

- the honeymoon is postponed, since as usual with your crew’s luck, the marines have arrived; they caught word of the wedding and are now surrounding you, planning on a capture

- you finish off your wedding day with fighting and escaping the marines together as newlyweds!

Sabo:

- marrying a man from a generally pretty secretive group, it’s no surprise that this ceremony is low-key and a secret to the world

- the only people in attendance are you, Sabo, and the Revolutionaries

- Ivankov insists you get married in the forest of Kamabakka Kingdom, since the pink flowers and leaves of the trees serve as an elegant backdrop/atmosphere

- you agree, as long as the Kamabakka people do not cause any disruptions

- spoiler: they’re hiding in the bushes and trees during the entire ceremony!

- the set up is basic: a few white chairs are set up in order, facing a simple arch decorated with the most beautiful flowers from the island

- the only lavish things about the wedding are the outfits

- Sabo is dressed head to toe in a handsome coal-black suit (with a matching top hat of course!); his sunny blonde hair and bright blue eyes really pop against the darkness of his suit!

- your dress is long, flowing, and pearly white

- Inazuma and a few other Kamabakka citizens helped to get you ready

- Koala wanted to murder Sabo as he was just impossible; he wouldn’t stand still for her, he was just too jittery and eager to see you!

- the ceremony begins and Sabo is as ready as ever; he won’t lie, he is a little nervous, but he knows seeing your loving face will make him feel better

- Koala is your maid of honor; she proudly holds your lengthy train as you walk down the aisle with Dragon, who is escorting you

- Hack stands next to Sabo as his best man

- Ivankov is elated to be the officiant, though you and Sabo had to make him promise he wouldn’t go over the top during the ceremony

- luckily, everything goes perfectly during the wedding

- Sabo’s face is threatening to freeze into his toothy smile, but he is just so happy to finally see you

- the exchange of your vows really makes the audience tear up

- Sabo isn’t even looking at his vow papers anymore; the words he’s wanting you to hear spill effortlessly from his heart

- he’s just staring into your eyes, telling you precisely how in love with you he is and how he promises to love you for the rest of his days and beyond

- happy tears begin to prick your eyes, causing few to fill his eyes as well

- he takes your hands in his once more as the final words he’s been dying to hear all day are said: ‘I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.’

- Sabo doesn’t even hesitate as he takes hold of your blushing cheeks into his gloved hands to grab your lips in a romantic kiss

- you can taste the saltiness of your tears (or are they his?) flowing down your cheeks; Sabo smiles joyfully against your lips

- this causes the people of Kamabakka to erupt into applause and rush forward from their hiding places

- amidst the chaos, a party ensues, but Sabo finds you and discreetly leads you two away

- he takes you to a solitary beach to enjoy some peace and quiet as husband and wife

- it seems he had planned this moment, as a checkered blanket and a single lit candle are waiting for you

- no words are said between you two; you sit down on the blanket together while he pulls your back into his chest, wrapping his arms around you

- you watch the blazing sun go down into the vast sea while he whispers sweet nothings in your ear

- he makes loves to you on that beach, calling you his dear wife over and over again, never once getting tired of hearing you call him your husband

Ace:

- The Whitebeard Pirates do not accept small ceremonies

- your wedding is gonna be so extravagant, everyone will hear about it!; it’ll be in all the newspapers!

- you and Ace accept this with great gratitude, and you two are never asked to do anything

- Marco surprisingly takes complete control in the wedding planning and honestly, you’d think he was the bride-zilla

- Izo is of course in charge of your hair and make up, and he makes you look absolutely stunning

- Jozu and Vista have to hold Ace down while Izo makes some “touches” to his face and hair

- Marco and Izo both want to strangle Ace for thinking he could wear his hat during the ceremony 

- the entire ship is lively with crew members and even some elite guests (the Straw Hats and the Red Hair Pirates to name a few)

- Luffy is beyond excited to have and call you his sister!

- it is known around the world as the wedding of the century! Pops wants nothing but the best for his son and now daughter!

- he is beyond excited to accept you into the family and is already pushing for grandkids

- Ace is a little nervous, but he’s mostly beaming in that handsome white suit of his!

- you two had talked beforehand about this commitment, since you two are pretty young, and you both have insecurities

- but you two are so crazy for each other and know you are 100% ready and eager for this next step in your lives! (also Marco put way too much effort and stress into this wedding so it is definitely happening)

- seeing you walk down the aisle in that gorgeous white dress of yours, Ace has to really fight the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks

- this is really happening; he’s marrying the woman of his dreams!

- he’s so overwhelmed with emotions, knowing you are just as in love with him as he is you; he never thought he would find a love as true and unbreakable as yours!

- he really has to suppress himself for kissing you right there before the officiant can even start the ceremony

- but once he gets to kiss you, he almost tackles you!

- you two stumble backwards, causing his arm to catch your waist and he is dipping you into a deep and heated kiss!

- the biggest party erupts immediately after the announcement of Mr. and Mrs. Portgas Ace!

- though you tried to turn down the offer, Pops practically forces you to take a honeymoon trip

- he provides a small boat and your bags are already packed!

- Ace takes you to an island known for their fancy restaurants and beautiful beaches

- you two spend a week doing nothing but making sweet love, adventuring the island, and relishing in the fact that you are now officially husband and wife!

[lostinyourparadise98]

Let You Go

a/n: I hope you all enjoy! please like and share this one is kind of long (:

“You know I will always support you but I cannot let you do this.”

I roll down the sleeves of my sweater letting the fabric swipe away the tears that pool from my eyes. Ive told myself over and over again to never let it get to this point. To never let anyone see how much I love him but its too late.

“I can't do this Brooke, its too hard.” My voice comes out as a whisper as Brooke sits beside me on the cold bathroom tile. She rests her head against the wall grabbing my hand in hers and sighing deeply.

“The wedding is tomorrow pet, you cannot just bail he is your best friend.”

Ive spent most of my life convincing myself that one day I would build up the courage to tell him the truth. That one day he would see me across the room, look into my eyes and that would be it. He would smile while walking over to me  and kiss me till the world melted away. Sometimes life doesn't work out that way. So, here I am sitting on my bathroom floor with my roommate the day before the love of my life gets married, fighting with what I want to do and with what I know I have too.

“I cant even say his name without crying Brooke ” I rest my head on her shoulder.

“Im going to be honest with you okay? This i going to be the hardest thing you will ever have to do but I promise you, when you look back you won't regret it. You can't just disappear you have to take tomorrow as an opportunity to receive closure. To, to-”

“Let him go?” I finish her sentence

“Yes lovely, its time to let him go.”

The next morning

The sun shines bright today as I stand in front of the mirror. I  run my hands along the side of my dress making sure everything is in place. The peach colored fabric runs a couple of inches above my feet. I don't normally wear backless but Brooke talked me into it. My hair is neatly curled falling just below my shoulders.

“Y/n! Gemma is here.” Brooke calls for me.

Taking one last look at myself I head downstairs following Brooke and Gammas laughter in the kitchen. My eyes land on Gemma she looks absolutely stunning she is practically glowing.

“Y/n look at you, oh my goodness you look amazing.” She pulls me in for a hug 

“You look incredible Gem.”

“Thank you sweets. Well what do you say are you ready to go?”

no no no no no no

“Yes all set!” 

“Have a good time you two. You both look beautiful ill pick you up later Y/N.” Brooke walks us to the door

We make our way to Gammas car. I have to continuously remind myself to breathe. I need to get it together.

“Hey wait.” Gemma lightly grabs my hand 

“whats up did you forget something?” I ask 

“Are you okay?” Her eyes are filled with compassion and love 

“Of course I'm okay why would you-”

“Y/n you're my brothers best friend I have known you my entire life you don't have to pretend around me.” Holy shit she knows 

“What are you talking about?” Please don't make me talk about this 

“y/n, don't play with me I see you. Its the way you look at him, hell even in the way you say his name. You love him.”

“Please Gemma I can't”

“I know my love, I know. I am so sorry y/n you have no idea how much I am hurting for you, I promise you I will be here for you okay? If you need to take a breather or something is too much for you to handle just tell me and we will get through it together.”

“You shouldn't have to do that Gem its your brothers wedding day. You should be happy celebrating him not babysitting me.”

“I love my brother more than anything on this planet but that doesn't mean I have to agree with everything he does.”

“Gem Emma is perfect for Harry. She makes him over the moon happy that is all I want for him. I guess thats what makes it worse she absolutely  lovely, not a bad bone in her body.”

“Don't get me wrong I adore Emma but its always been you two, always. trust me I'm not the only one who thinks so.”

“Who else knows?” 

“My mum, well its basically obvious to everyone but Harry. Tell you the boy is clueless.”

“He doesn't love me Gem I have to accept it.” 

“You're the strongest person I know y/n.” 

The car ride to the church is spent with Gemma filling the air with small talk. I can tell she is trying to distract me bless her soul. There is nothing on this Earth that could pull me away from this pain. I should have told him why the hell did I not take a chance. What if he felt the same way, what if-

“y/n? you ready.” 

It takes me a moment to realize that we have arrived to the church. I take a deep breathe and nod. I step out of the car and force myself to smile. This is going to be a very long night. 

We step through the doors and I am taken back by how beautiful the church is. We are one of the first people here Anne greets us right away, hugging Gemma first then making her way to me. She immediately wraps her arms around me and whispers.

“He is looking for you I can come up with something if you're not ready to see him.” I pull away 

“No, Its okay I'm ready.” Anne leads me to the back room where Harry is we both stand blankly in front of the door.

“I love you my sweet girl let know if you need anything.” 

“Thank you Anne I love you too.” She gently smiles and quietly walks away

I can feel my heart fall to my throat. My hand begins to shake as I slowly lift it and begin knocking.

“Come in.” His voice causes my heart to race my mouth goes dry I slowly turn the knob and enter. 

Harry stands in front of a tiny mirror adjusting his curly hair. He turns to face me and his face turns up into a bright smile. This is so hard 

“Hey, there you are come in.” the sun light streaming through the window causes his skin to radiate a heavenly glow. His eyes, My God those eyes I never want them to leave mine.

“Look at you, you look so handsome ” don't cry don't cry don't cry 

He walks closer to me, “Thank you petal, you know its crazy to think that you use to be taller than me.”

“Oh hush you'll shrink down by the time you're forty. You'll probably be balding by then too.”

He dramatically gasps, “Okay now you've crossed a line.” we both chuckle as he walks behind me grabbing two glasses and a bottle of champagne. He pops the Champagne open and begins pouring.

“I don’t think Ive ever been this nervous.” he hands me a glass 

“You’ll be fine you have nothing to worry about.”

“I need you to know that it means the world to me that you're here. You're my best friend and I could not imagine doing this without you.”

“Of course Harry what are friends for?” He steps closer to me 

“Can you promise me something?” His eyes poor into mine, it takes everything in me not to fall into his arms and confess everything. All I can do is nod as he continues.

“Promise me that we will be in each others lives forever. That we will spend holidays together and our kids will grow up and become best friends just like we did.” 

“I promise.” I raise my glass to his clinking it 

“Heres to forever.”

“To forever.” A forever next to a man I can never have. 

The ceremony begins, I watched Harry step up to the alter messing with his fingers as he waits for his bride. A nervous habit he has never been able to break. Theres a moment when everything goes silent my eyes are glued to Harry. His eyes are wide, his smile the brightest I have ever seen. I can't stop myself from grinning along with him. He looks so happy, Emma makes her way closer to him their eyes are focused on each other. I watch him  mouth the words ‘I love you’ and in that moment my heart shatters. 

They exchange their vows giving the rest of their lives to one another. I sat in silence counting all the times I could have confessed. Once the ceremony ends I drive with Niall and Louis to the reception. Its nice to get pulled out of reality for awhile. Louis is the best person to go to when you need a distraction. Once we reach the reception I find my name tag and take my seat. I'm able to get through dinner and make polite conversation. The Dj announces Mr and Mrs. styles are about to have their fist dance. I couldn't sit through it, I had to excuse myself.

I tried my best to be inconspicuous as I snuck through the back. The cool summer breeze kissed my skin, the sun began to set as I listened to their song in the background. I have never felt so empty. I couldn't hold back anymore I let myself unravel I let every tear Ive ever held back fall.

I didn't realize how long I was outside till the moon began to rise. I was suddenly pulled away from my thoughts when the back door opened.

“y/n? What are you doing out here I have been looking all over for you.” I can't bring myself to face him.

“y/n? petal its freezing out here.” I feel him begin to wrap his tux around me but I pull away.

“You don't have to do that I'm okay.” he stands closer to me 

“Have you been crying?” 

“I’m okay its probably just the wine you know how I get.” I try my best to keep my voice calm but the lump in my throat gets bigger and bigger 

“Hey, hey, hey look at me. You can talk to me y/n its me.”

“Harry please just go inside Ill be okay I promise just go back and enjoy your wedding.”

“I can't enjoy it knowing you’re out here by yourself crying. You haven't even danced with me yet.” I can't help but chuckle at his concern 

“Come on please petal come dance with me I have a song picked out and everything.”

“Harry I can't, Im sorry I just can't.”

“Thats okay we can dance right here.”

“Here?”

“well you won't go inside come on come here.”

He wraps his hands around my waist and I place mine on his shoulders. We slowly sway back and fourth even though the Dj is playing a fast paced song. I can't handle looking at him so I place my head on his shoulder.

“Petal I want you to know that whatever is bothering you will get better. I will be here when you are ready to talk about it. I want you to enjoy yourself tonight I can't stand to see you sad. Emma will be heartbroken if she knew you were so upset.” And with that I lost it again, I pulled away from him.

“I have to go Harry.” 

“What why?”

“I can't handle this anymore.”

“y/n please talk to me you're freaking me out.”

“Its too much I will ruin everything if I tell you.” He grabs my hands in his attempting to calm me down 

“Please just talk to me I promise you aren't going to ruin anything.”

“You are the most important person in my life Harry. You have been here for me my entire life and your friendship means the world to me. I thought I could push it away, I thought I would be able to do this but its impossible because I'm in love with you. I don't expect you to do or say anything I just needed you to know. I will leave and you won't have to worry about me intruding I promise I am so sorry for ruining everything I just-” 

He wraps his arms around me and pulls my body close to his chest. I slowly bring my arms around him, hugging him back. I hear him sniffle and realize he is crying. He pulls away for a moment and puts his forehead against mine

“I should have told you.” he whispers 

“What?” This can't be happening 

“Its always been you y/n.”

“You can't say that to me Harry this can't happen its too late.”

“I know.” Tears streaming down both of our face 

“Its best for the both of us if I disappear for awhile Harry.”

“Petal please don't you're my best friend, I love you.”

“I love you too but this is too hard I can't watch you kiss her its too painful I just need some time.”

“Please don't do this.”

“Harry I have to let you go.”

“I know that you understand that I love Emma with all my heart. She makes me so happy and for a long time I was convinced I would never have that. She is my wife and I will always honor and be loyal to her. But that will never change the fact that you will always be my first. It was you from the beginning, you will aways be in my heart fucking always. Promise me you won't let this change us please.”

“I can't promise that. I just need to go away for awhile please don't be upset with me.”

He leans down and presses his lips to my forehead.

“I could never be upset with I just can't believe we have to-”

“Let each other go.” we say in unison

He let me go. 

Hope you all enjoyed!!! sorry if none of it makes sense I never edit my work lol

[writethehousedown]

let it snow (Branjie) - astrodrag

AN: Hi everyone! Sorry I missed a few days, I got sick and school kicked my ass for a bit there. I’ve got finals coming up, but I’m still hard at work on ficmas prompts!

Growing up in Florida, winters never got cold enough for snow, so Vanessa never got the white Christmas experience she always saw in movies.

Her Christmases were spent with family, entertaining her younger cousins by chasing them around the front yard while her parents mingled with all of her aunts and uncles on the porch, taking advantage of the cool weather. Her Christmases was always loud and festive, relatives singing holiday jingles at the tops of their lungs, others dancing or cheering them on. Her Christmases were bright and cheery, filled with loved ones and comfortable times spent at home.

But this year it all felt wrong.

The warm Florida weather felt out of place, leaving her with a longing to bundle up in puffy jackets and scarves before heading outside. The sunshine and dry ground seemed like a joke, like the universe was trying to taunt her, reminding her of what she lost. Reminding her of who she lost.

****

Vanessa had been dating Brooke for 9 months by the time Christmas had come around. They made a deal months ago, agreeing to spend Thanksgiving with Vanessa’s family in Florida and Christmas in Canada with Brooke’s family. When they stepped out of the Toronto airport, the last thing Vanessa expected to see was a heavy blanket of white covering everything.

“What the hell?” Vanessa breathed, stopping in her tracks. She looked up at her girlfriend in confusion, scrunching up her nose as the blonde let out a soft laugh.

“What, have you never seen snow before?” Brooke asked teasingly, gently nudging Vanessa with her elbow.

“Nope,” Vanessa replied, earning herself a shocked look from Brooke. “It ain’t ever snow in Tampa.”

It took a moment for Brooke get over her initial shock, but then she was grabbing Vanessa’s hand and pulling her out from under the overhang covering the sidewalk where they stood. Vanessa followed Brooke out into the snow cautiously, letting out a small squeal when she nearly slipped. Her hand quickly gripped Brooke’s arm, practically clinging to the taller woman. She felt like a baby horse trying to gain her footing, almost certain she was going to fall on her ass at the airport.

“How the fuck do you walk in this?” She asked, letting out a huff when Brooke shakes her head in amusement.

“Carefully,” Brooke replied, snaking one of her arms around Vanessa’s waist. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

****

Most of her time back home was spent holed up in her childhood bedroom, door locked to keep her relatives from barging in on her. She knew they had good intentions, that they just wanted to catch up with her since most of them hadn’t seen her in two years, but she couldn’t bring herself to go out there. She didn’t want to answer their questions about Brooke, about why she wasn’t here and why they broke up in the first place.

The pain was still too new, too fresh for her to face it head on yet.

She could hear one of her uncles downstairs belting out the words to Jingle Bells, which brought the tiniest hint of a smile to her face for a moment. Maybe she would go downstairs in a little bit, go join the festivities for a while. But not yet.

She just wasn’t ready yet.

****

Christmas at Brooke’s house was quiet, but the quietness didn’t feel lonely like she had expected. Instead it felt calming and intimate, like she and Brooke were in their own little world, when in reality they were in the guest room of Brooke’s parents’ home.

Since getting in from their flight that morning, they had spent the better part of the day in bed cuddling, Vanessa feeling like she just could not get warm no matter what she did. She supposed that was the difference between Tampa and Toronto, but she didn’t want to complain about it too much, not wanting to accidentally upset Brooke in any way. She was loving her time in Canada so far, she just wished she could warm up a bit.

She let out a soft sigh, her head resting against Brooke’s shoulder as her fingers idly traced shapes on the exposed skin of Brooke’s stomach from her shirt riding up. Vanessa felt at home in Toronto, the same way she felt at home when they visited New York and Chicago together.

She was starting to think she would feel at home anywhere, so long as Brooke was there.

A few minutes passed by in silence, before Brooke’s fingers gently tilted Vanessa’s chin up to look at her.

“Since you’ve never seen snow before, you’ve never built a snowman either, have you?” She asked softly, her face lighting up in a grin as Vanessa shook her head no. “Let’s go make one.”

****

When Vanessa came down the stairs and walked into the dining room almost an hour later, she could feel the stares of a few of her relatives. By now, they surely had all heard about Brooke breaking up with her a couple weeks ago, surely knew that was the reason she had been hiding out in her room.

She stood awkwardly in the doorway for a minute, before her cousin Emilia came over and dragged her over to the group of people she had been talking to. They welcomed her into the conversation with warm smiles, a couple of them complimenting the tacky Christmas sweater she had thrown on, colorful lights blinking against deep green fabric.

Vanessa felt a sense of relief that none of them mentioned Brooke, the group keeping the subject off of relationships entirely. They knew she didn’t want to talk about her ex, and more than ever, Vanessa was grateful to be home with her family.

****

Vanessa was freezing her ass off outside, but it was so worth it. Seeing Brooke’s whole face light up with child-like joy made Vanessa’s heart swell with pride, even if her fingertips had started to go numb, despite wearing two pairs of gloves.

As she carefully made her way over to the tree at the edge of the yard to grab a couple sticks for arms, Vanessa felt something hit her back, cold radiating from the point of impact. She froze in place, startled by the sudden cold. Slowly turning around, Vanessa could see Brooke giggling into her hand, her other arm wrapped around her stomach.

“Did you just throw a snowball at me?” Vanessa asked in disbelief, hands on her hips.

“Maybe.” Brooke’s voice was a little too high to be believable, and Vanessa could still hear the hint of laughter in it. She loved the sound of Brooke’s laugh.

Instead of responding, Vanessa slowly leaned down and grabbed a handful of snow, forming it into a ball of her own. She flung it at Brooke, unable to help the snicker she let out when it hit her girlfriend’s shoulder. The blonde’s green eyes narrowed at Vanessa, and before they knew it, they were running around the yard in a full-blown snowball fight. Playful squeals echoed through the quiet December air, accompanied by the thuds of snowballs making contact with their targets.

Brooke chased Vanessa through the snow, Vanessa letting out a shriek the moment she felt Brooke’s arms around her waist pulling her back against the blonde. Her shriek turned into a fit of laughter as Brooke lifted her up momentarily, spinning her around before setting her back down on her own feet.

Vanessa spun around the moment she was back on the ground, still securely wrapped in Brooke’s arms. She looped her arms around the blonde’s neck, standing up on her tiptoes as their lips met in a soft kiss.

If this was what Christmas was supposed to be like, playing in the snow with someone you loved, then Vanessa never wanted to go back to the warm holidays in Florida that she grew up with.

****

Most of Vanessa’s relatives had left by sun-down, wanting to drive back to their homes or hotels before it got too dark outside. The only people left were the ones who had chosen at her parents’ house, taking up the guest rooms down the hall from Vanessa’s room.

They had moved from the dining room into the living room, spreading out among the couches and chairs as they continued conversations from earlier. They continued chatting until almost midnight, when Vanessa stood up to go to bed.

Just as she was about to climb up the stairs to her room, she heard a round of gasps, followed by her cousin Emilia calling her back over. Everyone was huddled around the window, and Vanessa had to crane her neck to see what they were all looking at.

Outside, barely visible in the glow of the streetlights, it was snowing. Not much, but it was still snowing. She felt her chest tighten and her stomach drop, her mind wandering back to Brooke for the first time this afternoon.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Vanessa’s mother asked, the bewilderment evident in her tone. Vanessa wondered if she had sounded like that to Brooke when they went to Toronto the year before.

“Yeah, it is.” Vanessa mumbled in response, before falling silent. She watched quietly with her family for a couple minutes, before finally heading upstairs when she felt like she couldn’t look at the snow any longer without crying.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t happy it was snowing, she just couldn’t see snow without thinking about Brooke.

Against her better judgement, Vanessa fired off a single text to her ex after she climbed into bed.

V: It’s snowing in Tampa for once. Reminded me of you. Merry Christmas, B.

[drakewalkerisreal]

Chapter 8: Only in the darkness, you can see the stars!!

Amour Sans Fin

Drake x Riley

Sorry, if some of you find it a slow romantic fic. But thats how Drake is like!!

We reached Lythikos after five hours drive crossing the Alps range. It is Olivia’s place, but I have always been thoroughly enchanted by the beauty of Lythikos. As we reached the Nevrakis chateau, the view in front of us was breathtakingly beautiful.

Everybody arrived at almost same time at Olivia’s castle in different cars.

“Welcome to Lythikos” Maxwell always seems excited.

I looked at her taking in the vista of Mountains from Nevrakis Chateau.

“This is beautiful” she took a deep breath.

No. You are beautiful.

She is wearing a simple green Cardigan with blue denim with sneakers. No fancy jackets like other nobles. Her hair is in half updo today and her light curls are falling down her shoulders. They must smell good. I can feel it. Wait!! What am I? A sniffer dog?

“Where is Bertrand, Maxwell? I notice he’s not here lecturing Brooks today.” I advanced to them.

“Bertrand was called away for some business having to do with our estate.”

“Bertrand is gone?? Now, this is real vacation!!” Riley giggled.

“Yes, we can enjoy ourselves” Maxwell grinned too.

“But it’s cold in here” Hana rubbed her arms.

Wait till you go out in snow.

I suggested Hana eyeing Riley “You must have packed anything warmer”

“Not much” she sighed

“C’mon Ladies!! I’ll show you your room” Maxwell lead them upstairs.

I reached to my allotted room. It must be room for underprivileges in Lythikos. Thanks Olivia!! This is what I expect from you!! At least I have roof over my head. After settling in my stuff, I get down to the side of the lake.

In a while, I saw her coming down with Maxwell near the frozen lake. Liam and Olivia were already doing ice skating holding hands at the centre. They were laughing and Olivia is kind of showing her claim over Liam.

Maxwell and Riley stood beside me with Hana.

“You know how to ice skate?? Right??” Maxwell asked her.

“Umm... No. I never tried. But I can do some skiing”

Now, that’s my kind of girl.

“But I can try. What is it about?? Try to stay upright and don’t fall. “

“Good enough” Maxwell encouraged her “Now Go to Liam”

I decided to watch from outside the arena.

Maxwell waved at Olivia and tried to distract her. He was showing his spin to Olivia. But Olivia was not interested at all. She made such disgusting face.

Maxwell winks at Riley and sent her sailing across ice towards Liam.

He mouthed “Go get him” He’s not a prize to win, Maxwell.

Suddenly she lost her balance a bit and Liam held her. No, that wasn’t a trick. I can see.

“Gotcha” he smiled and caught her in his arms. She felt uneasy and pulled away a bit. Although she smiled.

“Hey, Liam”

“Let’s Skate” he took her hand and lead her to centre of the lake.

Now, he’s skating with her holding hands. Yes, I felt jealous. I was never jealous of Liam before. I don’t know why but I am feeling it now. No, it has nothing to do with her. I am only a human. I can have such feelings even with a friend. He always gets the girl. Every girl gets enchanted by him.

Their fingers are entwined now and she is blushing.

This place sucks!!

Olivia interrupted their conversation making face and pointing towards Maxwell. He was smirking from the other end.

Olivia threw some insulting words at Riley. Liam tried to calm Olivia down but Riley replied with a smile. She doesn’t seem to affected by such petty insults. She is stronger than I thought of her.

Olivia insults her more and took Liam to other side of the Lake.

She looked at the crowd feeling embarrassed and alone.

Maxwell seemed to be busy flirting with Penelope. “I don’t think I can balance on these” Penelope complained.

I saw Tariq fussing with his skates. However, Hana was gliding on the lake elegantly. This kind of display of elegance is must for nobles.

Thank God ! She has got Hana. Hana glided around her and now they were talking and giggling and laughing. I love the way she laughs coz she does without faking it. That’s the difference between Riley and other girls here.

Finally, this skating thing ended and everybody headed for skiing. Yeah!! That’s what I wanted.

Liam was still busy with Olivia. I joined Riley and other to crest the top of the mountain. Maxwell was helping Hana with her skis.

“So, Brooks you finally made it to slopes”

“Were you starting to miss me?” she asked playfully.

“Me? Hardly!! I was just getting bored”

“I did not find you in skating”

“Skating is not my thing. That’s dull and pathetic. But I was there looking at you.” Shit “I mean looking at you all doing funny dance on skates” Escaped it.

“Aww..Drake I would love to see you in a tutu sometime” she chuckled.

“You wish!! Kiddo!!”

“Hey!! I got it; you have problem with skating. What about skiing? Is it manly enough for you??” she raised her brow.

“Heh!! You know what? I am champion at it” I boasted “How about a race?”

“I am in”

“We’ll have to ski down that slope. One who gets at bottom first, will win” I pointed towards the end.

She nodded.

“Ready??”

“More than ready”

“One...two...th” And there she goes even before I ended three.

“This is cheating” I shouted behind her.

“Hey Mr Champion, afraid of my little head start”

I chased after her. The wind whips against the face as I picked up the speed. She was maintaining pace ahead of me. She is good at that. I looked at right seeing Olivia and Liam skating playfully. She did not bother to notice them. However, Liam shouted from behind “Go Riley”

I picked up the speed more and overtook her.

“Hey” she shouted.

There was a large rock between the slope and we needed to take a long curve to pass around it. But the angular curve passes near the edge of the mountain. I swerved to go around it and suddenly slowed down to look back.

“Watch yourself Brooks” Shit.

She lost her balance while swerving and slipped down towards the edge. I immediately stopped but I saw her slipping more towards the edge. Oh no. I freed myself immediately from the ski and ran towards her. She was almost near the edge and gripped a branch of tree to stop herself from falling down.

“Hang on, Brooks” I reached to her and grabbed to pull her upwards as half of her body is hanging down. She was so light so I pulled her without much effort.

“You okay?” I asked checking her.

“Yeah” she was panting.

Then she laughed. Why is she laughing? She may have fallen from the edge.

“You lost your mind ??”

“Never had such race in my life. Thanks for saving me Drake. Again”

“You’re weird and unnecessarily funny... you know that??” I still can’t believe she find it funny.

“Drake! You look more scared than me, by the way” she giggled.

“Don’t try to hide it by laugh. This pain will go away but humiliation of losing will take some time”

She elbowed me playfully.

I took a deep breath inhaling the cool, crisp mountain air.

“This trip hasn’t been bad so far. Shame that tomorrow is waltzing and bowing and all that.”

“Oh shit!! I don’t know this waltz much!”

“Are you joking?? You’re good with Liam at Masquerade!!” I asked in surprise.

“That was all Liam. I didn’t do much” she sighed “I am going to look stupid in front of everyone, aren’t I?

“Hey it will be probably hilarious to watch” I chuckled

“Drake!! If you can’t help, just keep it shut” she got up flapping snow off her jackets.

“If I could, I would help. I don’t know the steps” but she stomped off in snow.

“You can ask Hana” I ran behind her.

She stopped looking at me with baby eyes full of anger “Thanks for suggestion”

We glided over to the top meeting rest of the group.

“It is time to head over to my spectacular lounge to warm up” Olivia announced.

“Thanks for the race. I actually had fun” I whispered for calming her down.

She didn’t say anything but narrowed her eyes. She is really angry. Fuck!! I shouldn’t have made fun out of it.

Everybody headed towards Nevrakis Chateau.

In the evening, we were all sitting together in the lounge by the fire drinking hot chocolate. Me, Liam, Riley, Hana, Maxwell, Penelope, Kiara.

Riley, Maxwell and Hana were giggling about something. Liam and I were looking at them with amusement. How are they always full of energy?

“Hey!! See little marshmallows shaped like hearts” Hana chimed like two years old.

“Yeah!! Just adorable” I rolled my eyes.

Riley glared at me shooting daggers. I retreated like a puppy.

“Incoming” Maxwell pointed towards Olivia.

“Hello!! My dear guests. I hope you all are enjoying” Olivia gave a pointed smile.

“I always enjoy at Lythikos” Liam smiled.

I rolled my eyes till back of the head.

Olivia seemed to notice and smiled devilishly at me.

“Hey there Drake!! Enjoying ourselves!! Are we? If little Savannah was here, she would have enjoyed too”

I clenched my teeth. This is my reaction when someone talks about Savannah. Olivia knows where to hit. I shook my head gesturing Olivia to shut it but she ignored it. Everybody turned towards us now.

“Oh!! What happened?? Are you in contact with her?? Where is she?? Give me her contact number someday and I’ll invite her myself here”

“Olivia…” Liam said in a warning tone.

I got up immediately to leave.

“She was so sensitive”

“Olivia..no..” Liam warned again.

“You know what?? I just remembered; I’ve got somewhere I need to be.” I advanced towards door as I didn’t want to mess up with Olivia making a show of my emotions.

“Wait Drake!! Comeback! I wasn’t finished with you” I heard Olivia throwing comments behind me.

“Olivia!! That’s enough!! Leave him alone before I slap that smile off your face” I stopped for a moment hearing Riley’s voice and left the room.

I got out in the dark night walking in the snow. I stopped in a clearing of woods and looked up in the sky. It must be the time. I checked watch.

After a while, I heard footsteps behind. I turned around and find her.

“Ooooo” she tried to scare me playfully.

“Brooks! What are you doing here??”

“You don’t scare easily, huh?”

“You must try something else. Now, what are you doing here?”

“I should ask this question. It’s dark and freezing outside. You must get back.”

“What are you?? My mom?”

“Shut up and get back. C’mon she took my arm”

I looked into her eyes. She hesitated and left my arm immediately.

“C’mon??”

“I am here on purpose..”

“What is it here? She asked looking around.

“Trust me??”

“Trust you?”

I reached out and shoved her into the soft snow.

“What the hell Drake!!” she shouted

“Stop shouting kiddo and look up” I sat beside her and pointed towards the sky.

“Wow” she looked up to see the dazzling sky with shooting stars lighting up the night. I can see those stars in her eyes. Hazel brown eyes. Deep Hazel Brown eyes.

“Drake”

“Yes, my lady”

“This is absolutely gorgeous. I have never seen something like this before”

“Nothing beats a clear view of sky during a meteor shower”

She smiled at me genuinely.

We looked at the sky full of shooting stars silently till it gets cleared.

“I used to do this with Savannah since childhood. My dad used to do security for Constantine and Regina. Savannah, my little sister and I were allowed to hang out with Liam and Leo. Leo is Liam’s elder brother. If you know him?”

She nodded silently.

“Liam and I ended up becoming best of friends. However, Savannah was friendly with everyone. She loved living at the palace when we were kids. She was fascinated by dresses and jewellery.” I keep on blabbering. “But it got harder when she was older.”

“What happened?” she looked into me.

“She couldn’t take it I guess. I failed her; I was unable to protect her. One day she left without a word to me..to anyone..” I put hand over my face. “This is more than I talked about it with anyone till now.”

“Really?” she asked genuinely

“If I started to trust, I may start with you”

“This is the nicest thing you have said to me”

I looked at her pink lips. I want those lips..so bad. I don’t know why? They look soft like petals of some flower. Her cheeks are pink too.

“We probably should head back” she stared at ground blushing.

“We better be” Self-restraint is must.

We walked slowly back, trudging through the snow and wind. Suddenly she took my arm. Electricity was now running through me.

“Umm..for safety” She looked away smiling.

“It’s really slippery here. We should be careful”

We got inside and spotted Hana waiting for us. “You two, okay?”

“Hana! You’re up!!” Riley felt guilty.

“I couldn’t sleep with you two out in dark.”

“I am sorry, we kept you up”

“At least both of you are back.”

“Goodnight ladies” I waved hand and headed towards my room immediately.

But I was sure, it wont be easy to get sleep tonight.

@drakewalker04 @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore @emceesynonymroll @star-spangled-eyes @dcbbw    @jovialyouthmusic @drakesensworld   @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria @ao719 @duchessemersynwalker

@pug-bitch   @rainbowsinthestorm @burnsoslow @i-bloody-love-drake-walker @iplaydrake   @katedrakeohd   @nikkis1983 @qween-corgis @thorfosterlove @butindeed

 @gardeningourmet @speedyoperarascalparty

@pedudley @ibldw-main @irishwhiskys-blog @inlovewithwalker @addictedtodrakefanfic

@notoriouscs @grumpymarshmallowswife

@maria-soederberg

[honeypiehotchner]

Deception -- part one

Welcome to yet another fanfiction of mine! This one is a Dr. John Watson story in first person. The main character's name is Dr. Jane Stewart. This is post-Reichenbach, so Sherlock is currently faking his death. And I think that’s all the background info needed. Happy reading!

If there is one thing that I have grown to love about retiring in America, it’s the complete acceptance of doing nothing all day long.

           No one cares that I do nothing all day because I have already done my time and put in my hard work. This is my time to rest. To read a book by the pool and enjoy the feel of the sun on my skin.

           And swat wasps away with my book. Wasps are not a perk. I wish they’d die.

           But I swear, they love me. I swat another away, grimacing when I feel its hard shell connect with the back of my hand. This effectively pisses them off, though, and in this moment, I’d give anything to have my gun again.

           The wasps finally fuck off after that, leaving me to read in somewhat peace. “Somewhat” because a literal second later, another buzzing fills my ears.

           Not from a wasp or any other type of insect. This buzzing is different. A low hum. The sound of an engine that I haven’t heard in years. A sound that I remember being trained to hear and that I grew accustomed to singling out as time went on.

           Slowly, I look to the sky, expecting to see some regular old helicopter or jet flying over my head, but that isn’t what I see. It’s a helicopter, yes, but military grade. British military to be more specific.

           “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, practically slamming the book down on the concrete. I climb off my float, wrapping a towel around my waist and picking up my book as I head inside my house.

           I leave the book somewhere on the kitchen counter, listening as the humming grows louder. I throw my clothes from earlier back on, leaving my sunglasses on my dresser. Best case scenario, they’re just checking on me and will leave as soon as we have a short word. Worst case scenario, Mycroft Holmes is behind this.

           I slip my feet into a pair of trainers, swiping my gun from the shelf in my closet. I strap it on my hip – just in case, really – and pull my shirt down over it.

           They don’t need to know I have it on. I just need to know I have it there.

           I step outside, cursing under my breath when I see the helicopter landing in my front yard. But not just because of that. I mainly curse because who walks out? Mycroft Holmes.

           Looks like it’s the worst-case scenario today. Lovely.

           I wait until the engine has shut off before I greet Mycroft, smiling sweetly, though I’m sure he can see my annoyance. “Mycroft Holmes,” I click my tongue. “What on earth are you doing here?”

           “Agent Stewart,” he nods. “I’m afraid I’m in need of your help.”

“I’m retired, Mycroft.”

           “Oh, please,” he nearly scoffs. “You and I both know retirement never suited you. I’m still surprised you’ve made it this long.”

           “I’ve preferred waking up to the sun coming through my window as opposed to someone trying to kill me,” I glare. “I’m retired. I’m not helping you if you need me on the ground.”

           “Will you at least hear my proposition before you decline?”

           I think it over, looking him over.

           He’s stressed. Exhausted. Worn. Something big has happened over there, that I’m sure of. But what could it possibly be? It takes a lot to make a man like Mycroft Holmes show physical signs of stressors. He hides everything so well, but this is clearly wearing on him.

           I look back to his face, narrowing my eyes. Or he’s trying to fake me out. He’s been good at that, too. He’s done it before.

           But it’s hard to tell.

           “Fine,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “But inside. It’s too hot out here and I need some lunch.”

           Mycroft agrees, probably because he knows he has no other choice. He turns to nod to the rest of his men, three of them stepping back on the helicopter while two of them follow us inside. As usual.

           “Something tells me you don’t trust me as much as you used to.”

           I spin around, walking sideways as I glance at him while I walk toward the kitchen. “What makes you think that?”

           “The gun on your hip.”

           “Ah,” I chuckle, smacking the light switch as I enter the kitchen. I tug my shirt up over the weapon. “More for my comfort than anything. I wasn’t aware you were the one that would be stopping by. Thought I might need to protect myself.”

           “Yes, well. Something has happened.”

           “I see that,” I nod. “You look stressed.”

           “Thank you,” Mycroft deadpans. “But this is serious.”

           “Alright,” I shake my head, grabbing the butter, bread, and cheese from the fridge. “What happened that’s so incredibly serious?”

           Mycroft takes a long pause and I wasn’t aware of why until the words came out of his mouth. He was waiting for me to set everything down.

           “Sherlock is dead.”

           I freeze, my face blank as I slowly turn around. I know I’ve gone pale. I can feel it, all the blood falling away from every part of my body. Sherlock.

           “Good,” Mycroft breathes, leaning onto his umbrella. “Hold onto that reaction.”

           “What?”

           “Sherlock is not dead. Not to me, you, and a handful of others. But to the rest of the world, he committed suicide as of last week.”

           I practically slam the cabinet door closed. “Mycroft, what the fuck is going on?”

           “No need to be cross—”

           “No, there is a need to be cross because you can’t just waltz in here and tell me one of my friends is dead when he, oh wait, isn’t actually dead! What the fuck are you doing?”

           “That’s what I’m trying to explain to you.”

           “Well start with why the hell he’s dead to the world but not us.”

           “Jim Moriarty,” Mycroft begins with a deep sigh. “The consulting criminal that flew under our radar has now flown under England’s radar and everyone believes he is Richard Brook. He is dead as well.”

           Mycroft leaves another long pause, causing me to raise my eyebrows. “Oh, sorry. I was waiting for you to say you were kidding.”

           Mycroft glares at me, but continues. “Jim Moriarty has destroyed the reputation of my brother—”

           “So?” I shrug. “Sherlock never cared about what anyone thought of him.” It was both a quality that I envied and despised.

           “Except when everyone thought of him as a fraud.”

           “Everyone meaning everyone except you and…?”

           “Dr. John Watson,” Mycroft fills in the blank. “And a few others, his ‘friends,’ if you can imagine it. But the entire world has been fed a story that is not true, and Sherlock needed to disappear.”

           “But he’s not dead.”

           “He is not dead.”

           “Hm.”

           “What?”

           “I’m still missing the point of why you need my help?”

           “John Watson is not doing well. I’ve kept eyes on him since the incident, but he hasn’t left Baker Street in a week. Judging by my assumptions, he will be leaving sometime soon to see a new therapist.”

           I raise an eyebrow. “And?”

           “And that therapist is you.”

           “You’re joking.”

           “I’m afraid not.”

           “I’m not a therapist, Mycroft. I was an agent. I’m retired. I’m not going to England to be a bloody therapist! What is the point of that?”

           “To keep a closer eye on him,” Mycroft replies, like it should’ve been obvious. “People reveal things in therapy that they wouldn’t dare tell or show to the outside world.”

           “Because it’s therapy, Mycroft. It’s private. Even if I were to agree to this, it’s a blatant disrespect for the ethics of therapy. I’m not going to be someone’s therapist and disclose information about them without them knowing.”

           “Yes, well,” he sighs, glancing down at the tip of his umbrella as it twists on the tile of my kitchen floor. “Consider this an undercover mission. John Watson has no idea that you are an agent – or that you used to be one. He does not know that Sherlock is alive, nor should he know anytime soon. Your job is to go undercover, as Dr. Watson’s new therapist, and make sure he doesn’t do anything drastic or idiotic.”

           “His best friend is pretending to be dead and you want me to make sure John doesn’t do anything stupid,” I relay the information in my own terms. “Seems like you should be showing that worry to your brother.”

           “Will you do it?”

           “No!” I yell, laughing in hysteria. “You’re out of your goddamn mind!”

           “I’m not asking you to do anything dangerous—”

           “No, you’re asking me to lie to someone who has already been lied to enough, just from what I’ve heard.”

           “He’s a veteran of the Afghanistan War,” Mycroft states. “He was sent home after a bullet wound to the shoulder. Discharged.”

           “Why are you telling me that?”

           “Because just like you, he’s missed the war from the day he left it.”

           “Shut up,” I shake my head. “Stop it right now. You of all people do not get to pull that card.”

           “You told me before you retired that the only thing to get you out of retirement would be a mission that would actually help someone.”

           “Because every time I went out, I got someone killed. Every time. When I was the one that shouldn’t have made it, I did. And I got tired of that. I got tired of being the lone survivor. The survivor who didn’t deserve to survive. I’m not doing that again.”

           “Doing this would help John Watson,” Mycroft says quietly. “And dare I say it might save him, too.”

           I clear my throat, thinking. Mycroft has a way with words, always has had the way to talk circles to make me agree to things I shouldn’t. And I want to be absolutely sure that this time, I agree only if it’s what I want to do.

           “He can’t know Sherlock’s alive?”

           Mycroft shakes his head sadly. “He is safer this way.”

           “How much safer?”

           “Infinitely.”

           “And he doesn’t know who I am?”

           “No, he does not.”

           “Fine,” I take a deep breath. “I’ll do it.” I cross my arms over my chest, hating myself for agreeing to this bloody stupid idea.

           “Great. His first appointment is tomorrow, so we better leave now.”

           “You absolute bastard,” I chuckle. “I assume I’ll be getting an entirely new wardrobe?”

           “Yes, I can relay the details on the plane that leaves in…oh, an hour, so we better get going.”

           “I despise you.”

           “I never suspected anything less,” Mycroft smiles sweetly, turning to walk out of the kitchen.

           “Let me grab a few things,” I yell after him. “I’ll be right out.”

           “Quickly,” he reminds me as he steps outside, the two men following behind him.

           I roll my eyes as I walk down the hall to my room. I don’t bother with clothes since I’ll be gaining an entirely different wardrobe, and possibly an entirely different persona. I haven’t lived in England in years and I’ve never crossed paths with John Watson. In fact, the last time I saw Sherlock Holmes in person was, I believe, a few days before he met John. He was still complaining to me then about needing a flat mate. He tried to convince me – of all people – to move in with him, but I had to decline. Mycroft was sending me off to Ukraine for who knew how long, so there was no sense in me moving in with Sherlock. I’ve heard many things about John, though. I’ve read online about the infamous Holmes and Watson duo. I’ve only talked to Sherlock once or twice since I retired, but I imagine (or I hope, at least) I’ll be speaking with him soon.

           I want to. I think I need to tell him how absolutely absurd this is that he’s lying to his best friend about his death. They’ve been partners in crime for two years now, and he can’t let John be his partner this time around? What for and why? What’s the point of any of this?

           I shake my head as I stuff my phone into my bag. I know I won’t be using it, but there’s pictures on there that I look at from time to time that I want to have. I grab my favorite blanket and fold it neatly, squeezing it in the bag as well. Other than that, there’s nothing here that I won’t get when I arrive in England.

           An undercover agent’s life is quite minimalistic. I learned to not attach myself to things, and it’s a practice that has stuck with me.

           I shut the lights off as I leave the room, checking the rest of the house to make sure all the lights are off. I’m sure Mycroft will make a few calls, though, and shut off the water and electricity here since I won’t be returning for who knows how long.

           One thing that irritates me about Mycroft Holmes is he never tells me how long the missions will last. And I know he estimates and has a good idea of how long, but he won’t ever tell me. The bastard.

           One of the men stands at my front door, opening it for me as I exit, even though I’m perfectly capable of walking out of my house on my own, but okay.

           Mycroft stands outside the helicopter, impatiently checking his watch. He seems relieved when he finally sees me walking out of the house, but his expression changes to annoyance when he sees I have a bag.

           “Relax,” I chuckle. “It has my phone and my favorite blanket. I still pack lightly.”

           I hop up into the aircraft, strapping myself into one of the seats by the window with my bag at my feet, behind my legs. Mycroft takes the seat next to me, handing me my headset that’s connected to his. Looks like we’re going to be talking about this more now.

           We take off into the air, my eyes staying focused on my pool as we fly over it. My retirement home. My home that was supposed to be my home. And now it’s nothing more than a house that I lived in for a few years and am leaving for another mission. Now it’s just like the others.

           Temporary.

           “Sherlock is at the airport.”

           I turn my head, staring at Mycroft with wide eyes. “He what?”

           “He’s at the airport on the plane we’re taking back to England,” Mycroft replies. “He’s off to Iraq after we are dropped off in England, but he wanted to discuss this mission with you in person before he left.”

           “How touching.”

           “I told you, Stewart, this is to keep John Watson safe.”

           “And I’ve told you, Mycroft, my name is Nicole.”

           “It won’t be when we arrive.”

           “Oh, yes. What am I going by this time?”

           “Dr. Stewart,” he replies simply. “You can use your middle name as your first, though I don’t see why you’d need to be on a first-name basis with a client.”

           “Maybe because it feels more personal?” I suggest. “Have you seriously never seen a therapist before?”

           “Are you seriously asking me such a stupid question?”

           The glare I give him might as well be lethal.

           “So, I am Jane Stewart, or Dr. Stewart, and I am Dr. John Watson’s therapist who is in an emotional turmoil right now because his best friend Sherlock Holmes is faking his death.”

           “When you put it like that—”

           “It sounds just as absurd as it is,” I finish for him. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

           “I was hoping you would,” he takes a deep breath. “We already have everything in place. I was hoping I wasn’t going to have to force you.”

           I smirk. “Funny that you think you could force me to do anything.”

           Mycroft smiles too because he knows it’s true. He’s talked me into a lot, sure. But he’s never “forced” me to do anything, and that’s because I hold my ground. If he wants to let himself blindly believe he could force me to do anything, that’s fine. But that’s not the truth. And deep down, he knows it.

[mtraki]

(Warning: fluff and smut ahead!)

Arthur had double-backed and retraced his footsteps twice that evening, on the way to Miss Schofield’s tent.  Fortunately nobody still awake was paying him any mind.  This time he’d made it to just a few steps from where he could reach the entrance or call on her within.

It wasn’t a good idea.  But every time he turned back for his own tent, he’d somehow convinced himself all over again how harmless it was.  How it might do him some good.

It wasn’t a good idea.  It’d invite disaster into the careful, teetering balance they’d established.

 With winter upon the land in full, and jobs worth the risk all but dried up, he spent more time around camp, seeing to keeping them warm and fed.  Together, the two of them had gotten wiser about choosing their moments. Stolen kisses and lingering touches with none the rest the wiser. He’d attempted a few whispered compliments, but they’d sounded foolish the moment he uttered them.  Her flirtations were much better, setting fire to him time and again, so he never need worry about the cold.

It was good.  Much better than he deserved, for certain.

It did nothing for his nightly torments.  The last time he remembered sleeping peaceful was back in Tall Trees, when she’d come out looking for him.

Where he’d had the nerve to kiss her.

Where he’d slept with her pressed cozily into his side…

It wasn’t a good idea.

He cleared his throat, quietly.  A half-hearted attempt so he could tell himself he’d tried the next time he walked back to his tent with his tail tucked, “Miss Schofield?” His whisper was soft.  He didn’t want it to carry. Wasn’t convinced he wanted to be heard by anyone at all.

 Only able to bear waiting one racing heartbeat later, Arthur turned to leave again when he heard the rustle of movement.  Panic chased up his spine, and he almost leapt forward to escape.  Instead he froze.

 “... Who’s out there?” Her voice came soft and guarded.  It bothered him that he might have troubled her, so Arthur turned and stood at the entrance so she could see him from where she peeked out.

 “It’s just me.” He answered in a whisper, “... I’ll let you be.”

 “No...  That’s alright.  Did you need something?”

 No.  Yes.

 Even in the dark, the moonlight eyes seemed to see the war within him, so she said before he could answer, “Just tell me what it is, Arthur.  Please.”

 She was too clever for him.  In just a few short weeks, she’d learned just how to say that ‘please’ in a way that would shoot straight through him.  He hoped he grew used to it, and all those vulnerable parts would scar over so it wouldn’t work anymore…

 He hoped she didn't use it often enough for him to ever get used to it…

 Letting his breath out slow, a long plume in the dark, he said, at length, “... I dunno how to ask it polite…”

 “Then don’t bother with polite.  Ask me plain.”

 “...I…” He sighed again, hanging his head heavy,  “Can I spend the night wit’ you?”

 “Of course,” She said it so simply, like she’d been expecting him to ask.  Like it wasn’t such an imposition upon her and her beloved privacy.  Something swelled hot and aching in his chest, “Come in, and turn on the lamp, please.  It’s on the right.”

 Doing as bidden, Arthur ducked into the tent, removing his hat and turning to the right, groping for the lantern in the dark.  Deeper in the small space, he could hear Catherine fussing with cloth, probably laying out her pallet to accommodate the two of them more comfortably. His hands found the lantern-- still holding the last vestiges of heat from before she turned it out for the night-- and he was able to strike a match to light it again rather quickly, despite the anxious feelings threatening to put a tremble in his fingers.

 Golden light flooded the small space, and the outlaw set his hat to the side before turning to look at Miss Schofield again.  His heart promptly stopped, lurching into his throat so he might choke on it.

 She had indeed lain out the pallet and blankets to accommodate the both of them.  She was also wearing little more than her skin.  He had vague memories of the sleeveless shift she had on-- the rainstorm, he thought, but he’d been quite drunk that night, and couldn’t be sure-- that let light through enough to see the cream of her skin through the pale lace and silk.  Her arms were covered in gooseflesh. She was probably freezing.  Even so, one of her hands was slowly sliding a lace strap down the round of her shoulder, widening the half-moon of skin below the nape of her neck.

 In a rush, he caught her hand, trapping it between his and her shoulder.  She looked up at him, bemused and a bit pensive.

Oh.

Oh.

 “... No, darlin’.  That… that ain’t what I meant.” He swallowed around a suddenly very dry throat, “... I jus’... I jus’ meant to sleep.  Together, wit’ you.  An’ uh… well, I thought I might hold you…?”

 “...I see…” She looked to the side, a wry smile on her face, and Arthur knew she was either chastising or laughing at herself.  Then she met his eyes again, “Are you sure?”

 “W--”

 “--I mean that if you had intended somewhat more, I would not think the advance improper.  You do not have to fabricate--”

 “--I ain’t fabricatin’ anything, m--Catherine.” He shook his head, thoughts whirling frantically, “I jus’ want some sleep.”

 Both her brows raised as she continued looking at him over her shoulder, and her mouth formed a small moue, “Just some sleep…”

 “Yes..?” This hadn’t been a good idea.  Already large parts of him were judging the best way to retreat while conserving the greatest portion of his dignity.

 “... Alright,” She blessedly relented, holding up both hands with a shrug, “you can put your clothes over there…”

 “... What?” He stared after her as she pulled back the woolen blanket, clearly with the intention of slipping under it.

 She huffed a quiet laugh, “There’s no need for a fuss, Arthur.   It’s cold enough for you to wear a union suit underneath, isn’t it?”

 Setting his jaw, he narrowed his eyes at her, “What if I ain’t wearin’ one?”

 “Then I guess you’ll have to square with sleeping naked here or clothed back in your own tent,” She smiled at him brightly, shrugging a shoulder, “But you are not climbing into my pallet with your dirty clothes on.”

 He was tired, and anxious, and the note of finality in her voice brooked no argument or negotiation-- especially with how she pulled the blanket up around herself with her back turned.

 So he just… began taking off his clothes, starting with his boots, “Y’know, some men might consider this an unreasonable imposition, Miss Schofield.” He muttered over his shoulder.

 “I know,” He heard the smile in her voice, “but I wouldn’t pass the night with such men of my own volition.”

 “And what happens if I’ve got to get up in a hurry?  Someone comes snoopin’ around?”

 “I have full confidence in your abilities to defend the camp in your underthings or even in the nude, Arthur.”

 “Sure.  Fine. But you think them fools are talkin’ now…”

 She laughed quietly, “You can tell them I was being unreasonable.”

 Heat coiled through his belly, and Arthur wasn’t sure whether she’d meant for there to be a double-meaning to her words or not.  He finished undressing, carefully laying out a revolver where he might reach it in the dark without a belt and holster on.

 “Leave the light on.” Was her quiet instruction, that made him wonder how closely she was listening to him, or if she’d been peeking over her shoulder.  Otherwise he wasn’t sure how she’d known he was reaching for the lantern.

 “You sure?”       “Yes.  It’ll help when one of us wakes, confused about where we are.”

 “Alright…”  He looked at her, then at the pallet laid out, “... How you wanna do this?”

 “Lie down like you would if you were alone.”

 “Usually on my back…”

 “I know.”

 His brow furrowed, “... You sure it’s alright?  Gonna take up a lot of room...”

 “Just lie down, Arthur.”

 Taking a deep breath, the outlaw complied, settling himself down on the pallet.  As he settled in, the lady turned and started spreading the blanket over his legs.  Then she looked down at him, “I’m on your right side now. Is that alright, or do you want me on the left?”

 “Yer fine wherever you like, Catherine,” He told her softly.

 Giving a small smile, she laid herself down next to him while he watched, drinking in her nonchalant grace and how casually she submitted her body to him.  Without a second’s hesitation, she pressed close, tucking her front against his side so that her head rested on his shoulder, like he wasn’t a barely-washed outlaw.  Once she was settled in position, he felt and heard her quietly let out her breath, and every muscle in her body relaxed, yielding herself utterly, as if in full trust in him.

 It was beautiful, and perfect.

 But Arthur could not relax.  His heart still raced, and his thoughts tumbled recklessly.  He let them wander, crashing around in his skull, because if he tried to corral them, they’d focus on how Catherine had been prepared to lie with him even more intimately.

 On how that revelation caused heat and tension to pool relentlessly between his hips.  How her figure folded so neatly against him, and his arm around her, and the smell of her all around him only intensified that insistent, foolish line of tension.  How her hand resting on his chest felt equal parts possessive and trusting, and how much he wanted to surrender himself to it like a paltry offering. Weeks ago, he’d known himself to be a man half-conquered.  He wondered if it was more than half, now.

 He wondered if he was completely in her possession.  He wondered what that meant.  If it was a good thing. For anybody.

 “You’re very tense,” He heard the lady murmur gently, and Arthur wondered how long he’d been lying there, sleepless and harried and achingly hard.

 “Sorry.” He whispered back.

 Her hand brushed lightly across his chest, “Are you uncomfortable?”

 “I’m alright.”

 She hummed softly to herself, “What are you worrying at, then?”

 “Nothin’ in particular.” He lied, and hoped she didn’t catch him in it.

 When she didn’t reply, he figured she’d gone back to sleep, so he closed his eyes and told himself he could do the same.  After a few minutes of trying to convince his body to unclench, he felt her index finger make indistinct circles, gently against the wool of his union suit, her hand still resting on his chest, “Everyone is very excited about this lead Mister Bell proposed…”

 “Sure.  Folks get restless-- especially fools like the Callander brothers and Williamson.” He mumbled back.

 “Mac and Bill were joking about some kind of killing competition… Is the mark going to be heavily guarded?”

 Arthur sighed, uninterested in the subject at the moment, “Might be.  Train load of money for the banks out this way, for the winter.”

 “Are you going to catch it around Armadillo, again?”

 “Seems to be the plan.  You worried?”

 “... No.  I’m sure you’ll handle the business well enough.”

 “I’ll do my best, anyway.” He answered, running the hand of the arm around her gently up the side of her arm in what he hoped was somewhat reassuring.

 She lay quiet a moment, seeming to think this over, “Do you suppose then we’ll have enough money to go to California, like Dutch has been saying?”

 “Oh, I dunno.  You’d have to ask Dutch…”

 “We both know he won’t tell me,” Catherine gave a delicate snort, “He hardly gives me any clear idea of direction, much less details.”

 Grimacing, unwilling to try and unpack or explore that, Arthur offered a neutral, “Sure…”

 Suddenly, she propped up on her elbow, and Arthur looked up at her studying his face with her pale eyes, “... What do you think about it?”

 “About California?” He smiled wryly and shrugged, “Seems as good a place as any other, I reckon.”

 “Do you suppose anything will change when we get there?”

 Blinking at her, Arthur noted the faint tension in her brow, “I couldn’t say, Catherine…  Dutch says we’ll get some land and keep to ourselves.”

 “I know what Dutch says, but it sounds like something he’s probably said before.  But I wasn’t here before. You were.”

 “... Well, I mean, there was this place he was looking at a little before he brought you to us.  But he didn’t buy it. Never found out why. We had to move on after that.” Then he knit his own brow at her, “Why?  What’re you houdin’ after?”

 Her eyes had drifted away from his face, and she was looking at the canvas beyond him.  The outlaw could almost see the thoughts ticking furiously in her head. Finally she looked at him again, “... I think nothing will ever change, Arthur.  I don’t think California will be any different.”

 “You never know…”

 She shook her head, the length of her plait snaking over her shoulder and falling heavily in a loop, “I don’t believe California will offer what Mister van der Linde is looking for.  Even if it provides everything the rest of you need, he won’t be content.”

 She was probably right.  Arthur knew from experience how Dutch’s moods could get.  He’d get restless and excited about something or another. Some new truth to champion.  Some new injustice to thwart. Another example to be made. Another enemy to strike down.  It’d been more exciting when he was younger, and though he’d never always bought into all of it, Arthur thought the drama of it was well-worn, now.   There’d seemed everything to gain and nothing to lose back then. Now… now there was a whole group of them. Not just three or four men, but women and a child now too…

 But he didn’t say anything.  He just looked up into Miss Schofield’s beautiful face, wondering what might become of all this-- of them-- and why she was bringing it up now.

 “What if…” She whispered softly, smoothing her hand against his chest, as if feeling out the shape of his muscles there.  Arthur mused idly if she knew how it was torching through his blood, throbbing molten below his guts, “... What if we went on our own?”

 “Alone?” Arthur frowned, “... That ain’t a good idea…”

 The lady popped up, supporting herself with her hand instead of her elbow, though her other hand remained where it was, “Why do you say so?”

 “Dutch always said--”

 “--I don’t care what Dutch thinks about it,” She interjected quickly, “I want to know what Arthur thinks about it.”

 He blinked at her, feeling his chest clench up, stuttering the breath from his lungs as her hand started drifting down over his ribs and toward his belly.  He could tell there wasn’t any intent in the touch-- it seemed, after all, that she was pulling her hand away from him in a slow and casual way.

 “So think about it.  I’ll ask again later.”

 “... Okay…”

 Suddenly her hand froze, over the middle of his belly where the wool of his union suit had pulled away from his skin like a tent canvas to accommodate the problematic bulging and protrusion further down.   Staring at her face, which had turned to look at where her hand was resting, Arthur only had a thimble’s full of hope she hadn’t noticed. Then she returned his look with a small, knowing smile, and that hope evaporated.

 “... I… Pardon me--”

 Her tone was impossibly kind, “--It’s fine, Arthur.”

 “... It’s… I ain’t--”

 “--I know you cannot help it.  You don’t have to apologize.”

 Sighing, utterly embarrassed and disgusted with himself, he insisted, “... I really didn’t come here for that.”

 She laughed quietly, “I believe you.  But a man is entitled to change his mind…”

 With a frown and a snort, Arthur told her, “Ain’t worth troubling over.”

 “It will help you relax…” She said it like an invitation and an indisputable fact both.

 That was probably true.  Didn’t make it a good idea.  No matter how every part of him was eagerly on fire over it.  He was surprised, in fact, just how furiously he did burn.  After all, he’d buried these urges years ago, in heartache, regret, and bitterness, and they’d rested quietly since.  But with Miss Schofield unearthing them, somehow they were just as potent and foolhardy as he remembered. There was no hope of sleeping now.  Had there ever been, here in this tent with her? Or had he merely tricked himself into thinking so?

 His eyes were drawn from the cool patience in her expression, down, along the pale column of her throat, over the delicate contours of her collarbones where he yearned to press soft kisses (and which he would undoubtedly spend hours and pages trying to reproduce in his journal), and the heavily shadowed hints of lace-covered breast and belly…

 She knew he was looking-- had to know, seeing as her eyes hadn’t left his face-- and yet she did not protest or say or do anything but remain still and let him look.  She neither encouraged or discouraged her suggestion, and seemed instead insistent on letting him make up his own mind.

‘What you want has… become important to me.’

 Despite his protests that she do otherwise, she was still trying to give him what he wanted.  Well, there were a lot of things he wanted-- especially at this moment, blazing with lust-- none of them he likely deserved.

 But for certain, “... I don’t want to make a mess of things.  Or hurt you. Or make problems for you-- well, more than I’ve already done…”

 She moved her hand, then, bringing it up from his belly to caress the side of his face, “How do you suppose you’d manage that?” Was her gentle question.

 Taking a breath, attempting to steady himself, he replied, “By gettin’ you wit’ child, fer a start…”

 Strange, that the lightning in his pulse was strong enough to keep at bay-- if only for the moment--the floor-dropping, quiet, horror and self-loathing that always accompanied the acknowledgement that he could produce, and      had     produced, an innocent child.

 She gave a quiet laugh, “Oh, well, I suppose there is always that dreadful fate…”

 “It’s happened before.”

 His words or tone, or both, doused her mirth, but it was neither shock nor horror that replaced it.  Instead, he recognized that quiet, warm, ever-patient look she’d given many others. It was a look that invited him to bare the ruin of his soul to her, knowing she would listen and not judge, and it devastated him just as completely as he’d reckoned it would.

 But he did not tell her more about Eliza or Issac.  Not now. He knew he would, eventually, but there was too much else rampaging through him that to try and draw together words to do them justice was impossible.

 Leaning down, Catherine pressed a feather-light kiss to his lips and said, “If that is your concern, do not be troubled.  I am well-educated in how I might prevent an unwanted consequence. Besides, please do remember that I can provide you relief without risk at all.”

 There was that ‘please’, again, driving through his chest like a railroad spike, splintering whatever was left of his pragmatic sense…

 “I don’ think there’s any such thing,” He groaned quietly, against her lips after leaning up to capture them again, “as ‘relief’ when it comes to you, darlin’...”

 “You poor thing,” he felt the curling smile against his lips while she murmured in answer, “It won’t do any harm to try anyway, don’t you think?”

 Admittedly, he wasn’t doing much thinking.  All he knew was that he was kissing her, and drowning in the scent of wildflowers, and if his heart gave out from all the trampling around his ribcage, it’d be the sweetest death anybody could hope for.  His right hand came up, sliding along the delicate line of her back through the silk and lace. Parts of him longed to pull her close against him, but would just as soon crush a delicate bloom in his hand as force her down on him if she didn’t offer it herself.  But while his hand travelled carefully up her back, hers moved more confidently down his front until he felt her stroke lightly the length of the tentpole in his union suit, and his breath caught, clattering, in his throat.

 “Steady…” She whispered, breaking the kiss, “Breathe.”

 Confused, Arthur furrowed his brow at her, wondering what she was talking about with such a soft demeanor, “W-what?”

 “Focus on your breathing,” She gave him a small smile, “So I don’t have to scrub a mess out of your union suit later…”

 He chuckled, but a part of him inside burned with embarrassment, or offense, or something between the two, “... You think I made it this long without knowin’ how t’keep my composure?”

 The smile melted from her face, and Arthur watched the lady’s pale eyes search him, trying to read him.  Then she cocked an eyebrow and said quietly, “In most cases, I suspect you very much have full control of your faculties, Arthur.  But I tell you from experience: that all goes out the window once a lady has a hand on your cock.”

 Laughing in earnest this time, burying the sound into the side of her throat, leaning up, Arthur was unable to contradict her, “... I ain’t ever livin’ that down, am I…”

 “I’m not trying to humiliate you,” She whispered, removing her hand from his chest to thread her fingers through his hair-- but she did not pull him away from her neck, so Arthur continued pressing kisses there against the delicate skin, “I really do want you to focus on your breathing.  I can make it wonderful…”

 “It’s already wonderful.”

 “Trust me.”

 He did, he supposed.  Still... “... You want me t’jus’ lie here an’ breathe?  I’m kinda liking what else I’m doin’, in fairness…”

 “No,” The outlaw felt the quiet chuckle in her throat more than he heard the sound, “You don’t have to stop if you don’t want to.”

 Humming his acknowledgement, tracing his lips lightly down a prominent tendon toward her collarbone, the fingertips of his right hand had just found the nape of her neck, and his left hand found a rather natural place to rest at the side of her waist.  It was nothing new to take the lady by the waist, as he’d done on numerous occasions-- the neat, snatched curve fit his hand easily, and made for a good anchor point from which to lift or direct her physically when needed--but he was surprised to find her so soft and slender without her corset.   Without the whalebone and confusingly numerous layers she wore, Arthur was rather startled by how slight she was under his hands.  He suddenly felt awkwardly large by comparison.

 Her fingers had left his hair-- something he decided he would miss unless she did it again-- and both hands met in the center of his chest, “Will you be cold if I undo your buttons?” she asked, still whispering.

 “No,” Was his admission, murmured into the hollow between her clavicles where he breathed deep of her wildflower scent.  His rampaging heart had him burning up in his wool suit under the wool blanket, “What about you? You warm enough in this… what is this anyway?”

 “They’re called ‘combinations’,” Was her helpful answer as her fingers busied themselves efficiently at his centerline, undoing each button with ease, “And I am now with you.  You put out heat like a stove, Arthur.”

 “Happy to be of service,” He smiled, sliding his fingertips carefully from the nape of her neck to her jawline and chin so he could tip her face down to drink her up in another kiss.  It was a hard sell for him to accept he could, in truth, be anything but a burden (if not an outright menace) for her, but he was coming to the conclusion that at the very least, she liked the way he kissed her.  Especially when she seemed to hesitate every time in whatever else she might be trying to do, like she’d forgotten just what it was in the moment. A paltry victory, probably, in the face of how she managed to stampede over him with every look, word, smile, and touch.

 But it gave him an excuse to kiss those full, sweet lips more often.  A particularly wicked part of him took extra pleasure in the way her breathing caught, in what he imagined was an expression of affront to her more delicate sensibilities, whenever he slipped his tongue to mingle with hers.

 He was so secretly pleased with the reaction, in fact, that he didn’t realize she’d managed to finish unbuttoning his union suit until he felt her shifting her weight and then her ladylike hands-- still soft despite the callouses she’d industriously made for herself over the last few months-- sliding along the bare skin of his belly, up over his ribs, raking through the trail of short, coarse hair curling there.  He hadn’t noticed, either, that his other hand had left the relative safety of her waist and slid up her ribcage so that her movement had slipped the swell of one breast to be momentarily cupped in the span between forefinger and thumb. Arthur froze, unsure, pulling away from the kiss to watch the lady’s expression, the apology already on his tongue.

 She laughed softly and shook her head, “Touch them.  Touch everything. Whatever you want.”

 “I… I didn’t want to presume--” It was amazing how fast her nimble little hand could move from the top of his chest to cupping his privates, skin to skin this time.

 “Touch me.  I’m going to touch you.”

 Arthur needed no further encouragement.  Both hands moved, seeking out the lines of her his pencil had all but memorized.  He marveled again at how slender she seemed in his grasp. But his fingers sketched along the lines of lean muscle in her back and along her ribs before his thumbs sculpted lightly toward her sternum and he palmed both breasts through the silk and lace, noting their firmness and weight.   He noted too, how breathless she seemed when he seized her mouth again.

 Meanwhile her hand had circled his girth and was making long, smooth strokes.  Fire churned in his guts while a groan scrambled gracelessly up his throat and through his mouth into hers.

 “Breathe…” She reminded him with a soft kiss, so gentle and sweet he shivered under the kindness he knew in his bones he didn’t deserve.  The knowledge kept the frustration at bay.

 He breathed, trying desperately to turn his thoughts away from how badly the twisting, screaming knots in his guts wanted to release.   He wasn’t a young man anymore! He had no business feeling this green! He was no blushing virgin, no wet-behind-the-ears whelp. He knew how to handle himself!  He’d bedded women before!

 … Well.  Admittedly, he could count the amount of times on one hand.  The amount of times sober were even fewer. He only remembered two of their names.

 He’d never lain with any of them a second time.  He’d never asked. They’d never offered…

 Well.  Except now here was Catherine-- three, that was three of them he remembered, now-- and here she had him full-aware that as he exited his mid-thirties that he had little more experience in loving a woman than he’d had as a young buck half that age.

 What was he doing here?  Wasting her ti--

 She kissed him, suddenly hard and fiery, and pulled away just as abruptly, leaving him spinning while she rested her weight on his chest with her other forearm.

 “Wandering off by yourself, Arthur?” She grinned at him, sly playfulness curling her lips as her hand gentled at his hair.  Her grip remained firm at his cock, pumping faster.

 She’d known.  He wondered if it was his face that’d given him away?  “‘M’sorry…”

 “There are two buttons there on the front center of my combinations.  Small and white. Maybe you’d like to undo them?”

 “I… suppose-- I… Catherine…”

 “Yes?”

 “... I know I ain’t no good…  You don’ have t’be nice about it…”

 She blinked at him, something vaguely patient and amused in her expression, but something darker flickered in the shadows of her moonlight eyes, “...Few men are, sweetheart.  I’m sure you tell each other differently. It’s like anything: it takes intention and practice if you want to do it well. It’s a skill you can learn and master, if you want to.”

 “Is that right…?” He mumbled, but thinking about it, why would it be different from anything else?

 “Don’t get all twisted up about what you ‘ought’ to be doing.   You’re already doing everything I’ve asked you to,” She told him gently, tilting her face to one side to press a soft kiss over the scar on his chin, “The rest is just what you’d like to do.  Would you like to see my breasts?”

 “I… sure…”

 “Then get those buttons I told you about open,” She smiled, “and you’ll get your chance.”

 He chuckled, sliding his hands from where they’d been exploring the small of her spine up her sides and over her shoulders to meet at her chest, “My second chance, you mean..?”

 In his peripheral as he sought out the little white buttons hidden in the lace, Arthur saw the lady’s fine eyebrows crash together and a small frown cinch her lips, red from kissing.  He was about to remind her of the first occasion, amused that he remembered and she didn’t (though, given the circumstance, he supposed she could be forgiven for not remembering, how much pain she’d been in).

 But then she blushed, “... Oh!  I… I suppose you’re right…”

 Arthur couldn’t help it.  The quiet laughter was slipping out around his clenched jaws already.  How silly. This proud lady not batting an eyelash at sharing her bed with a reprobate like him, her hand stroking him iron hard, but embarrassed at the recollection that he’d already seen her bare breasts in an occasion she barely recollected.  How needlessly complex the modesty of a lady! Cupping her lovely face with a hand, he kissed her again, slow and warm, in the hopes of mollifying the tightening lines of ire around her pale eyes.

 The buttons gave him something to concentrate on, besides breathing steady and the awareness that he was completely unworthy to be where he was, doing what he was doing.  They were tiny and round, and slipped easily out of his shaking fingers. But there were only two of them, thankfully, and then the silk and lace split in the center in a slender ‘V’ of pale skin over her sternum all the way to her waist.  If he pushed the material to both sides, opening it further, it would reveal her chest fully, just as she’d said.

Steady.  Breathe.  With a gentle touch, he parted the opening on one side, sliding his fingers over the top of her breast, above the budding, rosy nipple.  Gooseflesh rose at the brush of his fingertips, and it was that that forced another groan around his clenched teeth.  That and how Catherine’s hand had slowed, wringing fire through his guts with long, firm, deliberate strokes.

 “Pretty soon, I think…” She murmured above his head as he buried his face in that widened ‘V’ of exposed skin to press more heated kisses, his other arm wrapping around her back.  She moved then, within his grasp, sliding a leg over her arm and his waist, so that she was no conger half-reclined at his right, but now all but sitting astride him. Her fingers returned to his hair, guiding him with her as she sat back, so he could continue to press kisses, dropping his free elbow behind him to support his weight, “... Arthur, do you want me to take you in me?”

 “Huh?” Slowly, he tilted his head back to look at her.  Blood was roaring in his ears, so he wasn’t sure he’d heard, much less understood her, clearly.

 “I’m sure I could fit you, if you wanted...”

 “‘Fit’ me?”

 “Well, if this other woman could, I don’t see why I couldn’t try…”

Oh.  His teeth ground together, struggling to keep his focus.  Steady.  Breathe.   Just the thought of being inside Miss Catherine-Louise Schofield had him shuddering at the brink of his control.

 It must have shown on his face, again, “I’ll be careful.  If it’s what you want.”

 It was.  Christ Almighty, it was, he realized.  There wasn’t anything at all wrong with what magic she was working with her hand, and even though it had him half-spooked what might happen-- what consequences might crash in on them-- Arthur wanted her core clenched around him and her arms wrapped around his neck, riding him into the sunrise, drinking the breath from his lungs with her kisses.

 It’s what he’d wanted since the time he’d seen her bent over Dutch’s little table, eyes and expression infinitely distant.  Not like now, where there was something quiet and warm in her small smile, and her eyes were alert, focused, and shone with pleasure-- at him or just herself, he couldn’t tell.  He nodded, jaw aching from the force he was putting on it.

 “Alright.  Give me just a moment…”

 Her hand changed over his cock, and she shifted again, exhaling steadily, the focused expression intensifying on her face.  It was then that Arthur understood fully what she’d said and what she was doing. He was not alone in the observation that she was so slender and delicate compared to him.  Also, it seemed her ‘combinations’ split in the middle, because he could feel the brush of her skin and then the moist kiss of her labia...

 “D-darlin’, don’t hurt yourself---fffnnn…” Wet heat enveloped the sensitive head of his manhood, where it was met with resistance.   But not even a moment later, Catherine exhaled, and inch by glorious inch, he was wrapped up by her body as he slid deeper inside her.  Their eyes locked, and something that had started growing up from his loins bloomed in Arthur’s chest, warm and bright, and his only recourse was to pull her against him, cupping her face with a hand to kiss her.

 “...Y’alright?” He whispered, feeling the tension in her neck and shoulders.

 She nodded, her smile somewhat wry, “... Yes.  You?”

 “Yes,” He chuckled, resting his forehead against hers, “You’re incredible, darlin’...”  He meant it.  A part of him was shocked by how much he did mean it.

 “Oh, I know better, Mister Morgan,” She teased with a playful smile, pressing her hands against his shoulders to lay him back and giving her hips an experimental roll while still gripping him tightly within herself.  Arthur’s mind reeled with pleasure and threatened to buckle entirely, “A man is always so full of compliments in the bedroom…”

 He had no reply, but found his hands in the place where her waist blended into her hips, and he struggled against the urge to grip hard.  He didn’t want to leave bruises. He didn’t want to hurt her. Especially not while she was making him feel so amazingly good.  She moved again, setting up a languid, relaxed rhythm, and it was simplicity itself to match her, rolling his hips up to meet hers while she rode him.  Inside, each stroke seemed to drive him deeper and infinitely deeper into her softness, with heat matching what swelled inside himself, while she squeezed around him just strong enough to be felt.  He ached for release, and bit it back. His fingers twitched needily into her flesh.

 When he broke their shared rhythm with a low groan and a curse, Catherine only smiled and adjusted to meet him at this faster, decidedly much more desperate one.

 “Come on then,” she said gently, resting more of her weight on her hands at his shoulders and arching her back to free her hips and legs, “come on.”

 Arthur’s mind did buckle then, and his hands grew rougher, pulling her down onto him as he bucked up into her, even as she rolled her lower half to meet his thrusts.  His eyes drank in the way her firm breasts bounced as if to echo each slap of flesh meeting flesh, and the flushed skin across her face and down her throat.  The way her kiss-swollen lip had been drawn between her teeth, just a little. Her moonlight eyes locked on his face, watching him watch her through a glaze of lust and ecstasy.   Admiring her work, perhaps?

 Part of him liked it-- liked the idea of her examining and commanding him like a plaything, her plaything-- and he shuddered deep inside at the thrill.  But another part didn’t like it at all-- didn’t like how it separated them so neatly-- because after all, if he was her plaything, didn’t that make her his plaything?  Again, he was reminded of the glint of Dutch’s rings in the lamplight, and the dark, uncaring eyes.  Of Catherine standing at the edge of the ridge with her hair blowing free in the wind, under the moonlight, confessing that she knew she was being used, and had been raised to accept it.

 No.  It wasn’t like that.

 Surging up, he moved both hands, one to reach back and support him, the other to pull her in to meet his kiss, deep and hard, as if through it he might communicate what she meant to him, and what them together like this meant to him, in a way he’d never find words for.  By force of necessity, their rhythm adjusted once more, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and ground herself against him.

 “What’s wrong?” She whispered.  Instead of answering, he dropped his mouth under her jaw, pressing a line of heated, open-mouth kisses.

 She clenched around him, and he shivered, the rest of his willpower beginning to rapidly crumble, “C-Catherine…”

 “I know.” Was her gentle response, “Whenever you’re ready.  Shall I come off of you?”

 No.  Yes.

 Yes, definitely.  No matter how much he wanted to stay buried in her and tangled up in her for the rest of his days…

 It seemed only an instant passed, and yet it was an instant that stretched a thousand years, but he was freed from the confines of her core, only to be nestled securely between their bodies, burning like a brand between their bellies.  He hardly had space to acknowledge the transition before the fire spilled over inside him, and he shuddered his release with a groan into the side of her throat while the world flashed blinding white for another too-short eternity.

 Then it passed, and like every other time before it, the self-conscious shame crashed in through every window and door, chasing tension through his spine and limbs and twisting sour illness through his guts.  Just what in this whole damn world did he think gave him the right to--

 “Shh.” Catherine’s gentle admonishment was accompanied by her fingers dragging through his hair, nails gently running against his scalp so that he wanted to arch into it like a great cat. “Whatever you’re thinking just now: stop it.  Everything is fine. You conducted yourself commendably. You’re a lovely man and it was a pleasure to lie with you.”

 Closing his eyes, Arthur breathed in the wildflower scent of her skin, noting the heady, musky smell of sex that joined it, “... If you say so…”

 “I do say so.  Should we lie down properly again so you can get some sleep, now?”

 Exhaustion was pulling at him with a strong, steady draw, “... Suppose we ought to… Did I make a mess?”

 “Only a bit, sweetheart.  It’ll wipe up easy enough.  Let me get my handkerchief over there…”

 She wiped up his bare belly, and the bit of her silk and lace that had been spattered, assuring him that it would wash out fine, before wiping clean his sensitive manhood that was rapidly tucking itself back into its foreskin.  Then, tossing away the soiled handkerchief again with a smile, the lady laid him down and snuggled up against him once more. It seemed to Arthur he fell soundly asleep the moment her hand returned to the center of his chest, like it might be a millstone plunging him into the dreamless waters of oblivion.

 He woke slowly, hearing the impatient, not-too-distant stamping of horses, hungry for breakfast and the scarce twitterings of birds that opted to linger during the winter months.  But it was movement that had drawn him to wakefulness, and his eyes opened to discover Miss Schofield attempting to slip out from under his arm.

 “Mornin’...” He offered in a thick whisper, causing her to turn her head, giving him a horrifyingly embarrassed look before covering it with a warm smile, whispering back,

 “Good morning.  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you…”

 “‘S alright…” Indeed, he was feeling admittedly better than he had in weeks, and it was…

 … It was really nice to see her first thing in the morning, a little rumpled and soft before she put herself together in her layers and pins for the day.

 “... Suppose I should get up an’ dressed anyway before someone asks why the horses ain’t fed yet…”

 “Assuming they don’t notice your tent is empty…?” She prompted with a smile.

 “Ah… yeah.” He wasn’t too worried.  The camp was quiet. It must still be early enough nobody else was awake, “... You want we should keep this to ourselves?”

 Her smile widened, “As opposed to shouting from the top of the wagons how we spent our evening?  I don’t think that’s either of our way…”

 “Well, no… I mean…” He furrowed his brow, unable to fight the amused smile, “I just… I dunno if you want them findin’ out you laid down with sour ol’ Arthur…”

 She slapped a hand to her cheek, feigning horror, “Oh my Heavens, you’re right!  They might just start thinking I’m some sly Jezebel!  Some faithless, Godless, shameless whore!”

 Scowling, he sat up, taking hold of both wrists and pulling them toward him, firmly in his seriousness, but not rough, “Now, that’s enough of that sort of talk.  You know what I mean…”

 “No, Arthur, really.  You’re the one with a reputation to lose.  I’m already soiled goods--”

 “--Now stop that, I mean it, Catherine.”

 She sighed and leaned forward, kissing him on the corner of his chin, “So do I.  The men respect you. I don’t know how much that might change if they know. I don’t care what they think of me, but I know this gang is very important to you.”

 Arthur, for his part, was fairly certain they wouldn’t believe him even if he did let slip what had happened.  He hardly believed it, himself.

 “... We’ll just… see what happens, then.  I guess.”

 “Alright.”

 Turning and beginning the process of buttoning up his union suit again so he could put his clothes back on, Arthur supposed it hadn’t been such a terrible idea after all.

(There are two things I want to mention here: a) UH... I'm not very experienced in writing publishable smut, so I'm sorry if it's awkward... >>; b) I know there are some rumblings in the fandom complaining about Arthur 'being written as blushing virgin' [as opposed to the more popular/common portrayal of him being a sex god, able to satisfy all our thirsty desires], but I headcanon that he's just... not very experienced.  I know that's not as sexy, and I'm sorry if it's not your jam...  If it's any consolation, he'll get more notches in his belt as the story goes on. [And in theory so will I...?])

[psychadelickate]

Criminal Minds - Rossi: Dad

Title: Dad Word Count: 1357 Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: None Characters: David Rossi, ReaderDaughter Rating: Teen Gif: Not Mine Requested: Anonymous Prompt:  U write so well ommmg. Rossi doesn’t get enough love. Can you do a Rossi fic where reader is his daughter and she’s a hostage in a school shooting? But the shooter is an adult? Maybe they hurt her to gain leverage. Trigger warnings for school shootings. I've never experienced it so I'm not sure how close to the truth I am, but I have tried. If this causes you harm, please don't read further

You’re walking toward the gym, your best friend, Liam, gabbing at a mile a minute, when you hear it, a distance from you, but in the direction your headed to. Three pops… Close in range… Too fast to be fireworks… You grab your friend’s hand, jerking him to a stop and him turns to look at you in annoyance. Then he sees your concerned expression. “You need to get back to class,” you tell him, your tone brooking no chance for an argument. It doesn’t deter him. He’s your bestie and he’s, for the most part, immune to your tone. “What’s going on?” he asks, but you don’t need to answer. It comes in the form of another three pops. This time followed by a booming voice. “Remember what we discussed, if something like this ever happened?” you ask. He nods his head. “Go, NOW,” you whisper yell at him and he nods his head as he turns to head back the way you were coming from. He freezes in his spot, when he sees you’re not following him. “(Y/N),” he calls you, desperation lacing his voice, “you don’t need to be a hero.” “I’ll be back for you,” you tell him, though you don’t promise her anything. You’ve learnt not to make promises you can’t keep.

Once he’s started walking again, you find a place to hide, but still giving you viewing access to the gym entrance. You don’t want to be caught off-guard by a gun wielding psychopath. Your first thought is to text your dad, but you don’t know how you’ll be able to talk to him without breaking down. Instead, you pull out your phone and send a message to Jennifer Jareau. It’s in code. She’ll know what to do. You, Emily and JJ have talked about what to do if you ever found yourself in this situation. It feels like hours when you feel your phone vibrate in your hand. JJ’s incoming text. You glance at the screen. It’s not JJ. Your heart starts racing… How much longer, all you want to know is how long will it take for the team to arrive? It’s Liam, telling you he’s gotten a few of the classes evacuated, but that there are three second grade classes in the gym. For a moment everything goes out of focus. Your chest constricts, making it impossible for you to breathe, your head gets fuzzy and you think you’re having a heart attack. A gym full of second graders are in danger and you’re sitting in a corner waiting for someone else to come and rescue you. You heave in a deep breath and you feel your phone vibrate for a second time… This time it’s JJ. They’re on the way, ten minutes out…. Ten minutes is an eternity… By now the noise level in the gym has increased slightly and you hear a male voice booming through the door, though you cannot make out what he’s saying. Your body works on autopilot, and the next thing you’re aware of is pushing the doors open, startling the guy with the gun. He turns and points it at you. The only defense you have is a pocket knife Emily gave you for your thirteenth birthday two years ago. You don’t move. He looks familiar, though you cannot place him. “Come to play hero?” he asks you and you shake your head in reply. He lets off a shot and you feel burning pain on your side. It’s enough to make you feel as though you’re about to die. “That’s entrance fee to the gym,” he smirks at you. You have no intention of playing anything. All you want is to get these kids home to their parents… alive. A whimper escapes one of the kids and for a second you’re tempted to turn to look at where it came from, but you don’t want to take you attention off this psycho. “Terrence is bleeding,” one of the other kids whisper and your heart beats even faster. One of these innocent seven-year-old kids has been shot. “So is she,” another kid whispers and you look at your T-shirt, slowly turning a dark maroon color. Your legs feel like they’re going to collapse. “You’re Rossi’s kid,” the gun wielding guys tell you. “I can see the resemblance. It seems someone has answered my prayers David Rossi is now going to know what pain really is. OMG someone has come to your school looking for you specifically. It’s your fault this is happening. You wish you had an adult with you, but you’re going to have to figure this out yourself. “What do you want?” you ask him. He smiles sinisterly at you. “You.” Is the simple reply. “Well, you have me, how about you let these kids go?” “No, you need to feel it too.” “Feel what?” you ask, because you honestly have no idea what he’s talking about. “What its like to have something in front of you one minute and the next it’s gone. Your dad killed my older brother.” He must see the confusion on your face, because you have no idea who he’s talking about. “Edward Vincent Stephens” he tells you and then it clicks. The guy who had been luring teenaged girls to his home, raping, beating then killing them. That was five years ago, you never heard what happened to his little brother… Howard, Harvey, kids used to call him. He’s walking toward you and your entire world stills. These could be your last moments. Did you tell your dad you loved him this morning? Did you thank Aaron and the team for looking after him? Does your dad know that you’re proud of him for doing the work no one else wants to? Does your dad know how grateful you are that because of the work he does, you don’t get to see the shitty side of the world? All these thoughts are running through your mind, your hand absently stroking the knife in your pocket. And then it comes to you. If you can at least injure the guy, you could buy your dad’s team some time. With grim determination and sheer stupidity, you flick the blade open, thankful you decided on wearing cargo pants this morning. Harvey comes to a stop behind you, and you feel him press the gun into your back. You hold in the whimper that wants to escape you. “This one’s for you Eddie,” you hear Harvey whisper as he pulls you flush against him. You close your eyes in disgust. It takes all your effort not to step away from him. “I’m going to enjoy this,” whispers and you snap your eyes open, looking at the kids staring at Harvey. Most of them are cried out, though silent tears are still running down some cheeks. You tighten your grip on the knife and you’re just about to pull it out of your pocket when the doors to the gym fly open and you see your dad’s team enter the room, weapons all drawn. There’s screaming and yelling for a few seconds and then everything calms down when Harvey moves his gun from your back to your temple. You hear your dad’s voice asking Harvey to let you go, but he only tightens his hold on you. Your dad is pleading with Harvey when you catch JJ’s eye. She holds your gaze for a few seconds and you realise she’s asking you something. Then you see her holding up her hand, a second later there’s four fingers then three. The countdown. The signal you guys talked about. When she has two fingers you pull the knife from your pocket and jab it into Harvey’s thigh and you twist it. He howls in pain, his grip on you completely loose. You step away and JJ doesn’t waste time. She fires. It hits him in the chest, though he remains standing. Emily’s is the killing shot, finding its home in Harvey’s forehead. Your legs give in at that moment at you collapse to the ground. Your dad is the first to reach you, hugging you tightly. “I love you dad,” you tell him though he doesn’t reply. He simply hugs you tighter… and you know…

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