#and hes pretending to be passed out and then gets up and breaks rusts nose and downs a packet of what looks like arsenic and goes

[cosmicrhetoric]

REVENGE IS NOT REDRESS. REVENGE IS A WHEEL AND IT TURNS BACKWARDS. THE DEAD ARE NOT YOUR MASTERS

[cdroloisms]

haha your snippit abt the dispenser got me thinking.

Dream gets let out of prison and he talks constantly, whatever is on his mind. And he's positive all the time. To a fault where people walk over him. And it doesn't make sense because he was tortured right???? But after an incident they find out it's because he hates the sound of silence and needs constant reminders that other people are there. Also he was punished for any negative emotions in the prison so his default is happy now,,,

hi anon !! this concept makes me SO goddamn sad ,, the idea that he Has to be happy bc anything else would mean punishment im so *punches the walls*

this ,, ficlet is honestly. pretty ooc, not really related to the ask at all, and mostly an excuse for me to cry abt c!dream and c!punz for an excessive amount of time (technically the vote on twitter was supposed to have this as c!sapnap pov, but i just wrote one for him so i went for c!punz instead. mostly bc i wanted to write him LMAO). hopefully someone enjoys it despite *gestures vaguely* all of that mess

tw: trauma, disordered eating, implied torture/abuse, blood, injuries, unhealthy coping mechanisms, emotional distress, thoughts of murder/mercy killing, mentioned animal death, dark content

In the end, it’s all rather anticlimactic, the complete opposite of Dream’s vault and the whole fiasco of adrenaline and theatrics that had made up that day. Quackity ended up having one too many drinks, bragged about the wrong thing to the wrong person - Punz doesn’t know the specifics, only knows that one thing has led to another and suddenly Sapnap was screaming at his ex-fiancé, sword pointed at his chest and tears streaming down his eyes in the middle of the Community House floor, everyone else stood around and watching. A look into Quackity’s office said everything he didn’t - the chests and chests of used and new tools, shiny and sharpened and completely rusted over with blood and everything in between. There’s been a balled up shirt in the wastebasket, completely unsalvageable from how saturated it was with blood, more red than white, and perhaps most chilling of all the calendar, marked with X after X in red pen, going back months and speaking to their utter failure to see what had been happening all but right in front of them.

With Quackity down, Sam caved not too long after, and with his input getting into the prison was no challenge at all. The only thing holding them back were bad memories and the tense, worried edge to Sam’s jaw as he led the small group of them - himself and Sapnap, actually entering the facility, Bad and Puffy waiting outside - carrying them through winding corridor after winding corridor and lava pit after lava pit, until they’d come to stand before a chasm filled with flowing lava, slowly draining before the main cell.

“I- I have to warn you,” Sam had muttered, uncharacteristically hesitant, “it looks…pretty bad,” and Punz would’ve questioned him further, but the lava had fallen far enough to reveal the topmost edge of the cell, so they let Sapnap hound the Warden for information as they directed their full attention on the cell itself and holy shit.

Nothing Sam said could’ve possibly have prepared them for the sight - it was a complete fucking bloodbath, crimson painting the walls and smeared over the floor and splattered over every visible surface like some abstract art experiment gone wrong. The stench of iron and burning flesh and viscera was awful, even over the gap marked by the still-draining lava. Punz strained his eyes; at the very back of the cell, huddled, unmoving, was a similarly bloodstained shape that must’ve been Dream. They remember the crack of Sapnap’s knuckles meeting Sam’s face and breaking his nose, remember themselves chucking a pearl and feeling along Dream’s neck desperately for a pulse - everything beyond that became a swirl of voices and panic and crying that makes their head hurt to think about, so they don’t.

Recovery is…messy. The physical side had been bad enough - pulling Dream out of the cell, barely breathing, limp in his arms and far too light, all Punz could think about was a sheep he’d found a year ago, frail and struggling to breathe, one he’d ended up killing - quick and painless - with a sword through the skull because it seemed kinder than letting it suffer. Watching Dream struggle on the bed, laid up in Bad’s mansion because none of them knew if he’d survive going any further, body resisting the potions they’d slowly forced down his throat after being so over-saturated on them, temperature spiking and heat baking into his skin like the lava from the prison had been imprinted onto his body, Punz feels the same strange mixture of pity and unease, wonders if it’d be a hell of a lot kinder if they just put him out of his fucking misery.

Still, because Dream is a stubborn bastard, against all odds, he ends up surviving - his fever breaks, the potions begin taking effect, and a few tireless, aching days later his eyes flutter open, lucid for the first time in a week. Punz isn’t even in the room when he wakes, only knows that it happens because the too-quiet room suddenly erupts in noise and activity, muffled thumps and sounds of a struggle undercutting Bad’s frantic calls for someone to help, anyone, and they run into the room to find Dream thrashing on the bed, wounds reopened and blood dripping onto the sheets, eyes wild and wide as his head whips from side to side so hard Punz is half-afraid that he’ll straight up break his neck. Somehow, worst of all, not a single scream falls from his lips, nothing but muffled whines squeezing past his mouth, clenched shut, and for a singular, awful second they wonder how long it took before he realized that screaming was useless.

Fortunately enough for them, or unfortunately, it’s not like he can tell the fucking difference anymore, the panic and strain end up with Dream passing out altogether, and they trade uneasy glances with Bad before going to clean off the worst of his wounds. If everything they’re doing feels hopeless, dressing up wounds that’ll be torn open hours later when Dream is awake enough to feel fear but not much else because he’s forgotten what it’s like to not be afraid - well, that’s for them to think and everyone else to pretend not to agree with.

Weeks pass along the same vein - Dream wakes up, panics; they try to calm him down, fails; he falls back into unconsciousness, and they move on and pretend that they’re cleaning up wounds from battle and not from someone that’s literally been tortured for months on end. People stop by, occasionally; Puffy spends more time than not inside the mansion, but hardly ever enters the door into Dream’s room, Sapnap and George drop by occasionally with potion brewing supplies that the rest of them can’t go out to get; once, he’d gone out to the front door to find a chest with an enchanted golden apple, sender nowhere in sight. He knows that the server is busy; Quackity’s admission had brought more than a few secrets to light, and from what they understand, the political fallout has been pretty damn messy. Still, he stays in the mansion, and watches.

He doesn’t exactly know why he stays. They’re not a stellar healer, not beyond what they know to dress their own wounds, and spend most of their time doing odd-and-ends tasks for Bad, who looks more tired than ever. Maybe it’s because he’s seen Dream at his worst more than the rest of them, had been there through his entire fall from grace, watched as his eyes became clouded with anger and madness and a single, desperate hope that he’d chased at the cost of his world and himself. Maybe it’s because they have no ties to the rest of the server - not to Las Nevadas, falling apart under the scrutiny of the eyes that now fall upon it, not Snowchester, caught up in the chaos, not the Badlands, half-dissolved after the fiasco of the Egg and with Sam’s actions having just come to light. Maybe it’s because above everything else, he feels guilty.

They’d thought the prison was the answer. It’d seemed too simple, back in that Vault - a perfect answer, because everyone else was perfectly happy to watch Dream die another time and some part of them had clenched painfully at the thought even thought they knew it was for the best. The prison meant that he’d be alive, if angry, and at some point when he had the time or the nerve or the guts he could go and visit, and they would talk, and Dream would be angry but with time maybe he could even understand.

They hadn’t wanted this. He can’t imagine anyone wanting this.

“Punz?” They don’t jump at the voice at their back, they don’t, but Bad still has a tiny, tight-lipped smile when they turn around anyway, eyes creased in the corners and still not as bright as they’d been before the Egg. Bad looks at him knowingly, setting a bowl of soup into his hands. “For Dream, if you can get him to eat.” He shifts a pointed gaze towards the door. “Maybe you two could talk.”

“About what?” The words come out harsher than they intend, and they take a moment to bite back the mostly self-directed anger that Bad doesn’t deserve to receive the brunt of. “I just-” he waves his hand in the air, trying to articulate the mess that is his relationship with Dream without the words to explain it. “I don’t know, man.”

“You don’t have to talk about everything,” Bad says, calm as always, eyes flicking down to the bowl of soup in his hands. “Just start with the soup.”

Punz sighs. “I’ll try.”

He enters the room in a single, fluid motion, mostly because he knows that if he were to stop at the door then he’d never actually make his way in. Dream flinches back when they enter, eyes going wide and stance going rigid, and the familiarity doesn’t make the sight any easier to bear as they wait, as always, for Dream’s eyes to clear enough for him to realize he’s in the mansion and not stuck in that same obsidian hellhole.

“I brought soup,” they say, finally, when Dream looks up. Dream’s lips twitch up in what he probably means as a smile; between the still-healing gashes on his face and the fear that flashes over his expression, still, it comes out as more of a grimace.

“Thanks.” Dream looks away. “I’ll eat it later.”

Liar, Punz thinks tiredly, moving closer to set the bowl down on the nightstand by the bed. They frown as Dream’s expression goes slack and distanced, again, eyes fixed to stare blankly at the wall once again.

“You should have some now,” he tries, careful to keep his words even. “You need the calories.”

“I’m good,” Dream says, automatic, just shy of sincere. “Thank you.”

“Dream,” they don’t quite succeed at keeping a displeased sigh from falling from their lungs, and bite back a curse at themselves when Dream pulls back with a silent flinch. It’s so goddamn hard, to talk to this version of Dream, both of them feeling around the edges of their relationship like walking on goddamn eggshells. A few months ago, he would’ve straight up called Dream out on his bullshit, get it through his thick skull that the whole ‘I’m fine and don’t need anyone’ act was stupid and completely failing to convince him. Here, they bite back another sigh, look forlornly at the bowl of the soup on the nightstand, sure to go uneaten once again, and force themselves to sound completely neutral when they speak again. “Alright. You’ll have to eat at some point, though.”

“Mmhm,” Dream hums noncommittally, once again staring at the wall. Punz stares at his hands. This is so fucking pointless.

“So,” they say after a few seconds, Bad’s words echoing in their head - they can try to make an effort to talk, sure. It’s just that Dream’s not going to cooperate. “How are you, man?”

The words come out stilted, awkward. He looks up to watch Dream’s expression, as the other man begins to gnaw on the inside of his cheek.

“I’m good,” he says, words deliberately light. “You?”

“Dream…”

“I’m fine.” Dream’s voice sharpens suddenly, breath hitching, before he shakes his head and turns his head away. “I’m fine.”

Punz looks at him incredulously. “Are you serious? Do we need to get into exactly how not-fine you are?” They wave a hand in his direction, jaw clenching when he rears back. “Do ‘fine’ people lose their minds from someone waving at them, now?”

“I-” For a second, Dream glares at him, eyes burning with a familiar, irritated fire that Punz knows all-too-well from having it directed at him a few too many times, before it suddenly dies and Dream is swinging his head back to the bedsheets, hands tightening on the cloth as he stammers. “I- What do you want?”

Punz breathes a soft sigh, regret blooming in the center of their chest. “Sorry,” he mumbles, careful to keep their gestures overly-telegraphed and away from the other man’s face. “I’m just- you’re not okay, man. No one’s expecting you to be okay after...all of that.”

“But why?”

Dream’s voice is small, nearly a sob, and Punz directs wide, alarmed eyes to where he’s hunched in over himself, knees pulled to his chest, hands staring at the sheets pulled over them. “Why?” he says, again, quieter, lip trembling slightly.

“Because you were tortured,” Punz begins, words slow as they watch Dream’s expression, trying to pull out the thoughts behind his averted eyes, “Because the cell was inhumane, and nobody deserves to be treated like that. Because you were hurt very, very badly because of what we did, and none of us are expecting you to be fine right after going through months of trauma.” He pauses. “You know that, right?”

“But I’m out,” Dream says, quiet, disbelieving, instead of answering their question. “I’m out of there. It’s over. It’s- everything’s good,” he whispers, more to himself than to them, hands curling into fists and then uncurling. “I’m- they said I would never get out. And I’m outside, and it’s not- not the cell, and I get real food, and Quackity doesn’t visit anymore,” he shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut as his breath catches in his throat. “I’m happy- I should be happy. Right?”

“Oh Dream,” the other man flinches back, breath quickening, and Punz’s hand stops short from where he’d almost let it fall onto the other’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be happy, man. Not- not after all of that. Not if you’re not ready yet.” Dream’s eyes, wide and wet, rise to look at their own, and they feel more than hear the soft, wounded noise that leaves their lips. “It’s ok to be hurt. It’s ok to be scared. No one’s blaming you, alright? No one’s gonna hurt you anymore.”

This, more than anything, seems to be the breaking point, because Dream collapses forward, hands flying up to pull at his tangled hair before Punz manages to ease them away and into his own hands, watching as he grips onto them until his knuckles go white. His breathing shudders, quiet, even his sobs muffled as to make as little noise as possible, and they murmur meaningless croons and hums as he cries into their chest.

“I wanna- I wanna be okay,” he hiccups, and Punz smooths his hair back behind their hand.

“I know,” he swallows around the lump that has risen in his own throat. “I’m sorry.”

[hpalways]

Coin Flip || Childe

THERE were two sides to a coin. It could land on either heads or tails. One side could be shining, for it was lucky to never touch the ground, void  of being coated with all things slimy, while the other rusted, coveted to take the other’s spot. This was how you would describe Childe. 

Most people didn’t get to see what you saw out of him. Usually, he was labeled as the troublesome Fatui man who hid his bloodlust behind a charming smile. To that, you would not concur. It was true. He was a strange man, sometimes acting as if he was possessed by some war-like creature who decided to give no shits about consequences and whatnot. However, this was what made your days a little more interesting, for better or worse. He became someone you grew to care, and for that, that was enough to prevent yourself from leaving him anytime soon. 

Speaking of the devil, he was calling out to you. “My my… [Y/N], what’s with that silly face you’re making?” He proceeded to hold a slender hand up, pinching your cheek as if you were a baby. It frustrated you how the simple touch from him could invite a swarm of butterflies to your stomach. 

Pretending to not look as flustered as you felt, you swatted his hand away. “I was just thinking. What, is your tiny brain unable to do the same?”

He let out a dramatic gasp and placed his hand over his chest. “Oh, you wound me, dear Comrade.” His blue eyes hovered over your face and for some reason, he wouldn’t look away. Embarrassing. Instead, you broke eye contact before he did, averting your hues towards the sea that accompanied the Harbor of Liyue. But even then… the color rolling off from the waves reminded you of Childe’s eyes. Dammit. 

A warm breeze brushed through the two of you and his fiery, orange locks swayed along. It was annoying how you kept on turning back to him. Scowling to yourself, you focused on the stalls propped up with merchants in them, who were advertising. Some had red-orange fish laying there waiting to be sold. 

“So are you sure you’d like to tag along with me? The brother that’s visiting me today can be quite the handful.”

You nodded, not at all hesitating. “Of course! I think it’ll be fun. You’ve been working hard lately. A break is needed.”

He scratched his head and let out a chuckle. “Alright, alright. Stop fretting so much about me. I eat three meals and make sure to sleep every night.”

You waggled a finger towards him. “You better be.”

Entering upon the actual dock, you followed the tall male as he peered around to look for the ship that would supposedly contain his little brother. Boots clopping against the wooden floor, you dodged the crowds and was struggling to keep up with his long strides. He seemed to be anxious almost -- was he that excited to see his brother? 

The groups of people grew more and more dense by the second; the arrival of ships was the cause of it. Because of this, bodies pushed against you, nearly knocking you off your feet. Teeth grinding into one another, you tried to make it pass through them, but the obstacles further increased the gap between you and Childe. You were going to lose sight of him…

A hand broke through the tight space that encircled you, its palm open and welcoming. Wasting no time to grab on it, you felt it wrapped firmly around yours. It pulled you with great strength, breaking the walls that nearly trapped you. 

“Thank you, Childe,” you pant, hoping to calm your racing heart. His hand wouldn’t release yours, despite being out in the open. You nudge your head towards it in question, but his grip only tightened. He wasn’t going to let you go. 

“Try to keep up, won’t you?” he said. He grinned wide and something in his gaze glimmered. With that, the journey proceeded -- this time, with him lugging you along. 

Zig zagging through every dock that contained newly boarded ships, Childe scanned each and every one carefully. It took a few more minutes of a search, but soon enough, it was a success. 

Climbing down a ship on the end, a young boy stretched his arms up to the sky and stretched. He yawned loudly, too distracted to see the larger figures approaching him. To your pleasant surprise, he indeed resembled Childe. His red-orange hair to his deep, blue eyes, the two of them were no doubt brothers. Freckles smattered his nose and he wore a cozy-looking hat. 

“Teucer!” Childe called out, finally releasing your hand. He stepped forward with brisk steps, a smile decorating his lips. 

The boy glanced upward and instantly he brightened with adoration. “Brother!” He ran up to his brother, jumping around in excitement. “You’re here. You’re actually here!”

Your friend crouched down and engulfed the boy in a hug. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” So you weren’t imagining it. Childe was just as excited to see his brother. Your heart warming within you, you sort of felt bad to intrude on something that suddenly seemed too personal. When he finally straightened himself up, he turned his head towards you. “Ah, Teucer, I’d like you to meet someone.”

Clearing your throat, you neared the boy and leaned down slightly to extend a hand. He blinked innocently up at you and his gaze wavered from his brother to you, over and over again. Once he received a nod from Childe, he finally accepted the handshake. “Hey there, little buddy,” you said brightly, ignoring the awkward passing moment that had just occurred. “I’m [Y/N].”

“Hi there!” With that, he pulled a small toy out from nowhere and shoved it into your face. “Do you see this? My brother gave it to me during my last visit!”

“O-Oh, that’s very cool,” you said, slightly taken aback. Was it just you or did the toy look familiar to something? Maybe you were overthinking. 

The Snezhnayan man ruffled the boy’s hair and chuckled. “Come on, let’s not bother Miss [Y/N] too much here. Why don’t we go up to the mountains? You want to play with Mr. Cyclops?”

Easily, the child’s face brightened immensely. He nodded long and hard, jumping around in excitement. Furrowing your forehead in confusion, you couldn’t voice your inquiry because they were both already ahead of you, leaving the docks. Quickly pursuing after them, you decided to brush it off for the time being. You had a more important matter at hand: going on this tiring trek to the mountains of Liyue. Really? This was what he would label as relaxing? 

When the three of you left the entrance of the city, Childe lifted his brother onto his shoulders and extended a finger outward. “Are we ready for the travel ahead, hero Teucer?” he bellowed dramatically, playing along a role you never fathomed to see. He was so soft on his brother, it was insanely adorable to witness. 

This was exactly what you meant. Another one of his sides that no one else understood but you. He was more than a notorious Fatui, more than a vengeful man, more than a weapon. You were tired of society viewing him as that way, shaping him to be how they wanted him to be. 

Walking up the towering path that awaited you, you were breathing heavily by now. But Childe’s figure in front kept you going, for he was willing to carry his brother for the entirety of this trip. He was so persistent, but that was not a surprise. 

The moment you reached the top of the mountain, you slumped down to the ground and leaned against a tree. A beautiful view of Liyue Harbor was seen from a distance, the structures that made up the city looking miniscule for the first time. Meanwhile, the sun was starting to set, giving off a glowy haze that blanketed the world. 

Turning your head to see what the two brothers were up to, you watched as Teucer approached a Ruin Guard. Getting up hurriedly with panic taking over your expression, you were gently pushed back to the ground. “Childe… your brother!” 

“He’s fine, [Y/N], don’t worry. The Ruin Guard won’t activate,” he explained. 

That wasn’t the problem here! “Why… is he… playing with a… Ruin Guard?”

He sighed and rubbed his eyes warily, sitting down beside you. “I suppose I can’t get away with this, huh.” His glassy, blue hues were full of remorse and stress, and it was seemingly obvious that this was somehow taking a toll on him. “I’m keeping the Fatui a secret from him. He doesn’t know what a Ruin Guard is… so please don’t say anything!”

You shook your head and you couldn’t help but smile a little. “I won’t say anything, but I’m pretty sure this is going to bite you back in the ass someday.”

“Thank you so much!” he exclaimed, disregarding the last part. The next thing you knew, he gave you a bone-crushing hug. Your cheeks flaming up and your heart pounding long and hard against your chest, you could barely do a single thing. He had left you frozen. Too close, too close, too close. His homely scent, his touch, his heartbeat that aligned along with yours -- it was just too damn much to handle. 

It was an understatement to say that you were happy when he finally released you. Coughing loudly and looking away before he could notice your flustered state, you frantically thought of something to bring up. “You’re a good, older brother,” you pointed out. “Continue to take care of him, alright?”

“So you noticed,” he said, sounding prideful. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Turning to look at him again, you stilled in confusion. He looked so serious that it almost hurt. 

“Won’t you continue to take care of me?” He jutted his bottom lip out and gave you his best puppy eyes. 

Letting out a laugh, you rolled your eyes. “You’re such a child, Childe.”

[today-only-happens-once]

missing from here, missing from me

Fic title: missing from here, missing from me

word count: 3347

summary: Alberto goes missing. Luca manages as best he can, which is not very well at all. Alberto/Luca, Luca and Giulia as close friends, and some dad!Massimo angst in the background. 

warnings: angst with a happy ending, crying, tension in friendships and family dynamics at times, missing person, mentions of/allusions to experimentation, reckless decision making. Please let me know if I missed anything. 

A/N: First time writing for Luca and it’s an absolute angst fest. Would love to know what you think! Played with structure and style here too, so I hope you enjoy it! <3

--

Luca knows before Giulia’s mother has hung up the phone that something is very wrong. Alberto is the first thought in his head, and it’s the one that does not let go.

He stands up so fast that he knocks back the chair he’d been sitting in as Giulia’s mother gasps. It clatters against the wooden floor and he should probably pick it up but his feet are rooted to the ground and his hands cannot let go of the edge of the table.  Giulia says something, but she sounds like she’s in a faraway tunnel. Her touch on his arm is the only thing that keeps Luca from bolting out the door.

Giulia’s mother says little. “How long ago?” she asks into the reciever, followed by a “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

Luca’s stomach has a lead weight as Giulia’s mother turns brown eyes onto her daughter, and then to Luca.

“It’s Alberto,” she confirms. “He’s missing.”

--

The train ride is long. The Italian countryside passes by in a rush of greens and blues and grays. Luca looks out the window and thinks that it would be more beautiful if he was on a Vespa, with Alberto’s chest vibrating beneath his arms as he shouts with eurphoria.

Missing.

Alberto has been missing for 13 hours and Luca feels like there’s a part of him that’s missing too.

--

His own mother and father, in their human forms, are there at the Marcovaldos’ place when Luca opens the door. Giulia runs straight into her father’s embrace, pressing her tear-stained face to his broad shoulders. His rumbling voice offers words of reassurance that Luca doesn’t hear.

Luca stands in the doorway and feels lost.

His mother takes a step towards him, says his name. Luca cannot bring himself to move.

“Where is Alberto?”

--

The police had already come, Giulia’s father explains as the adults drink coffee and Giulia drinks water and Luca tries not to throw up. What if he’s dead? Luca thinks and then immediately: Silenzio, Bruno.

There’s a crease between Signor Marcovaldo’s thick brows and a hunch to his shoulders. He is gripping his mug of coffee so tightly Luca wonders briefly it if might break apart in his hand.

“We’ll find him,” Luca’s father says. Luca opens his mouth to respond when he realizes that his father is looking at Signor Marcovaldo. That the words of reassurance were not meant for his son, but for the other father in the room.

Giulia’s dad sets his cup on the table in front of him and walks out of the room without responding. Luca sees the way he about to slam the door before he stops it, and closes it softly.

--

His parents offer to take him home. Luca uses as few words as possible to explain that he would rather stay here. In case there’s news. Luca expects a fight that is parents don’t give him.

His mother hugs him extra long before they leave. Luca returns it, if only because he knows it will help his mom feel better.

They promise to come back in the morning. Luca nods. He bites his tongue from asking them to stay, too. What if they disappear like Alberto?

--

Giulia is quiet that night. Luca sleeps out on the hideout and tries not to feel like the weight of Alberto’s absence will send him tumbling through the floor and crashing to the ground. Giulia leaves the window open and for that, Luca is grateful.

“Luca?”

“Hm?”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

“Do you think Alberto… ran away?”

“No.”

“I’m scared for him.”

Luca knows that he should offer some words of reassurance. That’s what friends do. But he cannot speak past the hardening lump in his throat and he stares at the lights above him that Alberto once insisted were anchovies and can feel his chest pulse with an ache he cannot name.

Alberto was always the one to quiet the fear inside of him. Silenzio, Bruno, Luca thinks fiercely, and swallows when he realizes that voice sounds an awful lot like Alberto.

--

Luca smooths his hand over the poster to adhere it to the wall. His hand does not linger no matter how much he wants it to. Neither does his gaze. If he does either for too long, he will begin to cry.

“C’mon,” Luca tells Giulia when he can feel her worried stare boring into the side of his face. “We have more posters to hang up.”

“Hey,” she says, putting her hand on his shoulder.

He shrugs out from under her grip. “I’m fine.”

He knows that he is a terrible liar. He knows that Giulia can read him better than anyone. He waits for Giulia to call him out on it, unsure of what he will say in response.

She says nothing. She can, after all, read him better than anyone. So she hands him the next poster, and they get back to work.  

--

I’m gonna fix this. That was his promise to Alberto a year ago. He wants that to be his promise now. He wants to say it—wants to scream it—wants it to be true.

Luca doesn’t know if he can. He thinks of the clock at the bottom of the ocean and wonders if it is still counting the seconds. Luca is.

He makes it to noon before he cries.

--

Signor Marcovaldo starts to make Trenette al Pesto and stops halfway through. Luca watches from the dining room table as his parents and Giulia’s mother have a hushed conversation in the next room over. Signor Marcovaldo’s hand wavers as he reaches for the garlic cloves, then drops to his side.

“Perhaps we should… order something instead,” he says.

“Papa—”

He leaves. Giulia sighs. When she starts chopping the garlic, Luca busies himself by draining the pasta. He pretends he doesn’t see Giulia wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her striped shirt, and he decides to return her watery smile.

--

“Maybe he ran away,” the police say the next day. Early afternoon sun filters through the open windows, the salty ocean air tickling Luca’s nose.

“He didn’t,” Luca interrupts. He has spent most of his life not knowing things, but he knows this. Alberto didn’t run away.

“Sweetheart,” his mom begins, and Luca’s stomach rolls. He steps back when she reaches for him.

“He didn’t.”

“I know he’s your friend, kid,” one of the officers tells him, “but we found plans and maps at that island you said he used to spend his free time at.”

“That’s different,” Luca says, his throat tightening. “That was before. He wouldn’t run away! The life he has here is important to him. I know it.”

“Luca—”

“No! I know Alberto! He didn’t just run away.” Luca can feel his heartbeat pounding in against his ribs, like it wants to break free of his confines of his chest. As desperate to reach Alberto as the rest of him is. Luca’s eyes flit over the room to settle squarely on Signor Marcovaldo, who stands in the corner and stares at the floor.

“He wouldn’t abandon the people he loves,” Luca insists.

Signor Marcovaldo’s gaze rises and steadfastly meet’s Luca’s own. “And we won’t abandon him.”

--

“You’re going to collapse if you keep going like this,” Giulia tells him quietly the afternoon of the following day, in the middle of the town square. Luca can feel the rain against his scales and dripping off his fins.

“I’m fine.”

“Luca, you’re not yourself—”

“What do you want from me, Guilia?” Luca snaps. “I’m trying to find Alberto, and I don’t know where to look, and I don’t know who took him or why and I can’t sleep at night because I don’t know that he’s safe and I never got to tell him—”

Luca’s voice fails him when Guilia grabs him and pulls him into a hug. She doesn’t let go for a long time. And when she feels Luca’s shoulders jerk with an aborted sob, she just squeezes tighter.

--

Luca sleeps for a few hours the third night. He wakes up when the door opens and Signor Marcovaldo’s broad frame is silhouetted against the light form inside the house. He is wearing his hat and has a lamp in his hand. Luca slides down the ladder and calls out to him.

“Luca. You should be asleep.”

“Are you going to look for Alberto?”

There’s a beat, and Luca wonders if he’s going to lie to him. “Yes.”

“I want to come with you.”

“It is late—”

“Please, Signor.”

Luca looks up at him. He can sense, more than see, the way Signor Marcovaldo looks at him. Close and studying, as if trying to parcel something out. Whatever it is, he seems to find it, as he looks in the direction of the town, and then back.

“Alberto cares very much for you, Luca.”

Luca’s heart stutters a little. His lungs squeeze. “And I for him, sir.”

A heavy hand lands in his hair and ruffles it. “I know. Come. Walk with me.”

--

Luca had learned much in his year at school. He learned about stars, and spelling, and addition.

He did not learn how to deal with this.

He did not learn how to count the hours when the days bleed into sleepless nights and time itself starts to lose meaning. He did not learn how to stop counting the minutes, as if counting to sixty a million times will stave off the way his vision blurs on the edges if he stands in one place for too long.

Luca throws a tarp over the rusting Vespa and wishes that the hole in his heart could be covered as easily.

--

When Luca becomes too exhausted, he sleeps. When he sleeps, he dreams of Alberto.

The dreams are a patchwork quilt in memories. Alberto’s sun-warmed shoulder brushing against Luca’s, the teasing quirk of his eyebrow, the stretch of his spine when he planned to put himself firmly in the way of danger. Then the echo of take me, gravity as he disappears down the edge of a cliff to dive into the water below.

Luca follows, every time.

Alberto disappears.

Every.

Time.

--

Luca stares at the anchovies (stars, he knows, hot balls of gas lightyears away from here but Alberto is not here and Luca wants to hold on to the parts of Alberto that he can with both hands) when he hears the phone ring.

Signor Marcovaldo picks up on the first ring. Luca realizes he must have been waiting. He wonders how many nights he spent at the kitchen table, also unable to sleep. Luca glances at the still-open window to Giulia’s room, sees her light immediately click on, and wonders if maybe nobody in this house has slept since Alberto went missing.

Luca sits up when he hears Signor Marcovaldo knock on her door.

--

They have a lead. Signor Marcovaldo sits on the edge of Giulia’s bed. Looks at Luca through the window. Found some fabric that matched his shirt a few miles north.

Luca slides down the ladder to the ground so fast he feels his palms rubbed raw from the rope burn.

Luca tears the tarp off the Vespa and kicks it into gear. He hears his name being called from the house, the thundering of footsteps down the stairs after him.

“Wait!” Signor Marcovaldo calls to him, but all Luca has done for the past week is wait.

He feels a sudden weight on the back of the Vespa and sees Giulia yanking on a helmet.

“Go!” she shouts in his ear.

He turns the Vespa north and goes as fast as he can.

--

Luca races the moon. Portorosso gives way to a tree line, thick with the scent of dew and dirt. He thinks he can feel Giulia’s hands shaking around him, but he does not know if that is the thrum of the Vespa beneath them or if her anxiety is an echo of his own.

All he knows is that Alberto is north. So that’s where Luca wants to be.

--

“STOP!”

Luca sees it at the same time Giulia does and brings the Vespa to a lurching halt against the dirt trail they had been following. Giulia tightens her grip on Luca to keep them both from careening off the vehicle.

Luca blinks at the figure in the road, clearing the spray of dust from his eyes.

The moonlight filters weakly through the leaves of the canopy above them. Luca can barely see, but the headlight from the Vespa offers enough of a glow to make out the form that stands on the path. Just far enough away from the light to be a shadow in the darkness.

Luca tentatively climbs off the Vespa and takes a step forward. It has been over a year, but Luca has seen that same silhouette in his dreams every day for a week.

“Alberto?”

The answering voice is raspy and hoarse, but its familiarity thunders in Luca’s head. “L…Luca?”

And then Alberto collapses.

--

Luca does not reach him before he hits the ground but it’s a close thing. “Alberto!”

The bottom of Alberto’s tank top is torn, he cheeks gaunt. Parts of him are blue scales. The base of his skull has purple fins that fade up into his soft tower of curly hair. Almost like he had gone for a swim, and not fully dried off.

“He’s bleeding. And I think he has a fever,” Giulia says quietly, and only now does Luca realize that she is kneeling on the other side of him. Luca hears her voice as if he’s underwater. There’s something off about it, he knows, but he cannot place it.

“C’mon, Luca. We have to get him home.”

--

The trip home is quiet. They sandwich Alberto between them and Luca drives even faster on the way back.

Alberto’s weight and heat against him is a reminder of his presence—heavy and warm and here—but it’s not as comforting as Luca had thought it would be. He’s hurt. He’s sick.

I’m gonna fix this, Luca thinks, and guns it even faster as Portorosso comes into view again.

--

Luca does not know what he expects when he pulls up to the Marcovaldo’s home. He had not thought about it. Giulia is pulled aside by her mother, hushed and harsh words shading the concern from which they originate.

Signor Marcovaldo says nothing. He pulls Alberto up in his arm and disappears into the house. The churning in Luca’s gut spikes the moment Alberto disappears from his view, so Luca follows.

Giulia’s father takes Alberto back to his room, ducking into the small doorway. Luca lingers at the threshold and watches.

“Never do that again,” Signor Marcovaldo says as he lays Alberto down in his bed. It’s not until he turns to look at Luca in the doorway that Luca realizes he was speaking to him, not Alberto.

It is not a promise Luca can make. Not when he can see the rise and fall of Alberto’s chest for his own eyes.

“I had to, sir.” Luca takes a step into the room. “Is… Alberto going to be okay?”

Signor Marcovaldo turns to him, then sighs. He wordlessly places his hand on top of Luca’s head as he passes by.

“I need to make some phone calls,” he says in lieu of an answer. “Watch him for me, Luca.”

--

In the hours that follow, Luca does not leave the room.

Giulia’s mother comes in and lectures him about running off. Giulia tries to come to his defense—“we found Alberto, Mamma! Can’t you just leave him alone?”—but Luca shakes his head and apologizes, even though he is not sorry.

Signor Marcovaldo has a doctor attend to Alberto. Infected, the doctor says. But treatable. I believe he will make a full recovery.

Luca pretends he does not hear the relieved tremble to Signor Marcovaldo’s breath in response.

--

Luca is alone with Alberto and the sun is just barely peeking over the ocean’s horizon line when Alberto wakes up.

Alberto’s hand twitches in Luca’s. His green eyes crack open, and Luca leaps to his feet.

“Luca?” His name falling from Alberto’s mouth—dry and raspy as it sounds in this moment—is nearly enough to make Luca’s knees give out from under him.

“Sì, sì, sì.” Luca fumbles for the glass of water and straw on the table beside the bed. “Here.”

Alberto does not look away from Luca’s face as he drinks the water. Luca knows this because he, also, cannot bring himself to look away. As Luca pulls the cup away and turns to call for Signor Marcovaldo, Alberto’s grip on his hand tightens.

“Wait,” Alberto says.

In this moment, Luca does not believe himself capable of denying Alberto much of anything. So he stops, and turns back.

“You’re really here?”

Alberto has never sounded so small. When he touches Luca’s cheek, Luca goes very still.

“Sì,” Luca whispers.  

He watches as Alberto’s green eyes flood with tears, and then hears the creak of the floorboards behind him. When Luca glances over his shoulder, he sees Giulia’s father in the doorway.

“Alberto,” Signor Marcovaldo says, and Alberto breaks.

--

Luca has to leave the room when the police come to get Alberto’s statement, but he hears whispers of it amongst the adults late at night when he is supposed to be asleep.

Word of sea monsters is spreading, Giulia’s mother says. You said Alberto said they were talking of research? I do wonder if it may have been more about experimentation—

Signor Marcovaldo’s rumble interrupts her. He escaped, Giana, and they raided the warehouse. They are not a threat any longer. That, and Alberto’s forgiveness, is all I care about.

Massimo, it’s not your fault—

It is, came the firm disagreement. Dio mi perdoni, but it is.

--

Two days later, Alberto sits in the hideout beside Luca and watches the sunlight filter through the leaves above them.

The quiet between them is filled with the sounds of Portorosso around them: children playing soccer in the town square, fishermen calling to one another on passing boats, seagulls squaking as they pass by overhead. Giulia was working on selling what remained of the family’s stock of fish, so her idle chatter is nowhere to be heard. Luca closes his eyes and listens mostly to Alberto drumming his fingers against his own stomach.

Alberto had been quiet in the days since waking up. Luca didn’t press him on it. The sound of the breath passing through his lungs and his footsteps when he walked was enough for Luca.

“Hey,” Alberto says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“I never thanked you for coming to find me. That night, in the woods?”

Luca frowns and looks over at him. Alberto is still staring at the sky. “You don’t have to thank me. Of course I’d come for you.”

“Yeah, I just…” Alberto trails off, then sits up suddenly. Startled, Luca sits up too. Alberto turns to look at him, his green eyes intense. “I… I feel like I knew that. When I was… there. I can’t explain why, I just… I just knew.” He grabs Luca’s face in both of his hands.

Luca swears his heartbeat stops all together, then starts thundering in his chest. “Alberto—"

“I…” Alberto swallows. His eyes search Luca’s face like he might vanish if he so much as blinks. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again. I fought my way out for you, but even then, I… I wasn’t… I couldn’t be sure, but I kept thinking—”

“Silenzio, Bruno?” Luca supplies, and turns to kiss Alberto’s palm against his face.

Alberto’s answering laugh is watery and thin as he presses his forehead against Luca’s. It is the most beautiful thing Luca has ever heard in his life.

[rissynicole]

DTIYS Contest Prize: Rllyaangrlly

Here is the first of the one-shots promised to the three winners of the DTIYS event I put on recently. (Thank you guys for being patient with me, btw. I’m a very slow writer, and you’re seeing it in action). Just as the title states, this one is for @rllyaangrlly, based on her requests. 

This was a ton of fun and gave me an opportunity to not only shake some writing rust, but work with topics I don’t normally explore. More than anything, I was able to try to emulate the vibes Brit gives these characters in her own art/writing. I wish I had a better word for it, but I’ve always felt like Brit has a certain “aesthetic” with the IZ characters through her drawing style, the situations she puts them in, and her overall portrayal of their personalities. I’ve always adored it, and it was an honor to be able to try my hand at writing it. 

Story is under the cut.

Characters: Dib, Zim, Gaz

Relationships: ZaGr, ZaDf

Warnings: minor injuries

Words: 3,706

Absurdity

The car’s engine and the drone of its wheels on the highway were the only sounds that passed between the three. The radio hadn’t been turned on, and no one had the gall nor the desire to change that. Not Zim, who was turned almost completely towards the window in the passenger seat, nor Gaz in the backseat. They drove along in heavy silence as Dib stared stonily ahead of him at the stretch of road, hands gripping the wheel numbly.

Dating. They’re… dating.

The idea was positively absurd to him. Not only did it feel weirdly out of the realm of possibility, but it felt wrong, somehow. Like some sort of tasteless prank. When Zim had told him, he’d half expected the camera crew from Punk’d to come parading around the corner, led by Ashton Kutcher, to point and laugh at the look on Dib’s face. “Can you believe it?! Your best friend—alien best friend—and your little sister! You totally fell for it!”

That almost would have been better. Cruel and mortifying, maybe, but better. At least then, he wouldn’t be sitting behind the wheel of the car trying to make sense of it while the two pretended not to notice from inches away. But it wasn’t a prank. Hell, Dib wasn’t famous enough to be on Punk’d anyway. Maybe someday… but not today.

A little part of him had high hopes for the series of paranormal investigation videos he and Zim had strung together. Lately, that little part of him had stopped feeling so childish, too. Their following had risen significantly over the last few months, gaining more and more traction as people tuned in. Suddenly, their modest little support net of viewers was in the hundreds. Then the thousands. Then the hundred-thousands. Truth be told, Zim and Dib hadn’t really come across anything of substance in their investigations, but their newer viewers weren’t exactly around for solid proof of the paranormal, anyway. It hadn’t taken long for the two to realize that most of the channel’s appeal came from the dripping sarcasm and witty banter directed at one another.

“Chemistry” was an apt word, and it got thrown around a lot. Zim and Dib, quite by accident, had become the up-and-coming best friend duo in the paranormal community. And with each new investigation, they garnered more and more recognition.

That’s where they were headed now, towards Ottawa National Forest to investigate the latest hot spot Dib’s research had led him to. The “Paulding Light” was a strange phenomenon, appearing in a single spot in the woods and taking form of a bright glow before fading off into the darkness of the night. Though plenty of locals could attest to having seen it, no one could feasibly explain it. Dib was determined to catch it on camera. Or at least he had been, before Zim had dropped the bomb on him right before leaving the house.

Dating. They’re… dating.

His thoughts rounded back, and he felt his hands readjust themselves on the steering wheel. Behind him, Gaz sighed quietly and cross her legs. He almost swore he could sense her and Zim exchange a glance through the rearview mirror, but he really had no way of knowing. He didn’t really want to know.

Dating.

“What’s the exit?” he asked, jarring them all back to reality.

Zim paused before answering. “It’s a couple down. Not this one, but the next.”

They returned to silence. Even as Dib’s blinkers resounded through the car and they exited off the highway. Even as the smooth highway turned to bumpy asphalt, then later, dirt roads.

At last, Zim spoke. “Dib—”

“I’m not mad,” he interrupted. “I’m just…I don’t know what I am. I need to process this. Just…” He trailed off, his mouth a thin line.

Zim and Gaz glanced at each other through the rearview again.

Eventually, they pulled into a dirt lot and spilled out of the little hatchback, glad for a break in the tension that had been all-consuming throughout the entire car ride. Gaz leaned back, popping her joints before heading to the trunk of the car where the camping supplies and camera equipment was. Zim took over, gathering it up and taking inventory of what they had brought along.

Just as before, everything was done without a word. No one really knew what to say. Gaz and Zim were giving Dib his space, and the latter still seemed to be at a loss. Driving hadn’t really cleared his head as he’d lamely claimed it would; it’d just made him more flustered.

Before long, they were off. The hike through the woods was only marginally less uncomfortable than the car ride had been, but the open air helped. Dib led the way, walking along the dimming trail as dusk settled in. The plan was to find a place to set up camp near the area where the Paulding Light supposedly made its appearance. Then, they’d hike again—this time under the cover of darkness—with the cameras rolling.

As the daylight slowly dissipated and the cool air settled in, Gaz paused to unhook her backpack from around her shoulders. Her jacket was inside, probably balled up beneath all the other crap she’d packed for this little excursion. Before she could even get her bag unzipped, though, Zim handed her his own sweatshirt.

She glanced up, and a wordless argument passed between them.

Now you’re going to be cold, her glare told him.

He gave her a challenging, almost haughty glance in return. Just put it on. I’m fine.

Gaz huffed a little and rolled her eyes, but ultimately acquiesced. She bunched it up and pulled it over her head. It was an overlarge navy hoodie with their college name and emblem branded on the front in bright, almost obnoxious yellow font. Zim had been wearing it almost religiously since October had arrived and the first freeze of the year had swept through their neighborhood.

When her face appeared at the neckline, she made brief accidental eye contact with Dib. He averted his eyes quickly. His mouth was still in that tight, thin line.

They continued on, walking until they’d found a suitable place to set up camp. Just as agonizingly silent as before, they set to tidying up the area, pulling out their sleeping bags, and taking inventory of the food they’d brought.

At this, Zim reached into one of the backpacks, eyes lighting up at a bag of jumbo marshmallows. Gaz slapped it away, all pretenses forgotten for a second. “Knock it off. We still have to film,” she said.

He snagged one anyway, popping it in his mouth defiantly before chuckling at her wavering attempt at a serious expression. They locked eyes for a moment, and then Gaz finally dropped it and began laughing along with him.

Dib cleared his throat.

They both turned and looked at him, smiles dropping instantly.

“Let’s get going,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose and looking up at the smattering of stars up ahead. “You have the camera, Gaz?”

She nodded and held it up.

Dib did his best to not look behind him at Gaz and Zim as they walked on. Suddenly, any playful or even amicable interaction between them had taken on a whole new meaning. Because it wasn’tjust amicable.

Dating. They’re… dating.

It made him feel like the last few months had been a lie. It wasn’t just him, his sister, and his best friend anymore. It was him, his sister, and his sister’s boyfriend.

He visibly shuddered as he stepped over a fallen tree branch. Ugh, he didn’t want to think about that.

About a mile in, they began to hear running water. Sure enough, only about five minutes later they came upon a fallen tree that spanned about the width of the trail. Some quick observation showed that it was acting as a sort of bridge over a shallow stream about five or six feet below.

“I guess this is sturdy enough,” Dib muttered, testing the strength of the log. He peered over the edge at the water. At this point, night had fallen proper. A small slice of moon illuminated the sky, casting down on the stream. Dark water glinted here and there as it passed over rocks.

He began to walk over it, arms held out for balance. He hadn’t said much at all, despite Gaz currently filming. She held the camera up anyway, sighing inwardly.

What a waste this trip was. Who the hell would want to watch a video of Dib moodily wandering through the woods all night?

As for Zim, he had hardly uttered a word, either. And he was usually the comic relief of their little program. The fact that Zim was quiet wasn’t just bizarre; it was unsettling.

Zim stepped up on the log, followed by Gaz, who was still holding the camera out in front of herself. The disproportionate weight made her lose her balance for a moment, which was then exacerbated when the entire log rocked along with her. On instinct, Zim reached out and caught her by the wrist.

Dib turned, still halfway across their little bridge over the stream. He glanced at the two blankly. Then, his eyes narrowed. Even in the darkness, the intensity of his glare met Zim’s eyes.

“Would it kill you to not fondle my sister in the middle of the night while we’re trying to film?” Dib muttered.

“What are you talking about, Earth-stink?” It was clear Zim’s already-thin patience was running dry. These days, nearly a decade after arriving on earth, he only pulled out the immature nicknames when he on the verge of arguing.

Dib simply gesticulated at Zim’s hand, still grasping Gaz’s wrist. Zim looked at him incredulously and then let go of her.

“Dib…” Gaz growled, “You’re acting like an asshole.”

I’m acting like an asshole?!” he said, the hours of tension suddenly bubbling to the surface. “You’re the one who decided to… to…” He was at a loss for words.

Gaz darkened nonetheless, eyes glinting. “I didn’t ‘decide’ to do anything! And if I knew you were just going to sulk the whole time, I would have stayed the fuck home! Do I even have to remind you that I do this shit as a favor to you?” She waved the camera in front of her, and Dib paled at both her words and the prospect of it slipping from her grip and into the stream several feet below them. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I didn’t even want to go camping right after my midterms?”

“A favor for me, sure!” Dib shot back. Maybe some people could be perfectly silent for hours on end and be perfectly calm. His temper had never allowed for that. He was speaking without thinking, and he could feel it. It still didn’t stop the word-vomit from coming. “You sure it’s a favor for me and not a favor for your little boyfriend over there?”

He gestured vaguely towards the “boyfriend” in question, who’s face was beginning to match Gaz’s. Before Zim could open his mouth, though, Gaz lunged forward, right into Dib’s face. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut the fuck up right now!”

The fallen tree they were balanced on began to rock a little, and Zim’s eyes went wide as he clambered to keep his footing. “Gaz—”

“Stay out of it, Zim!”

“I will not!” he shot back. “Not when you’re both acting like complete—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. The log rocked again, and this time, Gaz’s balance didn’t withstand. The little hand-held camcorder slipped from her grasp, and she instinctively lurched towards it with her hands outstretched. Zim, operating on the same instinct, tried to catch her again. His foot slipped out from under him along with a crumbling of tree bark that had split off the log

“W-woah!” Dib shouted. His eyes bulged from behind his glasses. He reached for both of them, catching the sleeve of Gaz’s hoodie and Zim’s arm to try to keep them from falling over the side. He only succeeded in making the sorry excuse for a bridge rock yet again. At that point, it seemed, the log decided it was no longer interested in keeping three fully grown adults upright and out of the water. It rocked, crumbled, and then slipped from where it had been wedged between the two ends of the hiking trail.

Dib, Zim, and Gaz went tumbling off. High, clipped shouts preceding their fall, then a series of splashing.

The water below was cold, but not terribly so. It was a shallow, slow-moving stream. Almost more of an inconvenience than anything. Even so, the drop was high enough that Dib landed on the balls of his feet, skidded out, and skinned both elbows as he fell clumsily onto his rump.

He groaned, cupping one scraped elbow in his palm. Already beginning to internally bemoan his soaking-wet clothes, he turned to Gaz. His anger was beginning to return to him in place of shock.

“Great. That’s a new camera down the fucking drain.”

Instead of an onslaught of choice words back at him, however, Gaz didn’t respond. She wasn’t even looking in his direction. Instead, she was turned away, hunched over something in the darkness. It took him a moment to realize what she was doing. At her feet, Zim’s body was lying halfway in the stream, completely motionless.

Gaz whipped around to look at Dib, soggy tendrils of hair stuck to her cheeks. She no longer looked angry. “I think he hit his head. Help me get him out of here!”

Dib’s eyes widened, and without thinking, he hurried around Gaz’s other side, grabbing Zim’s shoulder and hauling him to the grassy bank a few feet away. “Is he okay?” he shouted.

“I don’t know. Move!” She dropped to her knees in front of him. His wig sat like a sodden mop on his head, and she pulled it off before it could burn his scalp any more than it had. The worry she so evidently felt was plastered all over her face. Even in the darkness, Dib could see it. He was worried, too, but it was strange to see it so plainly on Gaz of all people. She had always been the more level-headed of the two, and seeing her normally morose, carefully composed poker-face fall away so quickly made Dib feel like he’d entered some alternate dimension.

Seconds later, Zim came around. With a moan, his eyelids fluttered open to reveal one contact and one overbright pink eye.

Gaz didn’t fuss or wring her hands, but she sighed noticeably in relief, then began asking him questions. (What is your name? Where are you right now?)

Zim answered in turn, seemingly fine. His hand wrapped around to the back of his head to absently massage at a growing bump, though. He groaned again and sat up.

“You need to get out of those clothes,” Dib said. He could hear a distant sizzling—the awful sound of water against Zim’s skin. Even in their days of mortal rivalry, that sound had always had a visceral effect that could pierce through any bluster and leave Dib cringing inwardly.

Gaz nodded her head in agreement. “Come on,” she said. She rose to her feet, then helped Zim up.

“I’m fine. This isn’t the first time this has happened on this filthy planet,” he muttered. The fire that had been in his voice just moments before had been snuffed out. He tugged at his soggy clothing and scratched at the rashes that were beginning to form on his arms and torso.

Before Dib had time to realize what was happening, they were walking ahead of him back to their camp. Gaz was leading the way this time. Zim managed to keep up, wincing in pain occasionally.

When they got back, Gaz beelined to Zim’s bags. While he ducked behind some brush and changed into new clothes, she pulled out a small first aid kit with the Irken insignia printed on the outside.

“He’ll need the—” Dib started. He stopped when he saw Gaz pull out the exact tube of antibiotic cream he had been about to gesture towards. She glanced at the Irken characters—Irken characters Dib hadn’t known she could read—and opened it.

“Can you hand me the bandages from your bag?” she asked.

Dib shot her a weird look but reached for the bandages anyway. “You know, his PAK heals him pretty quickly. I don’t think he even really needs them.”

“Yeah, but bandaging it up makes him whine about it less,” she said. She tried to hide the smile that had begun to form on her lips.

Dib handed it over and began to build a fire for the three of them.

Zim returned then, dressed in clean, dry clothes. While Gaz helped treat and bandage the worst of the burns, Dib kept silent. This time, however, it wasn’t out of whatever conglomerate of frustration he’d been feeling earlier. He was watching his sister coyly.

Gaz was not the maternal type. Throughout their entire lives, Gaz’s words and actions had been laced in a gruff sort of outer layer that warned others she was not to be trifled with. She kept her circle small and very rarely expressed any emotion other than cool apathy or outright anger.

The way she was acting towards Zim was a far cry from her normal self. Dib had only ever seen her like this on a handful of other occasions. When those memories drifted to him and he realized the common denominator, he suddenly felt uneasy. The tenderness in which she wrapped Zim’s forearm was with the same silent, admonishing tenderness she’d shown Dib when he’d gotten injured during his own idiotic exploits over the years.

Meanwhile, Zim sat slumped against a tree, letting her bandage him up without a fuss. While he was making an attempt at nonchalance, it was clear he was practically falling asleep where was sitting.

That was another little thing Gaz seemed to either know already or manage to take in stride: something about injuries made Zim unusually tired afterwards. For as long as Dib had known him, he’d been this way. Dib had deducted it was because his PAK was using more energy than usual, and Zim had more or less confirmed it. Even so, it was rather unsettling to see anyone sustain an injury and then drop off to sleep moments later like a narcoleptic.

That’s precisely what Zim was doing now, now. As soon as Gaz finished with the last bandage, she shook his shoulder to wake him. With the last of his energy, he shuffled to his sleeping bag and practically faceplanted onto it. Within seconds, he had dropped off to sleep.

Gaz patted his hand.

Dating, Dib thought yet again.

It was absurd. That was the only way he could put it. It didn’t make any sense. Almost…almost as absurd as the idea of him being friends with Zim in the first place.

He frowned and began to pull at the loose strings of a bracelet he’d worn on his wrist for the last year or so. Zim had an almost identical one that he, too, never removed.

Hadn’t there been a time when he couldn’t imagine himself being anything but Zim’s enemy? And now they were almost inseparable. If he could get used to that, why couldn’t he get used to this?

He glanced down at the bracelet and sighed. “You really care about him, don’t you?” he said finally.

Gaz glanced up, her face guarded. “I wouldn’t be with him if I didn’t.”

“And he treats you well?”

“What kind of stupid question is that?” She made a face, but it wasn’t entirely hostile. “I wouldn’t be with him if he didn’t.”

Dib’s eyes fell on Zim, who was snoring lightly. He didn’t doubt that. “Okay,” he said through another exhale.

“‘Okay,’ what?” Gaz said, raising a brow. “I don’t need your ‘blessing,’ Dib. I just want—”

“—No, no, no. I don’t mean it that way,” Dib said quickly, “I mean ‘okay,’ I will get used to this. And I’ll stop being such an asshole.” He quirked his lip upward in a humorless smile at the last part. “I’m sorry, Gaz. I could have handled that a lot better, and I didn’t.”

She pulled her knees to her chest and stared into the crackling fire. “Apology accepted.”

Zim began to stir then, one hand reaching out to scratch at his bandages.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Gaz said softly, taking the hand and moving it away. She made to rifle through their bags but was stopped when Zim’s hand closed around hers. He held her in place and began to murmur incoherently.

Gaz smiled; a sweet, serene smile Dib very rarely saw. “Just give me a minute,” she told Zim. She squeezed his hand and pulled away, unzipping the bag closest to her and retrieving what she was looking for—the marshmallows Zim had been after earlier.

She pressed one into his palm, and his fingers wrapped around it groggily.

Over the next hour, he slowly came out of whatever fog his PAK had put him through as it worked to heal him. By morning, the irritated rashes from the water would be gone and the bump on his head would be nothing but a distant memory.

Not for the first time, Dib thought about how strange Irkens were.

Over the rest of the night, the three gathered around the fire, roasting marshmallows. Even through the lulls in conversation, the tension that had practically been a permanent fixture earlier was gone. Instead, they slipped into their new dynamic. A dynamic that was, as Dib had claimed, absurd. But when hadn’t it been? Not when Zim had first arrived on Earth. Not when years and events had passed them by, and enmity had melded to friendship. And not now.

Absurdity was their specialty, and they were learning to wear it proudly.

~The End~

[hypnoticwinter]

Down the Rabbit Hole part 33

“Fumi?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me a story.”

“A story?” he says, glancing over. In the vent there’s nothing but the soft squelching of our cleated feet and a drip-drip-drip of a flowing river of sluggish, phlegmy mucus running along a divot over on the left. I nod.

“Yeah, a story. Like, about work. Ranger stuff. I’m sure you’ve got some good stories.”

He laughs. “A few, maybe,” he concedes.

Getting across into the actual flesh of the Pit from the wreck of the LVC had been easier than either of us had thought it would be. The gantry we had been looking for was long gone by the time that we got to the bottom of the LVC, with the only evidence of its passing being a couple of rigid metal rods and torn, rusted grating, but above us was our lucky break – due to the way the Visitor Center had fallen, it had actually cut into the Pit’s gullet on the way down, leaving a long, jagged scar of porous tissue in its wake and, at the very bottom, a gaping, partially-healed hole leading directly into what Fumi said was once the trail downwards to the Gastric Sea. It was a little hairy to begin with; the wound had ruined the previously neat trail, and the Pit had begun to reclaim it. Paths branched off, seemingly at random, that our maps had no record of. Here and there we’d see skittering things darting away from our flashlights, fleeing into pores or deeper, smaller vents we couldn’t see into.

Just copepods, Fumi had said when I asked. Harmless unless you’re alone and they’re feeling particularly brave or hungry. But even so I noticed that he kept his hand resting comfortably on the butt of his pistol, ready to draw it at a moment’s notice, and so I emulated him, and kept a wary eye behind us as we picked our way through the nest of tunnels and warrens and veins.

After I while I became afraid that we might hit a dead end and that we’d not be able to get through to the trail proper, which Fumi said would curve up and around down to the ballast bulbs, but just when I was getting to the point where I thought I might say something about it the vent widened out and Fumi had let out a triumphant whoop. We’re on the right track now, he had assured me, pointing to where we were on the map, and I had let a little involuntary shudder of relief pass over me because finally, finally we could really get going.

Now we’re clambering through a stinking vent that once housed a pedestrian trail. The thing Fumi hadn’t really mentioned is how long it would take. The path that looked so easy and short was in actuality four or five miles, a solid two or three hour hike in an environment like the Pit. My leg is holding up alright so far, especially now that I’m doing less running and jumping and falling, but I don’t think I’ll be able to do more than a couple days’ worth of this. Even with the boot I put my foot down occasionally and get a worrying, bone-deep twinge like a jolt of electricity, feeling like it’s running up some magic conduit from my heel all the way to the top of my head.

You can still see the remains of the trail here and there. Plastic placards, partially dissolved and stained beyond legibility, peeking out from behind masses of tumorous flesh. Rusty chain-link here and there, little strips of it grown over by pale, moisture-slick skin. If you look too closely at anything down here you shudder.

“Alright, I’ve got a story for you,” Fumi says. “Most of the work we do involves escorting supplies down to the deeper installations within the Pit, looking after science teams, making sure nothing and nobody bothers the few little extractions operations for stuff like ballast and bone plates. It’s a lot of wildlife control, basically. Very, very occasionally we’d do interdiction stuff. People get in, try to hide out in here, do all kinds of crap. I remember hearing a story about some guys who were running a drug lab in a trailer out on the very edge of the restricted area on the surface. Only got busted because Makado had to rush out somewhere in a hurry for something or other, I don’t remember what exactly, and she took a helicopter and they happened to fly right over. That really made her crack down on the topside ranger teams, let me tell you.”

“Topside?”

“So basically there are two teams,” he explains. “Us, the Sergeant’s team, we’re Venterial Ops. Anything underground, inside the Pit, we handle. That’s why we have Elena, for example. I don’t know if she told you but her main specialization is cave diving, she used to be in the Coast Guard. The other team is larger, they hang out in the other barracks topside. Overland Ops patrols the surface of the restricted area, handles anything that doesn’t concern the actual Pit itself. A lot of people don’t realize this but the restricted area isn’t just, you know, the Pit, it covers a whole lot of the ground above as well. You need manpower if you’re going to patrol it. With me so far?”

“Yes,” I nod. “So the overland team, they never go down into the Pit?”

“Oh, they train in it occasionally,” Fumi says, waving his hand. “But not to the extent that we do. It’s expensive and difficult and time-consuming just because the Pit is not a particularly good environment to make mistakes in. What if you can’t recognize a digestive pit or a triocanth sign? I mean, there are so many ways to die down here if you’re careless, especially now that we’ve cut down on our impact down here so much. If you’re stuck down here your options are either getting to the Control Center, getting to one of the very few listening stations and outposts we still have down in the depths of the Pit, or trying to call for help. That’s it.”

“So it’s easier logistically to have two separate groups like that?”

“Yeah, exactly. It hurts the overhead a little but if everybody was Pit-trained they’d be spending even more on them, so…”

“Right,” I say. There’s a long stringy mass of fibrous tissue stretching from the roof to the pitted ground, and I duck around it, let Fumi pass behind. “So what was the story?”

“Oh, right. So we were escorting some science folks down to that listening station in Oyster’s Shame. Shift change, essentially, except they way they do it is two weeks on, two weeks off. They rotate like that, make sure nobody’s spending too much time down in the Pit, that kind of thing. There are health checks that they have to do. If you’re in Science, half the time you’re up in a lab over in the science building doing egghead things and the other half you’re down here in a lab doing egghead things,” he laughs.

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” I suggest, and Fumi nods.

“Exactly. So we’re taking these guys down, pretty simple trip, one we’ve all done dozens of times. One of the science guys is new, and he is just absolutely gushing over everything he’s seeing down here. Some sort of environmental scientist type, real nerd. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a nerd but sometimes you just – certain people fulfill the stereotype more than other people, right? Anyway, Crookshank decides to play a prank on the guy. We’re taking a break for lunch and Crookshank pretends to lick a nerve ending in the wall. Now, first off, don’t ever do that, but Crookshank is – was – a maniac and you can’t keep him down. This egghead sees Crookshank do it (of course, he didn’t actually do it, just pretended to) and starts to freak out, but Crookshank is like ‘oh, it’s cool, it enhances the flavor in these MREs, you should try it.’ And of course Slate gets in on it, because Slate has – er, had – the mind of a middle-schooler and can’t resist clowning around, and together they gradually convince this nerd that it makes your standard run-of-the-mill MRE taste orgasmic.”

“Why shouldn’t you lick nerve endings?”

“Have you seen anything down here that you’d want to lick?”

I try unsuccessfully not to think of Elena and end up just shaking my head.

“But on top of that,” Fumi continues, “Pit nerve fibers can do weird things to the human nervous system. Not usually permanent or even really harmful things…just weird things. A big one was an ability to see into the ultraviolet spectrum. You might have heard about that; they made some big breakthroughs in optics in the 80s thanks to experiments with Pit nervous tissue. But there can be weirder stuff too – occasionally you’d see some spooky things going on in the Cord thanks to all the nerve tissue there. Intrusive thoughts, ‘occult’ stuff like objects levitating, seeing things out of the corner of your eye, ‘hauntings…’ in some places down here there are still little alarms that go off if they read too much nervous activity. So you can imagine that it might be a bad idea to lick one.”

“What happened to the guy?” I ask. The further we’ve gotten the more horribly rank the air has grown, to the point where we both have put on our helmets. The path we’re following opens out after a torturously twisting, intestine-like track and we find a series of bulbous, swollen sacs protruding from the floor and the walls, filled with a noxious, chunky liquid a lot like raw vomit. I can feel my gorge rising and I fix my eyes resolutely on my feet and end up just taking shallow breaths through my mouth for the long ten or so minutes it takes for Fumi to guide me through to the other side. We squeeze through a rough, suppurating sphincter and find a set of stairs, so rusty and dilapidated they might as well have come straight out of a Silent Hill game. Here and there long strands or trickles of flesh have melted or grown through the chain-link cage surrounding the stairs and pooled in rough, saggy, wrinkled puddles on the floor. It’s such an unspeakably bizarre image that we both stop and stare at them.

“I bet those feel…absolutely horrible to step on,” Fumi says.

“I’m not stepping on any of those,” I murmur.

“And with the cleats…” Fumi continues.

“Oh god,” I say, wrinkling my nose. A particularly swollen one seems to glisten at me. “Why does it do that? Why does it grow stuff like this?”

“Why does the Pit do anything?” Fumi shrugs, jerking his head forwards. “At least we’re on the right track. This is the staircase down to the ballast bulbs.”

“Is it even safe to walk on?”

“Do you see a different option?”

“Fair point,” I grunt. I take a ginger step forward and put my weight on the stairs, cringing inwardly. My foot nudges against one of the nodules of flesh. I can feel it pressing against me through the fabric of the suit. I grimace and take another step, and then another. “Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

We get a couple of flights down before I remember. “Oh, right – what happened to the guy?”

“Which guy?”

“You know,” I say. “The nerd who licked the nerve ending.”

“Oh, right. It made him see…something. Gave him the fright of his life, ended up pissing himself in his suit.”

“Oh,” I say. I had been expecting something funny but this just seems sad. Fumi reads it in my face, nods at me.

“Yeah,” he says. “Elena actually got really pissed off at Crookshank for that one. They’ve never liked each other very much but that little stunt kind of pushed her over the edge. They got in a shouting match right there and the Sergeant had to break it up.”

I can’t stop myself from smiling. “That’s my girl,” I murmur.

“Well…”

“Well what?”

“Uh, well it turned out that she was sleeping with the nerd and that’s why she was so heated about it.”

I look at Fumi for a moment and then burst out laughing. “You’re not serious.”

“Dead serious.”

I think about it and then shrug. “What?” I ask. “Am I supposed to get jealous?”

“I just find it so strange that you aren’t.”

“That’s in the past,” I tell him. “I don’t care what she did before we met, I care about how she treats me. I mean, she has to have treated me pretty well to get me to risk my life for her like this.”

“True,” Fumi admits. “Or maybe you just don’t value your life very much.”

Before I can think of a response that would be both truthful and a denial of the accuracy of that statement, Fumi takes a step forward. As he puts his weight down on the next step the staircase groans sonorously and we both freeze. I feel a little stab of fear piercing the bottom of my stomach and reach over quickly to grab the guardrail, for all the good it’ll do me. We stand there frozen for a minute, maybe two, waiting for the entire thing to collapse, and when it isn’t forthcoming I slowly, gradually unclench my insides and put my weight back on the step.

“Jesus,” I murmur.

“Yeah, these are probably a little unsafe.”

“You think?”

The next four flights go by quickly. The blobs of flesh haven’t spread this far down, or at least they haven’t yet. The meat beyond the retaining walls, buckled in places, is a strange, waxy tone that makes it look like it’s fake. If it didn’t shudder and writhe in time with whatever alien rhythms govern the Pit’s heartbeat I’d think it were a model.

Ahead of us, rising like vapor off a bog, I can smell the stench of ballast, combined with the familiar meaty Pit-smell pervading the air, along with something earthy and sour that lingers at the back of my throat. It makes my heart race and my gorge rise simultaneously. That accidental encounter with Crookshank in the ballast bulb…I had never been so scared or so turned on in my entire life. The memory of it leaves me vaguely nauseous.

“You doing okay?” Fumi asks, nudging me.

“I’m fine,” I murmur through gritted teeth. I do not want to throw up in this helmet. I take a deep breath and then let it out. I’m okay. It’s going to be fine. Elena is down here and the ballast totally healed her and everything is fine, just peachy-keen. We’re going to kiss and hold hands all the way out of here and then…

“Do you really think she’s down here?” Fumi asks.

“Where else would she be?” I say. “It’s either here or she’s dead somewhere and I’m still trying to be optimistic at least.”

Fumi says something else but I’m not paying attention. We’ve finally reached the landing, and past a pair of crooked, bent, rusted doors is something that must have once been a utility corridor for servicing the machinery used to keep the ballast pools running. The entire corridor is so thickly covered with dense, clustered mushrooms that I can scarcely see any surface that isn’t completely blotted out by coarse white fungous flesh.

“Shit,” Fumi murmurs.

The acrid, weird smell is stronger down here and I’ve finally recognize it – it’s the reek of those horrible, throat-coating spores from the nightmare of the fungal jungle deep down in the Pit’s rancid guts, where Marcus and Peter and Erica and – and Klaus had died.

Where I had killed Klaus.

Thinking about it makes me shiver. This past day – there hasn’t been time to think. Everything has been sweeping me along with the same force and velocity as a riptide. I haven’t had time to – to acknowledge it.

Unbidden, the image of him clapping his hand to his throat springs to my mind. The gun had felt like a dead weight in my hand. It hadn’t even felt like my hand, it had felt like I was controlling it at a distance, like I was playing a video game. I remember the way his eyes had widened in shock and how he had staggered back, the knife clattering out of his trembling hands. He had tried to swipe at me with it even then but the strength had left him.

I’ve already sealed my suit. I hadn’t wanted to waste the filters or the battery before by running the rebreather but these spores aren’t going to give us a choice. I don’t want to be hallucinating again.

At the end of the hallway is a door. It takes the two of us some serious effort to pry it open, levering at the rusted, mossy handle, but once we get it open we stumble into what must have once been one of the main baths. The fungus grows here too, in greater size and density. There are things living here; a dozen little things scurry and hop and slither away from us, darting away from the reach of our flashlight beams. Some of the mushrooms, the bigger blue-veined ones with the caps that look like they’re melting, visibly deflate as we rake our lights over them, puffing out clouds of hazy spores.

“I’m not sure that Elena’s here,” Fumi says softly, looking around. I feel my insides tighten even as he says it.

A massive hole has broken open in the tile over on the far end of the pool. I think I see something within it move. I reach over and tug at Fumi’s sleeve. “Fumi,” I hiss. “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

“Over there,” I point. “Inside that big fucking hole, I thought I saw –“

“Whatever you saw,” Fumi tells me, “it wasn’t Elena. If she even came down here, she’d have taken one look at it and then turned right around and left. You said that Erica took her helmet. Look at all these spores. Do you think that –“

“God damn!” something cries out of the murk and darkness down at the far end of the pool. The milk-white ballast seethes incontinently beneath the wan glare of our flashlights, and I can feel the bottom drop out of my stomach. “God damn!” it repeats.

“That’s Elena,” I say.

“Roan, no,” Fumi says. I shoot him a look like he’s gone mad.

“Listen to her,” I tell him. “That’s her voice! I’d know it anywhere.”

As if to punctuate my argument, the voice cries out again. “Oh god! Oh fuck!”

I charge forward, stomping into the ballast with reckless abandon. “Elena!” I call out. My heart is jumping in my chest and I have to consciously force myself not to grin madly. Elena is here! God, she’s here! I was right, she did come to the ballast bulbs, she did –

“God damn!”

“Roan, stop!” Fumi yells from behind me. I can hear him starting to stomp after me but I don’t have an iota of brainpower left to devote to the question of why he’d want to stop me. The ballast ripples around my legs, but it’s relatively shallow, at least this end of the pool. I hope I don’t have to swim in it to get to her.

“God damn!”

“Elena, I’m coming!”

“STOP! Roan, it’s a –“

My foot catches against something in the ballast and I lose my balance. I try to catch myself on my hands but the pool deepens just ahead of me and I end up pitching face-first into the murk. “Goddam,” I mumble. I don’t know what I tripped on, it feels like a log or something, but that doesn’t make a ton of sense to be down here. What is –

The log wriggles to life and wraps itself around my ankle. I have enough time to let out a small, terrified squeak before it whips me bodily off my feet and starts tugging me through the ballast towards the hole in the tile. I hear a splash from behind me as Fumi wades it, and I realize that I’m screaming.

Another rope or vine or tentacle joins the first, and this one fixes around the thigh of my other leg. I reach down, fighting against the thing’s pull, and get my hands on my pistol. I jerk it out of the holster so fast that I almost lose it, flick the safety off, and then fire off three rounds into the darkness lurking where the tentacles converge, but I don’t think I hit anything. Another tentacle seizes around my wrist and though I try to get loose, I end up dropping the gun.

Fumi calls out from behind me but I can’t pull myself together enough to answer him. Another tentacle has fixed around my midriff, another around my neck, and it squeezes so tightly that almost immediately I see stars bursting in my eyes and everything goes off-kilter like the world’s been tilted.

My flashlight skews across the face of the thing that’s tugging me in and for a moment I can’t comprehend it. It looks like a…a flower, all folds and delicate fleshy petals, but the colors are off. I can’t think, I’m not getting enough oxygen.

A mouth opens in the center of the flower, unfolding like a piece of origami. I see delicate, foot-long, razor-sharp teeth, almost translucent in the light.

The tentacles around my neck and leg loosen, and then drop me entirely. I smack into the surface of the ballast and rapidly sink under. I’m still too woozy to do much about it other than flail my arms helplessly. The air is hot and stuffy in this helmet and I can feel a tingle somewhere along the side of my ribcage, accompanied by a stinging wetness that makes me realize my suit has a hole and ballast is leaking in.

I can’t think, my brain feels like it’s been unplugged. I’m going to drown inside my suit down here and I can’t do anything about it –

The last tentacle loosens and slips away and then I feel hands tugging at my arms. Without thinking I cling to them, the slippery ballast making my grip clumsy. I batter against my rescuer, trying to get a grip on them. There’s a horrendous noise filling the air, making the ballast vibrate with the force of it. Amid the torrent of sound I can hear someone yelling at me, telling me to stop, and when I crack my eyes open I see Fumi tugging me closer to him and trying to swim us away at the same time. I get my arm around his waist and we both dip under.

“Fuck this,” he says when I come up next and then he cocks his arm back and punches me in the side of the head. I go limp immediately and for the next few minutes I am not quite unconscious but I am definitely woozy enough to let Fumi drag me bodily out of the pool and then pick me up and carry me out of that horrible room and back to the staircase we came in at.

I manage to hobble up two flights of stairs on my own before I stumble and Fumi has to let me lean on him to get up another two. Up here the air is clearer and I can finally pop my helmet and breathe in deep, grateful gulps of it without feeling the spores trickling in and lining my throat. I sit down heavily on a step that isn’t encrusted with bloody moss and lichen and give Fumi a bleak look.

“I’ve been so fucking stupid,” I mutter. Fumi tries to put his arm around me but I shrug it off. “Goddam it, I’ve been so stupid.”

“Roan –“

“Fuck!” I shout. It echoes up and down the rickety staircase, my own voice reflected back at me in a mocking tone. My neck and arms are still sore and if I close my eyes I can feel that horrible thing’s tentacles or vines tugging tight around my throat and choking the life out of me…

“Roan,” Fumi tries again. “You aren’t stupid.”

“Elena was never down here,” I say. I can hear the cheerlessness in my voice. “She’s probably dead someplace ten minutes from the Cord. I should never have –“

“Roan!” Fumi barks. I look at him, not bothering to wipe my eyes.

“What?”

“Roan, you have to stop trying to throw your life away,” he says. His eyes are dark and serious and suddenly I find I can’t meet his gaze. “No, look at me,” he says.

“I’m really not into this paternal bullshit,” I start, but Fumi takes my head in his hands and very gently turns it so I don’t have any choice but to stare into his eyes. I almost slap him. At the very least I snarl out the beginning of an imprecation, but Fumi just stares me down. “I don’t –“ I start, but he shakes his head.

“Your life isn’t over,” he tells me. “You still have plenty to live for.”

“But if Elena’s dead –“

“Fuck Elena! Even if Elena were dead you’d have something to live for. When we find her do you think your relationship with her is going to last very long if you’re just hanging your entire existence off of her?”

“I – “

“I don’t need you flaking out on me right now,” he tells me. “When Ellis died, I –“

“Ellis?”

“Oh, fuck it. Forget it,” he says, standing up. “Do whatever the hell you want, you want to be a clingy son of a bitch when we get to Elena, be my goddam guest –“

“No, Fumi, I’m sorry, I didn’t –“

“Forget it, I said,” he tells me. My cheeks are burning. I’ve gone and broken the camel’s back. Of course him and Ellis were close, but…it doesn’t matter.

“Fumi, I didn’t mean –“

“Elena’s alive,” he says, his voice harsh. “Or at least she was, recently. Because ballast sirens can only repeat sounds they’ve heard. She probably pried open a door, took one look at that place, said ‘god damn!’ and ‘oh fuck!�� and left, and the siren’s probably been parroting it back for the better part of a day since then, hoping something would be stupid enough to wander into reach…”

“How was I supposed to know?” I yell. “How was I fucking supposed to know? I’ve never heard of a fucking ballast siren! I don’t know what they do!”

“I was yelling after you telling you not to go!” Fumi shouts. “If you had just fucking listened to me you wouldn’t have –“

“Yeah, well you fucking punched me!”

“I punched you,” he hisses, taking a step towards me, “because you were fucking panicking. You were going to drag me down with you and if I let you, we both would have died back there. I had to make you go limp, so I punched you! Of course you probably would have been okay with the two of us dying, given your fucking martyrdom fetish –“

“I don’t have a martyrdom fetish!”

“Then fucking act like it!”

“Fuck you!”

“You need to calm the fuck down,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “I can’t believe you talked me into this damn-fool errand. I had no idea you were such a –“

“Fucking leave, then,” I tell him. There’s a part of my brain screaming at me to stop, but I can’t stop. I’ve already let the words out. “If I’m so much of a fucking burden and too much of a loose cannon then fucking leave. Just go back up. I’ll find Elena myself.”

Fumi’s face falls. When he speaks his tone is gentler. “Look, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to –“

“Just go!” I yell, pointing up the stairs. “Just fuck off!”

“Roan, don’t do this.”

“Just leave!” I say. My voice is thick and raw and I realize that I’m crying. “I can do this myself! I don’t need you!”

“Roan, you –“

“Go!” I shriek, and then before I know it I’m clambering to my feet and pulling up my sleeves, clenching a fist and getting ready to swing at him. Everything’s taken on a red tinge, even redder than normal down here in the Pit, and the horrible throbbing thump of my heartbeat is ringing in my ears like an immense drum.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Fumi says, throwing up his hands, and then he turns and hurries up the stairs.

I stand there for a long, long while, breathing hard, letting all of my anger drain out of me. Eventually I feel empty enough to find a nice clear spot on the rusty steps, brush away the mushrooms and polypous clumps of pooled flesh and sit. I think about burying my head in my hands, but I don’t.

After a moment I take out my radio from its holster on my belt and look at it. Fumi had warned me not to even try anything with it, he’d said that it’d be easy for anyone listening in, such as the FBI or people in the Control Center, to triangulate my position and there’d be no guarantee Elena would even have a radio to respond with if I did try to call her.

But I don’t see another choice. My hand is shaking a little and I feel as though if I stand up I’d just fall right over again. If I don’t do something I’m going to have a panic attack.

I crack the radio up to its broadest range-band and hold down the broadcast button. I can’t think of what to say. Eventually I shake my head and then lick my lips and give it my best shot. “Elena?” I ask. My voice catches a little but I swallow hard and force it back down. “Elena, it’s Roan. If you’re – if you’re out there and you can hear this, l-let me know. Please.”

I let the button go and then wait, heart pounding. I try to keep myself from counting the seconds, but I can’t. Ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty. I stop after a minute and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the hot tears from leaking from them. She’s not out there, she’s dead or trapped somewhere without a radio, I knew it was a long shot, I shouldn’t have even bothered. If I hadn’t bothered I could at least pretend that –

The radio clutched loosely in my hands crackles to life. I glare at it, half-expecting to hear Fumi chew me out for using the radio in the first place.

“Roan?” Elena says. “Oh, my god, Roan, baby, is that you? Oh god, is that you?”

Continue with Part 34

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[daes-of-august]

Return of a Ghost

And here's today's conversation with Agate in story form.

I really don't know how to express how much talking to her again means to me, especially talking to her about the things she survived so I could heal.

It was summer, the bright afternoon sunlight shining through the window and casting a warm spotlight in August’s room. There was a ghost standing there just by the door. She stood still and silent, hands folded before her as if she wasn’t sure she was welcome anymore.

In truth, August wasn’t sure if she was either.

He’d missed her. He couldn’t even recall when the two last spoke. He’d seen her lurking at the edges of his vision, mismatched eyes watching him move forward while she remained still, but no words passed between them.

When did they grow so distant?

He’d missed her, and he knew how dangerous that was. She was never meant to stay, never meant to linger like a shadow of all they both tried so hard to leave behind. But here she was, and part of him was happy to see her.

The silence was dragging on, and as he stared, Agate looked like she was about to leave, to disappear back to whatever pocket of his mind she’d been hiding in.

“Where have you been?” August found himself asking.

Agate offered a tired lopsided grin. “Where do you think?”

“You’ve just been… here?” August knew the answer, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“Yeah. I don’t think I can disappear entirely.” Agate looked down at her hand. “As it turns out, you can’t just erase all of the bullshit in your past.”

“Then why not come back? Things are different now, just look around. You can come back, join me and Cobalt and Cairo –”

“No, August,” Agate interrupted. She slowly made her way to the table beside the window, reached out to touch the leaves of the many plants that sat there. “Just because I’m still here doesn’t mean you should do anything about it. You’ve moved on, and I get it. You deserve to move on, we’ve fought hard enough for it. Just leave me like this. I can’t undo myself, but you shouldn’t have to see or hear me. It’s alright, I promise. Let me keep your past for you.”

“Do you still feel that way? The way we did back then?” August could hardly even remember how that felt. It seemed so long ago.

“I do. It’s different now, but I still carry it.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” August insisted. “Not like this.”

Agate’s grin widened into her signature sneer, far too many teeth glinting in the light. “You’re not gonna fix me, August,” and her voice was as firm as it was kind. “As I said, you can’t just erase all the stuff that’s happened to us. If I’m not gonna hold it, then you will, and we’ll all be right back where we started. Let this go, August. I’m serious.”

“So am I!” August took a deep breath and gestured to the spot on the couch beside him. “Sit, Agate. At least talk to me. Hear me out.”

Agate sighed and the sound reflected a bone-deep exhaustion that August had all but forgotten. She was just barely smaller than he was, but she looked so heavy as she sat. “I’m listening.”

“I can’t just pretend you’re not here,” August said. “It doesn’t matter what our intentions were. You’re here now. We can’t just pretend otherwise.”

“I’m not telling you to pretend,” Agate told him. “I’m telling you to move on –”

“But it’s the same thing, isn’t it?” August turned to face her fully, and he was reminded of who they’d been before. She’d been his counterpart, his other half. Things were different, but he felt like she still was. “I am you,” he said. “And you are me. What happened, happened to us, and if you carry it, then so do I. Letting you just fade away isn’t moving on, it’s repression.”

“It happened, it hurt, but it’s over now,” Agate huffed. Her eyes made him think of fire, but there was a horrible sorrow behind the flames. “There’s nothing to be done about it now. What exactly do you think ripping open old wounds is going to accomplish?”

“Because it’s not over,” August told her. “We’re better and things are different, but it won’t be overuntil we can face it and win and we’re finally in a place to do that.”

“Or you can just let me take everything back to the shadows with me.” The grin was gone. She was getting agitated, fingers curled into claws against her knees. “August, just let me do this. Please. Go on with Cairo and Cobalt –”

“But I want you too!” August felt like his heart was breaking and his eyes burned. “You’re more than what we went through. Cairo helped me pick up the pieces, but you’re the one who lived it. You’re the one that was strong enough to carry a broken world on your shoulders and keep it together until it could heal. Your determination, your stubbornness, your ability to survive. It’s all a part of me, of us, and it’s a part worth saving.” The tears finally came, rolling down his nose even as he tried to hold them back. “We’re worth it, Agate. The both of us, we’re worth it. I know it might hurt, and I’m terrified of what we might find, but what we can beis worth going back and facing what hurt us. I’m done running, and I’m done hiding. I want to see where Cobalt takes us, and I want you to come with me. So will you at least try? Come back to me?”

Agate was silent for a long moment. Then she leaned back and hummed. Her hands uncurled and reached out to touch August’s face. “There’s no need for tears, you crybaby.”

And August found himself smiling. “Yeah, I know.” He sniffed and rubbed at his eyes. “So, you’ll come back? I think Cairo misses you, and you still haven’t met Cobalt –”

“Slow down a bit,” Agate told him. “I’m… not ready for all that. Give me some time, yeah? I know you’re ready to move on, but I’m not. Not yet, anyway.”

“Okay.” August nodded to himself and glanced around. He and Agate were the only two in the room, the other daemons temporarily tucked away to give them some privacy. It was strange, being in a room without them, but Agate’s presence no longer held the air of foreboding it did earlier. “You and I can talk though, right?”

“Of course.” Agate stretched her arms over her head. “Don’t worry, I’ll meet the daemon brigade soon enough. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to talk to him anymore, but I missed Cairo. And I’m really curious where the hell Cobalt came from. They seem like a lot of fun.”

‘Be nice,” August pleaded.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be good to the baby.” She leaned back and closed her eyes and for the first time since she stepped into the room, she looked almost at peace. The light of the setting sun suited her, and August could almost imagine they were Home. “But first, let me just get used to being in this world again. I missed this.”

August just continued to watch. He felt like he was seeing a ghost returning to life, a glimpse of gold beneath the shadow and rust. They both were different, everything was different, but he supposed some things could stay the same. “Me too,” he said quietly, and turned back to the window.

[sourbat]

Here’s a short Skwismag I wrote today. 

Summary:  Skwisgaar remembers an evening with Magnus.

Warning: Drug use; implied sexual content. 

Skwisgaar remembered sitting at the edge of the old apartment’s railway, legs dangling and swaying in accordance with the late summer winds. Magnus stood beside him, shirtless and elbows pressed on top of the flimsy metal frame. The sun was setting, or had just started to set. Skwisgaar couldn’t recall the exact hour, nor month this memory occurred, only that the sky was a rich shade of orange. Magnus slid a foot back before offering Skwisgaar a hit of his blunt, grinning mad and spilling smoke from the parting rows of teeth, flicking the end and letting the ash rain all over his faded gray Toyota Camry before passing it down to Skwisgaar.

“We ams supposed to be leavinks soon,” Skwisgaar commented, but raised his hand up in agreement.

“I’ve driven under worse.” Magnus retorted, and Skwisgaar, despite knowing it was wrong, had to agree. He drank up the smoke, held it in until his lungs burned, and spewed it all in a long, seamless stream.

A few minutes later, the magic hit and the vibrant orange and burgeoning shades of violet in the distance started to magnify and glisten. Skwisgaar thought it was just good weed, but in six hours would come to terms that he was under the influence of a mixture of dangerous club concoctions. For now, he stared at the setting sun, jaw dropping at the magnificent array of colors that ate his senses whole. High as he was, he knew better than to meet the sun head-on, but witnessed its peeling outer layers melt into the blood orange sky. The stars were there. Skwisgaar remembered there being stars once it hit, and they sparkled and shimmered long rays of brilliant light into the deepening violet and pink. Another warm breeze passed through the streets, and this time Skwisgaar could make out each individual stream of air that tickled his neck and tasseled strands of his long blond hair. Magnus sways to the left, spilling more smoke into the air, and Skwisgaar recalled the strange aftertaste it left in his mouth, and wondered what other drugs Magnus failed to mention.

“What are you looking at?”

Skwisgaar turned. “Them suns.” He answered, pursed lips forming a degenerate smile once he caught Magnus in his sights. “It ams looking like pretty van Gogh painting, what with thems purple and swirly organses and yellows.”

He raised a finger towards Magnus, giving it twirl to indicate the direction of where the light was headed, then another to point out the stars above. Magnus raised his head up, mouth agape as he stared up at whatever mystical performance he witnessed under his high. Skwisgaar snickered, then rested his arms on the bottom half of the railing. His fingers scratched at the peeling layers of metal, unearthing stained rust that collected under his nails. The rust reminded him of dried blood. When Skwisgaar grew sick of staring at his fingernails, he turned and saw Magnus above him, eyes glued on his form. 

“What ims it?” Skwisgaar asked. He blinked madly, trying to make out the man behind the shimmering lights, but couldn’t see past that rose-tinted veil.

Magnus snubbed the end of the laced blunt into the handrail. “Nothing, just admiring you,” he said plainly, which only made Skwisgaar turn and check over his shoulder to see if their apartment door was open as they had left it. It was, but Skwisgaar leaned further, saw there was no one in the living room or kitchen.

Relieved, Skwisgaar dropped to the floor. “You shouldn’t be saying them things out louds,” Skwisgaar warned, then ran a hand across his face. He was starting to sweat, and his throat was dry. “Nathan and the others will hears you.”

Magnus dropped to a squat, or his knees? Or, did Magnus remain put, keeping his limber form against the railing as he let loose a low, almost threatening chuckle?  

“Let them fucking hear. What are they going to do?” Magnus asked with a sharp, antagonistic snap. A finger laced around several strands of his hair. Magnus must have been at his level then. Maybe they were lying together. If he couldn’t remember anyone being there, then maybe this was one of those rare cases where Magnus wasn’t afraid to show more than just a drop of affection in public.

Another veil draped over them. Magnus must’ve been sitting beside him, because Skwisgaar was sure it was his dark hair spilling over his back and shoulders, cascading around them and creating a small reprieve from all other outside stimulation. Skwisgaar stared up  at the shadowy form of a man who was so gone his eyes almost appeared black.

“I like the way your eyes look when they’re dilated,” Magnus told him, then lowered further to meet Skwisgaar’s lips with his own. 

A disturbing compliment, but they were high at the time, and Skwisgaar didn’t know any better. All he knew was Magnus was kissing him in public, on the eve of a hot, summer day, telling him how gorgeous he looked, and how tragic it was that he couldn’t have more to himself. They always kept things casual during the daylight hours, with Magnus performing the subtle art of flirtation whenever the opportunity arose. 

“You ams high, Magnus.”

Magnus cackled at the remark. “And so are you.”

How the conversation turned to the rave, and getting inside the car was a mystery. Skwisgaar couldn’t think straight, or maybe couldn’t bring himself to go any further past that moment where Magnus took advantage of their seclusion, of having him cornered in a spot. He breezed through the fuzzy recollection of a fingertip that curled under his palms, tickled his wrist before snatching and pulling him up so that they could dress and head out of the apartment. If memory serves correct, Murderface just left his room and asked Magnus for a ride to the pawn shop. Or was it Nathan? Another fast forward, and Magnus and Skwisgaar were in the car, ignition on, and faulty conditioner blowing lukewarm air at full blast. Skwisgaar’s seat groaned for him as he threw his head back, letting Magnus brush his nose across his neck, get lost in the nape before whispering hot words into his ear, asking if he wanted to ride to a more secluded spot before they hit the rave.

Magnus tore through the highway, reaching speeds that should’ve warranted their deaths, but always knew when to break at the last minute, when to drop speeds before ramming his clunker into the trunks of bigger, better cars. Trapped in his daze, Skwisgaar rolled down the window to stare out to the setting sun, the purple that shushed and tucked it deeper into the horizon, and the sparkly blue sky that glistened and blanketed the day into night. Skwisgaar saw that familiar set of trees, the bright orange sign located just a few miles away from their exit, and neon lights pointing towards a casino Skwisgaar kept saying he’d visit, but never did.

The exited the freeway, drove up a set of hills and into nicer neighborhoods with fenced yards and two story houses. Skwisgaar fished through the glove compartment for condoms, while Magnus continued to lift and drop his sunglasses, squinting at signs and trying to locate the entrance to a hiking trail no one bothered to visit during this late in the hour. Skwisgaar couldn’t remember the way back to that hill, nor could he recall what Magnus said to convince him that they should stay in the front of the car this time. The summer’s top 10 played, and Skwisgaar pulled the lever and lowered his seat, resting his simmering body against the heated passenger seat. The arid atmosphere seeped into his eyes, adding to the mild discomforts of his already  fuzzy head and cotton-dry mouth. Magnus hummed to one of the songs, then threw his belt on top of the dashboard and–fast forward–black consumed the sky once they were done, and the air outside had finally reached a tolerable temperature for the two of them to enjoy and bathe their sweaty bodies in before hitting the floor.

For some reason, Skwisgaar saw Magnus sitting on top of his car’s hood: pants and shirt on, but the latter only buttoned partway. The man was silent, eyes surprisingly steady given the concoction he’d smoked, licking his chapped lips as he stared down the hill at the city’s glowing palette: the white headlights and red taillights, the blue and green neon lights, flashing rainbows beckoning people over, and glowing balls of office buildings that were coming to their close.

Skwisgaar knew it couldn’t be the case, because Magnus never settled or allowed himself a chance to reflect on their brief liaisons. He was always ready to move on, and once he was off Skwisgaar, asked for the address to the club.

Still…

“What ams you staring at?” Skwisgaar pretended to say to the version of Magnus that was either depressed, ashamed, coming down, or tired.

“Everything,” Magnus answered, then raised a heavy arm down at the city.

Skwisgaar walked over to the front of the car, then sat next to Magnus. The car groaned under their added weight, but Skwisgaar hung low, resting his elbows on top his legs as he and Magnus viewed the shimmering freeway below.

“Ims beautiful,” Skwisgaar said.

And because this was his memory, a made-up figment of his imagination, Magnus looked away from the lightshow to instead witness him. “Not as beautiful as you,” he said, offering a free hand for Skwisgaar to indulge in. And, instead of going to the club, Skwisgaar and Magnus remained on that hill, letting their shared high trick them into believing the glimmering city beneath was made of gold, jewels and lightning. Magnus would divulge into some random diatribe of how everything was out to get him before being snuffed by Skwisgaar’s lips, and for once, Magnus would accept the kiss as it were. They laid on top of the car together, holding one another in the cooling winds and switching between the waves of immersive, incandescent lighting below, the faint glimmer of twinkling skies above, and the joy seeping out from their wide, dilated pupils.

Skwisgaar wanted it to be real. It was a modest way to end the night, but anything was better than what occurred. Magnus would take the wrong exit, and they’d be lost for nearly twenty minutes because Skwisgaar couldn’t remember the exact name of the club, and when they arrived, the line was so long by the time they made it past the front doors Magnus was irritated and already on edge. Someone bumped into him later, and didn’t apologize quick enough, and Magnus threatened to kick his ass. The next time it happened, Magnus swung a fist. Skwisgaar forgot how he calmed Magnus down the first time, but knew he failed miserably to even pull him away the second. Someone caught them together, and Magnus was still recovering from that initial fight, but they made the horrendous mistake to call them a foul name. Magnus just couldn’t let the insult go, and threw himself on their provoker, fists beating down on him before Skwisgaar could shake off the effects of the offense. When he finally did, people were turning on them, and names only grew worse. Although Magnus scared most of them off with his mangled, rage-induced form, the stress and fear he caused led to them getting kicked out, to Magnus telling him this was why he can’t ever really be happy, and blaming Skwisgaar for tricking him into thinking they could be anything more than just a dirty secret.

What really happened… Skwisgaar staring up at the vast night sky, spotting fewer stars than he remembered back at the apartment, when the sun was still falling, and Magnus sitting at the curb, analyzing his trembling, bleeding hands and falling deeper and deeper into a state of self-loathing.

...

Magnus looks so happy. It was all Skwisgaar could think when he stared up at the frozen still of him. Nathan and the others pointed fingers at the massive screen, openly criticizing Magnus’ way of starting fights and disorder at nearly any given opportunity before shifting their attention and the tone to Toki. The man wasn’t around, but he could be seen in the corner of that image, arms up in jubilation as he cheered the older man on, looking equally as excited, if not more for Magnus’ successful attack. But Skwisgaar couldn’t bring himself to rest too long on Toki. Staring too long at his smile only made his throat burn, his heart sour and turn green with jealousy. The image flickered as Nathan hit the remote, skipping several frames, and resting on an image of Magnus taking Toki by the hand, bad eye squinting from the array of flashing lights, but grin expanding beyond what Skwisgaar had ever seen.

People were huddled around them, pointing in their general direction. Even without the disguises, there had to be at least one person there calling them names, and Magnus, donning wrinkled attire stained with flecks of blood, couldn’t have been happier. 

“I’ll be real: they don’t look bad,” Pickles said, dropping his stare to return to the bottle he’d been nursing.

“Still gay, though,” Murderface pointed out. 

“I mean, at least they’re not being sissy about it, right?” Nathan said, then hit rewind once more to replay the scene.

“…which brings us to our two favorite party boys, Toki Wartooth and Magnus Hammersmith!”

Skwisgaar watched the dreaded minute-long clip, lips pulling inward when he saw Toki rush a man in the center of the dance floor, crashing into and bringing him down. Magnus appeared from the corner and pulled Toki up before saying something that couldn’t be heard through the crowds, then patted the man on the back before tugging him close. The host joked about their naturally brutal nature, their shared interest in music and how adorable it was that the two could do both while keeping their image. Hearts filled the screen as Magnus threw a fist at a man, much to the surprise of Toki. Another shoving Magnus just a second later, only to be rammed by Toki. Tweets flashed across the screen, showing dozens of fan reactions. The host returned to the clip, and people were screaming and music was playing, and Skwisgaar couldn’t hear the words Magnus whispered to Toki each time they returned to one another amidst the chaos. The crowds backed away once they recognized Toki without his hat, and the massive applause erupted once everyone realized who had kicked their asses. With just a few seconds left, Magnus turned to the camera recording the scuffle, raised a bloodied hand at him while Toki stood in the corner, beckoning Magnus back with a loving wave and coo. That was all it took for Magnus to turn, the video clip to suddenly end, and for the host to laugh off their violent date with another well-placed joke.

“Hey. Hey, Skwisgaar,” Nathan grunted, prodding Skwisgaar shoulder with his finger. “What do you think about Magnus and Toki being all gay with each other?”

Skwisgaar’s fingers ran up the neck of his guitar as he struggled to keep it all down. Middle and index shuffled between the four strings. Throat tightened at the memory of those cruel words, and Magnus blaming him for their shared suffering. 

“But don’t worry: Toki’s got Magnus’ back!”

Skwisgaar raised his head up just in time to witness the second recording pulled from the internet. Toki and Magnus were situated in the far corner of the club, half a dozen klokateers with weapons aimed at the dispersing crowd. Toki held Magnus’ hand, observing his fingers and scolding him for the damage he caused. Magnus said something in return. Skwisgaar couldn’t tell what it was because his back was facing the camera, but whatever it was, Skwisgaar could feel it, experiencing it when he saw Toki’s eyes light up under the circulating rainbow lights. Just before the video ended, Toki drew forward, eyes lidding as Magnus mirrored him and closed that already small gap.

“Well, ain’t that sweet. Calm down boys, save it for later!”

Skwisgaar looked away, unwilling to partake any further. Next to him, Murderface complained about them being gross, while Pickles laughed at the irony of it all, and Nathan, in his ignorance, nudged Skwisgaar again.

“D’ja see that?” Nathan said, snickering at the now frozen image of their two rhythm guitarists locked in a kiss. “Hey, Skwisgaar? Skwis, get a load of Toki and Magnus, here!”  

So what if they were kissing? So what if it was taking place in public?

“J-ja,” Skwisgaar said, choking through the single word. “It ims really gay and sillies. Kissing in publiks for everyones to see?!”

But Skwisgaar couldn’t bring himself to so much as glance in the direction of the still. He wouldn’t dare face that version of Magnus, the one he dared to make up whenever he tried to reminisce and find something positive, or just malleable enough to hold on to. That version of Magnus that Skwisgaar had to convince himself was real, then later reminded himself that he never existed.

That version of Magnus that Toki unearthed and had the pleasure of showing off to the world.

[arotechno]

The Heartless: Chapter 5

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Chapter V: in which the proverbial dam breaks

We stayed with Esther for three days. We’d spend the daylight hours working in the field, and in the evenings we’d sit outside and listen to Esther’s stories while the sun sank into the far-off horizon and gave way to the cool summer night. Sometimes, she’d help us in the garden or sit by the back door with the baby; other times she’d spend most of the afternoon in the house, and we’d see her carrying out crates of old-looking memorabilia, like our hard work had inspired her to finally clear out the detritus of an old life that she didn’t lead anymore.

Over those three days, we razed the overgrown garden rows, trimmed back the bushes, and cleared the creeping vines from the side of the house with the old rusted garden tools from the dusty, cobweb-laden wooden bin by the back door. There were several moments where I considered disappearing overnight, dragging an unwilling Petra back home with me before something could go horribly wrong. But every time, the thought of sleeping another night in the treetops and the mental image of Esther waking up one morning to find us gone convinced me to stay, at least until the work was done.

On the morning of the fourth day, Petra and I gathered up our measly belongings from the stable and bid our goodbyes to Esther and the baby, standing between the freshly shorn raspberry bushes with the whole truth sinking into the sun-baked earth unspoken. I began a thousand sentences in my head without finishing any of them, but thankfully, Petra picked up the slack.

“Thank you so much, ma’am, for everything,” she said with a polite nod.

Esther returned her thanks with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course, dear. It was nice to have some helping hands around for a few days.”

Petra went in for a quick hug, and if I’d had a heart, I believe it would have leapt into my throat and stayed there, permanently, until I choked on it and died. Instead, I found myself suddenly frozen to the ground where I stood, a thousand panicked thoughts buzzing under my skin until I saw Esther reach her free arm towards me and took a practiced step backward, a trillion possible endings to a million possible nightmares playing out in my head in that one instant.

“Thank you,” I choked out, startling Esther out of the bewildered expression that had crept onto her kind face. “Sincerely, I’ll never be able to thank you enough. More than you will ever know.” I gave her a polite nod to match Petra’s and turned to go, but when we were halfway to the road, she stopped me.

“Ace!” Esther called after me.

I turned around to see her look of confusion soften into something bordering on sorrow.

“I don’t know what it is, and I don’t expect you to tell me,” she began, “but whatever it is, no matter how bad you think it is, it doesn’t matter. You’re always welcome here, if you ever decide to come back. That’s a promise.”

“Please don’t make a promise I can’t expect you to keep, ma’am,” I answered honestly, and then I turned to go, Petra marching solemnly alongside me with her hands clutching the straps of her now full bag.

“You’re good kids, both of you!” Esther shouted, her voice carrying her desperation through the raspberry field down to the road’s edge. “I really mean that!”

I said nothing in return, and looked back only once, to see the baby reaching that chubby hand out toward me from afar. As the tiny house and Esther’s slowly shrinking form began to disappear at our backs, I thought quietly about the argument Petra and I’d had amongst the too-tall weeds that first day, and was left wondering which of us was right.

* * *

Bertrand greeted me with cold indifference when we finally arrived back in the Village of the Heartless. The house was stuffy; it felt more oppressively stark and empty than I remembered, as if I’d been gone for months instead of less than a week. It didn’t seem like Bertrand had eaten much, unless he’d managed to get more food in my absence—the more likely scenario was that he’d been brewing away at failed cure after cure in his study the entire time I had been away. It wasn’t as though he did much else when I was home, for that matter.

The sweltering summer dragged on, slow and sticky like pulled taffy. The weeks passed in much the same way as the ones that came before; Bertrand and I rarely spoke, and I spent long afternoons in the shade of the forest grove having target practice with Petra. She and I had taken to doing odd jobs for the neighbors in exchange for food or supplies, scrubbing kitchen floors on our hands and knees or picking fresh vegetables for the summer harvest until the sun had dappled new freckles across our noses and the tops of our shoulders. Whenever I couldn’t sleep at night (which was often), I’d climb to the top of the oak tree by the village gates with my bow and arrow and wait for someone to show up. No one ever did, aside from Petra—though her escapades were admittedly few now that our days were occupied by work.

Eventually, the days began to grow shorter and the summer heat faded into the crisp early autumn. The leaves on the big oak tree lost their green hue and the air grew drier day by day as the year commenced its twilight march to the cold, dark winter. The mounting tension in our tiny house came to a head on one cool autumn night, when my tired bones finally gave in to the deceitful throes of sleep.

* * *

My parents were very good at hiding the fact that I had no heart in my chest, and they had to be—harboring a Heartless child was against royal decree and would likely get them imprisoned, or worse. The people of Swallow’s Point didn’t suspect a thing, and I was content to keep it that way. I saw no reason to ever be discovered; I was living an ordinary childhood simply by pretending to be ordinary, and it was working.

It was just a beautiful, average day; the neighborhood children were out playing in the grass. In an act of heroics, Basil climbed atop a tree stump, wielding a stick like a pretend sword. We were playing knights, like we always did.

“I’m going to be king!” Basil declared gleefully to our group like a ruler addressing his people.

I turned up my nose and protested, “Basil, we’re all supposed to be knights! That’s the point of the game!”

Basil frowned, fists landing on his scrawny hips. “No, stupid, I mean in real life! I’m going to be king someday!”

"Sure you are,” retorted a kid who reminded me of Knife Boy. “You have to be related to the king to do that.”

Basil shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

“I don’t think so. You’re too weird to be related to King Brutus,” Marcus taunted.

“Don’t speak that way to your future king!” Basil joked, hopping down gracefully from his stump. He landed with a soft thud, worn-out shoes kicking up a cloud of dirt. The dust coated his face and clothes as he and the other boy began play-wrestling in the dirt road where we lived, laughing all the while, and warning bells resounded in my head. I could sense the impending danger from a mile away; it was an instinct I had been honing even throughout the most carefree years of my life, in case I ever needed it.

"Basil,” I muttered, hoping he would hear me and no one else, “maybe you shouldn’t—”

I stopped short, choking on my own breath as the group went dead silent. Marcus had gone to push Basil away and in doing so had placed a hand to Basil’s empty chest. He froze that way, eyes wide, and Basil paled considerably, realizing the gravity of what was happening. The moment cemented itself in my mind’s eye as tension soaked into the air, heavy and still.

“Why were you tricking us this whole time?” Marcus grumbled in a voice too low and too angry to ever come from a child. “You’re cursed! You could doom our whole village!”

“I just wanted friends,” was Basil’s whispered reply, so quiet I almost didn’t hear him. I saw him take a deep breath, chest rising, and then he spoke again, this time louder, bolder, “It shouldn’t matter! We were all friends until just now when you decided something was wrong with me! But that doesn’t change what I’ve always been!”

The entire group of children, save for myself, turned on him in an instant.

I backed further and further away from the scene but couldn’t look away, and in my mind’s eye their pretend-sword sticks became distorted until they resembled Knife Boy’s grimy dagger. I reasoned with myself, assuring myself that he was spry enough, light enough on his feet to escape. But poor, ten-year-old, Heartless Basil who had just declared himself king stared me dead in the eyes with a look that told me to run. So I did. He was foolish to let his guard down, I told myself. It was his own fault for becoming complacent. I almost convinced myself it was true.

  “Ace! Ace, wake up!”

I jolted awake, the residual terror warping the shadows cast by the lantern light into something macabre. It took a moment to will my body to move; my limbs had been reduced to lead, like if I played dead whatever demons haunted my sleep could not hurt me.

“Fuck,” I finally choked out, the hoarseness in my voice making me realize I had been screaming. I hadn’t woken up screaming from a nightmare in years, and it was at that point that I at last noticed Bertrand hovering beside my cot, the soft light from the lantern illuminating his stony features. There was something genuine in his expression—I realized belatedly that it was concern, and for some reason, it made me uncomfortable. Bertrand did not admonish me for my language, but instead stared at me patiently, expectantly, and somehow that made it worse.

"Sorry," I rasped. "For waking you."

Bertrand shook his head. “I was not asleep,” was all he said.

It occurred to me that Bertrand was the only living soul to whom I had ever told the details about Basil’s disappearance and the day I left Swallow’s Point. I had spilled to him one night as a child, the first time I woke him in the middle of the night with my screaming. He hadn’t said much, but he’d made me a cup of hot tea and let me lay my ten-year-old soul bare to him despite the ungodly hour. It had helped at the time, but it didn’t feel like an option now. I tried to steady my breathing, but I couldn’t, not with him looking at me so earnestly like that; it was as though my blood itself were vibrating just under my skin.

“I need to take a walk,” I said, swinging my legs over the side of the cot and reaching for my shoes. I met Bertrand’s gaze, daring him to challenge me, but though he said nothing, his expression softened into a sort of resigned understanding.

“Are you sure you’re in any condition to do that?” he finally asked as I was putting on my cloak with trembling limbs.

“No,” I responded shakily, walking out the door unarmed.

Once I was outside, the fresh air immediately took some of the edge off, and I walked a short ways before my legs gave out like a newborn deer’s and I flopped backward onto the grass. I inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, in and out several times until my breathing began to steady into something approaching normal.

This couldn’t go on any longer. I needed answers, some form of closure, someone to tell me straight to my face to get lost or die for all they cared, something more tangibly final than the memories that haunted me.

That night, I made a rash decision: I had to return home to see my parents.

When I eventually struggled to my feet and headed back inside, Bertrand was nowhere to be seen, but there was a mug of freshly brewed tea waiting on the table, the kettle still steaming on the stove as the crackling fire slowly burned out.

[the-fiction-witch]

Spooky Times 24 : Witches Oak

REAL LIFE: COUPLE: TBS X READER RATING: DARK

Not Much Used to happen in this little town, But sometimes that’s because far too much happened long ago.

The room was hushed, the tweeting of birds and the patterning of occasional rain both muffled by the window and pulled curtains. The room is dark with only the light of a few glow in the dark green stars stuck to the ceiling and walls. A rustling from the corner of the room and a huge glass tank, however, filled with sawdust and toys. The Quiet sounds of breathing from under the mangled mess of blue space bedding.

“ADAM!! You’ll be late for school!” The Shrill voice from the stairwell screamed

“Uuuuummm Five more minutes mum!” I groaned back cuddling my blanket tighter

“Now Adam! And Remember you have to drop your sister off at preschool” She yelled back

“Fine” I sighed, I slowly swung my feet around slipping them into my cosy slippers as I forced myself up from the bed and stretched as I went out my bedroom across the old hallway to the little bathroom. I stared at my face a while my eyes barely open and my hair a mess, I brushed my teeth and washed up as quickly as I could before hopping back into my room and getting dressed. Slipping on an old pair of jeans, My Plain blue shirt and then my light blue Patterned overshirt. I fixed my hair best I could, slipping on my glasses and opening my curtains. It looked dull and grey as it did almost every day.

I Sighed and cracked the window to let some air through grabbing a handful of birdseed from the bag and dropping it outside the window letting the pile sit on the ledge.

I grabbed the lid for the tank and put it down grabbing two little treats from the box and watching as two little hamster heads popped out the sawdust from the tunnels they had been building

“Goodnight Marco” I smiled giving him a treat which he happily took and hid in his cheeks “goodnight Polo” I smiled giving him one too “You guys get to bed, it’s late for you” I smiled putting the lid back on. I grabbed my backpack from the floor and stuffed my homework from my desk into my bag before heading downstairs.

My mother sat at the table with her cup of tea and my sister in her high chair eating something I wasn’t sure what with her unicorn bowl and spoon.

“She’ll be late,” My mother said

“I know mum, I had to feed Marco and Polo” I answered, picking up my little sister and starting to put her yellow raincoat on, sitting her on the sofa and slipping on her little pink wellies.

“Your money’s on the table,” she says sipping her tea

“Thanks, mum,” I smiled, taking the coins and stuffing them in my pocket. “Come on Eliza,” I said, picking her up and heading out the door.

The streets are empty and hardly a light on with any of the houses. I put Eliza down and let her walk along the street beside me as we headed along the road until we reached the edge of the forest walking down the little paths through the trees listening to the birds in the trees and the crunching of the leaves below my feet.

Eliza ran off as usual so I sighed and ran after her. She sat at the tall withered old oak tree, the bark and branches twisted, the leaves falling to the earth with shades of orange and green. The roots breaking through the ground the earth broke open where the roots are too strong.

“Hello Miss Oak” Eliza giggled as she looked at the tree as the little black and grey bunny rabbit hopped from the burrow under the tree roots,

“Hey Mrs oak” I smirked getting a carrot from my backpack snapping it in half and throwing it to her “Come On Eliza” I smiled picking her up and heading down the path, I noticed the little bunny following us “No Not you Mrs Oak” I laughed so the bunny hopped back to its burrow and we carried on through the thick forest. The path got a little more well-trod so I put Eliza bath down letting her run as we passed the old rusted gates of the Old Graveyard, the twisted iron covered in years of ivy and stinging nettles. Eliza ran off inside so I sighed following her though the little paths littered with old gravestones and flowers, till she stopped by one so broken and weathered the name and dates where unreadable. She stopped and sat down clapping her hands and soon enough the little blonde bunny hopped out from behind the stone

“Mr Gravestone!” she giggled

“Hey Mr gravestone” I laughed, throwing him the other half a carrot “Come on Eliza else we’ll be late,” I told her, picking her up and heading into town.

I kept Eliza close to me cuddling her close to me as we crossed the little roads and hurried down the empty stone streets until I reached the little daycare centre

“Good Morning Eliza” Mrs Smith smiled

“Hey Mrs smith, sorry I can’t stay I got to get to class,” I told her handing Eliza to her

“Of course you have a nice day adam” she smiled

“I wanna go play with Mr Gravestone and Miss Oak” Eliza giggled

“I know, well you have to stay here, I’ll come to get you after school okay?” I remember so she nodded and headed off down the grey pavement towards the school.

Nothing much went on that day, just the usual Friday bored out of my mind as my friends were always gone on Fridays for the club stuff they do. I sat on the MDF desk slowly taking my pen apart and putting it back together over and over while pretending to listen to my History teacher as she went on and on about the importance of local history without ever actually telling anyone any. Everyone in the room was as bored as me except Melody who sat at the front of the class, her glasses perched on her nose, her dark brown Pigtails happily sitting on her shoulders, her hands neatly folded on the desk in front of her. I stopped looking, not wanting someone to see me looking at her even if I had a mild crush on her but I never let anyone know I don’t want to die a horrible painful death for admitting to liking the school nerd girl.

“Fine, you kids want important local history? Something that appeals to your bloodthirsty heads” she asked I glanced up curious what she was talking about “Then I shall tell you of the documented tail of the Witches oak”

“The Witches oak? Miss Linea Everyone knows about the witches oak it's a bedtime story” one boy commented from the back

“Then, by all means, You tell it, Arthur,” she said

“The Town used to have a resident witch, who stole babies, ate children and put spells on the town until the major ran her out of town on some waggon” he explained I sighed and returned to my pen

“No! That’s not the story at all” Melody argued

“Go On Miss Abernathy,” Miss Linea told her

“Many years ago, the town had a resident witch, she lived out in the woods” she began and I perked up a little more watching melody as she spoke “she made potions for the town, as a healer, until one day she gave the whole town the wrong potion in an attempt to murder them all, she only killed one child in her attempt, and when the town confronted her she put a curse on the town, the crops died, the water got contaminated, the mines ran dry and the livestock all died. So the towns People took her out to the witches oak and Hung her for her crimes” she explained

“Very good Miss Abernathy, However that was not the end of it,” Miss Linea said “In her dying breath she cursed those who had doomed her to the fate of hell and said each of them would die a horrible death, and within the month every one of her accusers was found dead in a most Horrific way”

The bell then went so everyone gathered their things. I shoved my work into my bag and headed out towards my locker for my stuff when I heard a voice as I was unlocking it,

“Hey Adam,” I turned and saw that the melody stood with her books, I tried not to blush and smiled “Hey Melody, what’s up?” I asked her

“I was wondering if you could walk me home?” she asks “You walk through the woods don't you?”

“Uhh yeah I do” I nodded “But Uhh…. I have to pick up my little sister from daycare”

“It’s okay, I can wait” she smiled

“You sure?” I asked grabbing my stuff and she nods “Okay, let’s go then”

I gathered my stuff and locked up my locker as we both slowly walked out of school heading out into town as the darkness began to crawl into the town “So why did you want me to talk with you today?” I asked her

“Well with the nights growing much darker this time of year, and having to walk through the woods by the witches oak tree it’s rather scary” she explained

"Yeah especially when you remember that spooky story for history class" I blushed

But at that exact moment the sky cracked and a storm erupted on the horizon breaking the buildings destoryin tree's I saw the terrifying dark clouds on the horizon "The Tree! it's where the storms coming from, something is happening tonight" I said "Come on" I told her making her follow me grabbing my sister on the way till we reached the tree and instantly I was in another world...

"This is the only place I ever felt happy" she says "but not anymore"

"Why not?"

"It's full of bad memories now" she says a tear falling down her cheek

"There wasn't anywhere else?"

"No, everywhere else was just the same"

"What about your mother? Didn't you want to see her?"

"No… I never knew her, she died when I was born"

"What about your father?"

"He wasn't very nice to me… he blamed me for her death, and was unkind to me"

"There must have been someone who looked after you? Who was kind to you?"

"One"

"Y/n?" I heard from behind the tree where Y/n sat two hands appeared from behind the tree covering her eyes as she read her book making her giggle

"Hehee stop it!" She giggled

"His name was Thomas" she smiled as the boy popped out from behind the tree to give Y/n a hug

"You seem close?"

"We where, we used to come here and cuddle" she laughed "he used to promise me that he'd marry me" she blushed as he gave her cheek a little kiss

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I died before he could"

"Ohh I'm sorry"

"You remind me off him" she smiled "he was always sweet, kind to me… he was a very open mind"

"You miss him?"

"Every day"

"Don't you want to go see him?"

"I'm not sure I can"

"Why not?"

"I'm sure he moved on once I died" She says

I looked to the book finding the day she was hung she looked away as it turned to the red sky the rope in the tree, Y/n being forced to walk towards it

"Y/n!! NOOO PLEASE!! Please she didn't do anything!! Nooo!! Y/nA!!!" He screamed men holding him back so he couldn't intervine

"It's the last thing I remember, My Thomas, crying, screaming as I was hung" she explained "please...tell me… what happened to him"

I turned the page and continued to read

"Days later Thomas Sangster was found under the Witches Oak Tree, having hung himself in the night" I read "he wanted to be with you Y/n he hung himself so he could be with you"

"Then… then why is he not here?"

I looked to the book and read the rest of it "he was cut down and burried in the graveyard with his other deceased family members" I read "you see Y/n that's why he hasn't been here all these years, he wanted to die with you, be with you for all eternity, but his family dragged him away and burried him somewhere else So you couldn't be together"

[soyforramen]

Anyways, here’s part one Sunday:

It had been seven long years away from the only home he’d ever known.  Away from the heartache and death and depravity.  Seven years in the real world, where parents didn’t try and kill their kids; where drugs weren’t rampant on the streets; where people didn’t pretend like their small town hadn’t descended into corruption years ago.  Seven years to mend and try to heal from the scars this place had carved out of his flesh.

Archie looked through the windshield at the sun clawing through the sky, steam rising from the river below to cover Sweetwater Bridge in an ominous fog.  He wanted to turn back, put his back to this hell hole of a town.  After everything they’d been through, after all the pain, grief, and heartache, they both swore they’d never go back.  Riverdale was no longer theirs, if it ever had been.  It’s innocence had long been dragged down under the dark, rushing currents, taking their youth with it.

But, as Romeo Void always said, never say never.

He glanced over at Betty, still curled up in the passenger seat asleep, and wondered.  What would have happened all those years ago if he had said yes to her?  If he’d lied, and said he loved her the same, would they have ended up like his parents?  Separated by half a country, filled with bittersweet memories and regrets of what they could have been?  Or would they have turned into her parents, forcing a smile, married with kids and miserable, the perfect couple to everyone but themselves?

It didn’t matter.  Not really.  One what if lead to a thousand, each a domino lined up against the others, ready to topple a mountain with a simple touch.

They were here now.  Together.  And that’s the only thing that could matter right now.

Archie pulled the visor down to block out the sun and turned the old Ford’s engine over - newly rebuilt by his traveling companion - and pulled onto the old wooden bridge.

Back to where they’d started.

It was strange to see one’s childhood, once so precious and simple, changed so completely.  The old Southside High was now littered with shops selling cheap tourist t-shirts and even cheaper urban legends.  Sunnyside Park had been forgotten altogether, now nothing more than a run down jungle of rust and flora, a faded ‘For Sale’ sign crying out for salvation.  And they gym, the one he’d risked his life -

- and those kids’ - god he’d been so stupid - nothing had been worth that, especially not his pride what had he -

- had been converted to a used car lot, Reggie’s face beaming out from an overly large billboard with blinding veneers and thinning hair.

Pop’s was the only thing that hadn’t changed, its neon light guiding him home, still a beacon to wayward travelers in need of a place to call home.  Wary of the woman asleep beside him, Archie kept driving.  His weren’t the only memories he had to be careful of disturbing.  This return was hard on the both of them -

- Memories can take you back, home sweet home, You can never go home anymore -

- a necessary strain on the future of their relationship.  They’d stayed up for months arguing about it, voices raised and doors slammed.  She claimed it was necessary for her future; he disavowed the past in that place.  They’d both lost their parents; their youth; their innocence; their sanity there.  Neither wanted to admit how badly they needed to stay away.

He didn’t want to admit how badly he needed to return.

It didn’t matter, in the end.  He knew it was a fight he’d end up losing.  A twenty round TKO with determination like hers.  Nothing could dissuade her from going; nothing could keep him from going with her.  Because it was Betty who was asking him.  Betty his lifelong friend; his soulmate; his other half.  The one person who knew him inside and out.  He’d only ever told her no once in his life, and it had broken both their hearts so badly it had taken half a decade to heal.

Kintsugi, she told him when they’d come back together again.  Mending things with gold so the scars never went away.  Instead, they were made more beautiful by having survived the break.  

“That’s the last of it,” Archie said, his breath coming quick.  

With a clang, he set down the last box - a mishmash of utensils, pots, and pans.  They’d lived minimally for so long it was routine to load everything up into the bed of the Ford.  Military transfers had convinced Archie he really only needed a change of close, a pen, and a piece of paper to make it through.  Betty, though, had taken the opposite tack and had her entire lifestyle planned out to the minute.

“The furniture should be dropped off tomorrow afternoon, if we’re lucky.”  He stretched his arms up to hang his hands on the doorframe and watched as she moved to the newest box.

“Portland all over again,” Betty said.  

She cut into the packing tape, her hands constantly on the move.  Nesting, she’d once called it.  Settling into a new space and making it hers as quickly as possible.  Every where else, she’d been able to relax upon arriving.  But here every movement held a nervous, frayed energy.  He worried what would happen when she ran out of things to do.

Betty had been quiet since yesterday, refusing to leave the house until everything was settled.  Distracted by unpacking she barely acknowledged him.  Every call was sent to voicemail, each text left on read.  He’d had to prompt her throughout the day to eat.  

Ever since they’d arrived, her eyes had been haunted, trapped in the past.  No doubt reliving every moment and analyzing what she could have done differently.

Archie reached for her when she passed him.  Betty went rigid, but relaxed as he smoothed down the stray hairs that had come loose from her ponytail.  They’d talked about this.  About how easily she got stuck in the eddies of memories, her streams of thoughts unable to sweep her back to the present.  It was how her mind worked, the lines of thought etched deep into the ground with time and practice.  Just as he had to focus on the present to make it through, she had to relive the past to move to the future.

She slipped her arms around him, her fingers worrying at the fabric.  In times like these she likened him to her anchor in the storm.  Archie never saw himself as that; she was too strong to ever really need anyone.  Time had proven that.

“Pop’s for dinner?”

Betty shook her head, her hair tickling his nose.  “I can’t.  Not yet.”

He kissed her on the forehead and they rocked together a moment, a primitive soothing gesture for the both of them.

“But I could do with take out.”

For all the things that had changed, at least the bell above Pop’s door was still there.  Everything else - the formica tables, the jukebox, the old Polaroid's - had all disappeared, replaced by the same modern kitsch found in every other family restaurant across the country.

“Eating in?”

Archie turned to find a young woman standing in front of him, an apron around her hips.  She was dressed all in black, with nothing to distinguish her from her patrons.  It was dizzying, this old imposed on the new.

- the more things change, the more they stay the same, we shouldn’t have come, this isn’t for us -

“Picking up, for Andrews.”

She nodded and turned to the line of plastic bags behind her as soft jazz played above him.

First days were always hard.  Never knowing what to expect, Archie never felt as if he was enough.  That he’d fooled everyone into thinking he was capable enough to do the job.  Once push came to shove, though, he’d trip over his own feet and show the world just how useless he really was.  A disappointment to the end.

The first day of school - the iguana got loose and wrecked the cafeteria.  The first day of football - half the team were sent home with broken bones.  The first day of training camp - half the squad were lost in the woods.  The first day out in the field -

- oh god raj, the blood, i’m so sorry, it should have been me, where’s the medic, the blood, stop th-

“Andrews?”

Archie blinked the sun out of his eyes, back in front of the fire station.  Its sign gleamed bright in the morning sun, washing away the dark memories.  Forcing a grin, he turned only for his grin to blossom into a genuine smile.

“Mad Dog?”

They embraced, arms tight around each other, laughing, saying everything words never could.  Archie had lost touch with almost everyone but Betty after high school, friends drifting away on the currents of time and distance.  Every now and then he’d hear about weddings and babies, deaths and divorces.  Each a tragedy in their own way, celebrations he’d never know of.

He’d never truly regretted any of them, at least not until Munroe was in front of him again.

“Man, I haven’t heard that name in years,” Munroe said.  He stepped back, hands still clasped around Archie’s shoulders.  “What graces you upon my door?  Don’t tell me you remembered about that twenty dollars I owe you.  Last I heard you were slumming it up in San Francisco.”

Archie laughed at the (in)accuracy of it.  “Riverdale was in need of a new fire captain, and for some reason Sheriff Keller thought of me.”

“Chief Keller, Red,” Munroe said with wink.  “Old man gets testy when you forget.  Maybe seeing the prodigal son return will lighten his mood a bit.”

The warm feeling of home, the one he’d almost forgotten entirely, returned easily, a rising tide that almost made this trip worth it.  Archie threw an arm around Munroe’s shoulders as they walked into the firehouse.

“Good day at work?” Betty asked.

She handed him a bowl of ice cream - Neopolitan - and tucked herself against his side, her own half-eaten pint of strawberry ice cream in her other hand.  In return he tucked an old knitted throw around them and turned the tv volume down.

“Yeah, really good actually.  You?”

Betty dug out a chuck of ice cream too big for the spoon, and bit half of it.

“That bad?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled through the mouthful.

“No questions?”

She shook her head.  “No questions.”

The sounds of a muted space battle filled the silence around them.  Sometime between when the movie ended and the next began, Betty fell asleep against him, her empty ice cream carton tucked against her side like a teddy bear.  It was a moment of normalcy he’d been afraid to lose.  Domesticity in all its comforts.

He knew it wouldn’t last.  It couldn’t, not here.  Normal was a smokescreen, ebbing and flowing among the darkness that fueled this town.  Solving one small case couldn’t fix that.  They both knew that.

But it was nice to pretend it could.

A few minutes past midnight, Archie cradled Betty into his arms and took her to bed.  When he knew she was settled, he shut the door behind him and went to his own room.

“No.  Fuckin’. Way,” one of the probationaries said, his mouth hanging wide.  “You two were vigilantes? Like The Red Circle?”

Archie blushed and looked away, uncomfortable with how close he was.  Munroe, though, smiled, revealing in the shock and awe he could procure.  

“And this one,” he jerked his thumb at Archie, “wore spandez.”

“We both wore spandex,” Archie reminded him.

“You realize that’s worse, right?” Chief Keller, nee Sheriff Keller, said as he walked into the break room.

A half-dozen chairs hit the floor at once as the probates stood quickly.  A snicker cut through and soon the whole room was cracking up.  Archie smiled, not knowing what else to do other than scrum under all this attention.  He’d been stupid enough -

- so stupid, why hadn’t anyone stopped him, he was just a kid, jesus they were all kids, what the hel-

- and the last thing he wanted to be remembered for was wearing spandex.

“Alright, now that we’ve broken in the new guy,” Keller said.  He poured himself a cup of coffee, taking his time to scrutinize the room.  “Sanchez, Gilbert, Edison.  You’re on rotation for fire safety training at the school.  Pickens, Cho - Mrs. Green need help with that damned ramp of hers.  If I have to listen one more time to how she can’t get her wheelchair over those rotten out boards I’m giving her your personal numbers.  Andrews, Munroe - Sheriff wants somebody to look over a small fire at the old Twilight.  Probably nothing, but they need a stamp of approval for an insurance payout.”

Groans came from the younger firefighters, but they didn’t hesitate to get a move on.  In less than a minute the break room had emptied, leaving Munroe and Archie to bring up the rear.

“Just like the gym, huh?” Munroe asked as they followed Cho into the parking lot.

“Only better trained,” Archie replied.

Munroe unlocked an old white suburban, R.F.D. written along the side in bright red and gold letters.  On their way to the Twilight, Munroe pointed out the little things that had happened in Archie’s absence - new residents, car accidents; minor high school pranks, major vandalism; and one case of a loose alpaca.  All small town quirks that hit Archie with a sudden homesickness.  

Despite all the bad that had taken root here, it seemed there was still life in this town.

Munroe parked near the old projection booth, now nothing more than a few loose boards held up by a decade of graffiti.  He reached behind the seat and pulled out a pair of boxing gloves.  

“One more for old time’s sake?”

Archie took them from him, the oily, cracked leather like old friends.  On the cuff was the El Royale logo, faded almost to nothing in some places.  A choking sensation rose up in his throat and he had to swallow hard.  Of all the things to keep, and Munroe had unknowingly chosen the only thing from Riverdale Archie still held close to his heart.

“You’re on.”

“I saw him yesterday,” Betty mumbled when Archie woke up that Saturday.  “He had a woman with him.”

She spun a spoon through her soggy Cheerios, eyes dark and downcast.  From the sweatshirt and slacks she worse Archie knew it had been another all-nighter.  Betty also had an obsessive drive when it came to work, but this was going too far.  Not for the first time he wondered whether her insistence on taking this case was a way to gain experience and attention, or whether it was just another way for her to prove - to herself or to him - that she was over it.  Over them.  

Over that two syllable word that hadn’t been spoken in years.

It cut deep to see her like this.  And Archie didn’t know if he could pick her up off the floor again, if he’d be able to put together all those pieces that had shattered years ago.  He’d lost so many pieces, filled her with so much gold, that he was afraid that there wouldn’t be enough to keep her together for a second time.

“When was the last time you slept?”

She shrugged and dipped the spoon back into her milk.  Like a child Betty lifted it up only to watch it rain down again.

Archie sighed and picked up the coffee pot.  He’d been against her going into the FBI from the start, and he’d said as much when she’d been accepted into the Academy.  She had her own trauma to deal with.  And working on some of the worst cases - kidnappings, murders, rapes - was too close to reality for her.  

That was a lesson he’d learned the hard way.

But this was Betty, after all, the most self-assured, stubborn person he knew, determined to prove she was stronger than the white-noise of the past, desperate to push memories just past the edge of consciousness. And now they were back in this place tinted by the ghosts of their past.

“Betty -“

“I’m fine, Archie,” she snapped.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  The last thing either of them needed was another blow-up.  

“Look, the cookout’s today.  How about we eat junk food and watch that awful movie channel you like so much?”

Betty frowned, her lip pursed in a way he knew he’d won.  At least it wasn’t that awful, plastic smile of hers, the one she’d spent hours perfecting in the mirror when they were eight.  

“Fine, but only if you get wontons and dumplings.”

“And who is this lovely lady?” Cho asked.

Betty turned, the picture of suburban perfection she’d been raised to be, and held out her hand.  “Betty Cooper.”

Cho’s eyebrows lifted in delight and they bowed over her hand to kiss it.  “Teddy Cho, at your service.”

Their eyes met Archie’s, and he shook his head at the unasked question.  Betty bit her lip at the exchange, tickled at Cho’s obvious interest.  With a grin, Cho lead her towards the rest of the probates, their arms linked together as he tried out one of his new jokes on her.

Munroe handed Archie a cold beer as he walked up.  “The All-American couple.  You two are a big hit tonight.”

Archie shot him a confused look, and Munroe nodded towards Betty.

“No, we’re not…” Archie stammered, finally realizing how it looked when they showed up together.  “That’s….”

How did one explain what they were?  Friends, more-than-friends-but-less-than, family, what-if’s, drunk and lonely nights spend on the sofa, thank-god-we-never-did,-wouldn’t-that-be-so-weird?

“Funny, I would have pegged the two of you as a couple.”

“You and a bunch of other people.  But it’s not for us.”

Archie took a sip of his beer, a cool relief from the lingering hot summer sun.  The sounds of the barbecue brought back memories of his own childhood, memories of better times when his family wasn’t broken, when his father…

- mr. andrews, regardless of what you continue to think, none of what happened to your father was your fau-

Neighborhood cookouts were kids played long after dark, and dads drank beer and shot the shit about football while moms talked small town politics.  It would be nice to go back to this, he realized with a start.  Only this time he was part of the older group, a single man in a swathe of couples enjoying their lives for one more day before the return of the inevitable Monday morning grind.

“So, got a girl back home?” Munroe asked.  He sat down in one of the lawn chairs and kicked his feet up, the picture of American prosperity.  “You keep checking that phone a lot while we’re at the station.  I just figured out it was Betty, but now…”

Archie shook his head and settled in on the grass.  “Nah, nothing like that.  Last time I dated anyone was almost a year ago, and he’s been married almost two months now.”

Munroe raised an eyebrow, a question that could easily be side stepped, ignored as nothing more than a muscular tic.  After all, it had once been an El Royal running joke that Archie was the Casanova of the group, the one who could jump from one woman to the next without a beat between.  Munroe especially had given him the hardest time about it, constantly throwing out bad pickup lines for Archie to rate.  It was that strange sort of camaraderie only a group of men, posturing and posing, their masculinity fragile at that age, that needed to be reassured in their ability to pickup barbells and broads.

But Archie had never been uncomfortable with Munroe.  He’d always been the most easy going, non-judgemental man he’d ever met.  And besides, he owed him a sort of honesty, now that they relied on each other in the grips of life and death.

“Jake wanted kids, marriage, the whole thing.  Only once we dated for three years, he realized he wanted it with someone else.”

Munroe let out a whistle.  “Harsh.

Archie nodded.  They finished their beers in silence, moving onto the next one with talk about college rankings and score spreads, the mood still light between them.

“So…”

Betty let the words hang in the air, that gleam of curiosity in her eye.  Archie ignored her and turned onto Old Ash Road, the radio crooning an old country ballad about love, loss, and whiskey.  He made the mistake of glancing over at her and she fluttered her eyelashes in expectation.  

“So?”

“You and Munroe seemed pretty cozy.”

“You and Cho seemed pretty cozy too,” he shot back.

Betty’s lips pursed and she settled back into her seat with a pout.  “I was being nice since you didn’t seem too keen on hanging out with your coworkers.”

“I hung out with them.  Hahn and I played cornhole for an hour with Roxie and -“

“Munroe.”

Betty echoed him with a pointed look.  

“It’s been over a year, don’t you think you should -“

Archie shook his head.  “We agreed.  We’re here as long as you’re working on the case.  No roots.”

“Yeah, but -“

“We’re friends, and it’s going to stay that way.”

She chewed her lip, her mind going a mile a minute.  He’d have to be wary of any of her scheming, especially now that he knew Jughead was back in town.  Meddling in other people’s lives had always been Betty’s go to to get her mind off of her own problems, and while it had been worked out in the past now there was no way it would ever work.

It would be nice, though, to have someone like Munroe to date while he was in town.  But it wouldn’t be fair to either of them, not when Archie was dead set on leaving Riverdale the minute Betty's work was done.

After all, it had been Munroe he’d turned to in highschool, whether he needed help or just wanted to shoot the shit.  He’d been the second person Archie had wanted to spend time with, after Ronnie, of course.  Their bond had always been close, and it was more than just a bond formed through shitty circumstances.  They watched the same movies, loved the same sports, and Munroe could argue musical theory like no one’s business.  

So why couldn’t they at least be friends while he was in town?  

[athingthatwantsvirginia]

Oliver Twist and Little Orphan Annie

PART TWENTY OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: discussions of physical/emotional abuse, anxiety about future, serious angst, plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 5.8K

Summary: As graduation approaches, Ella and Jess paint a room, and attend a party.

“How have you never painted a room before?” Ella asked, tiling her head at Jess as she guided his hand, armed with a roller, up and down.

A creamy white streaked the wall in stark contrast with the old color, giving off pungent fumes. Her one window was opened all the way, letting in the late May air. Rain poured on Stars Hollow, a thunderstorm which brought humidity and lightning. The sky had faded to a dark greenish-gray, a dull bruise. But Ella felt her spirits lifted high. Lorelai had paint leftover from redoing the Independence Inn following the fire, and she’d given it all to Ella. Sometimes, she didn’t know what she would do without the Gilmore matriarch. If she had to stay in her room during college, the least she could do was have a new mural. Three of the walls would be soft eggshell, while she had yet to decide the exact design of the one behind her bed. She had a lot of purple to use, and was thinking something floral. But the base coat was all they needed for the day.

Jess had volunteered rather than been recruited, but it quickly became clear to Ella that he had no idea what he was doing. His first few strokes were patchy at best, textured at worst. She was thankful Luke hadn’t gotten a new apartment back when they were thinking of moving. The plan then had been to have Jess paint it. Ella could only imagine the quarrels which would have ensued. As she guided Jess’s hand, she maneuvered around the mattress in the center of the room, piled high with almost all her belongings and surrounded by layers of plastic to protect the carpet.

“We can’t all be Michelangelo,” he quipped, frustrated with his clear incompetence. In theory, painting a room evenly wasn’t hard. But, a perpetual renter, he had zero experience. Theory was proving much different than practice.

Ella snorted a laugh. “Jess, it’s not the Sistine Chapel. You’re painting one wall with one color.”

“Easy for you to say. You paint all the time.”

She rolled her eyes. “You didn’t have to help. Just don’t apply too much pressure. We’ll have to do a few coats, but that’s the only way to make it look good.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jess grumbled as she stepped away from him, going to her own paint tray and prepping her roller for the wall next to his.

“I know you will, James Dean,” Ella said, more sincerely than he was expecting.

Smiling a tiny smile, Jess glanced over his shoulder at her. Her hair, held away from her face in a black bandana, fell down her back. The old Pixies t-shirt she wore rose up as she reached high on her tiptoes, exposing the dimples in her back, above the waistband of her worn jeans. His stomach buzzed with pleasant butterflies as he turned back to the wall.

“You write your speech yet?” Jess asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

Groaning playfully, Ella shook her head more to herself than to Jess. “No. Not quite ready to pretend to have some inspiring message about the last four years. Also, I’m pretty sure my speech is going to be the last one. I’ll have to follow whatever those student government kids have to say.”

“Well, graduation is still three weeks away. You’ve got some time, Miss Valedictorian,” he said.

“One of four valedictorians,” she reminded him, her tone dismissive. “With the lowest GPA of all four.”

“How many times, Eleanor? It’s still a huge deal.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she said, breathing a soft sigh.

Before Jess could speak again, a quiet knock sounded on the door. Ella’s father didn’t wait to be invited in before he opened the door. Both of them turned and Jess could almost see Ella’s body turn rigid. Jess bit his lip again and put his paint roller down in his tray as Jake Stevens began to speak.

“Hey, Ellie, how’s it going in here?” Jake asked.

“Fine,” Ella shrugged, gazing around the room. “Should be done by tomorrow or day after next.”

Jake nodded. “Good. Don’t want the house smelling like this forever.”

“Right,” she said. “I just figured...white will be a better color for a guest room when I move out, and with the pink gone only one wall will need painting by then.”

“But that won’t be for a while, right?” Jake said, eyebrows raised.

There was almost a warning tone in his voice, Jess thought. In the interactions he’d seen between Ella and her father, it was never blatant. Jake never said anything overtly cruel or malicious, but it was in the way he said things. Like he knew there was nothing his daughter could do to get out from under his thumb. Like he could forever bind her to the role her mother used to fill, the chores and the emotional labor, while still ignoring her as if she didn’t live in the room right next to his. It was such an odd dichotomy.

Jess could definitely understand having a parent who was often neglectful, but there was a strange, controlling element to Jake’s behavior which Jess had never experienced himself. Many of Liz’s boyfriends (and sometimes fiancés, and sometimes husbands) were addicts with less than friendly personalities. But they were never around long enough to establish true manipulation of him. Instead, Jess would fight with them (more often than not, to protect Liz) until they got fed up and left. Then, Liz would blame him for driving the guy away and the cycle would begin again. The last time he’d gotten into a scrap with one of her men, punches had been thrown. Jess had even landed a few himself, but his fighting back proved to be the final straw for Liz. Instead of watching the man walk away from her, she’d sent Jess to Luke. But, of course, she’d moved onto the next one by the time Jess returned to New York following the accident with Rory’s car.

Those men, their main weapon was fear. But Ella’s father wielded guilt instead. He used his words, how he said them, and small actions disguised as discipline, instead of his fists. He loomed over his daughter coldly. She didn’t often talk about it, but Jess knew Ella’s father had slapped her at least once as a child, for talking back to him at the dinner table. She’d made the comment off-handedly, as though it was nothing. As though all parents kept their kids in line using such methods. And she claimed her father hadn’t touched her in anger since, that things were getting better between them, that her father had a hard childhood of his own and he had learned to parent in an abusive environment. But touch wasn’t always the vehicle for household violence. A family could have some kind of love without it being a healthy kind of love. It wasn’t dramatic, he didn’t witness any blow-outs. And though Jake always had a beer in hand when he was home, Ella only shook her head when Jess brought it up, told him her father never got blackout drunk anymore. Not since Fiona came around. But the subtle, warning tone was always there. And Jess could see shades of it every time Jake and Ella spoke to each other.

“Yeah,” Ella said, offering a weak smile. “Not for a while. But I’ll be thanking myself in four years.”

“Smart,” Jake agreed, nodding. Then, he turned to Jess: “And how are you, young man? No college plans I hear?”

“No,” Jess said, shaking his head. “Personally, I think I’m better equipped for trades.”

Again, Jake nodded slowly, keeping his eyes on Jess. “I suppose only time will tell, won’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, it will,” Jess said shortly.

Jake smiled thinly. “Well, I can’t wait to see the room when it’s done. As you were, kids.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Ella said, picking her roller back up as her father shut the door behind him.

Swallowing dryly, she took a second to listen to the rain outside. She flexed her free hand once and then got back to work, humming a Fleetwood Mac song under her breath. Jess watched, hesitant to say a word. Slowly, he began to paint again, rollers squeaking quietly against the walls.

“I hate it when he calls me ‘young man,’” he said, trying to keep his tone light.

She scoffed. “Wow, I’m shocked.”

“Yes, I’m very unpredictable,” he quipped. “There you go, type-casting me again.”

“Hey, I can’t help it if you’re James Dean back from the dead,” she teased, smirking over at him. “Speaking of which, are you too cool for the party next weekend, or are you gonna come watch Lane play with me?”

Running his free hand over his mouth, Jess locked eyes with her, looking over his shoulder again. “Depends. Are we gonna go make fun of everything like we’re gonna do at prom?”

Ella nodded. “Everything except the music. You can come be a Grinch with me, just like at the diner on Christmas.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“And you don’t get to complain about my driving at prom. It’ll be a station wagon instead of a limo, since your rust bucket is gone,” Ella reminded him. Three weeks prior, Jess had walked out of the diner one morning and found his car gone. He had heard no leads about it since.

He sighed through his nose. “Whatever you say, soccer mom. I’ll get the tickets this week.”

“Okay, but I’m paying you back for mine.”

“If you insist,” he shrugged.

“I do.”

His eyes lingered on her a moment longer as she reached high on the wall. Sidestepping his painting tray, he brought a gentle hand to the small of her back and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Scrunching up her nose, she chuckled and told him not to distract her. And he went back to work laughing.

.   .   .

Though there were rips in her fishnets, Ella felt an added, confident skip to her step as she passed town square. The Spring Fling festival banner was still hung over the gazebo, though it had ended with a parade the night before. Bunches of flowers still lined the streets, beginning to wilt in the heat of May. In the back of her mind, she worried vaguely about her dark eye makeup melting off in the sunshine. Her Doc Martens squeaked on the tile floor of Luke’s as she waltzed in, breathing a small sigh at the gust of cool air conditioning. She smoothed down her black floral dress, blowing loose strands of hair, which had fallen from her half-up, half-down look, away from her freckled cheeks.

Only a few customers peppered the red tables, and no one occupied the counter. Luke scribbled on his pad as he stood behind the ancient register, preparing to close.

“Hey, Luke,” she called, smiling slightly at him.

He mumbled a greeting to her, not glancing up. Ella scoffed out a laugh at his disinterest, and didn’t bother asking if it was alright before going behind the curtain and trudging up the stairs. He’d been acting off lately, and though she wondered if it was something to do with his lawyer lady friend, she knew better than to ask. She’d spent the afternoon before visiting Julie in New Britain, and he seemed to have cooled off at least a little since she’d last seen him. Granted, it had been a Thursday, inventory day. One could always expect a fair amount of open hostility from Luke on inventory day. Ella could hear the sound of the Sex Pistols before she even neared the apartment door. Only knocking twice, and assuming she wouldn’t be heard over the music anyway, she stepped into the apartment. Jess sat up in his bed, reading Dead Souls, brows furrowed in concentration in spite of the noise.

Smirking, she came over and turned down the music to half volume. He only looked up to see her as Johnny Rotten got quieter, and blinked in surprise at her. She set her bag shoulder bag down on the worn wooden floor and sat at the end of the bed, legs hanging off the side.

“Hey, James Dean,” she said. “More light reading?”

He shrugged. “Seems that way.”

Clicking her tongue, she shook her head to herself. “I can just never stomach the Russians.”

Finally, one corner of his mouth quirked slightly upward. “So unrefined.”

She shrugged. “Maybe someday you’ll convert me.”

“Someday.” Jess put his book on the nightstand and ran a hand over his mouth. “You look ready to rock and roll all night and party every day.”

Rolling her eyes, Ella ignored the (millionth) KISS joke and cast her eyes down to her outfit once more. “Thanks. I was going for sort of a Winona Ryder thing.”

“Aren’t you always?”

“That I am,” she smiled, standing from the bed and holding a hand out to him. “We gotta go if we want to see the full set.”

Sighing through his nose, he grabbed her hand to pull himself up and nodded.

“Oh, and I finished my speech today,” she said as she watched him go over to the dresser to change out of the shirt he’d worn on shift and into his Metallica tee.

“Huh.”

“If you wanna read it before graduation, I can give you inside access,” she teased. “Or you can be surprised at the actual ceremony.”

“As long as it doesn’t mention me,” he muttered as he changed and checked his hair in the mirror.

She snorted a laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mariano.”

Watching his reflection in the mirror, she saw a half hearted smirk cross his face. It didn’t reach his eyes. He ran a hand over his mouth again as he appraised his reflection, and Ella’s brows furrowed in concern.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He turned back to her and gave an unconvincing nod. “Fine.”

“Really? We don’t have to go if you’re not okay, y’know. I mean, I want to see Lane play, but in general I think parties are meaningless excuses for teenage debauchery.”

Jess didn’t look back at her when he spoke, turning off his music and going over by the door to grab his shoes. “We’re going. I know how much you wanna see Lane.”

Biting the inside of her cheek, she noticed the storms brewing in his brown eyes. His face was slightly pale. He looked exhausted. When he straightened up, shoes on, she went over and put her hand to his cheek.

“Do you feel sick?” she asked, feeling him lean into her touch though he wasn’t feverish. “You were fine Thursday night, but you closed alone. Did you get to sleep afterwards? I know sometimes if you work too late you can’t get to sleep-“

“Eleanor,” he cut her off, his voice tired, “I’m fine. Let’s just go. Please.”

Raising at a hesitant brow at the shortness of his tone, she bit her tongue and nodded slowly. He certainly didn’t seem fine, but they would be late if they waited much longer. And Lane was counting on her being there. Jess grabbed her hand and led her out of the apartment. And when he felt her give his hand a reassuring squeeze, he had to swallow down the myriad of emotions which rose in his throat.

.   .   .

Lane’s band, which still had yet to earn a name, got through the first set with little to no bumps in the road. The living room was stuffy, a suburban wet dream filled to the brim with drunk students. An ever-present smile shone on Ella’s face as she watched her friend banging it out on the drums, despite how much she disliked the stickiness of the atmosphere. She knew how much Lane had always wanted this, her own band, her own instrument. As they finished up with their first thirty minutes, having announced an intermission, Dave Rygalski walked by her, Jess, and Rory with a nod. Ella was glad Jess and Dave had been getting along so well. If Jess was going to stay in Stars Hollow for the foreseeable future, he had to have some other friends besides her and Rory. As soon as Lane hopped up from her drums, she came squealing over to the three of them in excitement, engulfing Rory in a hug. However, before she had too much of a chance to babble about the set, Dave whisked her away for a private conversation.

Rory smiled over at Jess and Ella weakly when she saw Dean nearing their vicinity with his new girlfriend, Lindsey, and quickly retreated to another room. Ella leaned back against Jess, who stood behind her, near the pristine couch, with his arms wrapped around her waist. She could feel his breathing against her back, smell his pine scent. And she thought for the first time in a very long time that the future might not just be survivable, but bright. Soon, she would be a high school graduate, be (tentatively) majoring in history, which had been her second-best subject in public school, still working at the diner. It wasn’t what her wildest dreams called for, but it certainly wasn’t bleak.

Jess’s breath was hot on her neck as he spoke into her ear, which was still buzzing from the loud music and the crowd. “You wanna go?”

She shook her head against his chest. “I think we should stay for the second set. And I haven’t even gotten a chance to talk to Lane yet. She’ll probably need my sage wisdom after whatever she and Dave are talking about.”

“Elle, I don’t-”

Before he could finish, he saw Dean and Lindsey heading directly for them.  Ella could feel Jess’s muscles instantly tense, his hands tightening around her own, his face stony. She knew how the feud started, with Dean trying to pull Jess away from a fight when Jess first came to town. But, then again, she had once gotten him off of Peter Smith. Only then, he didn’t take a swing at her like he had at Dean. If Jess hadn’t changed so much since then, and Dean hadn’t been such an asshole to Rory, she probably would’ve been on Dean’s side. But in the few times she’d heard Jess and Dean speak, she knew there was fault on both sides. And she was inclined to align with one of her best friends and her boyfriend before some possessive dick from Chicago.

“Hey, guys,” Dean began, his hand in Lindsey’s grasp as they ambled over. “Have you seen Rory?”

Ella actually liked Lindsey. They’d been acquaintances in high school (though in a class of only about seventy kids, one was usually acquaintances with everyone else), and had always thought her very sweet. And she could rock the bleach blonde look like no one else in their grade. It was certainly a style choice Ella could admire.  

Ella shrugged. “She’s around here somewhere. Why?”

“Just thought I’d say hello,” Dean replied, eyes searching the room for his ex-girlfriend, while his new girlfriend stood at his side.

“How sweet of you,” Jess said, venom in his voice.

Ella cleared her throat and pivoted the conversation before Dean could shoot anything back. “Yeah, anyway, you guys like the band?”

“Oh, they were great. I can’t say I recognized a lot of the songs, though,” Lindsey smiled, her voice light.

Nodding, Ella attempted a generous smile back. “Don’t feel bad. Lane knows every song in the English language. And some in pretty much every other language, too. There are bound to be some deep cuts in their repertoire, if she has any say in the set lists.”

Lindsey chuckled.

“So, Ella, I heard you’re going to Southern Connecticut State?” Dean asked, continuing the small talk despite the thick tension in the air.

Still, Ella forced a plastic smile on her face. She knew Rory wouldn’t want her causing any trouble, as the heartbreak was still so fresh. And she’d been able to master her people-pleasing artificiality after her years of serving Taylor at the diner.

“Yeah. Managed to score a spot.”

“Me too,” Dean said. “What are you going for?”

“History.”

“Oh, cool. I’m thinking maybe business, but I’m not entirely sure yet.” Dean had at some point focused his attention away from Ella and onto Jess, who still had his arms wrapped around Ella, watching the awkwardness silently. He just wanted whatever small town, false polite nonsense which was necessary to be over. “What about you, Jess?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not going to college or anything, right? Seems like you’re not going to school at all anymore, anyway.” Dean narrowed his eyes at Jess, and a momentary staring contest ensued.

Disentangling himself from Ella, Jess decided not to humor Dean’s attempt to rile him. “I’m gonna go check out the state of that bathroom line,” he muttered to Ella before trudging off.

Brows furrowing in concern, Ella's eyes lingered on him as he went, until he turned a corner and she lost sight of him. Huffing out an angry breath, she turned back to Lindsey, and Dean, who had a pleased expression on his face. Shaking her head, mostly to herself, she excused herself to go find Lane, maneuvering through the sweaty bodies and drunken mumbles.

.   .   .

Balmy air and crickets, Ella finally found Jess again out on the back porch. Most people were inside, gearing up for the band’s second set. She’d had to spend a pretty long time pulling a drunken Lane off the phone to her mother, aided by a still-shaken Rory. The evening seemed to have come to a screeching halt in the hour since the first set, and Ella was debating grabbing Jess’s hand and dragging him out. It was doubtful Lane would be conscious enough to make it through a song, let alone a second set. When Ella didn’t see his gelled black curls in the living room sea of teenage heads, she knew right where Jess would be. The night was pleasant, not quite too warm or humid, despite it being late May.

He stood with his forearms leaned against the railing, facing the lush green backyard, and he didn’t even look back when he heard her open and close the screen door. Ambling up next to him, her boots felt heavy on her feet. The air was cool on her hot skin, and the spring breeze blew her hair from her face. Arms against the polished wooden rail, mirroring him, she waited a few moments before finally speaking in a soft tone. She tilted her head to the red solo cup Jess held in his hands.

“Penny for a sip?” she asked.

Jess smirked. Saying nothing, he held the cup out to her. Taking a gulp of his slightly warm beer, she grimaced and then handed it back to him.

“Thank you, good sir.”

“Who are you? Oliver Twist?”

She shrugged, noncommittal. “Or Little Orphan Annie. Can’t keep my broadway straight. You could probably help me out.”

“Very funny, Stevens,” he said, a ghost of a smile on his face. But it didn’t meet his eyes. They lacked their usual sardonic sparkle, even in the glowing moonlight.

Leaning into his shoulder, Ella took in another deep breath of the fresh air. “What are you doing out here, James Dean? Did you not bring your sulking book?”

“Just couldn’t handle it inside.” He took another swig of his drink, emptying the cup, and set it carefully on the railing next to him.

“Was it Dean?” Ella asked, placing a hand on the back of his neck and running her fingers through the ends of his hair.

Jess glanced down at the ground with a bitter chuckle. “You think I actually care about Frankenstein’s monster in there?”

She scoffed knowingly. “Okay, fair enough. We can go soon, if you want. Lane’s wasted and Rory’s all messed up about Dean being here. And, I think I forgot to feed the cat? I have no idea why I let him stay in our house. He showed up right after my mom died, and kept hanging around our porch. He was already so old and he was so skinny. So I started letting him in when it got colder. My dad barely even noticed. I thought he’d be grateful, but now he hates us. Guess there was a lot of yelling and crying going on when he first came to live with us. But I suppose misery loves company-”

“I just…” Jess began, cutting off her rambling voice. He knew she was still waiting for an answer, but didn’t want to ask him another question. “You work your ass off for four years, and Dean still gets into the same college as you.”

Ella shrugged. “I don’t mind. There’s lots of people there. I probably won’t ever see him.”

“At least he’s finishing high school,” Jess muttered, shaking his head to himself and looking down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them in fists.

Brows furrowed, Ella’s hand fell from his skin and she tilted her head in askance. “What do you mean?”

He heaved a big sigh, looking out into the woods beyond the yard. Somewhere through the trees, he thought he could see the shine of the lake. An ache tugged at his heart, and his stomach did a flip before he spoke again.

“I went to get prom tickets when you were in the art room at lunch today. But then I got called to the principal’s office. He said I missed too many days.”

“And?”

Chewing on his bottom lip, he shook his head again. “Don’t make me say it, Elle.”

Pursing her lips, she brought her hands to her hips and nodded. “Guess you’ll need my speech in advance, then.”

“Guess so,” he echoed flatly, finally stealing a glance at her to gauge her reaction. With her strong stance, he could practically see the gears moving inside her head. There was a crease of concentration between her eyebrows, and she began biting at her nails absently.

“And you haven’t told Luke yet?” she asked.

“Nope.”

Again, she nodded, more decisive this time. “Okay...okay. I wish you could stay with me, but my dad will have you dead inside a day. I bet if you take twelfth grade over Luke’ll let you stay. I mean, I know he tries to act all tough, but I don’t know who he thinks he’s kidding.”

Jess straightened up again, running a hand over his mouth. He turned to face her. “I’m not going back to school. I can’t.”

“Of course you can, Jess. World bites you, you bite back.”

“Fine, then. I won’t.”

“Why not? Where are you gonna go?”

He could only shrug in response, looking back down at his shoes. Sometimes her gaze was so intense, even he couldn’t handle it. Usually, though, it was because of butterflies in his stomach, not because his heart was pounding nervously in his ears.

Swallowing dryly, she tried to maintain a calm facade. “No, Jess. You can’t do that Kerouac bullshit right now. You need a plan. I mean…” she paused to sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You told me you had it under control. You told me all I had to do was trust you.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, he composed himself and then wiped all emotion from his face when he looked back up at her. “I thought I did. I didn’t know how many days I missed, alright? But who cares! I never learned anything there anyway! It was a waste of my time!”

“And driving that forklift at Walmart forever isn’t a waste of your time?” she retorted, beginning to raise her voice. “If it made you happy, I’d say go for it. But it doesn’t! You’re too fucking smart for your own good, Mariano! You’re meant to be a writer! And you’re gonna settle on wasting your brain just because you were too proud to repeat senior year?!”

“Don’t talk to me about settling!” he countered, shaking his head.

“Fuck you, Jess,” she said, eyes narrowing as more blood rushed to her face, turning her skin scarlet with frustration. “Not everyone can just go wherever they want! Live wherever they want! I have people I actually care about!”

Rubbing at his mouth again, he sighed. “Yeah, well, lucky you! My mother is a wackjob who shipped me off because her boyfriend of the week didn’t like me! And my father is a fucking loser who couldn’t say more than two words when he finally met me!”

Ella took a step back in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

Jess breathed another exhausted sigh. “On Thursday, after you left. While I was closing. My dad came in, saw me for the first time in eighteen years. He told me who he was, took a good long look at me, and then ran right back out of the diner!”

There was a seismic shift in her face, eyes softening, color draining. Shaking her head, she went to touch his shoulder. “Oh my god, Jess. I didn’t-”

He shrugged off her hand. “Yeah, you didn’t know. Because I didn’t tell you. Because I’m just your deadbeat, high school dropout boyfriend who’s gonna work at Walmart for the rest of his life! How disappointing!”

“That’s not what I said!” she exclaimed, swallowing back the sting of tears in her eyes.

“Yeah, well, I can read between the lines pretty well at this point, honey,” he shot back, with a vicious, contemptuous tone.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she tried to remain calm. She tried to remember Jess had just failed senior year and met his dad for the first time in a span of two days. But, as always, the fire in her stomach won. It was something about the way he looked at her. So cold. Like he felt nothing for her at all. Her heart dropped and she began to back away, towards the screen door.

“Fine. Fuck it! Go and find yourself. While I stay here, and think about what a fucking mistake it was to trust you when we said no cop-outs! Serves me right. Holden fucking Caulfield!” she shouted, slamming the sliding door behind her.

Raking a hand through his messy hair, Jess took no more than one moment of hesitation before rushing after her. It was crowded inside, people standing around waiting for a second set which would likely never be played. After a little frantic searching and weaving through smelly bodies, he found her. She was marching up the stairs to find Rory, who stood looking exceedingly uncomfortable speaking with Dean and Lindsey on the landing. Ella tugged on Rory’s sleeve, muttering something about finding Lane and leaving the drums to pick up later. A scowl crossed her face the moment she looked back to see Jess.

“Did he do something, Ella?” Dean piped up, towering over her and casting an authoritative glance at Jess.

Ella snorted a laugh and shook her head. “You can stand down, Dean. He did nothing. Nothing at all. Fuck off, alright, Mariano?”

Catching the finitive, vitriolic tone in Ella’s voice, Jess shook his head back at her. Apparently she had decided the conversation was over. “Right back at ya, then, Stevens.”

But as he went to leave, Dean kicked into action. Before Ella, Rory, or Lindsey, could grab him and pull him back, he went into full testosterone rage and lunged after Jess, turning him about and clocking him square across the face. Ella watched in horror, and immediately went after them. Confusion painted her face. She heard Dean muttering under his breath as he fought, about what an asshole Jess was, about how Rory’s friends were his responsibility too, and they shouldn’t be spoken to that way. About how it was time Jess got a taste of his own medicine, making him feel like an idiot in class and acting like he was too good for Stars Hollow. She’d never had any classes with Dean and Jess, but the altercation made her wonder how deeply the feud ran. Apparently, much deeper than she ever thought. If not for the urgency of the situation, Ella would have rolled her eyes harder than she had prior known was humanly possible. She couldn’t help but wonder what at all Rory or Lindsey saw in that sexist prick. In Ella’s opinion, the Donna Reed Show incident two years earlier should’ve been the end of the relationship.

All around the house, they fought, various others trying to pull them off of each other. Each time Ella thought she had an opening to grab Dean or Jess around the waist, they moved, jostling around. It was far more intense than the quarrel in the schoolyard had been. No, tonight there would be blood drawn. Finally, after a decent amount of carnage to the mid-century Connecticut two-story, someone managed to throw the two of them out onto the front lawn, still at each other’s throats. Ella yelled endlessly for them to stop, but neither listened. Only the sound of the police sirens approaching, red and blue lights flashing on the manicured grass, finally made them separate, a few boys at the party also aiding the effort.

Just as Ella started rushing over to Jess, Lane began vomiting up the shitty keg beer she’d gulped down all night long into the trimmed bushes. Rory was by her side, but ultimately Ella cast only a sympathetic glance their way before continuing after Jess. She caught up with him a few paces down the sidewalk, grabbing the sleeve of his t-shirt to finally stop him.

“Jess, Jesus, are you okay?” she demanded, trying to get a substantial glimpse at his face.

Once again, he shook off her touch. He turned back to her in the light of the sheriff’s car, eyes darker than she had ever seen them. “Get outta here, Eleanor! I don’t need your help!”

“But, your-”

“Stop, Elle, just stop!” he interrupted, gesturing with his arms and practically bursting with anger. “Stop chasing after me! Stop trying to help me! That’s over! I don’t need it, alright? You can just fucking stop!”

Clutching at her necklace, she felt a heavy weight settle in her stomach, gluing her to the spot where she stood, hazel eyes impossibly wide. Watching him go, watching him disappear around a corner, watching him walk away. And the worst part was how unsurprised she felt. Had it always been this way? Him ready to leave at a moment’s notice, and her stuck in her old, familiar ways? Were they bound to end the moment they began? She should have seen it sooner. Suddenly, the sounds of the siren and the singing of late spring crickets overwhelmed her ears, and she could do nothing but stand motionless, feeling a sharp crack in her heart.

[winchesterbrotherstan]

SPN- Everybody Loves a Clown (2.02)

are there actually people who unironically enjoy clowns?

Pairing: Olive Winchester (OC), a little Dean x Jo

Summary: After being hit with tragedy, the Winchester siblings make another move. Dean hides his emotions, Sam is on edge, and when the regular ups and downs of sibling love become extreme, Olive struggles with her brothers.

Warnings: blood, death, knife, injury, cursing, the usual

Word Count: 7951

I was cuddled into Sam’s side. Dean had been cold and distant, and as much as it hurt, I couldn’t blame him. Dad had made a deal. He did what I was going to do. Sam and Dean could never know. It would break them.

The smoke from the funeral pyre burned my eyes. Sam was fidgeting, close to tears. Dean was silent, staring into the fire with the look of death in his eyes. I sniffled as I ducked my face into Sam. He tightened his arms around me.

“Before he… before, did he say anything to you? About anything?” Sam whispered.

Dean didn’t look away from the fire. “No. Nothing.”

I bit my tongue.

Liar.

                                                              ***

I rubbed my eyes as I stepped out onto the porch. It had been a week, and we were staying at Bobby’s. I missed Dad a lot, I did. But I threw myself head on into taking care of everybody else instead of grieving. It was easier to be detached and pretend nothing had happened.

Dean was working on Baby, and I wasn’t sure what Sam was doing. I shuffled out into the junkyard with a mug and bottle in hand. The dirt crunched under my bare feet, and chances were I’d step on broken glass, but it was the least of my worries.

“De?”

“Here!” He called back.

I followed the sound of his voice and found him working on Baby. He was under, with only his legs sticking out. She was still just a rusted frame, but she looked a lot better than she had when I had found them.

Jinx was lying in the shade next to him. She hadn’t left his side ever since he got out of the hospital. It was like she knew what was happening.

“How’s she coming?”

“Slow.” Dean grunted back.

“Brought you a beer. Fresh out the fridge.” I smiled softly.

“Thanks, baby.”

I sighed and placed the bottle on the table, wrapping an arm around myself. He was still distant, and it was starting to hurt more and more.

“Hey.”

I turned to see Sam approaching. “How’s it going?”

I shrugged and Dean said nothing.

“Need any help?” Sam offered.

Dean pulled something off and dropped it. I jumped. He scoffed.

“What, you under a hood? I’ll pass.”

Dean pushed himself out from under the car and got to his feet. He dropped a tool on the table and wiped his hands before cracking open the bottle of beer.

“Stop it, Sam.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop asking if I need anything, stop asking if I’m okay.” Dean forced a chuckle. “I’m okay. Really. I promise.”

“Alright, Dean, it’s just…” Sam sighed. “We’ve been at Bobby’s for over a week now and you haven’t brought up Dad once.”

Dean sighed and turned to Sam. “You know what, you’re right. Come here. I’m gonna lay my head gently on your shoulder.”

I giggled.

“Maybe we can cry and hug, and maybe even slow dance.”

“Olive, shut up.” Sam snapped.

I cut the giggle short and sat down on the ground, next to Jinx.

Sam had been pissy too.

Yes, they had lost Dad, but I had lost him too. The last thing I said to him was something mean, although now I couldn’t remember what. I needed my brothers now more than ever, but they were each too caught up in their own grief to see that.

“Don’t patronize me, Dean. Dad is dead. The Colt is gone, and it seems pretty damn likely that the demon is behind all of this, and you’re acting like nothing happened.”

“What do you want me to say, Sam?”

“Say something, alright? Hell, say anything! Aren’t you angry? Don’t you want revenge? But all you do is sit out here all day long buried underneath this damn car!”

“Sam-”

“And you, Olive! All you’ve been doing is sleeping in and then sitting out here with him. Why aren’t you guys upset?”

“Revenge, huh?” Dean spoke up, seeing that I was, once more, close to tears.

“Yeah.” Sam scoffed.

“Sounds good.” Dean scowled. “You got any leads on where the demon is? Making heads or tails of any of Dad’s research? Because we sure ain’t. But you know, if we do finally find it-oh, wait, no. Like you said, the Colt’s gone. But I’m sure you’ve figured out another way to kill it.”

I sighed as I stood. “Look, Sam. We’ve got nothing.”

“Exactly. Nothing. So you know the only thing I can do is I can work on the car.” Dean spat, crouching down and getting back to work.

I ran my hands over my face with a heavy sigh.

“Well, we’ve got something. Alright?” Sam pulled out a cell phone. “It’s what I came by here to tell you guys. This is one of Dad’s old phones. Took me a while, but I finally cracked his voicemail code. Listen to this.” He held the phone out.

I took it and put it on speaker, holding it by Dean.

“John, it’s Ellen. Again. Look, don’t be stubborn, you know I can help you. Call me.”

“That message is four months old.” Sam sighed.

Dean and I looked at each other, unimpressed. I handed the phone back.

“Dad saved that chick’s message for four months?”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded.

“Well, who the fuck is Ellen? There’s no mention of her in Dad’s journal, is there?”

Sam shook his head. “No. But I ran a trace on the phone number and I got an address.”

I sighed as I looked between the two. Sam was right, Dean hadn’t done anything except for work on Baby. I wasn’t in any summer school program, but at this rate I was beginning to wish I was. The three of us needed a distraction to get us out of this funk.

But going after the demon was a bad idea. I knew that much.

Dean sighed. “Olive, go ask Bobby if we can use one of his cars.”

I sighed again and dumped my coffee on the ground.

“Come on, Jinx. You’re staying with Bobby.”

                                                             ***

“This is humiliating. I feel like a fucking soccer mom.” Dean grumbled.

“It’s the only car Bobby had running.” Sam put the mini van in park and stepped out onto the dirt parking lot.

“Hello? Anybody here?”

I looked up at the sign.

Roadhouse.

“Hey. You bring the, uh-”

“Of course.” Sam fished the fake IDs out of his jacket pocket and tossed one at Dean.

He caught it and pushed the door open. Sam and I followed. The place was quiet, with the exception of a single fly buzzing around. It landed on a light, which proceeded to fizz out.

I noticed a man passed out on the pool table in the back room. I nudged Dean and pointed.

“Hey buddy?”

“I’m guessing that isn’t Ellen.” Sam sighed.

“Yeah.”

The three of us split up. I went back around to the first room, ducking behind the bar to check out what was left. Sam had gone down to the back room, and Dean moved toward the steps. He coughed.

“Oh god, please let that be a rifle.”

I heard the sound of a rifle cocking and I froze.

Shit!

I pulled my gun from my waistband and made sure I was ready..

“No. I’m just real happy to see you. Don’t move.”

“Not moving, copy that.” I heard Dean sass back. “You know, you should know something, miss. When you put a rifle on someone, you don’t want to put it right against their back, because it makes it real easy to do… that.”

I stayed under the counter, jaw clenched.

There was a grunt and skin against skin.

“Olive! Need some help in here!” He called, cupping his nose. “Can’t even see. I can’t even see.”

“Hey!” I barked as I stood, gun up. “Dean, you okay?”

He nodded in response. The girl was blonde, and probably about Dean’s age. She looked between Dean and I, unsure where to aim the gun. Sam was ushered in by an older woman. Both hands were on his head. I squared my shoulders as I lined up the shot for the older woman.

“Sam?” I kept my eyes on the women. “You okay?”

He nodded. “A bit tied up is all.”

“Wait. Sam? Dean? Olive? Winchester?”

“Yeah.” The three of us spat.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Mom, you know these people?”

“Yeah.” The lady laughed as she lowered her gun. “I think these are John Winchester’s kids.”

“Put the rifle down.” I ordered, nodding at the younger one.

She did just that, and her mom smiled. “Hey, I’m Ellen. This is my daughter, Jo.”

Dean smiled at her.

“Hey.” Jo mumbled.

I put the safety back on my gun and tucked it back into my jeans.

“You’re not gonna hit me again, are ya?” Dean asked, hand on his nose.

                                                             ***

Ellen handed Dean a bag of ice. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks.” Dean fumbled with it.

I took it from his hand and made him look my way as I pressed it to his nose.

“You called our dad and said you could help. With what?”

“Well, the demon, of course.”

I dropped the ice and looked at Dean with wide eyes. He squinted and turned to face Sam, who looked just as confused.

“Heard he was closing in on it.”

“What, was there an article in Demon Hunters Quarterly that I missed? I mean, wh-who are you? How do you know about all this?”

“Hey, I just run a saloon.” Ellen put her hands up. “But hunters have been known to pass through now and again.” She looked at Jo.

I put the ice back up to Dean’s nose with a sigh.

“Including your dad a long time ago. John was like family once.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean countered. “How come he’s never mentioned you before?”

“You’d have to ask him that.”

“So why exactly do we need your help?” Dean’s top lip furled into a frown.

I pressed the ice into his face, and he winced.

“Hey, don’t do me any favors.” Ellen started.

“Ellen, look…” I cut her off, feeling tears well in my eyes.

She sighed as she realized.

“It was the demon, we think. It, uh… it got him before he got it.” Sam spoke calmly.

I looked back down, and Dean continued to ice his nose.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Dean looked up with a strong face and a soft smile.

My heart clenched, and I leaned into his chest, tears streaming down my cheeks. He wrapped an arm around me and kept his head high.

“We’re alright.”

“Really? I know how close you and your dad-”

“Really, lady, I’m fine.” Dean cut her off.

This is not up for debate.

“So look, if you can help…” Sam sighed. “We could use all the help we can get.”

“Well, we can’t.” Ellen spoke.

I sighed as I pulled away from Dean and sat up straight.

“But Ash will.”

The three of us looked at each other.

“Who’s Ash?”

“Ash!”

The man on the pool table jerked awake and sat up, squirming around.

“What? Closing time?”

“That’s Ash?” Sam pointed.

“Mm-hmm.” Jo nodded. “He’s a genius.”

                                                             ***

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Dean scowled. “This guy’s no genius. He’s a Lynyrd Skynyrd roadie.”

“I like you.” Ash grinned as I handed him the brown folder we had brought.

Dean gave a small grin. “Thanks.”

“Just give him a chance.” Jo handed each of the boys a drink and turned to me. “What do you want, baby?”

I smiled. “Do you have orange juice?”

She grinned. “Coming right up.”

I decided I liked her. She was Everett, but way nicer.

“Alright.” Dean sighed and sat down next to me, leaving me stuck between him and Sam. “This stuff’s about a year’s worth of our dad’s work, so uh, let’s see what you make of it.”

Ash shuffled through the papers and shook his head. “Come on. This crap ain’t real. There ain’t nobody can track a demon like this.”

Dean turned and locked eyes with Sam. They both looked annoyed.

“Our dad could.” I piped up.

“These are non-parametrics, statistical overviews, cross-spectrum correlations, I mean… damn! Uh, they’re signs. Omens. If you can track em, you can track this demon. Ya know, like crop failures, electrical storms. You ever been struck by lightning? It ain't fun.” Ash huffed.

“Can you track it or not?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, with this, I think so. But it’s gonna take time. Uh, give me… fifty one hours.”

He got up and began to walk off. Dean looked at me, and I giggled, teeth stuck between my lips.

“Hey, man?” Dean scratched his eyebrow.

“Yeah.” 

“I uh, I dig the haircut.”

“All business up front, party in the back.” Ash winked before leaving.

Jo walked by, swinging her hips and eyes on Dean. He checked her out, eyes tired. I leaned against him with a groan.

Don’t go. I need you, don’t go.

“Hey, Ellen? What is that?” Sam pointed to something behind the bar.

“It’s a police scanner. We keep tabs on things, we-”

“No. No, um, the folder.” Sam pointed.

Dean pushed me into Sam’s side and walked off, following Jo.

“Oh, uh. I was gonna give this to a friend of mine.” Ellen took the folder and placed it in front of Sam. “But take a look if you want.”

COUPLE MURDERED

CHILD LEFT ALIVE

MEDFORD, WISCONSIN

Sam flipped through the newspaper clippings and sighed.

“Dean, come here. Check this out.”

“Yeah?” Dean stood and stretched.

“A few murders, not far from here, that Ellen caught wind of. Looks to me like there might be a hunt.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, we should check it out.” Sam gave him a bitchface.

                                                             ***

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. A killer clown?” Dean looked at Sam, then glanced at me in the rearview.

“Yeah. He left the daughter unharmed and killed the parents. Ripped them to pieces, actually.”

“And the family was at some carnival that night?”

“Yeah, uh, the Cooper Carnivals.”

“So how do you know we’re not dealing with some psycho in a clown suit?” Dean asked.

“Cops have no leads. All the employees were tearing down shop, alibis all around. Plus this girl said she saw a clown vanish into thin air. Cops are saying trauma, of course.”

“Well, I know what you’re thinking, Sam. Why clowns?”

“Oh, give me a break.” Sam groaned.

Dean laughed. “You didn’t think we’d remember, did you? I mean, come on, you still bust out crying whenever you see Ronald McDonald on the television!”

“Well, at least I’m not afraid of flying!”

“Planes crash!”

“And apparently clowns kill!”

“Hey!” I shouted. “Both of you quit it. It’s enough that I’m stuck in the backseat of a mini van like some sort of damn kid, talking about killer fucking clowns. Stop fighting.”

They sighed.

“So. These types of murders, they ever happen before?”

“According to the file, 1981, the Bunker Brothers Circus. Same MO. Happened three times, three different places.”

“That’s weird. I mean if it’s a spirit, it’s usually bound to a specific locale. You know, a house, or a town.”

“So how’s this one moving from city to city, carnival to carnival?”

“Cursed object, maybe? Spirit attaches itself to something and the carnival carries it around with them.”

“Great.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s a fucking paranormal scavenger hunt.”

“Well, this case was Sam’s idea, complain to him.”

Nobody said anything.

“Come on, Sam. You were awfully quick to jump on this job.”

“So?”

“It’s just… not like you, that’s all. I thought you were all hell-bent for leather on the demon hunt.”

“I don’t know, I just… I think this job, it’s what Dad would’ve wanted us to do.”

“What Dad would’ve wanted?” Dean repeated.

“Yeah.” Sam nodded. “So?”

“Nothing.”

I sighed as we pulled up to the carnival. There were detectives talking to a few of the carnies. We climbed out of the van in silence.

“Check it out.” Dean nudged me. “Five-oh. Stay with Sam.”

                                                             ***

Sam stood by my side with his hands in his pockets as a three-foot-tall woman in a clown outfit passed by us. He stared at her nervously and she stared back.

“Did you get her number?” Dean grinned as he came back.

Sam scowled. “More murders?”

“Two more last night. Apparently, they were ripped to shreds. And they had a little boy with them.”

“Who fingered a clown.”

Dean gave Sam a weird look, and Sam sighed.

“What?”

“Yeah, a clown, who apparently vanished into thin air.”

“Boys.” I sighed. “Looking for a cursed object in a whole ass carnival is like trying to find a needle in a stack of needles. It could be anything.”

“Well it’s bound to give off EMF. We’ll just have to scan everything.” 

“Oh. Good.” Sam sighed. “That’s nice and inconspicuous.”

I tilted my head as I noticed a “Help Wanted” sign. I nudged Dean’s side and nodded toward it.

“I guess we’ll just have to blend in.”

                                                             ***

“Excuse me, we’re looking for a Mr. Cooper.” Dean called out.

The man was throwing knives at a target. They all landed near the bulls-eye.

“Have you seen him around?”

“What is that, some kind of joke?” The man turned around with a snarl.

He pulled his sunglasses off. He was blind.

“Oh. God, I’m so sorry.” Dean’s eyes went wide as he realized.

I scratched the back of my neck and shuffled into Sam’s side. This place was giving me all the bad vibes, and as much as I wanted to fist fight my brothers, staying close was my best bet for now.

“You think I wouldn’t give my eyeteeth to see Mr. Cooper? Or a sunset, or anything at all?” The man shot.

Dean eyed me. I ducked into Sam’s chest, and he huffed. “Wanna give me a little help here?”

“Not really.”

Someone else walked in. “Hey man, is there a problem?”

“Yeah, this guy hates blind people.” The old man spat.

I peeked out to see a very short man in a red cape. I glanced at Dean.

“No, I don’t, I-”

“Hey, buddy, what’s your problem?”

“Nothing, it’s just a little misunderstanding.” Dean tried to defend himself.

“Little? You son of a bitch!”

“No, no, no, no!”

“Could somebody just tell us where Mr. Cooper is? Please?” I spoke up, arms wrapped around Sam’s waist.

                                                             ***

“You kids picked up a hell of a time to join up. Take a seat.”

There were only two chairs. One was normal, and the other was pink with a huge clown’s face on it. Dean grinned and I rolled my eyes as I beat him to the normal chair. Sam sighed. Dean glared at me and I smiled softly before turning to Sam.

“Wanna sit?”

He took the normal chair with a smile. “Thanks, Ol.”

Dean dropped into the clown chair with a scowl my way. I sat on the arm of his chair and he continued to scowl as his hand came to my back to keep me steady.

“We’ve got all kinds of local trouble.” Mr. Cooper sighed.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Oh, a couple of folks got themselves murdered. Cops always seem to start here first. So, you three ever worked the circuit before?”

“Yes sir, last year through Texas and Arkansas.”

“Yeah.” Dean mumbled in agreement.

“Doing what? Ride jockeys? Butcher? A and S Men?”

Dean fumbled, and Sam shrugged.

“Yeah, uh, a little bit of everything, I guess.”

Mr. Cooper eyed us and sighed. “You three have never worked a show in your lives before, have you?”

Sam and I looked at each other, and Dean smiled.

“Nope. But we really need the work. Oh, and uh, Sam here’s got a thing for the bearded lady.” Dean teased.

I elbowed him and he cleared his throat. Sam scowled.

“You see that picture?” Mr. Cooper pointed to a picture hung above him. “That was my daddy.”

“You look just like him.” Sam smiled.

“He was in the business. Ran a freakshow. Til they outlawed them, most places. Apparently displaying the deformed isn’t dignified. So most of the performers went from honest work to rotting in hospitals and asylums.” He shrugged. “That’s progress. I guess.”

Dean winced and Sam gave a sympathetic smile. I leaned an arm on Dean’s shoulder and looked at the ground.

“You see, this place, it’s a refuge for outcasts. Always has been. For folks that don’t fit in nowhere else. But you three? You should go to school. Find a couple of girls and a guy. Have two point five kids. Live regular.”

I glanced at Sam. That was exactly what he had always wanted. Dean opened his mouth, but Sam leaned forward, eyes serious. I inched closer to Dean.

“Sir. We don’t want to go to school. And we don’t want regular. We want this.”

Dean and I shared a glance before turning to look at Sam.

                                                             ***

Dean hummed to get Sam’s attention, but it didn’t work. I sighed and grabbed his sleeve. He stopped walking and turned to face me.

“What?”

“Sams, that whole uh… don’t wanna go to school thing. Were you just… saying that or… were you… ya know, saying it?”

Sam remained silent.

“Sammy?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

He started walking again, and Dean and I huffed as we followed.

“You don’t know?” Dean repeated. “I thought that once the demon was dead and the fat lady sings that you were gonna take off, head back to Wussy State.” 

“I’m having second thoughts.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. I think… I think Dad would’ve wanted me to stick with the job.”

“Since when do you give a damn what Dad wanted, Sam?” Dean snorted. “You spent half your life doing exactly what he didn’t want.”

“Since he died, okay?” Sam stopped walking again. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Nah.” Dean shook his head. “I don’t have a problem at all.”

I rolled my eyes and Dean turned to me. “Ollie? Problem?”

I shook my head. “No, this is fucking stupendous.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Bite me.” I snarled back.

“What is your issue lately? You’ve been snappy for no reason.”

“Dad is dead. That’s my reason, okay?”

“Olive-”

“Look, we don’t have time for this. Let’s just go.”

                                                             ***

“Sammy?”

“Hey, Bug.”

“What’s up?” I held the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I changed a trash bag.

“Uh, so I saw a skeleton and it got me thinking.”

“Like… a real… live human skeleton?”

“Yeah, in the funhouse.”

“What the fuck?”

“Yeah, listen, I was thinking. What if the spirit isn’t attached to a cursed object? What if it’s attached to its own remains?”

“Well did the bones give off EMF?”

“No, but I think we should check it out anyways.”

“Okay. Do you wanna call Dean or should I?”

“You call him. I’m heading to you.”

“Okay. Love you, Sams.”

“I love you too, jelly bean.”

I hung up before he could. I moved to the next batch of trash cans and dialed Dean’s number.

“Baby?”

“Hi, freckles.”

“What’s up, kid?”

“Sams found a skeleton. He thinks we should check it out.”

“EMF?”

“No, but we should still check it out. He’s heading our way.”

“Alright. Thanks for the heads up. Love you.”

I smiled. “I love you too, Deano.”

                                                             ***

“Dean!” I jumped up from the ground. “What took you so long?”

“It’s a long story.” Dean groaned.

“Mommy, look at the clown!” A little girl shouted.

The three of us turned. There was a clown waving at her. I shivered, stumbling back into my brothers. Sam and Dean caught me as my footing slipped and I went down.

“What clown?” The mom asked.

“What’s she talking about?” Dean asked.

“You don’t see that?” I glanced up at Dean, and then back.

The clown was gone.

“Olive?”

“Holy fuck. Come on, we’ve gotta follow them. This thing’s gonna come after them next.”

                                                             ***

“Dude, I cannot believe you told freaking Papazian about the homicidal phantom clown.” Sam scoffed.

Dean shrugged. “I told him an urban legend about a homicidal phantom clown. Never said it was real.”

I giggled, and Sam rolled his eyes with a smile. Dean whipped out a gun and cocked it. Sam rushed to dive over my lap and push Dean’s hand down.

“Keep that down!”

“Oh, and get this! I mentioned the Bunker Brothers’ Circus in ‘81, and their, uh, evil clown apocalypse. Guess what?”

“What?”

“Before Cooper owned Cooper Carnivals, he worked for Bunker Brothers. He was their lot manager.”

I sighed. “Think Cooper brought whatever the spirit is attached to?”

He shrugged again. “Maybe, something like that.” He shook his head with a heavy sigh. “I can’t believe we’re talking about fucking clowns.”

                                                             ***

“Bug. Bug, wake up.” Sam whispered.

I squirmed in his lap. “What?”

“I think the clown’s here. The little girl’s at the door, but…”

I turned to see the clown standing at the front door. I rolled off of Sam’s lap and knocked my head into Dean’s arm.

“What?” He groaned.

“Get up, bubba. Fucking clown’s here.”

Dean sat up straight and groaned. “Shit. Fuck, come on.”

                                                             ***

Dean made a motion at me and I nodded. The little girl was leading the clown down the hall. Sam and Dean both had their shotguns ready. I ran my tongue over my fangs and kept my mouth shut as I bounced up and down. They couldn’t see the clown, and it was riding on me.

“Wanna see Mommy and Daddy? They’re upstairs!”

The girl walked right through the dark. I took a breath before reaching out and snatching her off her feet. She began to scream bloody murder, and I flinched, feeling blood begin to trickle from my ears. 

“De, in front of you!” I pointed. 

She kicked and cried as Dean shot the clown in the chest. I ducked as the clown lept past us and out the window. It was out of sight as the parents came running out.

“What’s going on here!”

“Oh my god, what are you doing to my daughter!”

“Who the hell are you! Get out! Get out of my house!”

I dropped the girl onto her feet and made a run for it. Sam and Dean followed, scrambling across the hardwood floor.

                                                             ***

“Do you really think they saw our plates?” Sam sighed.

I shrugged as Dean huffed.

“I don’t wanna take the chance. Besides, I hate this stupid van anyways.”

I zipped up the bag as Dean shoved the plates in it. I slung it over my shoulder with a heavy sigh. Dean wrapped an arm around my shoulders and sighed as we began to walk down the road.

“Well, one thing’s for sure.”

“What?” I looked up.

“We’re not dealing with a spirit. I mean, that rock salt hit something solid.”

“Yeah, a person? Or maybe a creature that can make itself invisible?” Sam offered, rubbing the back of his neck.

I snorted. “And dresses up like a clown just for shits and giggles?”

“I dunno, jelly bean.” He sighed.

“Did it say anything in Dad’s journal?” Dean looked up at Sam.

“Nope.” Sam cleared his throat before pulling out his phone.

“Who’re you calling, bubs?”

“Maybe Ellen or that guy Ash’ll know something. Hey, you think, uh… you guys think Dad and Ellen ever had a thing?”

“No way.” Dean shook his head.

I sighed. “Then why didn’t he tell us about her?”

“I dunno, guys. Maybe they had some sort of falling out?”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah. You ever notice Dad had a falling out with just about everybody?”

Dean nodded without a word, and Sam lowered his phone with a sigh.

“Well, don’t get all maudlin on me, dude.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“He just means that strong and silent isn’t your type, freckles.”

“Oh, god.” Dean groaned, rolling his eyes.

“I’m over it, man. This isn’t just anyone we’re talking about, this is Dad. We both know how you felt about the man.”

Dean stopped walking and I immediately withdrew, shrinking into myself.

“You know what? Back off, alright? Just because I’m not caring and sharing like you frigging want me to.”

“No, no, no. That’s not what this is about, Dean. I don’t care how you deal with this. Olive might, but I don’t. But you do have to deal with it. Listen, I’m your brother, alright? I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

“Dude, I’m okay!” Dean shouted. “I’m okay, okay? I swear, the next person who asks if I’m okay, I’m gonna start throwing punches! These are your issues, quit dumping them on me!”

“What the hell are you talking about, Dean?”

“I just think it’s real interesting, this sudden obedience you have to Dad! It’s like, oh, what would Dad want me to do?” Dean scowled. “Sam, you spent your entire life slugging it out with that man! I mean, hell, you, you picked a fight with him the last time you ever fucking saw him! And now he’s dead, you wanna make it right?” He shook his head. “Well, I’m sorry, Sam. But ya can’t. It’s too little, too late.”

Sam’s eyes filled with tears and I looked away, feeling my nose burn and breath falter.

“Why are you saying this to me?”

“Because I want you to be honest with yourself about this, Sam. I’m dealing with Dad’s death! Are you?”

Sam swallowed and shook his head. “I’m going to call Ellen.”

He walked off and I stumbled away from Dean with a sob.

“Ollie?” He reached for me.

I yanked myself away and let out another cry.  The duffel bag fell at my feet, and Dean picked it up, keeping his eyes on me.

“Olive, talk to me.”

“Honey? Hey, jelly bean, what’s wrong?” Sam instantly turned back around.

I shook my head and wiped at my cheeks. “Y-you guys have been so caught up in dealing with Dad’s death, a-a-an-and with fighting with each other! I get you guys are hurting. I get it, I do. You guys lost Dad.” I sighed, wiping my nose with my sleeve.

“Ol-”

“I’m not done, Dean.” I hissed. “You’re both hurting. And that’s okay. But I lost him too. I lost him, and I almost lost both of you. You guys have been so focused on your own grief that you haven’t noticed that I need you!”

“Olive…”

I shook my head. “Never mind. This was stupid. I’m sorry.”

“Olive-”

“Just go call Ellen, Sam.”

He tucked his phone back into his pocket and grabbed me by the wrists. “Hey.”

I looked the other way, tears running down my face.

“Hey.” He pulled gently on my wrists, forcing me to stumble into him.

“Olive. My sweet girl.” Dean brushed my hair behind my ear.

“Leave me alone.” I whined.

“No.” Sam grabbed me by the waist and hauled me into his grip.

I squirmed. “Leave me alone!”

“Bug.”

I let out a strangled cry and hit Sam’s chest. “Let me go!”

“Pumpkin.”

I sobbed again, dropping my head into Sam’s neck. He rubbed circles into my back and leaned his head against mine.

“It’s okay. Let it out, cookie. It’s alright.”

“Olive. You should’ve said something.” Dean’s voice was gentle.

I felt myself physically deflate, further falling into Sam’s hold.

“I just miss him.” I whispered. “I miss when it was the four of us.”

“We know, bug. It’s okay.” Sam pressed a kiss to the side of my head.

“Okay. Come here. I’ll take Ol, Sam, you can call Ellen.”

I whimpered as Dean pulled me from Sam. I snuggled into Dean easier than I had Sam, finding the groove of his shoulder where my head fit perfectly.

“I’m sorry, princess.” He pressed a kiss to my head. “You should’ve said something. You’re right, we haven’t been the best of brothers.”

I nodded as I relaxed into him. “You’re right. I should’ve. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. We’re here now. Whatever you need. I promise.” He started walking, following Sam down the road.

“I love you.” I whispered, letting my eyes fall shut.

“Hey. Ellen thinks she knows what this thing is.”

I opened my eyes again. Sam winked at me and ran a hand up and down my back. I sniffled.

“What is it?”

“Rakshasa.”

Dean’s face scrunched up.

“What’s that?”

“Race of ancient Hindu creatures. They appear in human form, they feed on human flesh, and they cannot enter a home without first being invited. Oh, and get this. They can make themselves invisible, and they can make it so only kids can see them.”

I snorted. “Well that explains why you guys couldn’t.”

“So they dress up like clowns, and the kids invite them in.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

Dean’s arms tightened around me. “Why don’t they just munch on the kids?”

Sam shrugged. “No idea. Not enough meat on the bones, maybe?” He offered, and I squirmed, grossed out.

“What else’d you find out?” I squirmed again, this time until Dean put me down.

“Apparently, Rakshasas live in squalor.”

“Ew.” I made a subtle beeline for Sam’s side as we walked, bumping into him full force.

He caught me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Yeah. They sleep on a bed of dead insects.”

“Ew!” I shuddered, huddling into Sam’s side.

Dean giggled. ���Remember that case with the bugs?”

“Oh god.” Sam groaned. “Don’t ever remind me again. I still find dead beetles in my clothes sometimes.”

“Alright, what else?”

“They have to feed a few times every twenty or thirty years. Slow metabolism, I guess.”

I hummed. “Makes sense. Carnival today, Bunker Brothers in ‘81.”

“Right. Probably more before that.” Sam nodded, playing with my hair.

“Hey, kids.” Dean mused.

I looked up and smiled, teary eyed. It had been a while since he called us that.

“Who do we know that worked both shows?”

I tilted my head, stumped. I looked up at Sam, and he had an identical expression on his face.

“Cooper.” Dean gave us the answer.

“Oh my god, Cooper.” It clicked.

“You know, that picture of his dad, it looked just like him.” Sam shrugged.

“Maybe it was him.”

“Well, who knows how old the fucker is?”

“Alright.” Dean clapped his hands. “Ellen say how to kill him?”

“Legend goes, dagger made of pure brass.”

A grin grew on Dean’s face, and I smiled.

“I think I know where to get one of those.”

“I mean… we should probably make sure…”

“Yeah, Olive’s right. Before we go stabbing things into him, we’re gonna wanna make damn sure it’s him.”

“Oh, you’re such a stickler for details, Sammy.”

Sam chuckled as Dean grinned. I looked between the two and let out a breath. This was closer to normal. It felt nice.

“Alright. I’ll round up the blade, you go check if Cooper’s got bedbugs.” Dean stuck a finger in my ribs and I squealed, jumping away.

Sam stumbled to stop so he wouldn’t run me over. Dean tried to chase after me, but Sam picked me up in a single swoop. I squealed again as I was placed on his hip. He gave us both his classic bitchface and rolled his eyes, but I could see the hints of a smile.

“You’re both such children.”

I poked his cheek with a huge smile. “But you love us!”

He only rolled his eyes again, this time smiling.

                                                             ***

“Still wish you would’ve let me go with Sam.” I whispered to Dean.

He nudged me and made a face.

Shut up, he can hear you.

I sighed as the blind man led us through his tent. I was with Dean, because if Cooper happened to be the clown-fuck, and he caught Sam, I was safer with Dean.

“Well, I’ve got all kinds of knives. I don’t know if I’ve got a brass one, though.” He tapped a trunk with his cane. “Check in there.”

I knelt by Dean’s side as he popped open the trunk.

“Shit.”

A red clown wig. The red clown wig.

“Dean.” My hand went to his arm and squeezed.

He stood up, pushing me behind him. “You?”

“Me.”

The blind man dropped his cane and yanked his glasses off. His eyes looked normal. He gave a grin as his eyes began to get cloudy, and his face began to melt.

“Dean!”

“Stay behind me.” He ordered as we moved toward the door.

He pulled a gun out of his waistband as I struggled with the door. It wouldn’t budge. A knife flew past us, burying itself in the door, right by my head. Dean cursed, standing with his legs apart and his shoulders wide. Another knife came, this time closer. I growled as my teeth broke loose, and I forced the door open. 

We booked it, tumbling down the stairs. I rolled over and pushed myself back onto my feet. I looked over my shoulder to make sure Dean was following as we ran.

“Hey!”

I whipped around to see Sam. I skidded to a stop and changed directions. I barreled straight into him, hiding my face in his shirt. He caught me, stumbling backwards.

“Hey. Hey, baby girl, what happened?”

I shook my head, trying to calm back down.

“Hey, so Cooper thinks I’m a Peeping Tom, but it’s not him.” Sam kept his arms around me as Dean ran toward us.

“Yeah, so I gathered.” Dean huffed.

“It’s the blind guy.” I looked up at Sam, mouth bloody.

“Oh fuck.”

“He’s here somewhere.” Dean looked around, panting.

“Well, did you guys get the-”

“The brass blades?” Dean scowled. “No. No, it’s just been one of those days.”

“Alright.” Sam sighed. “I’ve got an idea. Come on.” He started running. “Is he invisible invisible or like Olive-can-see-him-invisible?”

“Invisible invisible!”

Sam sighed. “Alright. Ollie, you’re with me.” He stopped running as we reached the funhouse. “Come on.” He held a hand out for me.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” I squeezed his hand. “Come on.”

Sam led the way, Dean on our heels. I shuddered as we entered the mirror maze. A door slammed shut behind us.

“Dean!”

“Sam! Olive!”

“Sammy, what do we do?” I looked up.

He slammed at the door, and we could hear Dean doing the same.

“Hold on, Ol.” Sam hit it again.

I sighed and looked around. “Sams, we don’t have time for this.” I pushed him aside and put my mouth up to the door. “Dean! Dean, bubba! Find the mirror maze, okay?”

“Got it!”

There was a low growl, and I took a deep breath. It growled again. I growled back. Sam elbowed me and motioned for me to follow.

“What’s the plan?” I asked as he began to walk.

“This.” He stopped at an organ.

The pipes were giving off steam. Sam reached out, but yanked his hand back with a groan. They were too hot. He looked around, trying to think. I gritted my teeth and wrapped my fingers around the pipe, pulling it out. My skin was sizzling, and I felt tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Hey!” Dean’s voice reached my ears.

“Jesus, give!” Sam ordered, snatching the pipe from my hands with the protection of his jacket.

“Hey, lemme see.” Dean grabbed my hands and looked at my palms.

They were blistered and burnt. He blew on them softly and I flinched as they began to heal, leaving my skin pink. 

“Where is it?”

I shook my head, and Sam answered. “We don’t know.”

“Shouldn’t we be able to see its clothes walking around or something?”

I felt a wet thud in my chest and flinched. Dean’s eyes grew wide as he stared at me. I looked down to see a knife embedded by my heart. My knees got wobbly, and I went down. Dean caught me in his arms.

“Olive?” He begged.

“De…” I whimpered.

“Olive!”

Another knife came, snagging Dean’s shoulder. He groaned and Sam’s head whipped around as he searched. I looked up at the ceiling, spotting a lever for the steam.

“De…”

“What is it, baby girl?”

I nodded up toward the ceiling. “It’ll help.”

It took him a second before he realized what I meant. He gently put me on the floor and pushed himself to his feet with a groan. He stretched and pulled the lever down. I let my head roll back. I watched as the steam got stronger, giving the Rakshasa a vague shape.

“Sammy…” I muttered. “Sammy, behind you.”

“Behind you!”

Sam stabbed the pipe behind him without a second glance. I sighed as I saw blood trickling onto the ground. Dean turned the steam back off, and we saw a pile of empty clothes and a bloody pipe.

“I fuckin hate funhouses.” Dean hissed.

“De.” I called, sniffling.

“I’m right here.” He crouched by my side and held me up. “Hey, look. You’re gonna be okay.” He whispered, then looked up at Sam. “Sammy’s gonna hold you while I get this knife out. Okay?”

I let out a whimper as he sat me up. Sam grabbed me and glared at Dean.

“Dean. We don’t know if she’ll heal that fast.”

“She will.”

“De-”

“Just trust me. She will.” Dean ran his thumb across my cheek before putting a hand on my shoulder, ready to grab the knife.

“Dean?” I whimpered. “What if I don’t heal?”

“Baby girl. Remember that time in Minnesota, where you cut real bad into your wrists?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“You healed then, right?”

I nodded again, leaning back into Sam.

“You’ll heal now.”

I closed my eyes.

“I promise.”

He yanked the knife out and I jerked forward with a growl, teeth bared. Sam kept me in place and Dean stumbled backward, dropping the knife with a gasp. I felt the gap in my chest begin to close up and sighed, immediately drained.

“We’ve got you, bug. Go to sleep.” Sam whispered into my hair.

I let my eyes roll into the back of my head and dropped back against him.

                                                             ***

“You kids did a hell of a job. Your dad’d be proud.” Ellen placed two beers and a glass of orange juice down in front of us.

“Thanks.” Sam smiled softly, arm wrapped around me.

Jo swung over and sat by Dean’s other side. She gave Sam a look, and Sam smiled back. I nudged his side.

“Lesgo, Sammy.” I whispered.

“Oh yeah, um, I’ve gotta… uh, uh… I’ve gotta go. Over there. Right now.” He stumbled over his words and plucked me up by the hand.

“Let’s go, baby.”

“I’m sleepy, Sams.” I mumbled as he led me to the pool table.

“I know, I know. Come here, bug.” He picked me up and placed me on the pool table, standing by my side.

I leaned against him with a groan. My chest was healed, but it still ached to breathe, and I was gonna have a two inch scar for the rest of my life.

“Where ya guys been? Been waiting for ya.” Ash came through the back door.

“We were working a job, Ash. Clowns?” Sam grinned.

“Clowns? What the fuck?”

“Got something for us, Ash?” Dean spun around in his stool.

“Gather round, children.” Ash set what was presumably a laptop down on one of the tables.

I groaned again, and Sam laughed.

“Could you maybe bring it over here? Olive took a hit today.”

Ash nodded. “You okay, kid?”

I nodded, still leaning against Sam. “I’ll be alright. Did you find the demon?”

Ash sighed. “It’s nowhere around. At least, nowhere I can find. But if this fugly bastard raises his head, I’ll know. I mean, I’m on it like Divine on dog dookie.”

Sam and I looked at each other.

What?

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, any of those signs or omens appear, anywhere in the world, my rig’ll go off. Like a fire alarm.”

Dean reached for the laptop, which had exposed wiring. “Do you mind?”

Ash gave him a face, and Dean pulled back.

“What’s up, man?”

“Ash, where did you learn to do all this?” I eyed the laptop.

“M.I.T. before I got bounced for fighting…”

“M.I.T.?” Sam’s eyes went wide.

“It’s a school in Boston.”

Sam smiled and I giggled.

“Okay. Give us a call as soon as you know something?”

“Si, si, compadre.” Ash grinned at Dean.

Dean smiled back before taking a long swig of his beer and placing it back down. Ash eyed it and then took it for himself. Sam helped me shimmy off the table and onto my feet. I sniffed as I moved over to Dean and leaned into his side. He wrapped an arm around me as we headed for the door.

“Hey, listen… if you kids need a place to stay, I’ve got a couple beds out back.”

Dean smiled at Ellen’s offer. “Thanks… but no. There’s something I’ve gotta finish.”

She nodded. “Okay. Be safe.”

“Thanks, Ellen. See ya.” I waved as my brothers pulled me out the door.

                                                             ***

Dean is working on his car, and Sam is pacing back and forth near him. Olive is in the house, sitting in an open window on the first floor. She can see and hear her brothers, but they haven’t noticed her yet.

“You were right.” Sam states.

Dean gets up and huffs. “About what?”

“About me and Dad.” Sam fiddles with his hands. “I’m sorry that the last time I was with him I tried to pick a fight.” He scratches his ear. “I’m sorry that I spent most of my life angry at him. I mean, for all I know, he died thinking that I hate him.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Olive sighs silently from her spot.

“So you’re right. What I’m doing right now, it’s too little. Too late.”

His lip trembles, and the world is silent. Olive’s heart breaks, Sam’s guilt grows, and Dean’s silent demeanor becomes more and more solid.

“I miss him, man. And I feel guilty as hell. And I’m not alright. Not at all.” He sniffs, tears forming in his eyes. “But neither are you. That much I know.”

There’s a long pause, and Olive watches through tears. Dean says nothing, and Sam nods.

“I’ll let you get back to work.”

Sam walks off, and Dean stands, still. His face is set in anger. He slowly makes his way to a car next to Baby and picks up a crowbar. Olive tenses.

He smashes the car’s window out, and Olive sighs. But then he sets his eyes on Baby.

It wasn’t enough.

He slams the crowbar into the trunk of their car, over, and over, and over. He grunts each time, getting angrier and angrier, and angrier.

He stops once there’s a hole in the metal. The crowbar slips from his hands and clatters to the ground. Tears fill his eyes as he looks after where Sam has gone. His lip trembles as he swallows, hard. Jinx lets out a howl from her spot in the shade.

Olive can’t take it. She slides out of the windowsill and lands on the ground. She runs across the dirt and gravel, tears flowing down her cheeks. Dean sees her coming and instantly turns her way, arms open. He catches her as she flings herself into his arms, sobbing.

She wants her family back.

Dean slowly takes them to the ground, cradling her as he leans back against the car.

“Dean…”

He sighs. “I know, baby. I know.”

Previous Ep: In My Time of Dying (2.01)

Next Ep: Bloodlust (2.03)

[loveforpreserumsteve]

Those Who Fall: “APTF” Story (Modern Domestic Stucky AU)

Six:

Arriving home, Steve let out a long sigh and headed straight for the master bedroom. Plopping face-first on the king size bed, Steve let out an annoyed groan. He had been there for two hours and only one parent had seen him. And she wasn't even there to talk about her daughter!

Sighing again, Steve pushed himself off the bed and stripped from his white button down. Choosing to exchange his navy-blue slacks for a pair of black joggers, he made a reminder that to do laundry later. Deciding he needed more comfort than just cozy clothes, he took one of Bucky's sweatshirts, a gray one with the graphic of, The Evolution of an Architecture Student, and tugged it on over his head, mussing his blond hair in the process.

Pushing the sleeves up to his elbows, Steve headed upstairs to the main level of the house. Loving how full of life the space was. Holly in her play-pen speaking baby gibberish. Cartoons on the TV, Steve followed behind the couch to press a kiss to Sophia's and Ethan's heads, all the while continuing. Crossing through the dining room until he entered the kitchen where Bucky was cleaning up.

The heavenly aroma of Great Grandma Rosa's vegetable beef soup filled the air and Steve closed his eyes as he breathed it in. It was one of the recipes that the pair had inherited when they moved in together. It was one of the most cherished recipes either made, and Bucky always made it best.

"How were the conferences?"

Steve opened his eyes and crossed the room. Looping his arms around Bucky's waist, he rested his forehead to the taller man's back and complained, "One parent. That's all, and it wasn't even a conference. All she did was hit on me and then cry when she saw your picture on my desk."

"Oof," Bucky chuckled under his breath. Lovingly, he brought Steve's left hand up to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the finger with the rings that Bucky gave to him over the years. "Glad you let her down gently."

Playfully, Steve rolled his eyes and shook his head. Taking another smell of the air, he changed the subject, "You made soup?"

"I did," Bucky confirmed, turning his head to look over at the stove where a large pot of soup was. "Figured you'd want some comfort food tonight."

"You thought right," Steve pressed a kiss to the middle of his shoulder blades and turned to get himself something to eat.

Before he could divvy a portion out for himself though, a car pulled into their driveway. Crossing over to look out the window, he found a rusted red sedan driven by a teen brunette. In the passenger seat was a boy with shaggy brown hair. As the back passenger door opened, the teens in the front turned back to talk to Luke, Steve assumed.

Sure enough, the boy climbed out of the car and slung his backpack over his shoulder. Closing the door, he took a step back and waved as the car backed up. Pausing briefly, she flashed a wide grin and honked the horn.

"She's cute," Bucky commented, standing behind his husband.

Steve nodded, agreeing, "That's probably why he has a crush on her."

For a moment, the pair stood there, looking out the window watching their son wave at the girl who dropped him off. However, Luke must've realized they'd be watching because he glanced up at the second story window, catching them.

Quickly, the couple jumped back from the window and tried to play nonchalance. Steve ladled out some of the soup for himself and made a mess when Luke entered from the deck door. Trying to soothe his racing heart, he grabbed a sponge and started wiping the counter.

"Did you eat?" Steve asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Luke's eyes widened and he glanced between his dads as he crossed his arms along his chest, "Are we just not going to talk about how you two were spying?!"

"We weren't spying," Bucky playfully rolled his eyes.

Steve rolled his eyes at his husband and clarified to Luke, "We heard the car and were curious about your band friends."

The teen glanced between the two a couple of times. After a moment, he sighed and pulled out a stool as he took a seat at the island. "I’m starving. Marching band was beyond tiring."

"Yeah, but at least we know you'll put on a good performance," Bucky smiled.

Placing a bowl of the infamous soup in front of the fifteen year old, Steve assured, "Your dad's right, you guys are gonna be great."

A red hue took up on the apples of Luke's dark brown cheeks as he ducked his head to eat the soup. Grabbing another bowl, Steve started filling it for himself, and just took a moment to breathe in that glorious aroma. Especially as he carried it around the island to take a seat next to Luke.

Gathering a large spoonful, Steve happily began stuffing his face. Not realizing how hungry he was until that moment. However, that was the moment when his phone started ringing. Pulling it from the jogger pockets, he was about to decline the call until he spotted the caller ID.

Chewing as quickly as possible, he knew that he wouldn't be able to answer it in time. And considering Maria Hill only called in regards to kids who needed a place to stay, Steve passed the phone over to Bucky. For a moment Bucky's brows furrowed until he, too, realized who was calling.

"Hello?" Bucky answered, "It's Bucky."

Swallowing the half-chewed food that wasn't nearly ready to be digested, Steve winced and stood from his stool. Bucky listened and occasionally nodded while adding, "right," and, "no, I get it." Steve gestured for the phone and was only vaguely aware that Luke was carrying his dinner out of the room.

"Maria, I'm gonna put you on speaker," Bucky informed before doing just that.

"As I was saying," Maria sounded apologetic, which was utterly ridiculous. "She needs a place to stay, and I know that you're both good with teens. So, would it be alright if she stayed with you. If only for a night?"

Steve vocalized the decision for them, "We'll be right there."

"I'll call Tibby," Bucky said, heading over to the charging dock and picking up his phone.

"I'm gonna change Holly; I'm sure that she's due for a fresh diaper."

Phone already pressed to his ear, Bucky nodded. As Steve rushed from the kitchen, he heard Bucky telling his youngest -- and closest in location -- sister that they needed her to watch the kids for them. Steve picked Holly up out of her play-pen and affectionately pressed kisses to her face while baby-talking, "Does someone need a new diapie?!"

Holly smiled and slobbered all over him. Steve's mind wandered to her possibly getting a new tooth as he carried her upstairs to the room she shared with Katie. When Katie was home, of course. Walking past the twin size bed, Steve laid the baby on the changing table.

"Would you like a new sister?" Steve happily asked.

Holly just cooed some more gibberish and Steve nodded as though he understood. She kicked her legs and chewed on her fist, but all-in-all it was a successful changing. Carrying her back downstairs, Steve playfully pretended that he was going to eat her tiny fist, earning giggles and even a squeal.

"Tibby said she'll be here soon," Bucky confirmed as Steve placed Holly back into the play-pen.

"Good," Steve nodded, righting himself and taking a moment to stretch a little bit further until his back delightfully cracked.

"So, we're getting a new sibling?" Luke questioned, leaning against the dining room doorway.

Steve shared a look with Bucky. If it was up to Steve, they'd foster and adopt every child that needed a loving home. Even if it was unrealistic. The pair had a completely silent conversation with quirked brows and slight shrugs. Being together as long as they had been together, they had gotten good at reading each other.

"Maybe," the pair answered in unison.

Averting his gaze, Luke nodded, but didn't say anything. Being one of the first kids that Steve and Bucky brought into their home, he was always hesitant to accept anyone else. Steve couldn't blame him, before Luke and Jonas had moved in with them, the younger of the two had been relentlessly bullied by the other foster children. And Steve hoped that Luke knew that no one would be bullied under their roof. Especially not by someone who cohabited under that roof.

"Okay, I'm here!" The twenty-three year old woman called out as she let herself in through the front door, "And I brought company!"

Turning to face the front of the house, Steve found not only Tibby but her beloved Golden Retriever, Thor, who excitedly led the way into the house. Instantly, Sophia and Ethan started loving on the large dog who happily accepted all the attention.

"Thanks, Tibs," Bucky said, appreciatively, crossing the room to give his youngest sister a hug.

"Don't mention it," Tibby smiled, giving his torso a squeeze before they both let go. "You know that I love the kids. Plus," Tibby crossed the living room to hug Steve, "I needed to see the best big bro in the history of ever."

Bucky feigned shock and annoyance at her joke, and Steve laughed into the embrace. Even Tibby was taller than him. Not by much, but enough to annoy him during pictures at the Barnes' childhood home. Besides, she was supposed to be the small one. The small one that Steve still thought of her as. The little girl who would beg him to color with her and accidentally break his crayons, and who would fall asleep in his arms to kid appropriate spooky movies.

It was always odd for his mind to first conjure up the face of the six year old he first met with the now twenty-three year old. Sure, she still had that cute Barnes' nose, even with the hoop hanging from her septum and the ring that looped around her right nostril. Sure, she still had those thick brown curls, even if they were colored a vibrant purple now. And while she was an adult, her heart had remained just as spirited as the day he met her.

"Thanks, Tibs," Steve briefly rested his head on her shoulder, "Really."

"Of course," Tibby reassured. Pulling out of the embrace, she gestured towards the door, "Now get outta here, so I can spend some much needed time with my nieces and nephews."

Playfully rolling his eyes, Steve took her advice by blowing the kids kisses on his way downstairs to the garage. Glad that he didn't need to say anything for Bucky to follow him. Also glad when the pair climbed into the car and Bucky immediately took his hand, lacing their fingers.

[inkstaineddove]

Renewal

Characters: Prussia, Austria; mentioned Germany and Russia

Summary:  After the fall of the Berlin Wall, Roderich invited Gilbert to Vienna in an attempt to clear the other man's mind and provide him with an opportunity to get outside. They catch up, knocking the rust off their strange relationship after not seeing each other for years.

Vienna, 1989.

Gilbert looked around, shifting in his seat nervously and absentmindedly folding and re-folding the sleeves on his shirt. How he loathed Vienna, loathed it and this ridiculous castle. Roderich’s tastes had always been too luxurious for his liking, the home decorated to be an ostentatious display of wealth and filled with antique furniture. It made him so uncomfortable, afraid that he might sneeze and be forced into debt to repay the cost of whatever he ruined.

His host returned, placing two wine glasses down before them. "Why so anxious?" Roderich didn't have to be focused on Gilbert to feel the wave of unease rolling of him. It also didn't help that he could hear the incessant tapping of Gilbert's foot, a nervous habit he'd had for years. "I would've expected you to be relieved to be out of your own country. Are we no longer good enough for you here?" His voice lilted up at the end of the sentence, gently teasing his guest.

"I hate this city. The people here have always been so snobbish. Your home looks like a poor man's idea of a rich man. It always has, it's excessive." Prussia waved a hand in a noncommittal way. "It's....everything's a lot."

As he took a long sip of his wine, Austria sighed. "Are you done?" The Prussian nodded. "I figured it would be nice for you to travel again, now that you could. I didn't think me rushing to Berlin would do you any good. You need to see what you missed of the world." It was his roundabout way of saying it meant a lot that Gilbert would visit him first.

"It's strange though. When you're in a cage for so long, you get used to it. In a certain way it even becomes comforting. The isolation almost becomes welcome or that you feel you deserved it." Prussia's eyes were burning with an indescribable emotion when they locked with Austria's. There was a flesh of desperation in them, gone as quickly as it appeared. "I can't help feeling that, in some way, I deserved it for everything. Monsters belong to be imprisoned."

That broke something in Roderich. He felt his heart throb with sympathy. He forced himself to keep the eye contact, despite wanting to look away in fear of giving away too much. "You're not a monster. And if you are, then so am I." He smiled faintly, trying to make them both feel better in vain. "All you've ever been is a bit boorish, but that's not a criminal offense."

They drank in silence. Both had been more vulnerable with the other than they'd wished. It was still too new, viewing each other as confidants and uneasy friends instead of the enemy. It felt even worse to consider them on opposing sides now, not after they'd shared so much and fought against much worse. How could they think of each other as evil when they finally knew what true evil was? It would feel like a dismissal of everything. No, they'd have to learn to get used to rhythms of this new stage in their relationship and whatever it would bring.

Roderich passively observed Gilbert. He'd never seen the man so unsure of himself. Normally Gilbert's ego suffocated the whole room. He moved in a way that commanded attention, that challenged the world to consent to his will or face the consequences of disobedience. This was not the same man. His emotions were impossible to decipher, walled off in a place deep within. His eyes kept darting around as if he was searching for the nearest escape.

Gilbert reached for his glass of wine. Roderich snatched his wrist midair. "My God, Gilbert. What happened?" Scars crisscrossed Gilbert's skin. Most appeared to finally be disappearing for good, but many remained.

"Relax, I didn't cause them." Gilbert jerked his hand away, hiding it beneath the table. "It's nothing for you to be concerned about. It's better I took a few more beatings than the others." He gave a toothy smile, trying to bring some normalcy to everything. "You're the one who said it's always what I've been good for."

A dark emotion passed across Roderich's face. A sickly feeling crept into his stomach. "I may have said so, but I never acted on it in such a way." It wasn't unusual for him to be so furious in Gilbert's presence, but it was for it to be on Gilbert's behalf. "What a barbarian. Where's the humanity? To act with such cruel disregard for other's and their sufferings? What a big man, I'm trembling." He scoffed. "To think he was the boogeyman we were all so terrified of for all these years. To be so fearful of a coward is dishonorable."

Such strong sentiments were shocking. For once in his life, Gilbert didn't know quite what to say. Unworthiness overwhelmed him. He bowed his head, staring at his hands as they played with the lace ends of the tablecloth. "You don't have to pretend to care so much. I appreciate the invitation enough as it is. Save me your mock outrage."

"You think I'm pretending?"

"Did I stutter?" It was the most Gilbert-esque thing he'd said all day. In any other conversation, it would've been a revelation.

Roderich rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling loudly. How to get it through such a thick skull? "I understand that our relationship hasn't always been on the best of terms, to put it incredibly mildly. But you have to be a bigger idiot than I ever thought possible to not realize my feelings on you have changed." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Really, Gilbert, actually think about this. After my divorce, against every possible logical expectation, you were the only one to check on me. Not only once, you made a point of visiting every month to harass me and give me some semblance of normalcy. And you never mentioned whatever it was you were doing with Erzsébet! It was the most oddly comforting thing and, to my horror, I began looking forward to seeing you." He rolled his eyes. "Let's not even mention the last war. We were thick as thieves then, running off and getting into whatever mischief was necessary."

"You only worked with me then because you had to." Gilbert remained glum, but didn’t dare to look at Roderich squarely to prevent being proved wrong.

"Oh, please. Bavaria and Saxony shot down our offer, I could've done the same to you had I wanted to. But I didn't because I trusted your judgement and wanted in on your little scheme. And I don't regret that to this day, regardless of whatever the personal costs may have been." Roderich smiled and it reached his eyes. "Whenever I had the misfortune of meeting Iv-Russia," he stopped himself, refusing to use Russia's personal name out of principle. "I would hound him by constantly asking after you. How you're doing, were you holding up well, urging him to pass on messages to you from Ludwig and me. I would do the same on Erzsébet's behalf, but you were the focus. I had visions of you trying to be her savior and winding up in an even worse position."

Gilbert bit his lip, wearing an incredibly guilty look. "How did you guess?"

“Because I know you! Every time we'd sign a new treaty or agreement, you'd be begging me to make her life better. It got to the point where I was telling my advisors to throw in an expansion of Hungarian rights before we even began negotiations.” Roderich rolled his eyes. “You expect me to believe that behavior would've ceased, especially under rulers with a much crueler bent? Though I appreciate that it must surely make my monarchs look so kindly and benevolent.”

There was no point in even touching that last part. Especially when Austria would have ample examples of Hohenzollern excesses to throw in Prussia's face. Instead, he focused on how touched he felt over everything. Things really had changed for them, the tables had turned so completely. A warmth spread throughout Gilbert's chest. “I had no idea you asked about me.”

“I suspected you didn't. I have no idea why Russia would be so reluctant to pass on anything to you two. We weren't trying to spread Western propaganda, or whatever he would be concerned for. The only goal was to let you both know your family still loved and missed you gravely.”

“He wanted us to be one big, happy family. To do that, for some fucked up reason, he felt like he had to constantly tell us that no one on the outside cared in order to break us down. It really got to those who only had friends on the inside regardless of whatever Erzsi or I said to them.” Gilbert shrugged, nonchalantly. Out of everything that happened behind the wall, this facet concerned him least. Its effects on him had been minimal. He couldn't believe Ludwig, no matter the bad terms they parted on, would disown Gilbert and leave him to the wolves. The kid had always been loyal to a fault. “Wait, you missed me? And consider me family?”

The vein in Roderich's forehead began throbbing. “Why is this so difficult for you to understand?’ Grumbling, he hurried off and returned with a pen and piece of paper. “I'm going to make this very simple and I'm going to speak slowly so you understand. Look me in the eyes, if you misunderstand a word of this, I'm going to hit you." Once they made eye contact, Roderich continued. “Our relationship has changed, meaning things are different now. I regard you, Gilbert, as not only one of my closest friends, but as family. And not merely the most distant of cousins either, close family, the type of family you wish to spend time around and worry for when appropriate.” He quickly wrote something on the paper before sliding it over the table. "Here. Try carrying this around with you in case you forget again."

Gilbert picked it up. It read ‚Roderich und ich sind Familie.’ He folded it and tucked it into his wallet, unable to stop himself from smiling. Perhaps his existence wasn’t so pointless, perhaps there was some meaning to be gleaned from his life. "You're actually a good guy. A really good guy. I wish I'd realized it sooner." His heart felt so full it could burst.

It was Roderich's turn to be caught off-guard. He looked away, studying the Schwind that hung on the opposite wall. “‘Good’ is not a classification I would accept so willingly. At the risk of sounding too Catholic even for myself, we've all committed sin. I'm simply trying to learn from mine, even if it's a bit late in some cases.” His lips turned the slightest bit upward. “But I do appreciate the compliment.”

"You realized it sooner than everyone else we know." Gilbert sipped his wine, needing something to do with his hands. "Don't be so hard on yourself. That has to count for something." A coy smile slipped through. "Besides, I know you hid people in your homes throughout the war. You shouldn't look so surprised; you were always asking me to help you stock up on food and clothes and you suddenly had new servants here. What other explanation could there have been?"

Despite all the time that had passed, the acknowledgement of his deed caused Roderich's heart to race. The instinctual fear at getting caught took over, regardless of there being an absence of authorities who would arrest him for it. "Well, I knew many of the upcoming Viennese artists and musicians then. It seemed...such a waste of incredible talent and life." He paused, the memories coming in vivid technicolor. "Anyone would've done the same."

"You know that's not true."

There was a point there. "I wanted to at least sound humble, regardless of whether it reflected reality accurately." He folded his hands in his lap. This was something he'd never discussed before; it was a secret he'd kept close to his heart first out of a survival instinct and later out of a desire to not be viewed in a heroic light. "You yourself noted how my last name could be perceived, as had various Jewish communities here. Over the years I'd warmed up to them and begun to count many of them as friends, those especially who easily shrugged off or accepted the nature of our existence. To turn on them in their greatest hour of need seemed to me to be beyond reprehensible. I had grown close to many of them, been invited into their homes, to witness their births, deaths, and marriages. You'll understand more than anyone else that, for my own peace of mind, I had to do what was right."

Gilbert had listened in silence. The coy little smirk never left his face. “The ice king does have a heart.” At Roderich's bewildered expression, Gilbert barked out a laugh. “Relax! I'm only kidding! You're looking at me as if I just shot your dog!” He wiped a wayward tear out the corner of his eye. “What can I say? I'm not surprised by any of this. Despite your best efforts, you're not heartless. A couple centuries ago, I could see you ignoring everything and letting the chips fall where they may, but not now. You figured out that having a little humanity isn't so bad.”

Now, that was insulting. Roderich harrumphed. “You say it’s a joke, but must you make me sound like a being incapable of the most basic of emotions?” He folded his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes in the process. Oddly enough, the prickle of irritation felt comforting. Over Gilbert’s long absence, Roderich had naturally felt annoyed at others plenty of times. But being aggrieved over America’s brashness or Arthur’s arrogance or Francis’ smugness didn’t feel quite the same. Being irritated at Gilbert came as easily as breathing air, felt like the comfort of sheets against you at night. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it till this very moment.

Apparently, his face was giving it away. “What are you staring at me like that for?” Gilbert’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Did I suddenly grow a third eye or something?”

“‘Or something’ for sure.” The corners of Roderich’s lips softened into an easy smile. “It’s nice to have you home, that’s all. It seems I really did miss you.”

Gilbert grinned, his most natural one yet of the evening. “I’m back forever now. There’s no more getting rid of me. From now on, you’ll be stuck with me till the end of eternity.”

“Threatening me so soon?” Roderich brought his wine glass to his lips, smiling. Against all odds, he was looking forward to the rest of eternity.

[hailing-stars]

relax, just breathe 

Read on Ao3

Trope: Poisoning

Summary 

“Tony,” said Peter, lifting his head from the glass, his stubbornness spent. “I don’t feel so- “

“Do not,” said Tony, through gritted teeth, and meeting Peter’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He had just one hand on the steering wheel as he drove them into the night. “Finish that sentence.”

Morgan leaned over, hung out of her booster seat, and whispered, “It gives dad attacks.”

OR

The Starks go on a road trip and everything goes wrong when Peter gets food poisoning and suffers an allergic reaction. 

*

relax, just breathe 

Peter used to wonder when it happened, exactly.

Days like this, for one reason or another, he wanted to find the precise second he got abducted into the Stark family.

It’d be easy to say it was on the battlefield, after he snapped back into existence, when Tony saw him for the first time in five years, when he hugged him and pressed a kiss on his cheek to welcome him back, but the more Peter thought back, the more he realized it was some undefinable time before that.

Maybe it was during late nights in the workshop, or all those nights Peter had to call for backup when he was in trouble, and Tony would have to come, stitch him up and ice his bruises.

Or maybe he became a Stark during the few seconds before he died in Tony’s arms, like Tony decided if he ever somehow, by some miracle, got him back, he wouldn’t ever let him go.

Peter wished Tony would let him go.

Maybe then he’d be back at his apartment, free to do whatever he wanted while May and Happy were on their honeymoon, instead of being at a small, roadside carnival Morgan conned Tony into stopping at during their drive through the country. Peter hadn’t wanted to come along for the drive, but he was forced into the road trip, anyway.

A trip, Peter was convinced, didn’t actually have a destination. They were just driving around just to drive around, and besides being at a carnival, Peter wasn’t sure where they were, what state they had wandered into, or when they would get to go home.

“It’ll be great,” Tony had told him. “It’ll be fun.”

Peter had yet to have any fun.

Not when he was busy thinking about the week that could have been, that he could be doing what he’d planned to be doing before Tony interrupted those plans by sitting him down, giving him a weird talk about underage drinking, and announcing that they would be going on a road trip.

A breeze caused Peter to zip up his jacket, and leaves crunched under his Converse as he looked around. The carnival was pretty unimpressive. It was small and cramped and the rides were so rusted over Tony banned Morgan from riding them. Peter didn’t have to be banned. He had no interest in doing anything that might make Tony believe he was enjoying himself.

“Hey Pete!”

He turned, and saw Tony waving him over to where he stood in front the lane of skee ball games at the edge of the carnival’s boarder. It was too late to pretend he hadn’t heard him, so Peter ducked his head down and marched over.

“Let’s play,” said Tony, and before Peter could give an answer, which would’ve been a hard no, he handed the employee a few tickets to cover both of them. The carnie, who looked like he wanted to be there just as much as Peter, slammed down a button and the skee balls released from the rack.

Peter looked down at the lane hopelessly, and with a sigh, reached down and grabbed a skee ball. He eyed the 10,000 slot. If Tony wanted a game, Peter was going to give him a game. He aimed, swung his arm backward, brought it forward, then released and watched, like his life depended on it, as the ball rolled down the lane, jumped up, hit the rim of the 10,000, bounced off, and dropped down to roll into the 1,000.

“Almost,” said Tony. Peter wanted to shove him, or at least sabotage his roll, and when it leapt up and sunk down and scored 10,000 points, he wished he had. “Oh, look at that.”

Peter swiped another, sent it rolling down the lane and cringed when it was an exact repeat of his first roll. He didn’t look over at Tony. Just looking at his scoreboard light up 20,000 was enough to clench his fists, to get him riled up and even more determined to win.

He didn’t know why it mattered so much, or why he was getting so frustrated each time he rolled the ball and it missed his target. On any other day, he’d laugh it off. He was never really any good at these sorts of games, but that day was different.

Beating Tony at skee ball was all he had, and then, after rolling his last ball, and of course, missing, he didn’t even have that.

“Damnit,” he muttered, under his breath, as he kicked the front of the machine.

“Kid, relax,” said Tony. He must’ve sensed his frustrations, because he’d stopped gloating after his first hit. “It’s just a game.”

Easy for Tony to say. He finished his game with a perfect score.

“Congratulations, sir,” said the carnie, in a monotone voice. He ripped a golden ticket off a roll and handed it to Tony. “You won a free elephant ear.”

They walked away from skee ball, and Peter glared at the golden ticket in Tony’s hand. It was stupid to be angry about losing at a carnival game. Petty, even, he knew that, but he still felt it, still wanted to rip coupon out from Tony’s hand and stomp it on the ground.

“You cheated,” said Peter. “You used your prosthetic arm. It’s unfair advantage.”

The words sounded like a joke, even to Peter, but his tone made it clear it wasn’t. Tony laughed anyway.

“It’s still attached to my genius brain,” said Tony. “That knows how to aim, unlike yours.”

They walked past a trash can, and Tony tried to toss the golden ticket, but Peter snatched it in midair, before it went in.

“You can’t throw this away, it’s free food.”

Tony looked down at him and stared. “You always forget I’m a billionaire.”

“That’s not the point,” said Peter. He didn’t want an elephant ear. It was the principle. He looked around until the spotted the concession stand, then took off in that direction, Tony following along at his heels as he went.

Tony was always following him.

The cashier greeted them by coughing into her hands and sniffing her nose, and Peter choose to ignore that, along with the offended look that flashed across Tony’s face. He put the crumpled coupon on the wood counter and pushed it forward.

“One elephant ear, please.”

She turned her head and screamed his order to the back, causing her voice to break off as she went into a coughing fit. When she finally stopped, she straightened out, and looked at Peter and Tony with watery eyes. “Sorry, I’m just getting over Strep.”

Peter took a couple of steps backwards, and Tony distanced himself even further. Behind the cashier the kitchen looked dirty and rusted just like the rides, but Peter tried not to pay attention to that, just like he tried not to pay attention to the way the cashier handled his food when it was passed off by the cook.

He took it from her, with a smile that faltered, and stepped away from the stand with Tony, both of them eying the elephant ear wearily.

“Don’t eat that,” said Tony.

And he probably wouldn’t have had Tony not said anything. He didn’t particular want it. He didn’t want to tempt his body into getting sick, but Tony just had to open his mouth, and Peter couldn’t take another lose after the skee ball disaster.

He looked up at Tony. He maintained eye contact and took a bite into the sugary, cinnamony, probably germ-infested treat.

Tony sucked in a deep breath, then released. “I’m not feeling sorry for you when you get sick.”

Peter shrugged, took another bite. He was already committed to finishing and it was actually pretty good, once he divorced it from the dirty kitchen and sick cashier.

“Dad!” Morgan ran towards them, holding a cone filled with blue candy cotton that was bigger than her head, and with Pepper chasing after her. “Look what I got!”

“Where did you get that?” asked Tony. Peter rolled his eyes at the dramatics while he chopped on the elephant ear. “The concession stand?”

“No,” said Morgan. “Mommy and I found a cotton candy machine.”

Tony sighed in relief, just in time for Pepper to catch up with them. He checked his watch and tapped it.

“Time to get back on the road, before we all die from swine flu.”

*

It took only thirty minutes for Peter’s stomach to start hurting.

It felt like longer, though. Tony had confiscated his cellphone so they could bond as a family over road games, which just meant instead of listening to his music or watching YouTube videos, he was listening to Tony and Pepper bicker about directions from the front seat, while Morgan’s kid songs blasted from the speakers.

Peter tried to tune them out, both the music and the arguing, as he hugged his stomach and let his head rest against the cool window.

First he tried denial. He wasn’t getting sick. It was all in his head. Tony had planted it there, but then his stomach cramps twisted and twisted until denial was impossible and all he had left was stubbornness.

But that hadn’t lasted long, either.

He regretted all his recent life decisions, mostly scarfing down that entire elephant ear in four bites when Tony wouldn’t allow it into his car, and he resented Tony, and his spontaneous road trip and perfect skee ball game but mostly, he resented having to admit he was right.  

“Tony,” said Peter, lifting his head from the glass, his stubbornness spent. “I don’t feel so- “

“Do not,” said Tony, through gritted teeth, and meeting Peter’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He had just one hand on the steering wheel as he drove them into the night. “Finish that sentence.”

Morgan leaned over, hung out of her booster seat, and whispered, “It gives dad attacks.”

“I, um, feel the opposite of good.” His voice was raspy and small and begging for relief from the fire in his belly.

“Tony watch out!”

Pepper grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it to the side just as Tony slammed on the brakes. The car skidded to a stop, the front half off the road and in the grass, while the backseats were still out in the road. It was a rough stop, but Peter was thankful for it. He wrestled out of his seatbelt, opened the door, stuck his head out, and puked.  

“Ewwwww, dad, Peter’s getting sick,” announced Morgan, as he continued to empty his stomach.

Three car doors opened and shut, and sometime between Peter’s last gag and wiping his mouth off on his jacket, Tony appeared above him. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but even there in the dark, Peter could see the smug, I-told-you-so expression written into every line on his face. That passed quickly, though, and it was replaced with concern, something he’d promised Peter he wouldn’t feel for him.

“Are you good?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think so, for now.”

Tony checked his watch, then sighed. “We’re gonna stop for the night. The first hotel we see.”

Peter nodded, too relieved to even try to argue. Tony had been planning on driving through the night, but they both knew they couldn’t continue. Not like this. Not when he was sure to puke again.

He kept the door to the car open but leaned back against in his seat while Tony rummaged around for something up front. When he straightened out, he handed Peter a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” said Peter. He took a sip, swirled it around in his mouth, and spit it out on the ground, careful to avoid looking at his puke.

“Dad look!” Morgan walked around the car and into view. She had a black cat cradled in her arms.

“You almost ran over her, that means we have to give her a home.”

“What?”

“It’s the rules,” said Morgan.

“Says who?”

“I dunno,” said Morgan, with a shrug. “Says me.”

Peter watched Tony look down at Morgan, who was cooing and petting the cat, who was already in love with her, and Peter knew, probably before Tony did, that they all just met the newest member of their family and the newest passenger for their road trip.

She didn’t need her own seat. She sat in Morgan’s lap as Tony maneuvered the car back on the road, and FRIDAY gave directions to the nearest hotel. Peter put his head against the window, shut his eyes, and tried to focus on something that wasn’t the cramps knotting in his stomach.

He drifted in and out, until the car finally slowed, and Peter lifted his head and opened his eyes to a large, plastic teddy bear standing tall, directly outside his window. The bear carried a sign, and it read: Huggy Bear Motel.

“Absolutely not,” said Tony. The car was stopped, but the engine was still running. “We can’t stay here. We’ll all be dead by morning.”

“We have one spider-boy, and one retired savior, I think we’ll all be fine,” said Pepper.

Peter jerked his car door open and hung his head outside. He felt it coming back again.

“Either we stay here,” Pepper continued, “or force Peter to stay in the car sick for another hundred miles.”

Peter threw up all over the ground, and felt the car switch off under him and heard a frustrated sigh from up front.

“Fine, we’ll get a room.”

Tony and Pepper disappeared inside the building, and Peter looked over at Morgan. She was fast asleep, and so was her new cat. Overhead lights flickered, bringing Peter’s attention to the motel, instead. It was the kind of place without hallways. All the rooms looked like they were accessed from the outside, and all the doors leading to those rooms had faded, chipped red paint. There was a hot tub off to the side, near some trees, and Peter could tell just by looking it wasn’t functional, or at least, shouldn’t be functional.

“That man has one hundred percent killed someone with an ax,” said Tony, when he came back, as he gently helped Peter out of the car and to his feet.

“He was just a little strange,” said Pepper. She picked up the cat off Morgan’s lap, and gently shook her daughter’s arm, trying to wake her. “Not completely unlike yourself.”

*

The motel room was small, with just two queen sized beds, and single hallway leading to a bathroom. It had a weird smell, that Peter tried to ignore, just like he tried to ignore the faded, off-white color of the comforter as he collapsed down on the bed closest to the bathroom. He was too exhausted, felt too sick and gross to care, but neither of those things kept him from appreciating Tony’s horror as he stared down at his bed.

Peter sat up, and looked around, a realization hitting him. That there were only two beds. That Pepper, Morgan and the cat were missing.

“Where’s Pepper and Morgan going to sleep?” asked Peter.

“They didn’t have a suite, shocker, right?” said Tony. He lifted up the pillows and searched underneath, as though he expected something to jump out at him. “So they’re in the adjoining room.”  

“You can go be with them. I’ll be fine in here by myself.”

“Right,” said Tony, with a small laugh. He put the pillows back, but still frowned at the bed and refused to sit down. “Then who’d be here, keeping you company, and making sure you don’t die?”

Peter opened his mouth, the answer somewhere on his tongue, but something else wanted out, instead. He felt it again, and it’d come on just as suddenly as the first two times. He jumped off the bed and darted into the bathroom, where he slammed his knees down on the floor and dunked his head into the toilet, just in time.

He finished puking, shut the toilet seat, flushed, then looked up. Tony hovered in the doorway, leaning against the frame, like always. He always hovered, always tried to help, or planed road trips just to ruin Peter’s plans for freedom and independence.

Peter draped his body against the toilet for support, then blinked at Tony. “I don’t need you here taking care of me.”

Tony frowned, opened his mouth but shut in quickly. His face crinkled with confusion.

“I can take care of myself,” said Peter, and he knew he should stop talking, even knew he didn’t really mean it. He liked the company, even when he wasn’t sick and miserable, but he couldn’t stop the words from leaving his mouth. “If you weren’t around, I could take care of myself just fine.”

The room went silent, and that left plenty of room for Peter to remember that he’d almost gotten to see a world where Tony Stark wasn’t around.

Tony crossed his arms, hooking his prosthetic and his flesh together, while he continued to stare at Peter, who couldn’t take the words back now that they were out there, no matter how badly he wished he could. He couldn’t read Tony’s expression, either.

Confusion, hurt maybe, but definitely worry.

Always worry. Tony was always waiting for Peter to be taken away from him, a second time.

“So, you’re still mad about not being able to stay home alone,” Tony told him. “That’s what this is all about? Why you’ve had an attitude this entire trip?”

Peter clamped his mouth shut, and continued to hug the toilet, ruminating about how he was about to get lectured in the bathroom of some crummy motel as he threw up bits of elephant ear. It could only happen to him. Parker luck.

“I could’ve stayed home alone,” said Peter. “I’m seventeen. I’m Spider-Man. I’m not a baby.”

“You mean, you could’ve stayed home by yourself, so you could have your party?”

“What?” asked Peter. He gripped the edges of the toilet seat tighter to keep himself sturdy as the bathroom spun. “N-no – “

“You’re not the only one good at eavesdropping, Pete,” said Tony. “I heard you on the phone, then I found your fake ID.”

He lifted his head off the toilet seat and tried to focus on Tony as his figure blurred. “You could’ve just busted me.”

Like a normal parent

He didn’t say that part out loud. Something about digging his own grave didn’t really appeal to him when he was pretty sure he was actually just going to die from a bad elephant ear right there on the floor, and besides that, he was too exhausted and frustrated and sick to try explaining to Tony that he’d gotten it all wrong.

Tony shrugged away from the wall and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Road trip sounded like more fun. Believe it or not, I don’t actually like being the bad guy.”

“Next time just ground me,” said Peter, as he laid his head back down on the seat cover. It was still gross, but at least it was cool on his burning skin.

“I look forward to throwing that back in your face.”

“Well I’ll be eighteen before you get the chance.”

Tony chuckled under his breath. “It’s so adorable how you think that matters.”

He walked furthered into the bathroom, and sunk down to the floor, opposite of where Peter rested against the toilet.

“I’m sorry,” said Peter. He didn’t know how it was possible to feel resentful and angry, and for those things to also be wrapped up in guilt. “Sometimes it just feels like, like you’re suffocating me.”

“Let’s just put this on ice, for now, okay? We can have it out when you’re not puking your guts out. It’s damn near impossible for me to be angry with you when you look so pathetic.”

Peter forced a small laugh, and nodded, and wished the pain mounting in his belly would stop so he could just sleep.

*

“Do you think someone got axed in here?” asked Peter. He was leaned against the wall, with Tony by his side, staring at a giant stain splatter.

“Maybe,” answered Tony, also eying the stain.

It was hours later, and Peter had thrown up twice more. That last time he mostly just gagged on his own stomach acid, while Tony rubbed his back. He was seventeen. He didn’t need Tony to take care of him like that, but he wasn’t exactly going to tell him to stop, either. He craved the comfort still, and he wondered if that would ever go away, if his biggest, most obvious lie would be telling Tony he didn’t need him anymore.

His stomach was starting to feel at peace, like all the poison had left him, but his throat felt tight, felt so tight, he had trouble getting a good breath. Peter inhaled deeply, trying to get a good, deep breath in, but it didn’t matter. It was useless. His lungs still weren’t satisfied.

“Tony, I can’t breathe,” said Peter. He rubbed at his throat, as if that might help.

“Yeah, yeah I get it, I’m helicoptering – “He started to scoot away from him, to finally give him space, right when he didn’t really want it.

“-No literally, I can’t breathe.”

“Okay,” said Tony. His voice was calm as he repositioned himself, back closer to Peter, and put a comforting hand on his back, rubbing circles. “Just relax. Deep breath in, deep breath out, match me.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can, we’ve done this a million times, it’s just a panic attack.” Tony kept rubbing his circles, slow and steady, and that should’ve helped, should’ve grounded him and brought him back to reality, but it didn’t.

Peter shook his head. He knew what a panic attack felt like, and this wasn’t it. He knew what it was like for the room to spin with anxiety, but he also knew what it was like for the planet to spin as death came crept near.

Before he could tell Tony, Pepper appeared outside the bathroom door. “Tony we can’t stay here.”

“Oh now you listen to me – “

“-Morgan’s cat found some… bugs,” said Pepper. “In the beds.”

“What?”

Tony’s eyes snapped back to Peter, and without warning, he grabbed him by his shirt collar and hoisted him to his feet. He dragged him out of the bathroom, through the motel room, then finally, out the door and into the night.

Cool air hit Peter’s skin, and without the odd smell of motel room, the air felt lighter and reached his lungs in a way it hadn’t when he was inside. He breathed deep and exhaled, as Tony lowered him down so he could sit on the sidewalk and up against the wall.

“Better?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Okay, just, just work on your breathing,” said Tony. He stayed standing and ran a hand through his hair, his head partially blocking out the moon behind him.

Peter sat on the concrete, and for once, did what Tony told him and worked on his breathing, that became labored for a second time as a bright light flashed in his face. He gasped, shut his eyes, and when he opened them again, Tony stood between him and the light source.

“What the fuck?” yelled Tony.

“Sorry to scare your kid there,” said a man, who caught the malice in Tony’s voice, and directed his flashlight to the ground. “Just going around, making sure everyone’s alright.”

“Why wouldn’t everything be alright?” questioned Tony.

“We’ve been having bug problems,” said the man. “Just bug bombed the place earlier on in the day.”

“We’re checking out now, right now.”  

The man, who Peter guessed must’ve been the caretaker, frowned at them, said nothing, and left, whistling as he turned a corner and disappeared.

“To answer your question,” said Tony. “Yup, someone was axed in there without a doubt.”

Just ten minutes later, Peter sat on a curb, out in the parking lot, and watched as Tony and Pepper covered all their bags in plastic and loaded them into the car. Morgan and her cat were already inside, passed out in the backseat, but Peter wasn’t ready to be locked up in a moving vehicle yet. Though he’d stopped throwing up, he was still nauseous and exhausted and dreaded having to drive a couple hours longer to get to a hotel.

Tony seemed to sense the dread, though. He threw the key fab to Pepper, who caught it easily and slid into the car behind the wheel. Tony helped Peter to his feet by gently tugging on his arm.

“Come on,” he told him. “I’ll sit in the back with you and Morgan, and you can use me as a pillow.”

Peter only offered him a shaky nod, then climbed into the car after him. The cat decided the backseat was too cramped and jumped off to the passenger’s seat to keep Pepper company, but it was just the right amount cramped for Peter. He huddled into Tony’s side, put his head on his chest, and, as Pepper drove them into the night and to a nice, normal hotel, fell asleep in his arms.  

*

The wind blew through the treetops, and ruffled through Peter’s freshly showered hair, as he sat on a wooden balcony and let his legs dangle off the ledge.

He was up early, considering the night they had, but their drive from the bug infested motel to their safe haven at the nearest Holiday Inn hadn’t been as bad as Peter had expected. He’d gotten sleep. Good sleep, and the few seconds he’d been jostled awake by the car hitting a bump, he’d at least been comforted by Tony’s hand running through his hair, or by the rock music playing softly through the speakers.

The door to the balcony slid open with a squeak, and Tony stepped out, holding a soda fresh from the fountain of whatever gas station he found. He sat next to Peter and handed him the Sprite he’d requested.

“Thanks.” He poked the straw through the plastic lid, and took a small sip, before setting it down, off to the side.

“Anytime, kid,” said Tony, as he sat down next to him, and let his legs dangle next to Peter’s.

For a while, it was nice. It was just Peter, and Tony, and the sound the trees made when the wind blew through the leaves and branches. They didn’t need to fill the air with noisy words, or apologies, though Peter knew that would be coming for both of them sooner or later. It was quiet, and that was okay. Company was enough.

Tony’s company was more than enough. It was comforting, an anchor, and Peter didn’t want to ever imagine what his life might be like without it, what his life had almost been.

“So,” said Tony, bumping his shoulder with a nudge. “Are we ever gonna talk about you being allergic to bug spray?”

Peter laughed, shrugged, and looked out on the trees.

“I swear, the longer I know you, the more I’m convinced you’re more spider than human.”

“Tony listen,” said Peter. “I’m sorry about what I – “

“-Forget it, Pete. We all say things we don’t mean when we’re angry.”

It was said with ease and confidence, and as if Tony had never really taken it to heart. He wondered if it was an act. If Tony made his voice sound that way so Peter wouldn’t have to walk around feeling guilty, like he was known to do.

“I do need you. I just – need you to let me ask for help sometimes, instead of rushing in.”

Tony nodded, to make it clear he heard him, that he was considering, and then he hit him with, “We need to talk about the party.”

“I know,” said Peter. “I know it was stupid, and I should’ve talked to May before inviting Ned and MJ to come over – “

“No wait,” Tony cut him off. “Just Ned and MJ?”

“Yeah.”

“You said on the phone that it was, I quote ‘going to be wild.’”

“It was,” said Peter. “We were going to watch all the Star Wars movies.”

Tony blinked at him.

“In zigzag order, when everyone knows the best way to watch them is in release order.”

Tony narrowed his eyes, and looked more confused than Peter had ever seen him look before. “Do I even want to know what the fake ID was for?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“Kid- “

“-They were playing this Black Dahlia documentary at the movies. And it was rated R, right? So they wouldn’t let us buy tickets, which is ridiculous by way, but anyway, we couldn’t have May come with us on a date, you know? May’s getting pretty nosey as it is, and that’s really uncalled for, I don’t go around spying on her and Happy-”

“Alright, alright, I think I get it,” said Tony. He looked at him, then laughed. It was at his expense, just like at the carnival, but it was booming, and infectious, and brought a grin to Peter’s face. “You’re Spider-Man, and you can’t sneak a girl into the movies?”

“Spider-Man is sneaky,” said Peter. He looked down at his sock covered feet, still smiling. “Peter Parker trips over his untied shoelaces.”

Tony fist bumped Peter’s shoulder, and his laughing died down. “I suppose I owe you an apology. I, uh, let my anxiety run away with me, and jumped to conclusions. The truth is, I… I worry about you becoming past me, but you’re so much better, already, than I ever was. You’re a good person, Peter. A responsible one.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to May,” corrected Tony. “In spite of me.”

“Thanks to Ben, and May, and you,” said Peter. He gave one last look at Tony’s prosthetic arm, a permanent reminder of what Tony was willing to do to keep his family and his home safe. “You taught what it means to be a hero, what it takes.”

Tony smiled, and gave his shoulder a pat, before standing up, and walking towards the door. “We’ll head back home tomorrow, once you’re feeling better, I think I tortured you with this road trip long enough.”

“Wait, Tony,” said Peter, stopping him when his hand was on the door handle. “Where were we going, anyway?”

“Galaxy’s Edge.” The answer came off Tony’s lips causally, like it was no big deal, like it wasn’t the single greatest place on earth that Peter had yet to visit.

“What? Star Wars land?”asked Peter. He stood up, to match Tony. “You couldn’t have, I don’t know, mentioned that in the first place?”

Tony shrugged. “Honestly, I wanted you to suffer.”

“Can we still go?”

“If you want to,” said Tony. Peter nodded his head up and down. “Okay. We’ll get back on the road tomorrow.”

“Sweet. I’m gonna go watch the movies, to get in the spirit,” said Peter, as he stepped past Tony, and into their suite. It wasn’t the luxury that Tony was used to, but it was homey and wasn’t advertised by a creepy plastic bear holding a sign.

Also, it didn’t have bugs, or poisonous fumes from bug bombs floating around in the air.

“Sounds like a family movie day.” Tony followed him in. “Just stick to the originals. The ones without the Kylo the dad killer. He’s Morgan’s favorite, and I’m not sure what that says about my future.”

Peter stopped, and turned, and laughed. “Morgan’s favorite is Rey. I just told her to tell you Kylo to freak you out.”

“You’re grounded,” said Tony, and wiped the grin right off Peter’s face. “See? Told you I’d get a chance to throw it back in your face.”

Tony patted his head, and walked past him, plopping himself down on the couch in the living area and snatching the remote off the coffee table. Peter paused and watched Tony flip through the pay-to-watch movies on the hotel catalogue.

They ended up breezing through four Star Wars movies that day. All five of them, including the cat, smashed together on the tiny, hotel room couch. It was a pretty good day to be an abducted member of the Starks, and it was a pretty good week for a road trip, after all.