#and pay them pennies by the hour when they DO remember to pay them

[advestager]

A/I STAN IN THE DASH. I REPEAT A/I STAN GOT THROUGH MY FILTERS INTO THE FUCKIN DASH THIS IS NOT A DRILL

[leyavo]

| I am my fathers daughter | 9 |

💖Dad!Price & Daughter!reader, eventual Soap x reader.

PART NINE: John Price hasn’t seen or heard from his daughter in over a year, but that changes when she calls him one night asking for help. 2.6k+words

[18+] MDNI | TW: hurt/angst/mentions of abuse/ complicated father-daughter relationship/ mentions of drug use

Previous parts of -> [Series Masterlist]

🔈Readers view of John is different, he’s come and gone in her life etc so she thinks he’s not that great. So don’t send me hate

The first of November, you stare at the bank balance on the cash machine. Is this the amount the Captain was sending your mum each month?? No wonder she never gave you a penny. If your mum gave it to you growing up you wouldn’t have struggled so much. Maybe even left a lot sooner than you did. Not that you dared asking for that money, she claimed it was just enough to cover a roof over your head and food in your belly. Never mind the latest man she sponged off and didn’t need to pay rent.

She seemed to always have cigarettes, never going without, whereas you did go without. You had to beg her to buy you new clothes or shoes for school and even then you had to earn it. Going with her to her early morning cleaning job before starting school. You could still smell the bleach on your hands through out the day no matter how hard you scrubbed them in between lessons.

It’s your third day at your new job, every Wednesday, Thursday and Friday you’re in the office inputting data. Staring at a computer screen and typing numbers into software. Easy enough with a little training on your first day. You still needed to wait to get paid on last Friday of the month, joining after the cut off date to get the three days you’re working this week. So the money from the Captain would come in handy with buying some new clothes for work till you got your first pay.

Maybe even give him back his tired old jacket that still hung from your shoulders.

You pry your bank card out of the machine and tuck it back into your purse, then your handbag. The Captain helped you set up an app on your phone to check your money, but you still couldn’t believe the amount and had to look on the machine around the corner from work. A second look doesn’t hurt.

It’s dark, the street lamps dull as they warm to a golden hue. You’d stayed behind an extra hour to sort through some data and take the pressure off the team you’re now part of. It’d be foolish to withdraw money in the evening, especially on your own.

So you circle back round the building, halting at the figure standing beside your dad’s old truck. Your mother checking her reflection in the window, fingers wiping the smudge of lipstick on her front tooth. You wonder if there’s enough time for you to retreat, find the nearest bus stop and go back that way.

Luck has never been on your side though as her head snaps to you. Her hands waving above her head as if you couldn’t see her, you wished it were just a mirage.

“There’s my girl.” Yeah when it suits her. When she wants something.

Lena Marston, your mother. If only you could divorce her too like your father.

She’s tall, slim build thanks to her diet of cigarettes and cans of coke. Her eyes rake up and down your form and you know exactly what she’s thinking. How you’ve filled out, cheekbones no longer sharp but now full, healthy.

“What do you want, Lena.” You don’t bother calling her mum, she doesn’t act like one. If anything you're the one caring for her, picking her up whenever she's decided to kick the latest guy to the kerb. Putting her to bed when she's drunk, laying next to her incase she chokes on her own vomit. Or worse flushing the little baggies of drugs down the toilet and convincing her she already had it all.

Least she’s not twitching, no bloodshot eyes or hurried movements. Her speech controlled, no slur.

She pulls the lapel of your jacket, well your father’s old brown cord one. “I remember this,” Lena says, twisting the thick fabric in her grasp and you closer. You try not to wince, glancing to the passerby's who are glued to their phones as they walk. She won't do anything now. Her hand digs into your pocket and the truck keys dangle from her pointer finger. Lena's signature sharp red nails scraping against the inside of your wrist as you try to snatch them back.

"I'm really not in the mood," you regret the words as soon as you say them, her tongue clicking and head shaking.

Rookie mistake, say nothing and just do whatever she asks. It’ll be over a lot faster then.

Lena shoves you towards the passenger door, “get in sweetie,” she says and you cringe internally at the rare term of endearment she throws at you. A smile playing on her lips as she bats her lashes at the man looking your way. Nothing a pretty face wouldn’t fix, she always said that beauty lets you get away with a lot of things. Shame you don’t have it - also her words.

“You’re not insured…” you muttered under your breath, knowing she wouldn’t listen to reason. You sidestep the door as she opens it for you.

She leans on the truck, “you either get in or I take it. Can’t imagine it’d be nice for you to explain that to the Captain.”

You don’t want to get in, but you do to make it easier for the Captain not you. Can’t have his beloved truck taken away or worse in a ditch, you wouldn’t put it past Lena. You’re used to going along with what she wants to make life easier, but it doesn’t seem like it is for you.

Lena slams the drivers door, truck shaking and all you could hear in your head was the captain yelling don’t slam the bloody doors. The engine stutters to a start on the third try and you lurch forward in your seat as she speeds off down the road.

“Phone.” Lena orders, in a tone that suggests she’s now in charge, she’s the Captain and you better do as she asks. She’s already rummaging in the bag on your lap, other hand on the steering wheel. The contents falling down to the footwell, car swerving as she tries to catch it.

“Just drive!” You yell, pointing to the road in front. She swats you away, stinging slap to back of your hand. You lean down, collecting your notepad and purse, lip balm stuffing it back into your bag. The screen of your phone lights up as you picked it up, Kyle texting you to remind you about tomorrow.

“Of course he got you a new phone, bet he made you keep the location on. Classic captain controlling everyone around him - turn it off.”

Shit, had you really let your guard down that much? Was he checking his phone now and seeing if you were on track, you should be halfway to the house by now. You’d always toggled it on and off, never leaving it on for too long. Even your mum didn’t know where you were ninety five percent of the time.

You turn off the location, eyes flitting out the window at the trees blurring past. The industrial town you were only just starting to memorise gone and you had no idea where you were going now. Your hand clutches the panel of the door, the speedometer on the dashboard pushing higher than you thought possible for the old relic. If she doesn’t crash the truck, you’re sure she’ll run it into the ground.

Lena chuckles, “I warned ya’ what he’s like. Never listen eh.”

You don’t bother answering, knowing either way you’d piss her off. Best to let her ramble on, she likes the sound of her own voice. Hopefully she’ll finally get to the reason she’s ambushed you too. The damned phone location royally screwing you over with both of your parents. You’ll leave that turned off from now on.

“And you wonder why people lose their patience with you. Maybe if you listened you wouldn’t be in this mess,” she said, as if this instance is the excuse for every little thing she’s thrown at you.

Mess, you’re not sure which part of your life she’s talking about or how the conversation managed to turn round on you. A teaching moment that has you leaning as far as you can away from her.

“What da- the captain?” You nearly slip up, but Lena’s too sharp and the corner of her lip tugs. She’s got you now.

“Are you really that dense?” Lena tuts, “I’m talking about Tyler, that boys done nothing but be there for you and you can’t even apologise.”

You scoff. “Apologise? He’s the one -,”

Lena shakes her head, indicator ticking in sync with the click of her tongue. She pulls into the lay-by on a country road. Nothing but the lights of the truck shining the way. Her seatbelt unclasps and she flings it over her shoulder, shifting her body in the seat to face you.

“You’ve always been so difficult you know that?” She hums, plucking your shiny new phone out of your grasp. You don’t fight it though, never worth it. “Tyler knew how to handle you, so what he drinks a bit.” A lot, he drinks a lot.

You’ve said the exact same thing to her, sobbed at her that she’s difficult and only makes your life harder, but it’s normally when she’s in a drunken haze. Even as a kid she told you that you were difficult to love, why else would the Captain leave you behind? Leave you with her.

“I’m not going back.” - you don’t even want to think about what would happen if you gave in and went back to him, if you went back with her. Sometimes you do find yourself wanting to though, it’s easier when you know what to expect. And you’re still trying to figure out the Captain, least you know what you’re getting when it comes to Tyler.

“That’s why I’m here, you don’t want him coming around?” She says tapping away at your phone, reading another of Kyle’s incoming texts. “Gonna cost ya.”

Of course she’s not here for you, she’s here for that monthly stash of cash. Expected the Captain to give it to you without a second thought. Probably why she’s been flooding your phone all week trying to get you to come home on the weekend. Because you’ll have that money she so desperately relies on.

A wave of nausea rolls in your stomach, the worn leather seat creaking as Lena inches closer. Fight or flight, no you freeze like every other time.

“Come on, it’s always been mine.” She leans forward and drapes as arm around the back of your seat. “I’ll even stay out of the Captain’s way. He’ll only disappoint you sweetheart,” she says, her hand tracing your cheek and smoothing your hair back. She doesn’t stop there though, no her fingers tangle in your hair and she pulls you closer, scalp aching at the sudden tug.

Another tug and you squeeze your eyes shut trying to breathe through the pain. “Okay, okay. You can have it,” you snap, exhaling a trembling breath as she releases you from her hold. Pathetic really, how you folded so quickly. You can see it in the way she looks at you too.

You transfer the money via your phone, Lena instructing you on how, as she starts the car up, she removes a cigarette from her pocket and lights the end. The car swerves as she leans forward to spark it up again after her first failed attempt.

"You can't smoke them in here," you snap, knowing that one whiff and the captain would know that your mother had been in the car just by the lingering minty scent her of menthol cigarettes. Doesn’t matter how many air fresheners were tucked away in the glove box, none could mask the smell.

"John smokes like a chimney, leave them in here and tell him they're yours. I don't care what you do." Lena tosses the crumpled empty package in the centre console, blowing the smoke in your direction. She got what she came for and it wasn’t you.

There’s no small talk, no questions. Lena detaches from the role of mother, quick to take from you without giving. Not that you’d want anything from her anymore. Deep down you wished there were an inkling of caring, but even that comes at a price for you. Something to earn or use against you.

Lena parks outside your work again, lighting yet another cigarette before she unfastens the seatbelt and pushes the door open.

She’s half way out of the truck when you dare to ask, “was I a mistake?”

“Of course ya were.” She throws her words over her shoulder like it ain’t a devastating blow.

The door slams and it feels like it shakes you to your core. You drive back in silence, the static of the radio drowning out the thoughts in your mind, but you’re numb. Time isn’t something you’re aware of either, you seem to blink and then you’re waiting for the guy at check point to hand back your pass.

It’s late by the time you get back, you sit in the truck outside the residential house, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. There’s only one light on downstairs, you wonder if they’re all crowded in living room watching some sort of sport on the tv. You don’t think you have the courage to face the Captain. To plaster on a forced smile as he asks you about your day.

There’s no Captain though as you kick off your shoes in the porch and step into the open plan living room. No Kyle or Johnny, but there is Simon standing in the small kitchenette stirring the teabag in his cup. His gaze locks with yours and you swear he can sense the anxious ball of energy thrumming through your body. Like he knows that somethings off, a chemical off balance or some sort of explosion. There might as well have been when it comes to Lena Marston.

Your phone rings and it’s like another kick to the gut. Angie Price’s name lighting up the screen. Reminding you that you are a mistake, your little brother planned not you. You’ve never answered one of her calls and don’t plan to.

“Everthin’ alright?” Simon asks, blonde brow raising beneath the hood covering his mess of hair, skeleton teeth of his mask shifting with the move of his lips. The spoon clinks to the side of his cup as leans to the side to open the fridge and grab a carton of milk, all whilst his molten brown eyes trail your body as if looking for a problem. No he must see it, clear as day written all over you.

You avoid his gaze, “yep, just fine. A little tired,” you rambled on, rushing to the stairs before he can press any further.

In the Captain’s room however you catch your reflection in the mirror and now know why Simon asked if you were alright. Your eyes bloodshot, face puffy from the tears you’d shed on the drive home. That and the torn scrap of fabric, the gaping hole just beneath the lapel of the old cord jacket. Exactly where Lena had grabbed you by earlier.

You’re not sure why you wear the old thing. Like some sort of weighted blanket that keeps you grounded. The oversized jacket keeping you warm, a tiny part of your dad clinging to the fabric too, but it’s tainted by Lena’s minty cigarettes. That even now you don’t get to have something for yourself. Not money, nor your dad.

[Part ten]

Mum reveal and their mother/daughter dynamic - Lena still trying to influence her daughter and plant some things in her head to make her question the Captain’s motives 🫡 please note I am dyslexic so there may be errors/mistakes. I do edit multiple times but miss out things - Leya

Taglist: @unclearblur @enfppuff @elita1 @tired-writer04 @kaoyamamegami @gallantys @leon-thot-kennedy @trulovekay @harley101399 @misshoneypaper @rpgsandstuff @tomatto1234 @lolyouresilly @madsothree @astrothedoll @grandfartvoid @delaynew @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @little-mini-me-world @exitingmusic @majocookie @elegancefr @jesskidding3 @thepowers-kat-be @frangiipanii @ye-olde-trash-panda @sleep101 @bluebarrybubblez @shitaaba @muraaaaaa

[thezombieprostitute]

Your Champion: Introductions

Summary: Former boxing champion Steve Rogers gets a new life as a collector for the mob.

A/N: Inspired by a tag I received from @alexakeyloveloki

A/N2: Part of the Yours AU.

Warnings: Implied abuse, Violence. Please let me know if I missed any! There will be non/dub con later in the series.

"It's not what you know, it's who you know" is one of the biggest truths in Steve's life. He was in and out of trouble pretty much every day of his life until he met up with Fury. Fury got him off the streets and into the ring. He became a champion. And he couldn't be bought.

That's how he met Bucky. Bucky was an up-and-comer in a new gang that was steadily building power. He'd made a lot of money betting on Steve. He regularly bet on him when he'd learned that Steve was approached by other gangs, trying to rig the match, but had thrown them all out on their ass. Bucky respected that.

Unfortunately the representatives of those other gangs didn't care for how they were treated. Steve was ambushed, taking a major beating, and a couple bullets, that left him unable to ever fight in the ring again.

When he was healed up, Bucky offered him a job as a collector. Easy money, easy work, and he'd be taken care of. Nick liked that Steve was a man of integrity and approved the hiring. Steve was the one that took some convincing. Only after he was shown how Fowler was investing money in actually taking care of the community, that protection money actually got people protection, did he agree to the job.

Soon he learned another benefit of the job: he could punch bullies and abusers without reproach.

Which is how he met you.

Your father was a gambling addict and a thief. If you'd ever had anything of value it'd been stolen and pawned off to fuel his bad habits. Every penny you made working at the grocery store had to be spent on food and bills before he remembered it was payday. If he even thought you were holding out on him he'd fly into a rage. You couldn't afford any more hospital visits so you had to give him what he wanted.

You were making your nightly meal of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a small yogurt, your biggest meal of the day, when the door suddenly burst in. You screamed in surprise as your father shouted and started to get out of his recliner. He'd barely gotten out of his chair before he was pushed back down by a tall blond man. You curled up into a ball, too scared to do anything.

"You owe Fowler a lot of money," the blond tells your father.

"I can pay it, I promise! I've had a lucky streak---" Your father is cut off by a backhand to the face. You whimper as you see the blood from his split lip.

At the sound the blond turns to you. "Who are you?"

You manage to stutter out your name.

"You his girl?"

"His daughter."

"You want her? Take her!" your father is quick to add. "Take her to pay off my debts!"

You don't have time to register your father's words before the blond punches him so hard the recliner falls back. You start crying out of fear, covering your eyes, wishing you could just be invisible like you were to everyone else.

The blond crouches down so he's eye level with you. He's cooing, "it's okay. You're not in trouble. You're not gonna get hurt here. He'll never lay another hand on you, I promise." He takes your hands away from your face and gets a good look at you. "You work at Pete's grocery, don't you?"

Surprised, you can only nod.

"I've seen you working there," he confirms. "You work hard. Lotta hours from what I hear." Looking around the meager apartment he looks back to you, "I'm guessing he gambles it all away?"

Again, you can only nod.

He holds out his hand to you, "I'm Steve, by the way. I'm going to make sure you never have to worry about anyone like your father ever again."

Next Chapter

Tagging: @alicedopey; @darsynia; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly; @thiquefunlover63

[vyxcondessa]

── Coming In Hot; 1/9

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ01. NO SLOWIN' DOWN

PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

WC: 6.2k

Tags: AU; Mechanic!Bucky, slow burn, slow build, age gap.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎���‎✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

As proof that he once existed in more than just your memory, your dad left behind his 1967 Chevrolet Impala just for you.

It was his “I’m sorry for leaving with another woman and starting another family in a different state, but truly, I loved you, babygirl”.

His words, not yours.

Well—those weren’t his technical words, but it was what you heard nonetheless. You’d been old enough to not entirely resent him for it, and that was about it. You were old enough to see all the fights and the distance between your parents grow for a long time, and separation was something you had seen on the horizon and accepted long before they sat you down and confirmed your suspicions.

The reason was what fucked you up. Them. The things he’d kept hidden from you and your mother.

Regardless—the car was the proof of the good old days when you were younger and your father spent hours in the garage fixing up and cleaning his cars while you talked and helped him whenever he let you.

That Impala was your baby.

Being your baby, you cared for it more than most possessions in your life—you always kept it clean, engine running with the same stuff, oil checked, water filled, tires always on point.

So when that precious, well-cared-for baby starts acting up, it’s like your heart is about to start acting up with it.

You’re fucked.

“You’re not fucked.” Sarah pulls your hoodie from the top of your head, chuckling lightly at your “dramatics”, as she called it.

Blinking at the sudden light, you groan against the library table, still keeping your head between your arms.

“Didn’t you say you used to take it to a mechanic? I remember you telling me about it last year—just take it there,” says Sarah.

“I can’t.” Another sigh leaves your body. After another fight with Mr. Emmon, you had promised you’d find another mechanic—he was too close to your dad and although you liked him, it wasn’t enough to handle all his ‘lectures’ every time you went there. “Mr. Emmon pissed me off for the last time and I told myself ‘oh, it’s okay darling, you’ll find another good mechanic around this town that doesn’t charge the eyes outta your face for fix-ups in an old, 1967 Impala, everything’ll be okay’.”

Sarah lifts one of her eyebrows at you, trying to stifle another laughter.

“And… lemme guess: you never found him?” she asks, faking seriousness.

“Stop laughing at me!” You pick up one of your pens and throw it in her direction, making her resolve fall and laughter come out of her.

A few feet away from you, Miss Penny shushes you both loudly.

Some pairs of eyes snap in your direction with a look that says yeah, shut up and both you and Sarah wince in apology towards them.

Having a meltdown in the university library is only acceptable if you do it quietly, so you sigh with your face hidden behind your hands.

“I didn’t,” you answer her, dropping your hands. “They’re all so expensive it makes me wanna cry, S.”

“Baby, I don’t know what you expected.” A miracle, you think. “This is New York, and we both know that what we get from our side jobs is only enough to make it by.” She shakes her head, and you nod in agreement.

Going to medical school is a dream both of you can only achieve due to the help of family members—in her case, a brother who loves her a lot and in yours, a dad with enough guilt to fill up a really big lake.

“Is there anyone you trust, at least?” She leans in closer against the table to take a good look at you, probably trying to see how much of the drama is actual worry and how much of it is you being extra. “I could help you with the bill if it’s too much and you’ll pay me back when you have time to do extra shots for your other job. You paid me back really soon when I lent you the money for the computer, I trust you.”

That brought a fond smile to your face.

Grad school might’ve given you new headaches and too many bills to keep up with on top of all the school work and mountains of things you have to assimilate daily, but the gods granted you with a bigger gift to handle it all.

Sarah Wilson.

Knowing she had few girl friends since having two kids made no sense in your mind—how could people have a friend like her by their side and let it slip through their fingers was beyond you, but at least you ended up here, at the same time as her.

“Thanks, babe.” You reached over the table to squeeze her hand. “There’s no need for that, though—it’s not even about the price at this point, it’s just the quality of the work I’ve seen.”

It was true; the only two options you’d found available (with prices salty enough to give you kidney stones) inspired little to no confidence at all to you.

Lazy, overpriced work.

Apparently, mechanics who worked with old cars and knew the inner-work of engines that didn’t fall under these new modal types were rare to come by now.

Sarah straightens her posture suddenly, then lifts a finger in your direction. “Wait—I just remembered I can actually help you,” she grins as she takes her phone out of her pocket.

You wait patiently behind her lifted finger. Sarah texts someone and her grin widens when her phone pings with a reply, and after she exchanges a couple more texts, she looks up at you with the satisfaction you usually see on her face after she aces a paper she worked really hard on.

“Who’s the Superwoman of your life?” The question is rhetorical and judging by the grin on her face, she’s aware of it.

“You are.” You extend both hands towards her. “Please tell me you know someone who knows a good mechanic. I don’t even care if I’m gonna drown in debt next month, I’ll post double and pay it when I can, just—do you have it?”

Sarah wiggles her phone in the air. “You owe me a sandwich from Alex & MD.”

“S, I’ll bring you sandwiches for the next three weeks. Text me the number, c’mon,” you giggle at her.

Sarah throws her hair over her shoulder, pleased with the negotiation, and you feel your phone vibrating with her incoming message.

“This is the address to my brother’s friend’s place.” Sarah opens her textbook again, and starts separating her highlighters. “He’s an army-vet too, they served together on Sam’s last tour and when he came back, he opened the shop with the money he had saved. I’ve seen him only a few times, so I forgot about it—he’s pretty nice, I don’t think he’s the type to overcharge for honest work, or at least he didn’t seem like it when I met him.”

“Hon, if Sam vouches for him, I’ll sell my kidney on the black market, no problemo. Who needs kidneys anyway?” You scoff. “Not me. What do they even do?”

Immediately, Sarah answers.

“They control acid-base, water and electrolyte balance, remove toxins and waste products from the body, and— uhm…” she trails off, pursing her lips together in an effort to remember.

You pick it up from where she left off. “Control blood pressure, produce erythropoietin and—”

“Activate vitamin D,” she finishes with you.

You two smile at each other.

“And they said studying together doesn’t work.” She scoffs, and pushes the open textbook towards you. “Your turn. Gimme that Anatomy beast.”

You slide the Anatomy textbook to Sarah, picking up the one she gives you in return and placing it in front of you.

Then you open her text message, forwarded from Sam’s conversation:

sure I do! Bucky’s one of the best mechanics I’ve ever met. tell her to let him know she’s a friend of mine and he’ll look a little less intimidating ;) he’ll take good care of her ride.

Attached to the message was an address and phone number.

Quickly, you throw the address on Google and you see it on street view in the location Sam sent.

It’s a garage named Barnes Auto in big, bold blue letters. The sign is simple, black and blue, and the garage looks bigger than most you see on the main streets of NY, as well as more illuminated.

From the get go, it inspires a little more trust than the last places you’ve checked.

Plus—it was recommended by Sam.

Even if it’s a steeper price than what you can afford, your car is worth it. It’s your only possession so far in life, its seats and engine are filled with memories and even if it sometimes saddens you to remember why you have it in the first place, it’s still valuable and loved.

It’s where you and Sarah had your first heart-to-heart, it’s where you discovered you got in Medical School, and it’s where you want to have many more memories.

What if you have to spend the next few weekends doing some… extra work?

〰️➖〰️➖〰️➖〰️➖〰️➖〰️➖〰️

The promise you’d made to yourself that you’d take Bullet to the garage as soon as possible is left behind for almost a week in a haze of lectures, notes, essays due to the next day and, as always, trying not to lose your mind.

Work is helpful when it comes to paying you— both you and Sarah work as hostess in a very fancy restaurant up in the Upper East Side, which is wonderful for tips (old men slipping hundred dollar bills when they think you’re giving them special treatment is the highlight of your weekends) and even better to keep you afloat.

Still, working there doesn’t pay all the bills.

Sarah sells homemade cakes that she puts in cute little cups during break times in Uni, and you… well.

You sell pictures online.

Sarah’s the only person in your life who you’ve ever told about it, and knowing of your online “persona” and not judging you was the reason you two became so close.

“Honey, if people are paying money to see you pose in lingerie, you’re a damn genius in my book and nothing else.”

It had started when you turned seventeen and your mother opened up about the financial situation on your house, and why it had changed so much since your dad left— he was the biggest income of the house and she felt bad — your heart broke to this day to remember it — over not being able to give you as much as he did.

Granted, your father paid for your medical school, relieving you of a lot of debt, but—that was it.

If you called to ask him how he’s doing, chances of getting an answer were slim to none.

He thought the money made up for everything else.

So, you’d decided to make extra cash in a way no one would find out, but you knew it paid off if done right—you started selling sexy pictures.

You’d never sold a fully nude, most of your pictures were viewed as “teasing” or “erotica”, and the spicier ones included new lingerie sets you only managed to afford because of the pictures you started selling, but overtime, the persona you created and the teasing Q&As served for good savings.

The point was: you were never swimming in money.

If something could be pushed off ‘till the next check, it was.

Unfortunately, Bullet — because yes, your car has a name — decides that working properly isn’t something it feels like doing anymore and on a Sunday of all godforsaken days, it starts doing the same noise it did before.

While you’re going back home. Tired from work, at nine pm, Bullet starts making weird groaning sounds through its engine and you turn it off, pulling it to the first open side of the road you find.

“Oh god, please be open, pretty please, please.”

The number Sam had offered you rings three times while you shiver in the chilly October air, and before you can lose hope, the call goes through.

“Barnes Auto, this is Bucky speaking.”

“Oh, thank god,” you cry. “I thought you’d be closed by now, oh my god I’m so lucky and so, so stupid. I should’ve taken the car there days ago but I forgot, and now I’m rambling in your ear—I’m sorry.” You take a deep, shaky breath, then try again. You say your name. “That’s me. Hi again. My precious, precious baby is about to die. I can’t let that happen. Sam Wilson told me you could help? You’re Bucky Barnes, right?”

After your embarrassing introduction, you’re expecting a gruff and exasperated tone answering you.

Instead, a low chuckle comes through the line.

“Only Bucky around.” And oh—that’s a nice voice. Smooth, melodic in a way. “I’m assuming you’re Sarah’s girl.”

You wince with your whole upper body— Sam had even warned his friend that you’d drop by. God, you’re a lost cause.

“That’s me.” There’s sheepishness in your voice, the guilty and unsaid ‘sorry I haven’t dropped by yet’, and Bucky must hear it, because he chuckles at you again. “Is this like—a horrible time? Are you closing? I could just tow the car to your place and be there first thing in the morning. I can do a few days without it—I live a bit far from the school, but I’ll get around. I just—I know there’s a problem somewhere and it isn’t with the basic stuff ��cause I’m always checking those and… And I’m rambling again. God, I’m so sorry,” you shiver again.

“Are you on the road side?” Is all Bucky asks. If he’s bothered by any of your nervous rambling, it doesn’t come out in his voice.

“Uhm—yeah?”

“It’s cold. Call the tow truck and get here; I can squeeze you as the last job of the day.” The way he says it leaves no room for argument, but after a relieved sigh, you still feel the need to thank him.

“Okay, yeah— I’ll call them now.” You take another deep breath, feeling most of the nervousness leave your body with Bucky’s certain and steady tone. “Thank you so much, Bucky. Really—thank you.”

With his next chuckle, you realize just how nice he sounds laughing, even if it is at you.

“Don’t thank me yet, I haven’t even touched your baby.”

“I’ll make sure to thank you when you do, then.” Usually, smiles this honest are hard to be invoked in you, but Bucky seems to do it easily with his teasing.

“Sure thing.” There are a few noises on his side of the line, and then he exhales. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Kay.”

He hangs up and you stare at your phone for a second, a little lost on why this small exchange relieved you so much.

Oh, well.

The tow truck is called and soon, you’re inside your car on your way to Barnes Auto, praying to anything that’s hearing that his bill won’t look like the dinner bills at the place you work at.

The driver leaves you at the street and you drive Bullet inside of the auto shop with your radio blasting your playlists at an ungodly volume, as per usual.

With snaps and rumbles that sound as horrible as they probably are, you park in the open garage and the only life you see inside of it comes from the few dim lights that are still on.

Then, the noise of the garage door being pulled down behind you points to the life your eyes have been searching for—through the rear mirror you see there’s a figure in dungarees closing the shop, and you exhale happily that you made in before ten pm, because Bucky Barnes is already at angel in your eyes to be working until this hour on a Sunday.

You try turning off your sound system, but it only lowers and raises the volume—great, now the problem’s infiltrated the electrical part of the car.

“Are you kidding me?” You mutter to yourself. “Bullet, this is not the time.”

In the rear mirror, the figure approaches your car.

Through your speakers, Hozier is still singing.

With the war of the fire, my heart moves to its feet. Like the ashes of ash, I saw eyes in the heat, feel it—

The tall and broad figure of Bucky stops outside your driver’s door just as you finally manage to turn the sound off.

When he leans down to peek his head inside, the both of you stare at each other for a heartbeat that stills everything in your mind.

The man standing outside of your car is nothing of what you’d expect.

Matter-of-factly, you realize looking into deep blue eyes that you hadn’t spared a second to what Bucky must look like. The only information you had was offered by Sarah—“Barnes has a prosthetic metal arm, and he usually answers questions about it depending on how they’re asked, but my brother’s told me before he doesn’t really like talking about it”.

Nothing in the report included Maldives-Ocean blue eyes, chiseled jawline, and pretty, pink lips. There was not a single footnote about the smooth, long hair which he kept in a low bun at the back of his neck, or the strand of hair that escaped and framed his sharp cheekbones.

Not that Sarah had the duty of warning you of a beautiful man.

Even if she had, you think, it wouldn’t have prepared you for that face mere inches away from yours.

“It has a name?” Is the first thing Bucky says to you in person.

Completely lost in the shade of his eyes, your eloquent answer is: “Huh?”

God, you must look like a fool. Bucky scratches the back of his neck with his left hand and you catch a metallic glimpse with the motion.

“Your car? It has a name,” he repeats, still sounding a little like a question.

“Oh!” He heard you complaining. You feel the heat rushing to your cheeks, burning them entirely. “Yeah—this is Bullet.” You run your hands through the steering wheel and turn your eyes away from that face before your heart leaps out of your chest.

Holy fucking god.

Bucky Barnes has got to be one of the prettiest men you’ve ever seen.

Fuck—you curse mentally how flustered you feel to be under his observing gaze, your heart beating way too fast for your liking.

“Nice name.” Nice voice, you answer mentally. “Can I have the keys? I wanna move it to the back. It’s where I work.”

Right! You ignore the Grinch-like voice screeching around your brain about this man’s godly beauty, and then remove the keys from the ignition to place them on Bucky’s waiting palm.

You slide to the passenger seat. When he’s fully seated inside, you focus your attention on the panel to talk again, since looking at Bucky’s face seems to do things to your insides. “Now that you’ve touched it, thanks.”

It’s only Destiny’s irony that Sam’s apparent best friend and now your savior would be the first man to actually spike your interest in, well—forever.

And of course you’d be trapped in work clothes with him inside your nearly broken baby.

Bucky chuckles at your side and starts the engine. “How d’you know I’ll know what’s wrong with it?”

At least that’s an easier question. “Sam vouches for you.” From the handful of times you’ve met the paramedic, you know Sam’s one the most trustworthy people ever. “And you didn’t make the face when seeing that it’s a 60s car.”

“What face?”

“The ‘ugh, this isn’t an automatic BMW or Hyundai, why is she driving this piece of shit?’ face.” You’ve seen it enough times by now. You shrug your shoulders, still not meeting his eyes again. “Most mechanics nowadays seem to be allergic to them.”

“Any mechanic worth his money should smile seeing an old beauty like this.”

“Not a lot of them running around lately.” Bucky opens the next garage door with his remote control, then leads the noisy Bullet towards the open and large garage at the back. “Trust me, I’ve looked.”

“How long have you been looking?” He asks you.

Humming, you think about how long it’s been since you stopped going to Mr. Emmon.

“A year, I think?” Feeling a little bolder now that Bucky’s opening your door and exiting the car, you steal another glance at him. “Haven’t found anyone that seems to truly know what the fuck they’re doing and when I did, they either seemed to think I’m an Upper East Side girl with money to blow—which I’d love to be, but am not, or a stupid and naive little girl that they can rip off to their liking, which I also am not, so.” You sigh and exit the car too. “That took around a year.”

Bucky’s leaning with his hips on the hood of Bullet and listening to you with the hint of a smile on his face.

’He doesn’t talk much, but Sam was right—just say you’re our friend and he should seem a little less intimidating. He’s not too keen on new people, that’s all.’

Sarah’s words make a lot more sense, now.

“You do have some of the Upper East glamour,” says Bucky.

Thankful that the high glass ceiling and the low lighting of the back of the auto shop aren’t enough to illuminate the flush that’s back on your cheeks, you roll your eyes at him with a smile on your face.

“Thanks, it’s all the hours spent watching actual Upper Easters eating their thousand dollar dinners and guiding them to the bar for the hundred dollar drinks.”

It’s said with sass, but you actually enjoy your job.

Bucky laughs under his breath. “Fair enough.” He points to the hood of the car. “May I?”

“Oh my god, yeah—it’s all yours.”

He gives you half a smile again and goes to the front to open the hood.

You exhale slowly when he’s out of your sight.

You can see now why Sarah warned you before coming here.

Bucky’s reserved, quiet and pulling as much as a smile out of him seems to be harder than with most people.

You’re not the friendliest person — an eternal case of Resting Bitch Face tends to keep most unwanted interactions away from you — but when you try, people flock to you easily.

Making others smile and laugh with their whole chest is far from a task to you.

People are your thing. Helping them when it hurts—that’s a talent you were born with.

Even still—Bucky seems to be different.

You swallow thickly, a knot forming on your throat at the racing thoughts on your mind.

Why should you want to see him smile? Bucky seems happy underneath the seriousness, he is far from being your patient (as far as you are from being a doctor) and you’ve literally just met.

Logically, you’re aware of all that.

Still, for some reason, you want to hear him laugh.

“Bullet’s well-cared for.” His voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and you see him leaning to the side of the hood to look at you. “You take good care of him,” he praises.

It goes straight to your head, and the blushing only gets worse.

“Oh—thanks.” Tentatively, you take a couple of steps closer. Leaning against the side of the hood, you can see Bucky looking at the engine with hands that are already black from a whole day of work. “I don’t get the engine parts and the inner works, but I can get by with the basics.”

He looks up at you with raised eyebrows. “What’s the basics?”

Unlike all the other mechanics you’ve met, his question feels laced with genuine curiosity other than entitlement.

Like he wants to know how much you do for the car, instead of “testing” your knowledge.

You clear your throat. “Well, I always keep the oil in check and change it before it starts to get darker—I know with newer cars you can wait ‘till it’s at the point of changing, but with older ones, it’s better to keep it fresh to help keep the engine clean.” Your dad made sure you remembered that before he left. “Water’s always filled up, brake pads were checked last year, and I always keep an eye on the tires.”

When you’re done listing all the things you’re familiar with, Bucky’s hidden smile becomes an actual smirk.

“D’you know how to change tires?” He asks, curiosity lacing every word.

You shrug. “Yeah, of course.”

“‘Of course’, she says.” He gives a breathy chuckle, looking down at your car’s engine again. “I had mechanic students enrolling last year who didn’t. Well—he claimed he knew it ‘in theory’, but never changed a tire before in his life.” Bucky sounded very amused for someone who was rolling his eyes. When he opens your water reserve tank, he looks up at you. “Have you changed one before?”

Now he’s teasing you.

“Yes, Mr. Barnes. I’ve changed tires before in my life,” you answer with enough sass to rev a Porsche engine. “Every friend I have that learns I can change a tire calls me when they have a flat one.”

He nods at that, smiling a bit more. “Good, good.”

“Do you know how to change a tire?” The silly and teasing question is out of your lips before you can stop yourself.

You freeze on the spot, but Bucky looks up at you surprised, and then, he bursts out laughing.

Oh, what a lovely song.

“Yes, ma’am. I do.”

He’s still chuckling when he looks down at Bullet’s engine again, shaking his head at himself.

“D’you wanna take a seat? This is gonna take a few minutes.” He points to the bench that’s in the middle of all the cars parked in this area, but there isn’t an inch of you that wants to move.

“Actually… does it bother you if I watch?” You ask in a smaller voice. Something about the calm and calculative way Bucky roams the pieces of Bullet makes you feel good. “You can totally say no—I know lots of people hate being watched working. I’m just—I like watching. I used to sit in the garage with my dad as he re-did some stuff on his cars and pass him the tools, you know? It soothes me.”

You have no idea what on earth brings you to offer the last bits of information to him—it’s not as if Bucky cares why the hell a strange woman wants to watch him work, but talking with him is so easy that it just… slips by.

When he looks up at you, he watches your face for a few moments before shrugging his shoulders.

“Feel free.” He points to a chair that’s close to the garage door. “You can grab that.”

For the next twenty or thirty minutes, you sit in silence a few feet away from Bucky as he analyzes superficially what can be wrong with Bullet.

In every other auto shop visit, you spent the entire time thinking about cash and your father.

In here, all you can think about is how beautiful Bucky’s metallic arm looks under the moon and the LED lights.

How calm he looks while picking apart a machine that you can only begin to understand.

You watch Bucky work with a tilted head, only glancing at your phone vibrating like crazy to see how much time has passed.

Looking and reading the messages you received is unnecessary now: Sarah’s gonna have to wait.

(You had sat down and texted her only two things: YOU owe me Alex & MD sandwiches for a week. A warning would’ve been nice.

He’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, S. Wtf?)

When Bucky’s done with his superficial diagnosis, he sighs deeply.

Immediately, you groan out loud and drop your face behind your hands.

“No, no—hey, it’s not that bad.” There’s the sound of Bucky steps coming near you, but you’re too scared to look up. “The time away from a mechanic’s probably why one problem led to another, but from what I’ve seen, it shouldn’t be too hard to fix.”

You open your fingers just enough to peek your eyes at him.

“Promise?” You ask.

Bucky smiles at you fully for the first time.

“Yes. Leave Bullet to me, I’ll run a complete diagnosis and by the end of the week, I’ll tell you how much it’d cost to fix it all.” He starts cleaning his fingers with the rug that was on his shoulders. “If it’s too much to doall at once, we can see what needs to be fixed to get it running again—once you give me the green light, I’ll start working on him.”

Whether it’s his reassuring smile or the fact that he calls your car by its name, you feel like you’d leave anything on this man’s hands.

“Yeah. Sure.” Your smile grows wider when he nods in satisfaction. “I hope Bullet behaves with you—she acts up whenever other people try driving her and stuff.” You get up from the chair with a low chuckle. “I’m kinda sad I’ll miss all the good bits.”

Bucky starts walking back inside in the direction of what looks like the shop’s office, and you follow him closely.

“You really like knowing all the nitty-gritty details?” He asks.

The look he sends back at you is the same as when he asked what was the ‘basics’ you knew—curiosity.

“I really do.” The reason was sappy and something he’d hardly find interesting, so you try to keep it short. “I understand very little of what’s going on, but I still think it’s a really cool process. Operating machines is not up my alley.”

Bucky laughs at you again. “Aren’t you studying to operate the most complicated machine ever?”

Huh. He has a point.

“Good point.” Bucky opens the office door and gestures for you to get inside, and as you enter you curse the better lighting inside it because in here your blush can’t be missed, even on your tanned skin. “I guess it depends on the machine, then.”

“The ones with oil and water are much easier than the ones with blood and… other fluids.” Bucky gets behind his desk and starts looking through the papers.

“Are you trying to get me to change careers, Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky doesn’t seem much older than you—you’re in your mid-twenties and he must be ten years older than that, tops.

His lips curl in a funny manner at the ‘Mister’. “That sounds like you’re talking to my pops—just Bucky ’s fine.” He finds what he’s looking for, and you can read from where you stand ‘client file’. “And don’t worry, Mrs. Y/L/N, I wouldn’t dream of tryin’ to change your ways.”

You scrunch your nose, much like he had a second ago.

“Okay, I see it now; just Y/n is fine too.” He chuckles at you, then pushes the paper towards you. “I think it’d be a bit late for me, anyway.”

“Never too late to learn something you like.” He seems to be quoting it from memory, and you look up from the paper to him. “’s what my dad used to say. Maybe a little harder, but never impossible.”

The sad smile Bucky gives you wrenches your heart impossibly tight.

“Mr. Barnes sounded very wise.”

With your comment, his sad smile turns a little bit brighter.

You two sit in a comfortable silence as you fill in the form and Bucky explains the shop’s working hours; apparently, this Sunday he’d been here doing paperwork that was overdue and you had caught him by luck.

You must thank him at least four more times before everything’s written down and he closes the office behind you two.

“Uhm—I’d offer you a ride, but I came on my bike and I don’t have a spare helmet, so—” he starts, but you interrupt him shaking your head profusely.

“Bucky, you’ve done plenty for me tonight, trust me.” He laughs a little at your eagerness and scratches the back of his neck with his metal hand. You’ve noticed it seems to be a nervous habit of his. “I’m just gonna call an Uber and head home. Don’t worry about lil’ old me.”

“Don’t call yourself old in my presence, for the love of god,” he groans.

Without looking up from your phone, you snort. “If you try to tell me you’re one day older than thirty-five, I won’t believe you, so I don’t know what you’re on about.”

His silence makes you look up, and finding Bucky looking at you with his head tilted to the side and an inquisitive expression on his face is the last thing you needed at the end of the week.

He looks so curious. So soft.

“Thanks.” He’s trying to hold his smile back again, and for some reason, it makes you blush again. “But I’m thirty-nine.”

Oh. “Liar.”

He laughs at you, the same bright chest laughter as before when you asked if he could change a tire.

“Alright,” says Bucky.

He starts shifting his weight from one foot to another, and you notice that he hasn’t moved from your side because he’s about to wait for you to get inside the Uber before he leaves.

Just what you needed on top of everything else—the man is a gentleman.

Do they even make men like this anymore? You’d been thoroughly convinced that the mold which made a kind, beautiful, and funny gentleman had been broken a long time ago.

“You didn’t have to wait with me,” you tell him in a whisper.

Bucky looks to you again with a frown on his face. “‘Course I did.”

Simple as that; ‘of course’ he did.

“D’you uhm… d’you want to have follow-ups for what I do to Bullet?” He asks, scratching his nape once more.

Not following, you tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

Bucky shifts his glance from you to where his bike is, then licks his lips.

“I don’t usually offer this to clients ‘cause most of them don’t give a damn about what’s done as long as it’s done well, but you said you liked knowing, so—you don’t have to, of course. You might like just watching, but if you wanna know, I could text you the updates.”

The rushed, matter-of-factly and false careless way with which Bucky offers you that are the reasons why you’re unable to lie to yourself: He’s nervous.

Nervous to offer you this, as if you’d be crazy enough to say no.

“Of course!” His eyes widen a little at your enthusiasm, and this time you could care less about the heat on the top of your cheeks. “I mean—that’s really nice of you to offer. If it’s not gonna bother you or your work, I’d love some updates. I’m gonna miss her.”

Bucky exhales clearly, then laughs lightheartedly.

“Why’s it her?”

Your Uber notification tells you they’re one minute away, so you use the gateway braveness to tell him.

“All my dad’s rides were a ‘her’.” Even the one he hid for years and left you for. “He was a man of many hers, it turns out,” you bitterly add.

Bucky catches on to the hidden words quickly, and his expression turns very somber.

“Many men are.” His voice sounds lower when he’s being serious, but still as melodic as ever. “It just means they aren’t enough by themselves. So they need ‘hers’ and the highs to fill up imaginary holes, I’ve learned.”

If this man impressed you anymore during one night, you’d end up leaving your heart in his shop’s office drawer.

Thankfully, your ride pulls up just in time.

“Seems like the wisdom of Barnes passed on to the next generation.” You extend your cellphone towards him. “Number. I’ll text you something so you can update me on Bullet.”

Bucky smiles down at your phone as he types his number, then offers it back to you with a tight-lipped, shy smile.

“I’ll see you, Y/n.” He looks at the Uber with calculating eyes. “Take care, yeah? Text me when you get home.”

“Yeah, okay.”

All the home, your thoughts linger on the way he stood in front of his shop watching your car leave.

When you get home, you text him: Lady Bullet’s owner here. I’m home :)

And as a reply, you get: Happy you’re home safe. Good night, Lady Bullet.

ㅤㅤㅤ. masterlist ;

ㅤㅤ. next chapter ➻

ㅤ. tip me ☕

[loveandleases]

Happy New Year, Lea!🎉

A bit late for the Chris Suffering™️ hours request, but I hope Chris had the New Year's they deserve 😇😈

Like feeling alone in a sea of people at the Clarke family party thinking about all the plans for the next year they ruined. Or making excuses to stay late at the office, looking at their old photos & videos of MC or lurking MC's socials envious of the fun time they're having 😘💩

Happy New Year, Erin!!!! ✨✨✨ Oh it's never too late for that. Down below ~

Chris huffs, their thumb dragging lazily across the screen of their phone. Another hour wasted listening to some overly ambitious sycophant drone on and on about a business proposal.

Useless, of course. Just another person wasting time on kissing their ass in hopes of rubbing elbows with their father. If their father wasn't in the room, Chris wouldn't bother pretending to care.

This was the first New Year's Eve in years that Chris had shown up alone. You weren't on their arm, no easy banter to distract from the myriad of questions they couldn't avoid. Jade could've come, but even the thought of her at their side felt... wrong. Besides, Chris' parents wouldn't have allowed it.

"They're under the weather." Chris lied smoothly whenever someone asked about you. "I'll pass along your regards." A well-practiced excuse, easier than admitting the truth—you were gone.

It had only been a week since the breakup, and already Chris could imagine the incessant questions their parents would ask. The truth lingered like an uncomfortable itch: Jade had filled a space, but not the one that mattered. Not the one you had left behind.

They could go home, drink that expensive champagne stashed away for the wedding, pop the cork, and down their day. However, what awaited them were rumpled sheets and a pair of chewed-up penny loafers, courtesy of the sulking fluffball in the corner.

Their phone buzzes in their hand, pulling them from their thoughts. A notification flashes across the screen: Your Year in Review.

They hesitated. It wasn't like they were paying attention to the person prattling on. With a flick of their finger, they opened the notification, and the slideshow began.

A strange sensation coursed through Chris, one they couldn't quite place. Surely, it was their mother's punch earlier that had left them off-balance.

Photo after photo stared back at them—smiling faces, laughter frozen in time. You leaning against them, your head thrown back, eyes lit with joy they hadn't seen in... how long? An engagement photo, the ring catching the light just right.

Chris swallowed hard, their throat tight. Their thumb twitched, but they couldn't swipe away, couldn't stop the memories from washing over them.

The smiles then weren't as practiced, weren't as forced. Not like the one they shoot their mother as she presses a hand to their shoulder.

"Chris, what are you doing? You know now is not the time to be taking a break. You need to mingle. Now is the best time to rub elbows when they're half drunk and loose with their wallets."

"In a minute," Chris replies, brushing her hand away without even looking up. The words come out smooth, detached, practiced—just like the smile they forced onto their face whenever anyone approached.

Their mother’s presence lingered for a moment longer before she clicked her tongue and moved on. Chris exhaled shakily, their eyes flicking back to the phone.

The slideshow was relentless, each photo more damning than the last. Your laugh. The way you'd looked at Chris, trust and love shining in your eyes. That warmth twisted something deep in Chris' chest, a sensation they couldn't shake.

Jade had tried. She’d promised “a night to remember,” but as far as Chris was concerned, she had already given them one that they're still paying for. The thought of her there, that insincere smile and hollow charm, made Chris feel cold.

They were supposed to have it all. The success. The prestige. The partner. But the truth, raw and undeniable, was that none of it mattered without...

Chris tightened their grip on the phone as the slideshow ended. The screen went dark, leaving them staring at their reflection in the glossy black. They barely recognized the person staring back.

The party swirled around them, laughter and music blending into a cacophony of reminders of what they’d lost. Chris straightened their tie, fixing a mask of confidence onto their face.

Let them believe everything was fine. Let them think Chris Clarke still had it all.

But no matter how much they drank, no matter how many smiles they faked, no matter how many nights Jade clung to them in bed, whispering promises against their skin—promises that this fucked-up relationship was worth it, that it would all be worth it—none of it could fill the void.

When the kisses faded, when the night grew still, and the weight of it all settled in, that emptiness wouldn’t go away.

The void left behind, that emptiness—it looked too much like you.

[seat-safety-switch]

When industry has let you down, you gotta get weird. Do you remember the last time that one of your beloved childhood candies got discontinued by the manufacturer? Someone in a regular ol' residential kitchen, much like yours, decided to just make their own version of that candy. If those corporate motherfuckers won't give it to me, they said, I'll take it. They're eating it right now, while you sob into your Wheaties about how terribly capitalism has treated you.

Me, I love to do this kind of thing too. Spite is my fuel. Sure, it's nice to have the goodies of the past again. What really gets my motor running, though, is the opportunity to really piss off the folks trying to scalp what's left.

Yeah, we got the last eighteen boxes of this kind of connector you need, and we want seven hundred bucks for each of them. Guess what, asshole? I can trick the library into 3D-printing a bunch of them, and then trick AliExpress into making exact copies of them. Now the market price is seven cents, and none of those pennies are going to your dumb market-cornering ass. Sorry. It's capitalism.

Like any good thing, though, I may have taken it too far. The other day, the dealership wanted four dollars for a replacement clip for my sunroof. Instead of paying them that blood money, I spent hours of my own, precious time on this earth cloning it. Now, after all this effort, I can make them myself for about three dollars and ninety-six cents. Unless you price in all the failed prototypes, which nobody does. Also, they don't work as well as the real thing, so I have to make a lot so I have spares. Sometimes being a warrior against the forces of entropy means having to make a sacrifice.

If you're also into this weird hobby, let me know. I've been looking to get a new house, and I don't like the idea of paying people who know what they're doing for it. We can probably make some kind of enormous 3D printer and just crank out an entire bungalow out of microplastics. Call me.

[roguerogerss]

snow lands on top

pairing: coriolanus snow x covey reader

w/c: 3.2k

warnings: just fluff! a few sexual comments but nothing more, mentions of family deaths, reader is just a poor lil soul

(merry christmas my angels! if you’re having a hard time, i feel you! here’s some soft coryo lovin to help you through it. the holidays r a hard time for so so many people, and my inbox will always be open to anyone who needs someone who’ll understand <3 luv you the most, we’ll get through it all)

-

Christmas Eve. The soft patter of snowfall, the breeze from your half open window, the bustle of the Corso below. You'd been listening to the Christmas shoppers - stressed or unbothered - the kids playing in the snow, mothers and fathers dragging their children to holiday themed events. Laying around in bed all day in old silk had become your go-to on the run-up to Christmas.

You’d come to hate snowfall. It meant the sounds of merry families, playing outside together. It meant mourning for when you could do that, it meant resenting others, something that the Covey would never want for you.

Christmas was bittersweet. It had been for years, now. No gifts under your small, sad Christmas tree, no family gathering, no over-the-top dinner event, sometimes no dinner at all. You lived alone, in your little apartment which you could hardly afford, and had no family left since the war.

You remembered the good times, of course, that was the 'sweet' in all of the bitter. Remembering your mother's baking and the smell of sugar cookies and Christmas cake. The lavish real evergreen tree that made the ridiculously high ceilings of your apartment look low. The gifts, the dinner, curling up with a mug of hot milk on the plush sofa. You even thought of your Christmases back in District twelve. Never too fancy, never too many gifts, but a family, the Covey, music, a home.

Life after the war had been cruel to you. What once was a young girl, with a family wealthy enough to move her to the Capitol, had become a young woman with no one to turn to, and not a penny to her name. You didn't have the luxury of pretending like everything was fine, like you had your family's riches to fall back on. Everyone at the Academy had found out when you'd had to ask for a scholarship loan to pay for your tuition, one which you'd never be able to pay back.

That was something you'd always envied of a particular classmate of yours. Coriolanus Snow. Crassus Snow's baby boy. You knew he must've been penniless, as poor as a church mouse. But maybe you only knew that because your own circumstances were much the same. Coriolanus was smart about it, always looking classy from an outside perspective, never asking for money, never acting hungry. But, when looked into closer, you could easily see cracks.

His shoes were the same ones he'd had since first year at the Academy, and they must've been achingly too small for him. He'd eat only small amounts at school and pretend he was full up, but you'd seen him once, with no shirt on, and his ribs stuck out like a sore thumb. Wherever there was an academic prize that involved money, he was always trying his hardest to win, pulling out every stop, but if there was no monetary prize, he'd only do half as much.

You saw right through his act, always had, but instead of exposing him to everyone else out of jealousy, you'd helped him out whenever you could. Us poor orphans have to stick together, right?

You'd share food, give eachother your spare trolley tokens so you wouldn't have to walk the hour back to the Corso, discuss strategy over how to win said academic prizes, and split them with eachother when you did.

You'd become close friends, over the years, even although it was kept strictly as a secret from all of your other classmates. And so, when you heard a familiar voice floating in through your window, you smiled to yourself.

"Y/N?" You could only faintly hear him calling from the street, but you started up from your bed and yanked the window open fully so that you could hang out of it.

There he was, Coriolanus Snow, in all of his glory. Blonde curls full of white snowflakes, wrapped in what seemed to be a ratty fur coat, chittering away. You laughed when you saw him. "Coryo, what are you doing out? You'll freeze to death!"

"Wanted to come and make sure you were okay." He called back, and then looked around warily, almost as though he was checking the coast was clear before asking, "Can I come up?"

You nodded, "I'll buzz you in." And then you swiftly closed the window. Goosebumps had raised on your arms and chest and you'd be paying for the next year if you had to put the furnace on.

You crossed to your bedroom door, made your way down the hall, and pressed the buzzer, which always made the most abhorrent sound when it let whoever was outside, in.

You waited by the door, and soon enough, Coryo was coming bounding up the stairs, fur coat now in his hand, nose and cheeks bright red. You let him in and laughed as you took his coat from him and hung it up. "It's Tigris'. I don't have anything warm enough, but it's the rattiest old thing I've ever seen."

"It's quite something." You turned back to see him shivering, arms folded around his body to try to warm himself. "Oh, you poor lamb."

Your Covey accent had never faded. The Capitol had always looked down upon you for it, but Coryo blushed every time you spoke. "I'm fine, I'll be fine."

"But it's freezing in here, too. Come here." You opened the small cupboard in the hallway, which held a few random seasonal items, and pulled out two, old blankets. You smiled at Coriolanus as you draped one around his shoulders, and he smiled back, close enough to you that his breath was hitting your cheek.

"Thank you, honey." Coriolanus' eyes scanned your apartment, peering through the living room door and then your bedroom door, and he frowned when he saw just one Christmas decoration - your tiny little tree. His family was poor, but Tigris was creative, and they still managed to uphold some joy in the form of tinsel and stockings at Christmas time.

"What?" Your face dropped and you looked worried, placing a tender hand on Coryo's blanket-clad shoulder. "You look so sad."

"You just..." Coryo's voice trailed off, unsure of how to say what he meant without hurting, or offending you. "I mean, you don't have too much, do you?"

"Well, I thought you knew that." A crease had appeared between your brows and you sounded upset with him, dropping your hand from where it had previously sat. Coryo corrected himself quickly, shaking his head at you.

"No, I'm sorry, that came out wrong." He racked his brain for something to say that would make you feel better. The look on your face made his chest sting. "I don't know, would you want to spend Christmas with us?"

You cocked your head to the side, looking at him as though he was going insane. Maybe he was, he wasn't even sure what he was saying. He closed his eyes and ran and hand over his face, which brightened you up a bit. You laughed, and he laughed, and he felt his shoulders relax. Why was he so nervous? He never got nervous, not like this, anyway.

"We don't have much either, but it'd mean you weren't alone. I know how you feel, especially at this time of year." Coryo noticed the slight tinge of pink that had dawned your cheeks, and, on a whim, he reached out and, with two freezing fingers, tilted your head back so that you were looking at him. "You could come to our house, Tigris makes bread pudding, and we managed to get some beef mince this year, too. Maybe you could even sleep over tonight, and we could wake up together-"

"Coryo, you're rambling." You stopped him, you knew he could go on for hours, and, although the offer was tempting, and you enjoyed the idea of spending even more time around Coryo, you planned on turning him down. "Thank you. That sounds lovely, but I'd never want to intrude. No, the Covey wrote me to let me know they've installed a telephone in the town hall, I can call them for a couple minutes tomorrow, lift my spirits. I'll be fine."

You waved him off, and pulled your mother's old silk robe tighter around your body. You started towards the living room door, expecting Coryo to follow, maybe you'd sit together on the flaky sofa and talk for a few hours, but he didn't let you get far. He snatched your hand from your side, and when you turned to look at him, his blue eyes were filled with concern.

"Call them from our house." He wasn't going to let you off without a yes. "Please. I can't leave you alone, that's not fair. Plus, I've always wanted to meet them, haven't I?"

You took a breath and adjusted your hand in his. It felt nice, to have him be so affectionate. You could admit you were closer than most friends, the line between friendship and love always slightly blurred and maybe crossed over on more than one occasion, but it always felt good to have him near.

After careful consideration, and a few reassuring rubs at the back of your hand from Coryo, you finally gave in. "Are you sure? I don't mean to be a pain-"

"You're not. You could never be." He stepped closer and took your other hand, close enough to you that, if he leaned forward, your foreheads would be touching. "Honest, Tigris will be happy to have someone other than Grandma'am."

"And what about Grandma'am? I'm District, I don't think she'll like that-"

"She respects your family. It's not the right way, I know, but there are very few district people she doesn't mind. She knew your parents, always says they were very respectable people." A grimace crossed Coryo’s face, talking about his Grandma’am’s views in front of you. He’d agreed with her for most of his life, but that was until he met you, and that Covey accent finally made snow melt and changed his mind.

"Really?" Your face had lit up. The idea of anyone from the Capitol accepting you, no, respecting you, was something you’d only ever dreamt of.

"Really." Coryo smiled, now, and then he joked, “What an honour, huh? To have Grandma'am like you."

"An honour, indeed." You laughed. You let go of one of his hands, but kept hold of the other. You started to drag him with you towards your bedroom, but Coryo stayed put, confused. He’d never been inside your bedroom, he assumed it was off limits. You laughed at him, “I’m not trying to get you into bed, darlin’, if I was you’d know about it.”

His face turned a deep shade of red and you approached him and placed a gentle hand on his cheek. “Coryo, I’m messin’. I’m just going to pack a bag, you can come if you like, but if I’m making you uncomfortable you’re welcome to sit in the living room.”

“No. Oh, no. You’re not making me uncomfortable.” Coryo let you lead him to your bedroom, now, and he looked around the almost bare room as though it was a place of worship. There was hardly anything in there, a mattress on the floor, a small, oil lamp positioned next to it. A couple of books, a wardrobe which held your school uniform and your mother’s old performance dresses, which you wore every day you could. He was just happy to be somewhere so intimate, somewhere you allowed only the closest people in your life. “Sorry.”

You got that cheeky look on your face, now. The one that Coryo loved so much. “It’s okay. I know you’re a virgin, anyway-”

“Hey!” He smacked you with the blanket and you giggled and smacked him back. “That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, but it’s obvious.”

-

The walk to Coriolanus’ apartment wasn’t long, but it felt different. You’d never made it obvious that you were close, before, but you walked together, through the snow, chatting away like you’d been best friends for years - which was the case, and now people knew. Even when you passed classmates or their families, you’d both smile and wave, and it felt good to know that people would know.

“Are you excited to meet Grandma’am?” Coryo joked. Your cheeks balled when you laughed and gripped onto his hand in an overdramatic way. Coryo thought his heart might’ve burst.

You bounded forward, still holding his hand, and walked backwards in front of him. “Oh, the most excited. I’m sure she’s got great gossip.”

“Only the best. Did you know she had a fling with the President’s brother when they were in school?” Coryo whispered dramatically, and you gave him an equally as theatrical gasp.

“I hope she’ll tell me all about it.”

You arrived at the apartment cold but happy, noses bright red but laughing. Fingers freezing but locked together. You felt pure joy for the first time in a long time, and Coryo decided he could get used to this.

When Tigris opened the door, you knew this was the right decision. Her face lit up, and she clapped her hands together excitedly as soon as she saw you. She didn’t even bother to greet Coriolanus, just started straight for you, “Oh my! It’s so lovely to see you. Please tell me you’re staying for Christmas!”

“I sure am. Coryo managed to convince me.” You looked up to the boy stood beside you, who’d already been smiling down at you with such love in his eyes.

“Well, we are so happy to have you. Lucky to have you.” Tigris squeezed your shoulder and then stepped to the side, gesturing to both of you. “Come in, please.”

You could’ve sobbed, the feeling of being wanted, not being alone. Coryo touched a comforting hand to your arm as you stepped into the foyer, once grand, but now cracked and tired. Tigris took your coat, and the Grandma’am greeted you with open arms.

“Your dress is beautiful.” Tigris commented, and you did a quick twirl to show off the lace-up detail in the back.

“Thank you, it was my mama’s. I try to wear her dresses whenever I can.” You smoothed the ruffles of your dress, looking down lovingly at the shades of green tulle, handmade by your mother herself.

“And so you should.” Tigris reached out to touch your ruffles, too, and she smiled at you as she did so. “She had great taste.”

Coryo led you through to his bedroom, to let you drop your bag off and familiarise yourself with the place. “Thank you.” You muttered as you placed your bag on his windowsill. “For letting me come here, letting me stay. Your family are just beautiful.”

“Yeah, they’re great.” Coryo stood from his bed to join you as you looked out of his window onto the snow covered Corso, at a fresh snow angel and a family you could hear laughing from the penthouse. “I’m sure the Covey are, too. And your parents.”

“My parents were. And the Covey are. I hope one day, you can meet them.” You turned to him, that crease in your brow back.

“I’d love to.” Coryo took hold of your hand, noticing that you’d taken up an unsettled look. “Should we get some air? Grandma’am keeps roses on the roof, might be nice to see them in the snow.”

You nodded. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

The roof was nice, you could see the entirety of the Capitol from up there - roofs engulfed in white, and the snow-covered roses were such a beautiful sight. You plucked one of the stems, after Coryo said you could, and simply stared at the thing. Back home, flowers were everywhere, they felt like warm hugs, like trips to the lake, like your mama. It was rare that you saw them growing in the Capitol.

“It’s beautiful up here.” You commented as you took a seat at the edge of the rooftop. “You can see the whole city.”

“It is beautiful.” Coryo sat next to you, shoulders touching, pinky fingers travelling closer to eachother and then pulling back, looking forward but watching eachother out of the corner of your eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

Coryo had let it slip, and he took in a deep breath and held it for a while after speaking. You tried not to let your smile get too wide, worried it would border on psychotic-looking if you let it reach it’s full potential. Beautiful, Coriolanus Snow called you beautiful.

“Oh.” Was all you could say, quietly, only loud enough to be picked up by the soft breeze and carried over to Coriolanus. “Thank you, Coryo. I think you’re beautiful.”

Coriolanus looked down and laughed, shaking his head at you. You let your pinkies intertwine, now. “You’re just saying that because I said it.”

“I mean it. Anyone would be stupid not to think it.” Then all of your fingers were locked together. And you sighed and let your head fall onto Coryo’s shoulder. He smiled to himself, and then, in a quick surge of confidence, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head and decided to speak his mind.

“You know I love you, right?" He blurted out. He didn’t regret it, but he was nervous, now. If he’d learned anything this Christmas Eve, it was that you made him nervous.

"I know." You closed your eyes and breathed in the cold air, “I love you, too."

"But I mean, really love you." Coryo took his hand from yours and, instead, draped his arm around your back, fingers reaching up to fidget with your hair. “You're very easy to fall in love with."

"Hm." You hummed and removed your head from his shoulder to look up at him. Your cheeks were flushed and your breath made little clouds in between your two faces. “I think you're very easy to fall in love with, too, Coryo."

You were so close, noses touching, Coryo’s hand still twirling one lock of your hair around and around. And then your lips were on his, his hand gripping the back of your neck, kissing you with a hunger, a passion, you’d never felt before. Not feverishly, not sexual in nature, just real, raw passion. You’d meant what you said. Coriolanus Snow was incredibly easy to love, and you did. You loved him. And he loved you. Nothing else had ever seemed to simple in your entire life.

Coryo couldn’t imagine a world, now, where your lips hadn’t been on his. Where you hadn’t called him beautiful. He was on a high, an all time high, he was convinced. Snow lands on top.

The snowflakes continued falling, landing on your heads, noses, the roses. And you let them, with no resentment, no upset. Because Coryo was there, everything was easy, now.

[cutestbow]

Notes: this blurb is apart of an au

:finally continuing their time at the lake house since I stopped to write about them when they were younger!!

Warnings: suggestive, slight cursing, unedited

Penelope didn’t know how many drinks in she was, she lost the girl she was dancing with hours ago, and she was on the verge of blacking out in the middle of the room

Luke and some of the other umich boys decided to go to party one of their friends were hosting, Luke had begged Jack and Quinn to just have one at their house but of course he was immediately turned down by both of the brothers

and who was he to say penelope couldn’t come along, so that’s what led you up to this moment, Everytime she closed her eyes she felt like they wouldn’t have opened again

She vaguely remembered mark telling her to go easy after her second drink, did she listen, obviously not

Penelope stumbled into a random room not even bothering to knock, looking back she should of because she walked right in on a guy leaning over the sink, obviously not being able to picture who it was she walked over to him deciding it was the best choice

“Are you ok?” She asked putting a hand on his shoulder

Luke had been beer drunk which rarely happened because he was always a light drinker, but when your with someone like Ethan, drinking lightly isn’t a option

he groaned wiping a hand over his face, he was supposed to be the DD.

he hoped mark or someone had drank lightly because he didn’t think he’d trust himself behind the wheel

he didn’t even pay attention to the bathroom door barging open, assuming it was Ethan trying to force him back out into the mosh pit he had created

so of course when he a felt a hand slide onto his back his eyes shot open

“Penny?” he slurred in a confusing tone

“oh Luke it’s you” she laughed, sliding her hand to his bicep

“Why’s your face red” she asked furrowing her eyebrows

“Ethan” he said leaning against the wall

“I’m drunk too, I think?” she nodded turning to stand infront of him

silence took over for a moment, Luke took that as a time to examine her, she wore a strapless top that rarely covered anything, something luke noticed before they had left the lake house

“Is this new” he asked reaching out messing with the fabric of the top

“How many times are you gonna ask that Hughes?, you trying to buy it for your girlfriend” she said, the words “girlfriend” slipping out before she could stop them

Luke furrowed his eyebrows at that, “girlfriend?” He questioned

Penelope felt her self sober up just the slightest by her slip up, “that girl you were with the other day at the lake house?” she spoke

“that’s not my girlfriend Penny, she was just some girl a met weeks prior to that, I didn’t want her.” He shook his head pushing himself off the wall

Penelope had never been a bold person, but the alcohol coursing through her body in that moment said other wise

“Then who do you want?” she asked in a quiet tone

if you were to ask Penelope she’d say it all happened so fast, one minute Luke standing infront of her the next he was wrapping his hand around the back of her neck smashing their lips together in a kiss so rough she almost melted, and the twisted thing about it was that she was kissing back

Luke’s hand had traveled to the back of her thighs lifting her up onto the counter they had backed into

Penelope gasped when he bit her lip, giving him a chance to slide his tongue past her teeth

Luke’s had slid up her torso cupping her breast and messaging the hardened bud through the thin fabric of her top, earning a breathy moan from her

Luke grinned burying his face in her neck now leaving kisses there

the door barged open for the second time that night revealing a very drunk Ethan causing both Penny and Luke to pull away quickly

Ethan gasped pointing in their direction, “Luke and Penelope are making out in the bathroom!” He yelled

“Hey Luke we’re leaving now, marks driving”he slurred leaning on the door

Penelope and luke still being to shocked and flustered to comprehend what was going on still stood in there previous spot, so even if theytried to lie they couldn’t

“Oh- ok” Penelope stuttered, hopping off the counter stumbling past Ethan

Luke watched her leave, his mind obviously being to fogged up to even react to what just happened

“I fucking knew it” Ethan said once Luke walked past him

Luke shoved ethans hand away that patted his back, the seven beers Luke had finally catching up to him randomly, giving him a pulsing headache

[fallenwhumpee]

"I'll try."

• Masterlist •

Warnings: abandoning, rib injury, knee injury.

Ten year was a short time.

Spent with their sincere feelings, bundled with joy and naive victories, those years passed in a blink. Memories, maybe the only good things circling in their mind, were precious, sincere. Each built up warmth in their chest and fluttered their stomach.

Thinking back, Right Hand knew they were lucky. They were the luckiest person in their small world. They had a chance to work with people they could laugh and cry together. They were lucky that even while bleeding on the floor, they were thrown jokes with worry hidden. They were lucky that each time after work, they were fretted over like a mother cat would do to its kittens.

They were lucky that a decade had passed with their family. And ten years, for that family, was too short. Life was always fast when they were laughing.

But ten years was also too long.

The next decade, spent without any of it, was taxing. Being deprived of the warmth of their captain's arms, their rookie's pranks and their cmo's constant prodding was like a slow acting poison, rotting their mind from inside.

Right Hand would give everything to get those back.

But here they were, sitting in a cafe the team used to hang out, waiting for Youngest— or a call from them. It had been a while. Five years, eight months, eleven days, and seventeen hours to be precise if they counted from their last call with them. But it had been even longer face to face. The team's disbanding was always going to be Right Hand's biggest regret.

The waiter eyed Right Hand once more. Right Hand ordered a coffee just to get rid of that look. Their intention wasn't to invade the space. They were just too early, unable to sit still in their house.

Right Hand stared. They subtly eyed around, but the customers changed from head to toe at least two times. Looking down, they checked their phone once more.

"No coffee today. You're only getting a lemonade."

Right Hand flinched, shooting a glare to the waiter only to see it was Youngest.

Older, different. Even that smile was foreign. How could Right Hand assume they'd meet the same energetic person when it had been too long?

"I didn't think I'd treat myself today. I don't have enough on me."

The handmade lemonade with ridiculously big size was the times of what they'd pay for coffee. They couldn’t afford this— the lemonade and changes on Youngest. Right Hand's will to form a connection was now gone. They didn't think they could accept that this was not the Youngest they remembered. They didn’t want change. Be it their order or their now distanced sibling.

"I don't either," Youngest grinned, drinking half of their lemonade in one go. "But anything we order is pre-paid." The smile faltered. "It was, always. Medic and Leader's arguments about who was gonna pay was always one-sided. This cafe won't make us pay one penny as long as we dont eat the whole buffet. This place owes a favour to Leader, but you know them—"

"They never collect those favours, so the shop sqid its on them every time," Right Hand completed with a bitter smile.

"Yeah. Even though I'm sure they came back every time without us and paid the order." Youngest muttered. They fidgeted a little, hitting their fingers to the glass a few times.

"I missed... I missed the action," Right Hand confessed, their voice tinged with a mixture of longing and reluctance— they didn't know what they were supposed to feel. They glanced at Youngest, trying to gauge if they would grasp the weight of their words. Would Youngest understand what it meant to just... sit back? To watch the people go on with their jobs, to... to just get the news from a few messages every now and then?

"Me too. That's..." Youngest drew a sharp breath, their eyes darting to the side as if searching for the right words. They let out a slow exhale, their shoulders sagging. "That's why I'm here."

Right Hand frowned, a flicker of unease settling in their gut. "What do you mean?" they asked, their tone cautious.

"We... I need you back," Youngest breathed out, their eyes digging into Right Hand's for a positive answer desperately. Youngest leaned forward, their hands gripping the glass. "Officially, I'm asked to see if any of us wishes to return, but I need you. I will refuse the offer if you do, too."

Right Hand hesitated, their gaze dropping to the table as they mulled over Youngest's words. "It's been a while," they murmured, unsure of what to say.

"I know," Youngest admitted, averting their gaze..

"You know why I didn’t stay," Right Hand sighed.

Youngest nodded, their expression faltering. "But I need you. Especially now with Leader missing—"

Right Hand's head snapped up, their eyes widening in shock. "What?"

Youngest's face paled, and they almost shouted in their panic. "You... you haven't heard?" they asked, their voice rising with alarm.

"Youngest," Right Hand warned, their voice low and firm. They were tired of beating around the bush. "Tell me what's going on."

Youngest shrunk back slightly, their voice dropping to a near whisper. "When you decided to leave, we got assigned to calmer positions.. Except Leader," they muttered, their fingers nervously tapping against the glass.

"Get to the point," Right Hand urged, their patience wearing thin.

Youngest swallowed hard, their voice trembling as they spoke. "Leader had been acting like a mercenary, and we lost contact almost a year ago."

Right Hand felt their heart skip a beat, a cold dread settling in their chest. "Maybe something went wrong in their last commission," they suggested, though they didn’t believe it.

Youngest shook their head, their expression grim. "No... They abandoned us. Not— not like that, but they... Leader left. Told us it was their last job and disappeared."

Right Hand kept their head down, trying not to draw attention in the bustling tavern. The dim lighting cast long shadows across the room, and the low murmur of hushed conversations filled the air, adding to the tension in Right Hand's chest.

Right Hand could feel crippling worry crawl its way into their mind. If Leader had gone back to acting like that...

-•-

They didn’t know how all these annoying missions kept finding them, but they had to get this one done. There was no room for error, not now. Not when the higher ups were breathing on their neck.

A single figure sat there, huddled in the furthest corner of the room. While Right Hand couldn't see the figure's face, they recognised the ring on the table. A simple silver ring that acted as only identification even in the agency's detailed file.

Right Hand walked over to the table, tapping it lightly before sitting down. The sound was enough to draw the attention of the person across from them, who slowly looked up, eyes wary and cold.

"I don't have enough on me for a company," Leader muttered, their voice rough, as if it hadn’t been used much in recent days. They glanced at Right Hand, and for a moment, Right Hand though they were being read like an open book.

"You only drank water so far," Right Hand retorted, their eyes narrowing as they assessed the person before them. Leader was thinner, gaunter than they imagined. There was a hollowness to their cheeks, and dark circles framed their piercing eyes. They looked like someone who hadn’t slept or eaten well in days, maybe weeks.

"Is that a problem?" Leader asked, the edge in their tone sharp enough to make Right Hand flinch.

Right Hand shook their head, leaning back slightly in the chair. "No."

"Then what is the problem?" Leader asked, their gaze boring into Right Hand’s, as if daring them to speak.

Right Hand hesitated, choosing their words carefully. They knew how fragile this situation was, how easy it would be to lose any chance of getting Leader back. "Is it your working hours?"

Leader’s expression remained neutral. "Depends."

"Up for work?" Right Hand pressed. They needed this answer, needed to know if there was a chance to bring Leader back into the fold.

"Depends."

Right Hand felt a flicker of frustration rise. They bit back their first answer filled with insults. "Is this the only answer I'll get?" they asked instead.

Leader smirked, though it didn’t reach their eyes. "You won't get a good answer if you don't ask the right questions."

Right Hand let out a slow breath, trying to remain calm. "Ever tired of working alone?"

For a moment, Leader didn’t respond. They simply stared at the glass in front of them, their fingers tracing the rim absentmindedly. Finally, they spoke, their voice barely above a whisper. "Is that an interrogation or an offer?"

"I thought I'd ask questions here," Right Hand scoffed.

Leader chuckled, a sound devoid of real humour sending shivers down to Right Hand's spine. "Not everything goes as we would like. Do you pay well?"

"Oh I—I'm not the employer. I'll probably be in your team," Right Hand admitted. They didn’t want to push Leader too hard, didn’t want to drive them away.

Leader raised an eyebrow, their scepticism clear. "My— is your employer, by any chance, an idiot? I'm not taking responsibility for other people. I don't do office jobs exactly,  y'know. Can't give people insurance."

"You have the experience," Right Hand shrugged.

"And a bad record of completing jobs as I'm asked to," Leader shot back, their tone bitter. They crossed their arms over their chest defensively.

"Yet you do nail the job with your way," Right Hand countered, refusing to back down. They knew Leader’s reputation, knew that when they committed to something, they saw it through—no matter the cost. And possibly with methods that drove the employers mad.

Leader’s eyes narrowed. "Now you're just telling this to get to my good side."

Right Hand didn’t flinch under the sharp tone. "Did it work?"

For a long moment, Leader didn’t respond. They simply stared at Right Hand, weighing their options. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, until finally, Leader exhaled and shook their head with a resigned sigh.

"Yes," Leader admitted.

-•-

“Youngest... no,” Right Hand began, their voice laden with the weight of the years they had carried alone. They shook their head, looking down at their hands as if they might find the right words there. “You… really don’t want me - or Leader - back.”

Youngest’s eyes widened, but they got a hold of their face quickly. “I don’t care how things have changed. I need you. And I need Leader. If you know anything about them, please—”

“If I know anything about Leader,” Right Hand interrupted, their voice growing quiet, almost distant, “they’re not the Leader we know anymore.”

Youngest blinked, taken aback by the finality in Right Hand’s tone. “What do you mean?” they asked, their voice tinged with a mix of confusion and concern.

Right Hand met Youngest’s gaze, their expression hardening. “I mean, don’t ask me this,” they said, their voice firm. “You don’t want to find the person Leader might have become.”

“But I need to,” Youngest insisted, almsot yelling. They took a deep breath and continued more calmly. “I know you. You won’t let me down. Neither you nor Leader ever did. Even if Leader changed, you can get them back. You... you tamed the monster once.”

Right Hand suprassed a flinch and let out a long, weary sigh, their shoulders slumping. They hated that Youngest was right— not in tamsing part but still. No matter how much they wanted to walk away, they couldn’t. Not from this. Not when it involved the people they once called family.

Right Hand finally gave up. “I’ll try,” they said, their voice carrying a quiet determination. “But you need to be prepared for what we might find, if we find anything at all.”

Youngest swallowed hard but nodded, their lips pressed into a thin line. “Just… bring them back,” they said, their voice cracking slightly.

Right Hand paused, their gaze softening as they looked at Youngest. “I’ll do my best,” they promised, though a part of them wondered if their best would be enough.

-•-

Right Hand had lost count of how many dead ends they had followed in just three months. Every lead was colder than the last, every contact more hesitant to speak. The trail that Leader had left behind was barely more than a whisper—scattered rumours that always ended absurdly, as if it was purposefully set up.

But Right Hand wasn’t ready to give up. Not when they had seen the look in Youngest’s eyes, the hope clinging to the edges of desperation. Not when they owed it to themselves, to the family they once had, to find Leader and at least try to bring them back.

After what felt like an eternity, they finally found a lead that seemed promising—a small, rundown apartment on the outskirts of a forgotten town. The odd tenant paid rent in cash, kept to themselves, and was rarely seen except for the occasional late-night trip to a nearby convenience store. If Right Hand wasn’t so desperate for a lead, they could've overlooked it.

In the blink of an eye, Right Hand stood outside the door, their heart pounding in their chest. They had no idea what to expect on the other side. They weren’t even sure they were ready to face whatever—or whoever—they might find.

Taking a deep breath, Right Hand knocked on the door. There was no answer. They waited a moment before knocking again, louder this time. Still nothing. Anxiety gnawed at them as they fumbled for the set of lockpicking tools they hadn’t used in years.

They moved in after breaking in, their footsteps heavy on the worn wooden floor. In the dim light, Right Hand could make out the remnants of someone’s life—an unmade bed, a table cluttered with empty bottles, a chair knocked over in the corner.

Right Hand's eyes darted around, taking in the sparse, almost desolate surroundings. There was something about the place that felt wrong—a heaviness that hung in the air, pressing down on them as they cautiously stepped forward.

A faint rustling came from the couch, the backrest blocking Right Hand's view. Their breath caught in their throat as they turned toward the sound, their heart pounding louder with each passing second.

"Who's there?" they called out, their voice steady despite the fear gnawing at them from the inside.

The rustling stopped, followed by a low, pained groan. Right Hand's grip tightened around the handle of their gun, their eyes straining to see through the dimness. Slowly, a figure rose and turned back, and Right Hand's heart sank.

Leader.

They looked different— worn down but not completely defeated. Their clothes were rumpled and faded, as if they'd been worn for days on end. Their hair, still mostly neat, was streaked with grey that hadn’t been there before. And their eyes - those once bright, determined eyes - were clouded with exhaustion and something else Right Hand couldn’t quite place.

But despite it all, Leader still held themselves with a certain dignity. Even the hollowness in their cheeks and the dark circles under their eyes told a story of sleepless nights, there was still a spark of the person Right Hand once knew— or Right Hand wanted to see it that way.

Leader blinked, as if trying to focus on the figure standing before them. For a moment, they looked confused, as if they weren’t sure if Right Hand was there. But soon, Leader’s expression shifted from confusion to something more guarded— almost defensive.

"Right Hand," Leader rasped, their voice rough from disuse. They straightened up slightly, trying to pull themselves together, though the effort seemed to cost them dearly. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Right Hand replied carefully, trying to keep their tone neutral, non-threatening. "I’ve been looking for you."

Leader let out a short, humourless laugh, though it sounded more like a cough. "So you finally found me," they muttered, running a hand through their hair in a weary gesture. "Congratulations. You can go back now and tell people that  I’m still alive. Just what I needed."

Right Hand shook their head, refusing to let Leader brush them off so easily. "That’s not why I’m here," they said firmly. "I’m here to bring you back."

"Back? Where?" Leader spat. They stood up, their body bandaged. Right Hand could see a makeshift rib corset peeking under their shirt, and Leader's knee was properly braced— more of a mobility choice rather than caring about their health, in Right Hand's opinion.

Leader’s sharp tone cut through the stale air, the bitterness in their words evident. They leaned heavily on the back of the couch, trying to steady themselves as they stared at Right Hand with a mix of anger and disbelief.

"Back where?" Leader repeated, their voice lower but no less biting. "There’s nowhere to go back to. The team is gone. That life… it’s over. It was never my life to begin with."

"No, it was!" Right Hand snapped. "Leader, we are from the same fabric. I know what must be done, and I know what's really eating you alive. You have to take what is yours. Will you let Youngest think you abandoned them?"

Leader's gaze hardened, their posture stiffening as they straightened up, wincing slightly from the effort but also stepping closer, towering over Right Hand. "But I did leave them behind," Leader almost snarled. "You’re delusional if you think I can be any help. Look around you," they gestured vaguely at the rundown apartment, their eyes narrowing. "I'm in no state - and mood - to play the same game. I'm not interested in anything you have to tell."

Right Hand clenched their fists, frustration boiling beneath the surface. "You don’t get to decide that," they said, their voice steady but firm. "We need you, Leader. Youngest needs you. And deep down, you know you need us too."

Leader’s expression wavered for a moment, a flicker of something—regret, maybe, or doubt—crossing their features before they quickly masked it with anger. They scoffed, turning away. "Need is a dangerous thing, Right Hand. It makes you weak. It blinds you. You don't need me."

"And what I need, then?" Right Hand pressed, refusing to let Leader retreat into themselves again.

"You ned to move on," Leader began, their voice so quiet it was almost a whisper, "I’m not the person you remember. I’m not the leader you followed. And I won't be that person again. You need to move on and forget."

"I don’t believe that," Right Hand said with a determination that cut through the tension in the room. "And I don’t think you do either. We’ve all changed, Leader. None of us are who we were, but that doesn’t mean we can’t find a way forward."

Leader shook their head, exhaling a shaky breath as they rubbed a hand over their face. "You don’t get it," they muttered, their voice wavering. "You’re holding on to a ghost. The person you’re looking for… they’re gone. There’s nothing left to bring back."

"That’s not true," Right Hand insisted. "I can see it in your eyes—there’s still a part of you that wants to fight. You never back down from your duty."

Leader’s eyes darted away, unable to meet Right Hand’s gaze. They looked like they were carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders, the burden of their own self-loathing almost too much to bear.

"Why did you run?" Right Hand asked, their voice gentle. "Why did you leave and get away from what made you happy?"

Leader’s jaw clenched, their fists tightening at their sides as they wrestled with the question. "You were keeping things together. It was always you." they admitted after a long, painful silence. "When you decided to back down, i tried. I really did, but... things fell apart."

"Running away didn’t help anyone, least of all yourself," Right Hand replied, their tone softening with understanding. "I had to leave. You knew, and I'm grateful you never blamed me for it. But it wasn’t me. You kept us together when I couldn't. For years. You tried, and it didn’t work. But that doesn’t mean we should give up on each other— or ourselves."

Leader’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of them as they sank back onto the couch, the weight of their guilt and despair pulling them down. "I can't do it again," they whispered, their voice trembling. "I don’t even know how to help myself, let alone the team."

Right Hand sat on the table in front of Leader. "You’re still here," they said firmly, gripping Leader’s hands in theirs. "And that’s enough. We’ll figure out the rest together. You’re not alone in this, Leader. We will all try this time. You won't have to keep us together."

A tear slipped down Leader’s cheek, and they quickly brushed it away, but not before Right Hand saw the vulnerability in their eyes—the pain, the fear, the longing for something they thought they had lost forever.

For the first time in a long time, Leader allowed themselves to lean into the comfort Right Hand offered, the warmth of their touch grounding them in a way they hadn’t felt in what seemed like an eternity.

"I don’t think I can do it," Leader murmured, their voice trembling. "But… I’ll try."

Right Hand nodded, their own eyes misting over as they squeezed Leader’s hands. "That’s all I’m asking."

[meli-writes]

Mechismo - No. 7 /// Payload

(Read on AO3) /// (First) / (Previous)

/// CW: light peril and implied threat of sexual assault. ///

"Nah, this is too good to be true," the merc-rebel-something mutters. She turns, twiddling the combat knife in her hand and stopping only to point it at you. "You wanna tell me what trap i've walked into, sweetheart?"

You eye the databox, stuffed with weeks and months of upcoming junta plans; and more besides. Enough intel to butcher hundreds of their bootlickers, least until they figure out they're compromised.

"I have it — for my own reasons," you taunt like the bellow of rotten, felled tree. "Making my mark, if you have to know."

"Is daddy-dictator's special girl staging a rebellious phase in her twenties?" the merc mocks. "Smuggle a bunch of data to what? Sell for tattoo money?"

You didn't plan an answer for a question like this, and it's hard not to just gawk and fumble at your cuffs.

"Maybe — if it's not a trap — the intel lasts a week," she continues. And besides that, you urge in your own head. "That's the only part with access dates in years. Rest is outdated crap."

"W-what do you—"

You shut your mouth when she stalks up, lifts your chin with the little blade's point with just enough force to dip it in red.

"You living out some little fantasy right now?" she asks, as much curioused as annoyed. "Because I really think that'd be a mistake."

It takes a lot not squeal. "I-I'm a valuable hostage, my family will pay well."

"They will," the merc muses, "and I think you knew that." In a glance she's seen right through, smiles at the confirmation you haven't realised you just gave away. "You leaked your convoy's route didn't you? Playing hero. Thinking you're gonna make us a pretty penny and then waddle back to your parties and soirées."

You buck up above the point of the knife, "You think I like being around them? They're monsters. And I have to pretend to be one, and you have no idea what that does to you."

Her brow raised, she stays quiet, listens.

"But i stood up, just like you did. I'm doing what I can."

And she laughs.

"Ah-hahaha! Oh saints, how many years you been saving up that little speech, sweetheart? Or bleeding-heart I should say."

"Too many," you spit.

"Hmm. Good answer," she smirks, putting a hand on your shoulder and hoisting you towards her own mech. "You're staying restrained."

"B-but i'm helping you!" you gasp.

"Your round ass for ransom helps me — you don't," she makes clear, enunciating it with a squeeze that presses into your collarbone. "And I don't trust you, so i'm not interested in giving you the chance to try anything. Don't think I haven't killed prettier things than you.

Don't think I regretted it either."

---

The merc bags your head first. Stuffs a mule-bit in your mouth overtop of it, so you're forced to swallow the loose fibres under your teeth as you gnaw on it in cortisol and pothole-induced chatters.

This isn't the edible part of the plant. You remember a 'land exchange ceremony' where you had to a drink a thick, green bowl of its stewed leaves and were sure the locals were making a joke about how bitter it was. You vomited it out-of-sight, sure your father would fucking shoot one of them if he saw it. Mostly because you hated the sound. the loud screech, and the crying after. The palace was far enough away to forget that was just part of the production process here.

Jute. It's called jute, you remember. 11.768MG from this entire continent, and about half of what it's allowed to produce. The other is raw minerals, shipped without care to the extra weight because it makes sure there's nothing here worth rebelling over. Makes sure no one can make anything out of it processed.

That's the theory at least. Doesn't explain who's paying for her. She doesn't look like one of the locals, like the people she pulls your hood off to, after 4 hours of trying not to vomit again as you rattled about in her scout mech's storage bin.

"Now youse believe me? Little Miss Junta, out of daddy's palace for a stroll in her smoking convoy," the merc purrs.

Her hand slips over your shoulder, through your heat-fucked hair and over your cheek, where the yanking of the bag has scratched a peace garden into the tear-stained makeup under your still-blinking eyes.

You stumble, lose your footing but only fall an inch as another hand sinks into your gut. It reminds you of one of those tree-cutting attachments, used for clearing land for plantation.

"There there, I got you sweetheart" she murmurs mockingly, slipping the bit back in before you can say—

You're not sure what you should.

You don't know these people. But it's hard to meet their stares for more than a moment, slash-and-burn fires in their eyes. The fires that throw up smoke you can see from a hundred miles away from behind ten layers of razorwire and a line of autogun implacements. Where this plan felt much more predictable.

You're not sure if you want her to explain it either.

She knows better, you're sure. The longer you've spent on this world has only made you feel like you know less and less.

"You waiting for a fucking bonus? A round of applause, perhaps?" one of them asks, an officer — or leader, if that sort of formality doesn't match. His pushed-back chair scrapes across the floor, pushing aside rotting fibres strewn across it. "You're paid for each contracted period; 50% at start, 50% at end, that's it."

"Can start with telling your man to fix my piece," your captor demands, or offers. It's hard to tell. One of the men at the table seems to hover around throwing his cards down. "There's a lot of dead men to clean out of the toe pads."

The 'officer' doesn't signal the sitting man to move. "You'll go with him then, yeah?" he asks.

Your eyes are adjusting now. It's only a moment before they've locked with his. You can't tell what your captor is doing but she's not moving either. He continues, "She can stay—"

"You're forgetting Section 16. Exceptional duties," she interrupts. "Think i'm at least due for a cut on the ransom. Besides, you're getting her databox for free. There's months worth of good intel there."

There's not. She said—

"It's free because it's useless to you." Unlike you. He circles the table, his hand hovering over loaded guns and dice. Maybe the merc is more predictable than them. Profit-motive alone is a little more... clean. "You radio'd that the convoy looked underarmed but normal. And you chose to engage it while on regular patrol, right?"

"Yeah," the merc grits past your ear, like the speckled concrete chips that have clawed under your dress from being made to crawl in them.

"Then it's not exceptional. Doesn't matter who the fuck she is." He's standing in front of you both now, taller. "Now show-and-tells over. You can supervise repairs while i look over my intake."

Your gut's squished a bit tighter. "And leave you here with her?"

It all clicks a little too quickly, and a little too late.

The officer's hand wraps around the little of your arm that shows in front, still drawn behind to raw wrists in junta cuffs. His thumb presses till your flesh turns whiter than it already is.

He leans over to whisper it in the merc's ear, "the fuck you think we're going to do?"

She yanks you back, head bouncing between pilot-suited tits. "Kidnapping her is escalation. That's Section 33, escalated scenarios, which means anything routine activity from here counts as Section 16," she non-answers. The words cock in her mouth like a loaded gun that hasn't fired yet.

It's just profit-motive. That's all it is. All it is. Your ransom must be worth a dozen of her contracts. She must figure they're testing to see if they can cut her out—

"You knew where to grab her!" the officer shouts. The less-drunk half of the table scrambles to their feet, but no one's armed just yet. You try to keep still, pretend like somehow he won't notice you're there even as he's screaming about you. "How long have i been paying you? trusting you? All that fucking risk. So why're you pulling this, huh? Wanna tell me what's going on? Don't think i didn't see the same stupid tip--"

"Hey! Merc-bitch," the table pipes up, the more-drunk half of it, with few chips and a lot more bottles where he's sitting. "You wanna piss off and let princess play with her new daddies?"

This one's looking at you. It's worse than hate, and twists at whatever face you're making. You can't even tell. Stupid passenger in your own— what? What is this now? Own body except not anymore. Your own plan except it's the merc's now.

Your own punishment?

Hh you are so fucking stupid. 'Your' punishment. Ha! Except your father will do so much worse than just shoot someone for bad leaf soup. The humiliation of it. His own daughter. Almost as bad as stealing one of the tin medals off his chest. If he could keep count of those either. Stupid as he is. And now without autoguns and razorwire and razorwire and more-fucking-razorwire to compensate.

Your merc's wrapping you closer, till your heels start to fall off. You don't even realise how much you were moving till you're forced to stop.

The officer's in his table-piper's face, pied with alcoholic blush, "Shut. The fuck. Up."

He's just trying to control the situation too. Yeah. You're the fucking bad guy here. Daddy's done what they're just joking about. Joking. Because you're the bad guy. You deserve a little of the risk for once.

"I'm just saying—"

"Just stop saying."

"Let me handle her," your merc offers, firm enough to make it obvious it isn't one.

She's pulling you more into her side, hand on your hip in a show of clamatory suggestiveness. She's less risk. You still want less risk.

"It can be payment for 16," she continues. This doesn't help her and now you're leaning into her. Her voice lilts a bit louder, "And if she needs a daddy, i've given her some guidance already."

You can her scar-splitting smile through the corner of your eye. You've seen enough smiles at those fancy balls to spot the bullshit ones, and spot the way she scans for if her comment satisfied or not.

You play your part and whimper.

Pitched just like your empty shell of a prop boyfriend likes and doesn't question. A fear that swirls with pleasure, water down the oil cap of an engine. She squeezes your hip bone in response, and you cow. There's still plenty of room to ruin this even as a prop yourself.

"You stays on your side of the camp," the officer finally says. "Keep her locked down, not my fault if she gets out." He sidles in closer one last time. "Keep her quiet. Not my problem if someone else gets in."

You know what you'd said now. Between the bit and her legs if you have to.

I promise you won't regret this. I promise I promise I—

All she says is, "let me know when you've got a line," and turns, "come on sweetheart. I wanna hear you say daddy."

You'll say that too.

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

[natureartisian]

Show Me The Way Home

Hi everyone!!! This is my first Bradley (Rooster) story and I am so so excited to have it posted. It has been something that has been sitting in my little brain for months and I am so happy to be sharing it with you. <3 This will be an 18+ story for both language, and mature content later on in the chapters...it will get spicy y'all.

next chapter

The summer had finally graced San Diego with the beautiful orange sky over the Hard Deck. My shift didn’t start for another twenty minutes so I decided to take a walk by the water. 

Across the bay I can see sailors boarding their boats in preparation for the upcoming season and the fishermen are getting an early start by mapping out the best spots to place their nets. 

“Andie, you’re here early.” I hear from behind me 

“Yeah, I… I couldn’t sleep so I figured I'd come by and see if there was anything I could do before my shift.” 

Penny noticed my stiff demeanor and placed a hand on my shoulder, “A shipment from Glenn’s was just dropped off, I could use the help if you’re still offering.” 

I nod my head and offer a smile, “Of course.”

I’ve been working for Penny at the Hard Deck for about three years now. I would visit frequently as a child prior to her being the head of business and it was always my home away from home. The Hard Deck is where all the kids who missed their parents would come so we could revel in their presence…even if it was just in the photos on the walls. Of course then we had to come in during specific hours, but once Penny got a hold of the lease, she designated a spot for us called the “Flight Crew Juniors”. I am one of the only few that still come around. I wouldn’t exactly call myself a “lucky one” but, my story hasn’t been as hard as the others that I frequented this place with. 

I run my fingers along the table that has signatures carved in it by knives. I pay close attention to two in particular. B.B. and A.K. 

“He’s supposed to be back, you know. His deployment ended not too long ago.” 

I let out a sigh, “Yeah, I heard that…we just…we never really kept in touch so…”

“There’s still time…”

Tearing my eyes away from the table I turn to Penny nodding, “Yeah, we’ll see. Anyways, was that the last box?”

She nods, “Yep, luckily it was mostly grenadine and toppings in that one so nothing too heavy. But, we gotta be prepared because starting tonight we’ve got new and returning sailors and aviators that are going to be busting down my door for some top shelf liquor that by next week they won’t be able to afford.” 

I let out a laugh as I can remember many nights when we’d watch new aviators try and buy drink after drink for a pretty face and then the look that rose on theirs when we rang the bell after the reader said, “declined”. They’re probably still fishing sand out of their shoes. 

Penny wasn’t kidding when she predicted we would be packed. It is 8:09pm and I have served enough mixed drinks to run out of a full bottle of Tequila. 

“Hey Pen, I have to run to the back and grab another bottle, are you going to be okay up here for a second?”

“Yes, can you also grab some more cherries? These kids keep running through them like it’s the nineties.” 

I mutter a “sure” as I watch three new sailors fail at tying a cherry stem with their tongue while the girl next to them does it in one go. 

Walking to the back I glance over at the pool table and notice the familiar kaki attire with the wings that sparkle in the light. Looks like Top Gun is going to be invaded by newbies, at least these ones I don’t have a history with. 

Grabbing three bottles of Tequila and the jar of cherries I push my way through the swinging doors of the storage when I hear, “Rooster, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

I stop dead in my tracks which makes the box wobble and one bottle of Tequila to drop flat on the floor shattering. “Mother fucker.” I mutter to myself angrily. I apologize to the couple that were splashed by the alcohol and tell them to get a shot on me at the bar while placing the broken pieces into my apron. 

“Andie?” 

The one voice I didn’t want to hear. 

“I’m fine, go back to your reunion.” I say as I continue picking up the broken pieces.

“Here, let me help..”

“NO Rooster. I said i’ve got it now just…OW fuck.!” Holding my hand I see the blood trailing down my finger.

“Andie really let me help you, you’re bleeding.” 

“Oh I am? I didn’t fucking realize that. God fuck. Can you just stand here over the spill and the glass so the drunk children of the bar don’t slip on it.” Not waiting for his response I speed walk to the back and run my hand under the sink

It just had to be Rooster. Bradley fucking Bradshaw. The one who was my best friend from the time we were six years old sitting in the back of my dads truck while he took us to see Maverick and him fly. We would spend days upon days together dreaming of being just like them. He wanted to live up to his dads legacy, and I wanted to live up to mine. That was all we ever talked about. The kinds of jets we wanted to fly, where we wanted to travel to, and when we would submit our applications. We had a solid fucking bond…until he decided to lie to me about his future and steer me completely off course. 

“Hey…Penny had one of the newbies clean up the mess, are you…how’s your hand?”

“Like you give a shit. It hurts, Rooster.” I roll my eyes at him 

He walks towards me and grabs my wrist gently, “Well to your surprise, I do give a shit. And running it under the water won’t really do much. The pressure is going to keep the wound open. Where’s your first aid kit.” 

Lifting my eyes up from my hand I point to the red box, “probably the box that says First Aid. But, that’s just a guess.” 

He turns and mutters, “smart ass” before opening the container and grabbing hydrogen peroxide, gauze and tape.

Placing my hand over the sink he pours the peroxide on my cut and it bubbles over. 

“So since we have time, how are you?”

“Seriously?” I snort out.

“What? I’m just…trying to make conversation.” Rooster says while measuring out the gauze.

“How have I been? Hmm let’s see. My father is terminally ill, my mother is barely leaving the house because she is terrified that if she does, something will happen to him. My siblings never come around much because they claim they have too much going on with their own families. And me? Oh well I'm stuck living at home, and working at this bar because well…that’s how life goes when your original plan just doesn’t work out.” I say while staring blankly into the mirror at his reflection.

His movements halt as he looks up at me in the mirror, “Look Andie…I…when he pulled my papers I thought that was it. I didn’t think there was anything I could do that would change how my career was going to pan out if i…” 

Shaking my head I grab the gauze and place it around my hand, “I’m not saying what you did was the wrong choice. You made the best choice for you, and I’m happy for you. I’m really fucking happy that after all that bullshit you were still able to be exactly where you are. What I'm pissed about, is that you didn’t have the fucking decency to tell me that you were getting a second chance.”

“What was I supposed to say? I mean you had already thrown out your admission I figured…”

“I DID IT FOR YOU. This was something we had wanted to do our entire lives. Seeing how devastated you were when you realized what Maverick did…how was I supposed to feel good going? I declined admissions because I couldn’t see myself in the navy without you. But, as I have learned, that was a stupid decision because, here you are a pilot and here I am…a bartender soaked in Tequila.”

Grabbing the first aid materials I stuff them back in the box and make my way to the back of the bar with the remaining ingredients.

"So...did you and Rooster have time to chat during your first aid lesson?" Penny smirks

"I really don't want to talk about it." I mutter close to tears.

She takes note of my emotion change and for the remainder of the night keeps the conversation to a minimum.

Once the final guy sways on out of the bar we close the doors and click the open sign off.

Letting out a huff I move towards the bar with a rag and a spray bottle.

"Nope. You sit and answer my questions while I clean." Penny says while tying her hair up

"What? Answer what questions? And Penny this place is a mess you're not cleaning it on you'r-"

"I didn't say I was cleaning it alone...you answer my questions and then after you can help. Now sit, and tell me what the hell is up with you and Rooster."

Letting out a defeated sigh I tell her everything.

"Okay...yeah...I can see where him coming back creates a bit of a spicy environment...but do you want my opinion?"

I nod gently

"Now...I'm not taking sides. You know I love you and I think the way that you feel is completely valid. I knew since the moment you walked into this bar with your daddies big aviator glasses and that Top Gun hat that you wanted nothing more than to be in one of these photos on the wall. You wanted to be a pilot, the Navy has been calling your name for years and... the fact that you declined your admission for Bradley...that's something that even shocks me. But it does show the kind of person you are and the heart you have, and you should be proud of that. Now, the other side of that...you're putting a lot of force on him for something that you chose. Again, I know that you didn't know that the admissions could be sent again at a different time, and I do agree that he should have called you and let you know...but also see it from his side. He let you turn down your dream for him. He watched you lose what you thought was going to be your future, and when he got a second chance, he probably felt so horrible in taking it but knew he wasn't prepared for anything else. Baby he doesn't have what you have. His family, is the Navy. That is one thing that makes Bradley Bradley. Now I'm not saying you need to make amends with him right now...I'm just saying, maybe it's time to let it go. You both had a beautiful friendship and I think right now more than ever...you deserve to get that back."

I sat on the barstool with tears streaming down my cheeks as I take in Penny's words. She's right. I have been sitting here for years, acting like a child. Bradley didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve the way I treated him. Am I still pissed at him for not calling me, yes. But, am I proud of him for going through everything regardless of what was done to his papers...yes.

Nodding my head I let out a sigh, "you're right. I just, I think when it happened I was just so blindsided by it. I mean he was supposed to be my best friend. I don't really know how I would have felt in the moment if he had told me that he was accepted again, but I think it wouldn't have been as long lasting as this has. I just have always felt like I did this thing for him and...if he knew that he could get a second chance why didn't he allow me one...and I know I have my family and you and Amelia and I'm so grateful, it's just...I don't know what I'm doing with my life. I am 33 years old, living at home, working at a bar and taking as many shifts as I possibly can so I can avoid being at home and waiting for the ball to drop. I mean I can't tell you how many of my friends save the dates I have in my top drawer. But I never go because I just feel so out of place and behind. I mean I can't show up to those things single and without a vision for my life. For fucks sake I just feel like I'm sitting in a glass jar trapped watching everyone around me achieve their goals and hit milestones and here I am with gauze on my fucking hand and sticky tequila on my jeans just...I remember being younger and saying you know if I don't have a partner by a certain age or kids, or if I don't have the house I dreamed of, it would be fine because at least I have my dream career...I don't know. I try and pretend that I'm fine and that things will workout and I can do this all on my own blah blah blah...but I won't deny that I'm just...I'm fucking tired. I'm tired of waking up and already feeling like I'm failing. Feeling like I just can't catch a fucking break. I just...I want it to make sense...somehow."

Laying my head on the bar I let out a very large breath and I hear Penny shuffling from behind the bar.

"Life is hard. It's never going to get easier, it is just going to be easier to handle. And don't for a second, think that you are just a woman that works at a bar. You are so much more than that, you have a big heart, a huge personality, and your life isn't over. You have so many years left to live and to figure it out. That's the fun thing about life. We are all doing it for the first time and we are all sitting with the same questions and the same exhaustions as you. I mean hell, I may have this bar in my pocket but I'm still a mother and I worry that Amelia needs more. She needs someone more present than me, and believe me, there are plenty of wine bottles that will tell you those stories. But, don't be so hard on yourself. You're doing the best you can with the material you are given and I promise you, making amends with Bradley...that could be a great first step."

She places her hand on my cheek and gives me a smile

"Now, go home. I'll finish cleaning. I want you take a bath, listen to your music and relax. Tomorrow is another day and I need you here with me when the boys come back."

Standing I take off my apron, "you sure you don't want me to help you clean?"

She nods, "Yes I'm sure. You go home and prepare that little speech for Rooster tomorrow." She sends me a wink.

I roll my eyes, "see you tomorrow Pen."

[logically-asexual]

okay hear me out.

after hawkmoth is defeated luka and his family can stay in one place again, so jagged and penny decide to go to london, and luka and juleka stay with them over the summer. jagged has a new album because his tour around the world inspired him a lot and he’s been doing a few concerts to promote it. there’s an after party for one of them and a bunch of cool celebrities are invited, including audrey bourgeois.

she was planning to just show up for a couple pictures, she had a new dress she wanted to show off or something, but chloe hadn’t stopped clinging to her all night complaining about her struggles with school*, and she followed her all the way to the party. once there, before the cameras are all on them, she finally gets fed up and tells chloe to get lost.

(*amongst the chaos of her dictatorship, the school year ended and she managed to use her power to get her middle school diploma, but now she had to get into high school and even with her money she still had to make it through admission paperwork and exams that her parents refused to help her with)

so chloe, once again heartbroken by her mom’s treatment, runs and finds somewhere to hide in the huge mansion where the party is happening. she is in a corner on some patio or terrace crying in silence when luka finds her. he sits next to her and asks her what’s wrong. at first chloe is defensive like “it’s none of your business, get away from me.” with her face still hidden. and luka being luka is like “chloe, right? i can feel your inner tune is overpowered by too much noise coming from every direction at once and not letting it find its way.”

“i told you to get away you little—“ she finally looks up and upon seeing his face she stops and finds herself unable to think of an insult, so she says “ugh, you might be cute even with those old rags but you still have no right speaking to me!”

so luka just smiles at her and asks if he can sit in silence then. which leaves chloe at a loss for words and in the end she just nods and turns back to face away from him. they stay like that for a while, with chloe sniffling and wiping away tears every once in a while. later she checks her phone and sighs because she has no calls or messages.

luka sees and says something like "you know, i'm glad that you're here. these events can get kind of lonely. it's weird to have all these strangers in the house all night, and my dad is always busy trying to keep them entertained ... don't get me wrong, it's really cool that he's a rockstar but. he's so famous and amazing that sometimes it's easy to feel lost under his shadow. and he was away for so long, it's hard to--"

he hesitates to continue so chloe, finally looking at him, says "it's okay. i know exactly what you mean."

luka smiles at her and it's like he's radiating calmness, enough for her to forget everything that had made her angry that day. he moves his guitar from his back to hold it in place and asks her what kind of music she likes. she's like "uh.. XY?"

"come on, you really like his music?"

"i mean his hair is SO cute, and the way he dances on stage and--"

"no, i didn't say the artist. what do you think about the music?"

she stops to think. "i don't know.. i don't pay that much attention to it, i guess. it's.. kind of boring. but who am i to judge, i was never able to play that utterly useless flute my daddy got for me once, it sounded like a caged bird with asthma. although, at least that would probably be more entertaining.."

luka laughs at that. "that's the spirit." and then "come on, let's find your sound."

..

and they spend the next hours there talking, and find that they're so different yet,, chloe feels so at peace with him in a way she hadn't in.. she can't even remember when she felt so calm. and luka can see that there's a hidden side of chloe that dares to peak out when she's feeling comfortable and that he likes and wants to see more of. and he doesnt immediately forget everything she's done to marinette and juleka and the rest of their class, but he sees hope in her, maybe he can be there for her now as she starts over.

[melodiesinmyheadgoescrazy]

Mid-west, Clint eastwood, Marty Robins-esque

I've been cooking up this story for... Half a year? No more procrastination!

My daddy weren’t no man. Least not the kind he thought he was. After mama birthed me, he got stuck with a howlin' baby doll that haunted him clear through to when I will be in my wedding-age. I remember, faint-like, the last pat my mother gave me before she high-tailed outta our lives. Left that man. Left me.

She had big lights in her eyes. Wanted to be famous actress, I reckon. Folks say her voice could soothe even the wildest newborn, lull 'em like a lullaby on a riverboat. I don’t remember it. I envy them that do. They ask if I miss her. I don't. Truth is, I never knew the woman. A woman who would conceive a child with a man like my father? No ma'am. she must have been insane, for leaving a child in his hands. She weren’t mad… or maybe she was. Either way, she up and left a kid with him, and that’s enough to curse her name. I speak it like it’s fiction-like it belongs in a novel you find down the road.

Now, my old man… he’s something surreal. Ugly as sin but women keep tossin’ themselves at him like coins into a wishing well. Rumors hang around him like flies on a pig. People know he ain’t got no heart, and no capacity for love. Yet during my childhood, several women came in and out of our lives, not to take care of me, but to care for my father.

He ended up takin' in a girl-bout my age. I was fourteen. Her name was Kala. Indian girl. He tied the knot with her, but not the kind of story you write in wedding invites.

He won her in a game. A dang card game.

Her pa, Francis, was a white man with pockets full of debt and a plan, he saw his daughter as the key to getting out of debt.. Middle of the day, town’s menfolk sittin’ around Herman’s Place-a dive where lawmen lose their way, gamblers lose their shirts, And my daddy found his people: lumberjacks, traders, even Brits too polished for his kind. He weren’t respected. He was just… there. A tagalong with charm dipped in grease, unlike them, he had nothing but the number of women he left with unfathered children.

Francis bet his last chip: his daughter. Wanted outta debt so bad, and my daddy-man without a penny to feed me, already sold half our farm stock-decided to lend some money to that bum just for the trill of the game. Game was simple. If Francis wins, debt’s cleared. Daddy wins, he pays up. Francis lost. And he handed over his daughter like she was a watch or a bottle of whiskey.

My father dropped everything and accepted. He forgave all debts. I remember the first day he brought her home-his smile so bright it reflected every kind of light that exists. I looked at the girl. She had long hair, dull and doll-like. Fragile. Her skin was darker than anyone in town. Her eyes reflected nothing. She and I did not get along. She looked younger than I was. She carried an aura of sadness like a silhouette. Still, after she came, my father had no other women. That meant something. But not enough.

One morning, he laid hands on her. Marked her face with anger-tattooed his rage like a branding iron. She had overslept. Me and him came back from yard work, empty stomachs and hot tempers. She stood quiet, She said nothing-she knew her faults-but her eyes burned redder than her cheeks. Fury reeked from her pores.

She tried fightin’ back. Lord, she did.

With all her strength, she tried to put him down. That was my final straw. The man had it coming. We charged him together, two teenagers with nothing but rage-but he was a tower. I screamed for her to run to her room as I took every blow he gave. That old man was no good. I yelled for her to run. She bolted to the room upstairs. He dragged me like a wolf would prey. He grabbed my wrist and pinned me down. She ran upstairs, and he followed, locking them both inside. I was below, listening to hell erupt above. I ran outside. The breeze hit me as I stared up at their window. Five hours passed. No one came out.

Window stayed dark.

“She’s dead,” I mumbled.

The next morning, the old man kicked me awake to go feed the horses. Inside, I smelled breakfast. It was her. She was cooking like nothing had happened. I tried to speak to her. I told her she could leave him. But she insisted, saying he'd go back to her father and demand repayment of the debt. I argued that the old man had already forgotten about it. But she looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Where else would I go?” I couldn’t argue with that. She would either be a wh# re in this house, or a wh# re somewhere else. After that, we bonded-like sisters.

[doyouknowthisbook-poll]

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Kilorn will find me anywhere I try to hide, so I keep moving. I sprint like I can outrun what I've done to Gisa, how I've failed Kilorn, how I've destroyed everything. But even I can't outrun the look in my mother's eyes when I brought Gisa to the door. I saw the hopeless shadow cross her face, and I ran before my father wheeled himself into view. I couldn't face them both. I'm a coward.

So I run until I can't think, until every bad memory fades away, until I can only feel the burning in my muscles. I even tell myself the tears on my cheeks are rain.

When I finally slow to catch my breath, I'm outside the village, a few miles down that terrible northern road. Lights filter through the trees around the bend, illuminating an inn, one of the many on the old roads. It's crowded like it is every summer, full of servants and seasonal workers who follow the royal court. They don't live in the Stilts, they don't know my face, so they're easy prey for pickpocketing. I do it every summer, but Kilorn is always with me, smiling into a drink as he watches me work. I don't suppose I'll see his smile for much longer.

A bellow of laughter rises as a few men stumble from the inn, drunk and happy. Their coin purses jingle, heavy with the day's pay. Silver money, for serving, smiling, and bowing to monsters dressed as lords.

I caused so much harm today, so much hurt to the ones I love most. I should turn around and go home, to face everyone with at least some courage. But instead I settle against the shadows of the inn, content to remain in darkness.

I guess causing pain is all I'm good for.

It doesn't take long to fill the pockets of my coat. The drunks filter out every few minutes and I press against them, pasting on a smile to hide my hands. No one notices, no one even cares, when I fade away again. I'm a shadow, and no one remembers shadows.

Midnight comes and goes and still I stand, waiting. The moon overhead is a bright reminder of the time, of how long I've been gone. One last pocket, I tell myself. One more and I'll go. I've been saying it for the past hour.

I don't think when the next patron comes out. His eyes are on the sky, and he doesn't notice me. It's too easy to reach out, too easy to hook a finger around the strings of his coin purse. I should know better by now that nothing here is easy, but the riot and Gisa's hollow eyes have made me foolish with grief.

His hand closes around my wrist, his grip firm and strangely hot as he pulls me forward out of the shadows. I try to resist, to slip away and run, but he's too strong. When he spins, the fire in his eyes puts a fear in me, the same fear I felt this morning. But I welcome any punishment he might summon. I deserve it all.

"Thief," he says, a strange surprise in his voice.

I blink at him, fighting the urge to laugh. I don't even have the strength to protest. "Obviously."

He stares at me, scrutinizing everything from my face to my worn boots. It makes me squirm. After a long moment, he heaves a breath and lets me go.

Stunned, I can only stare at him. When a silver coin spins through the air, I barely have the wits to catch it. A tetrarch. A silver tetrarch worth one whole crown. Far more than any of the stolen pennies in my pockets.

"That should be more than enough to tide you over," he says before I can respond. In the light of the inn, his eyes glint red-gold, the color of warmth.

My years spent sizing people up do not fail me, even now. His black hair is too glossy, his skin too pale to be anything but a servant. But his physique seems more like a woodcutter's, with broad shoulders and strong legs. He's young too, a little older than me, though not nearly as assured of himself as any nineteen or twenty-year-old should be.

I should kiss his boots for letting me go and giving me such a gift, but my curiosity gets the better of me. It always does.

"Why?" The word comes out hard and harsh. After a day like today, how can I be anything else?

The question takes him aback and he shrugs. "You need it more than I do."

I want to throw the coin back in his face, to tell him I can take care of myself, but part of me knows better. Has today taught you nothing? "Thank you," I force out through gritted teeth.

[sergiosimptellitto]

Sincerely, F.P.

Chapter 8: “For Such a Time as This”

Historical Notes for Context:

Sixties Scoop (1960s–1980s): Government practice in Canada where Indigenous children were taken from their families and placed in non-Indigenous foster or adoptive homes — especially prevalent in provinces like Québec and Manitoba. Bill C-36 (1992/93 Criminal Law Reform): Set the groundwork for tougher sentencing laws in Canada, which disproportionately affected Indigenous and Black Canadians. CORCAN (Canadian Correctional Industries): A division of Correctional Service Canada that employs inmates in manufacturing, textile, construction, and services — pays them below minimum wage. Private prison lobbying (late 80s–early 90s): While private prisons were never fully formalized in Canada like in the U.S., the idea was being circulated and piloted, especially under cost-cutting measures and American influence.

The church is small, nestled between a pharmacy and a closed-down bakery, but it’s warm inside. The pews creak when people shift. The old woman behind you sings the hymns like she means them, and the wooden cross at the front of the sanctuary has a single white ribbon pinned to it — like a reminder that resurrection follows death.

You grip the sides of the hymnal and try to focus.

But your mind drifts. Always… back to him.

The cold tiles of the butcher’s floor.

The raw scream that split the air like meat being torn.

The voice — that voice — murmuring calmly, unmistakably Frank’s.

And then: the gloves. The scarf. The brooch in your dorm.

Your stomach churns. You swallow it down.

Up front, the pastor’s voice steadies like a hand on your shoulder.

“Now the book of Esther, beloved, is the only book in the Bible where God’s name is never mentioned… but don’t be mistaken. His presence is everywhere in it.”

You lift your gaze to the pulpit.

“Esther was an orphan. A nobody. A woman in exile. But she was beautiful, wise, and obedient. The King chose her to be Queen of Persia, not knowing her people — the Jews — were condemned by his own decree.”

“And what did Esther do when the decree to kill her people came down from Haman, the king’s right-hand man?”

“She fasted. She prayed. She put on royal robes. And she walked into the King’s court, uninvited, risking her life — because if she didn’t speak, no one else would.”

You close your eyes. The butcher’s scream rings again. The rust-brown gloves folded like organs.

Frank’s note, still on your desk.

You’re no queen. No heroine. But you know what you saw.

And worse: you know who they are. The men in the meat shop. The business deals done in silence. The envelopes and favors dressed as scholarships.

The pastor continues.

“When Mordecai warned Esther, he said something I want us to remember today. He said: ‘If you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from another place—but you and your father’s house will perish. Who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?’”

You feel it hit your chest like a hammer.

For such a time as this.

You remember Alexander — sweet, clumsy, too-eager Alexander, working long hours in that metal shop, scraping pennies, saving for classes. His coworkers. Immigrants. Quiet people with tired hands and gentle eyes.

You remember what the butcher muttered under his breath when you asked about interviewing foreigners.

You remember the subtle sneer. The way he looked you over.

He didn’t want to let you speak to them. You weren’t surprised.

But you didn’t expect what you heard behind that door.

And now — you know too much.

The pastor’s voice softens.

“Esther didn’t save her people by force. She didn’t call down fire or hold a sword. She used wisdom. Presence. And when the King saw her standing there — knowing full well that she risked death — he extended his golden scepter.”

“Sometimes, that’s all courage is: standing in the room you’re not supposed to be in, and not looking away.”

Your chest feels tight. Your knees shaky. You excuse yourself before the benediction.

Outside, the sun is too bright. You blink against it.

You feel the weight of Esther’s story in your bones now.

You have seen the King’s face — and you know what he is.

But there are others. Quiet ones. Innocents.

And someone else has begun to notice your closeness to him.

You can feel it.

A man in Frank’s orbit, darker than him in spirit, if not in power. You’ve seen him at gatherings — with the sharp eyes, the bitter tongue. He doesn’t speak to you directly, but he watches.

You don’t know his name yet.

But soon you will.

And he will know yours.

“Let me remind you something, church…”

The pastor’s voice grows quieter now, not for lack of passion, but the kind of hush that makes a room lean in.

“Esther could’ve died.”

You stop fiddling with your gloves.

“This wasn’t symbolic. This wasn’t dramatic license. This wasn’t a fairytale.”

His eyes scan the congregation, but for a split second — irrational as it may be — you feel like he’s looking right at you.

“The law said that anyone who approached the king without being summoned could be put to death. Doesn’t matter who you were. Doesn’t matter if you wore a crown. If you weren’t called — and you walked in anyway — your life was forfeit.”

You’re not breathing anymore.

“Now maybe you know that kind of fear,” the pastor says slowly. “The kind where you know what you should say — what’s right to say — but the cost of it? That’s where the battle really is. That’s where the enemy whispers, ‘Better to stay quiet. Better to survive.’”

His voice sharpens. Like flint.

“But hear me: survival without truth is not life. Esther knew the risk. She knew she might never leave that court. And still she said: ‘If I perish, I perish.’”

“That’s the heartbeat of courage, church. Not absence of fear. But presence of conviction.”

Your hands are shaking now.

Because you know what it means to walk into a palace and smile. To be touched gently by the hand of a man who can destroy you.

To wear the gift of someone whose gloves smell like blood.

The sermon continues, but your body feels far away.

You’d once thought Frank was just a man with money, charm, and a penchant for velvet secrets. You were wrong. He’s a king, yes — but not of stories.

A king of cities.

A king of silence.

A king whose throne is built on bones.

And you? You’re no longer just a guest.

You’ve been ushered into his court, dressed in his gifts, served from his table.

But your people aren’t his.

And his kingdom comes with a cost.

“So I ask you this morning,” the pastor calls out, one final plea ringing through the sanctuary like a tolling bell. “What court are you standing in? What truth are you afraid to speak? And what if — just what if — you were born for such a time as this?”

The package arrives on a grey Thursday, just after you’d come back from the university’s archive room.

It’s not Frank.

It’s a man who calls himself Signor Nicolás— Italian accent curled sharp around the edges, like a knife honed for conversation. He's tall, groomed, with silvering temples and a long camel coat that makes him look like an ambassador to some forgotten kingdom.

He bows slightly. “Dottoressa,” he says, a little too pleased with himself for using the title.

You blink. You’ve never introduced yourself with that term. Frank must’ve briefed him.

He sets the package down on the table in your small room. The box is wrapped not in paper, but in a soft ivory cloth. Embroidered. You already know it’s expensive.

“From the Signore,” he says, like everyone should know who the Signore is.

“Thank you,” you reply cautiously.

He doesn’t leave.

Instead, he lingers near your bookshelf, skimming the titles with mock curiosity. “You like old ideas,” he muses. “This one…” He points to your worn copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed. “Still relevant? I thought all that Marxist sentimentalism had died with the Berlin Wall.”

You say nothing. You nod politely. You do not take the bait.

“I myself prefer discipline over critique,” he adds. “But then again, I suppose when one’s from countries that... struggle with order, critique becomes a habit, no?”

You nearly drop your teacup. It isn’t what he says — it’s the casual ease of it. The smile behind it.

“Countries like?” you ask, voice flat.

“Oh, you know,” he waves vaguely. “South America. The Levant. Parts of Africa. Not Europe, of course — we outgrew chaos a long time ago.”

You want to scream. But you smile instead.

He gestures to the gift. “I chose this particular one myself. Frank wanted something useful this time. Not sentimental. You are too sharp for trinkets, no?”

You peel back the cloth slowly. It’s a fountain pen. Black lacquer. Gold trim. Engraved with your initials.

And beneath it, a sheaf of watermarked paper. The good kind. The kind judges use.

“You’re writing about immigrant labor,” he says without waiting for confirmation. “You should document everything properly. We like tidy minds. Tidy conclusions.”

Your heart sinks.

He knows what your thesis is about. Why would he know? Why would Frank tell him?

“Don’t forget,” he says as he stands to leave, “Canada has always been built by newcomers. But kingdoms…” He pauses at the door. “Kingdoms are built by those who decide who stays.”

Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world: “Chin up, Esther. You’ve already been chosen.”

The door shuts.

You stare at the pen. The paper. Your hands feel like they’ve been dipped in oil.

You understand now.

You weren’t the only one being watched.

You were being measured.

The invitation comes in a sealed envelope, hand-delivered like always. Heavy parchment. Minimal words. Just a time, and an address.

Frank’s real address.

The one you were never meant to need.

It’s not the chapel. Not the art wing. Not the borrowed conference room where he first watched you give a nervous presentation on irregular labor practices in Southern Italy. No — this time it’s his personal quarters.

The estate sits at the far edge of the property, beyond a wrought iron gate and a drive long enough to forget you're still in Québec. It’s quiet. Palatial. Designed for discretion.

You’re led through a small foyer lined with oil paintings and glass cabinets displaying relics — Catholic, military, Roman, you’re not sure. The man collecting these things clearly believes in legacy.

He’s waiting for you in the study. Leaning back in a leather chair by the fire, a tumbler of amber liquor at his side, a half-smoked cigar between his fingers.

“Tesoro.”

He always calls you that.

You hate how good it sounds.

“You said you wanted to discuss the next disbursement for my stipend,” you begin, setting your satchel down on the nearest table. “I brought the preliminary budget. I can—”

“You look tense.”

He interrupts softly. Not rude, not abrupt. But enough to make it clear this is his room, not yours.

You straighten. “It’s been a long week.”

He gestures lazily toward the seat across from him. “Come. Sit.”

You do. Slowly. His gaze traces your every move — the hem of your skirt when you cross your legs, the fingers that adjust your blouse, the way you avoid meeting his eyes too long. He says nothing, but his lips curve slightly at the corners.

He smokes in silence while you speak.

“…and the expenses at the campus café doubled due to the construction. I can still work within the amount we agreed upon, but I’ll likely have to do some evening shifts at the—”

“Come sit on my lap.”

You blink.

“I… I’m good where I am, thank you.”

You try to keep your voice neutral. Academic. Detached.

He chuckles — not in mockery, but in something dangerously amused. Like watching a kitten try to argue with a lion.

“Tesoro,” he says again. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

He doesn’t raise his voice.

He doesn’t need to.

You stare at him.

Frank doesn’t move, doesn’t shift — just holds the cigar between two fingers, watching you through the curling smoke as if nothing about this is out of the ordinary.

But it is.

Everything about this is not ordinary.

And yet—

You stand.

Walk slowly.

He doesn’t reach for you when you approach. He waits. Not patient — confident.

And when you finally sit — stiff, barely touching him — his arm snakes around your waist and pulls you fully onto him. Like gravity. Like something inevitable.

“Better,” he murmurs.

You can feel his heartbeat where your spine presses against his chest. One hand settles on your thigh. The other taps ash into the tray.

“What are you afraid of?” he asks, not unkindly.

You don’t answer.

Because the answer is everything.

You're afraid of him.

Afraid of yourself.

Afraid of how your body betrays your mind, leaning into his touch like you want to belong to something this dangerous, this powerful.

“I don’t do anything halfway,” he murmurs near your ear. “Not business. Not politics. Not the women I protect.”

He says it like a promise.

Or a warning.

You could leave.

You should leave.

But the fire crackles softly behind you, and his hand is warm, and you are so tired of being strong.

So you stay.

You shift in his lap, attempting to pull your satchel closer without drawing attention to how your legs tremble beneath your skirt.

Frank rests one hand on your knee. Not suggestive — not yet. Just... there. Claiming.

"Now," he says, voice low, smoke curling from the edge of his lips. "Your report, tesoro. I want to hear what you're building with my name on it."

Your throat tightens. "The research?"

He nods.

You retrieve the folder and open it with practiced precision. Pages filled with proposed structures, anonymized interviews, early analysis. All the clean metrics that have made you stand out. All the things that made him notice you in the first place.

You read aloud.

You keep your voice steady, eyes fixed on the paper, not on the shape of his thigh beneath you, or the heat of his breath on your temple.

You hear him murmur “Good girl” more than once, always when you reference something careful. Discreet. Loyal.

You’re halfway through your section on labor patterns in semi-formal industries when the door opens.

Frank doesn’t move.

You tense.

A man walks in, somewhere in his late forties, greying at the temples but still broad-shouldered, wearing an expensive but rumpled coat. He glances once at you — then past you, toward Frank.

"Boss," he says. The accent is southern. Italian. Strong.

You recognize him instantly. He’d been at the art exposition — laughing too loud, drinking too much. The one Frank had called "Cugino."

“Giacomo,” Frank says easily, as if nothing is odd about having a young woman balanced in his lap while he reviews academic documents.

“Need your signature on the Fontaine papers,” Giacomo says, pulling a thick folder from under his arm. He hesitates. Looks at you again. “Should I come back later?”

“No need,” Frank says.

You sit up straighter, cheeks burning. “It’s alright, I can step—”

“You’ll stay where you are,” Frank says, without looking at you.

Your mouth opens.

Closes.

Giacomo raises a brow, then shrugs. He places the folder on the table beside you and leans in to flip to the marked page. “This one’s for the sale of the Mirabel property. The accountant flagged some inconsistencies in the—”

“There were none,” you say, voice light but automatic. “That file’s clean. I cross-checked it last week.”

You freeze.

Giacomo looks up, slowly.

Frank does not react. Not immediately.

Only after a long pause — long enough for the realization to settle like ash — does he say:

“Tesoro, what did you just say?”

You feel it in your chest. The shift in tone. He’s not angry. Not visibly. But something has gone cold.

Your fingers tighten around the folder in your lap.

“I—I meant I looked at a similar file last week,” you say, trying to recover, “for a different project. It’s just—formatting looked familiar, that’s all.”

Frank doesn’t blink.

Giacomo gives a slow, humorless smile.

“Boss,” he says, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. “Didn’t know your girl had clearance.”

“She doesn’t,” Frank says, still looking at you.

Silence.

Long.

Thick.

You feel the gravity of the moment — not just because of what you said, but because it slipped out. Because for a second, you forgot the game. For a second, you acted like an equal.

Frank lifts the pen.

Signs without looking.

"Leave it," he says to Giacomo.

When the door closes again, the room feels ten degrees hotter.

Frank puts out the cigar.

Leans back.

And for the first time, his voice carries the dangerous softness of a man who doesn’t like being second-guessed.

“Tesoro,” he says. “You’re smart. Brilliant, even. But you don’t know what you're not supposed to know.”

You open your mouth.

He presses a finger to your lips.

“Don’t. Lie.”

He isn’t angry.

He’s something worse.

“Do you want to be kept safe, or do you want to be part of the world that needs protection?”

You say nothing.

Because you’re not sure there’s a right answer anymore.

Frank’s silence stretches. Not angry. Not loud.

Worse.

He watches you, the way a man might watch a caged thing testing the bars.

“I am truly fond of you, sweetheart,” he says at last. The warmth in his voice is a trapdoor. “But rules are rules. And if you want to stay in here…”

He taps the folder you had been reading from.

“…they apply to you too.”

The chair creaks as he leans forward. You can feel the sharpness of his gaze even as you look away, every muscle in your body tightening in preparation for something.

Then—he doesn't speak.

He growls.

Low. Animal.

A sound pulled from the depths of a man used to command. Not with words. But with fear.

Your breath stops.

His hand—still on your knee—tightens just slightly. Enough to send a jolt down your spine. Enough to remind you how easily he could make you disappear from this chair, this room, this city.

“…Never contradict me,” he says, slow, controlled, inches from your ear. “Especially not in front of my men.”

His breath is hot. The tip of his nose grazes your temple.

“I made you something delicate. Precious. Don’t go making me wonder if you’re just another mouth that needs to be shut.”

Your eyes sting, but you don’t dare blink too hard. You sit perfectly still, afraid even your heartbeat might sound like dissent.

Then—

Suddenly—

He pulls back.

All the tension drains from his posture like it was never there. He exhales through his nose, smooths your skirt with a strangely gentle hand.

“And now,” he says with something like amusement, “back to the report. Where were we?”

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t need you to.

You smile. It’s not real.

Because in this room, you are not a scholar.

You are not a guest.

You are not even a woman.

You are his.

The church smells like old wood and paper bulletins. The sun cuts through the colored glass in dull strips, painting warmth across the pews. You sit toward the back, hands still stiff in your lap, body still aching from the chair in Frank’s office. His voice still buzzes somewhere inside your skull.

But here, the silence is different.

Not thick with control.

Just… quiet.

“Good to see you back, sister,” comes a familiar voice.

You turn, startled. The pastor’s smile is weathered, wide. His braid is silvered at the temples now, but his eyes — sharp and steady — still hold the kind of calm that makes children stop crying, or broken people stay a little longer in pews.

“Pastor Eli,” you exhale, rising.

“Thought I saw your coat earlier. Still cold out there.”

“It’s been a hard week,” you admit before you can stop yourself.

He doesn’t ask. He just gestures toward his office.

You follow.

The walls are covered in books — some worn from prayer and time, others stacked with sticky notes and dog-eared corners. A small cedar cross hangs behind the desk, and a pot of strong coffee steams beside two chipped mugs.

“I’ve read your thesis proposal,” he says, settling down, glasses perched low on his nose. “Immigrant labor structures across industry sectors. Heavy. But urgent.”

“Thank you for agreeing to help.”

“Of course. Our congregation would be honored. Many of them have lived exactly the kinds of stories you’re hoping to document. You’ll find no shortage of testimony here. But tell me, how’s your soul holding up?”

You blink.

That’s what he always asks.

Not How are you? Not How’s school? But your soul.

You smile faintly. “Tired.”

He nods, not pressing. Just listening. Pouring the coffee.

“Have you been praying?”

“Not like I used to.”

“Then maybe not like you need to,” he says, without cruelty. “And maybe it’s time to stop seeing Esther as a metaphor.”

You look up. “What do you mean?”

Pastor Eli leans back, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Most people think the point of Esther’s story was that she was beautiful and brave. That God used her in a palace. But what most forget is: she almost died.”

He holds your gaze.

“She put her life on the line. Went to the king uninvited. That wasn’t romance. That was intercession. She wasn’t there for herself — she was there for her people.”

You swallow, the words hitting too close.

“She could’ve kept quiet. Lived a soft life. Worn silk, worn perfume. But Mordecai told her the truth — ‘Perhaps you were made queen for such a time as this.’ That means there was a cost. And she paid it.”

You stare at the rim of your mug, heart thudding.

“She had power — but it wasn’t hers. It was given to her. Loaned. And she gave it back to God.”

He doesn’t say Frank’s name.

He doesn’t have to.

Your silence is loud.

“And the king,” he continues gently, “was only a king. Not a savior. He made a choice, yes. But Esther moved his heart because she was righteous. Because she risked. Because she spoke.”

You feel your throat tighten. You bite the inside of your cheek.

Pastor Eli’s voice softens even more.

“You don’t need to be brave every minute, sister. Just the moment God says, Speak. And if you hear that moment coming… you need to know who you are before it does.”

You nod, slowly.

He refills your mug. The smell of cedar and coffee and dust swirls around you. You are not in Frank’s office anymore.

You are seen. Not owned.

“By the way,” he adds, lifting a folder, “if you’d like, I can have one of our deacons help you arrange interview schedules. I’ve already spoken to some of the elders. The youth ministry could be an excellent source too — second-generation immigrants have so much to say about work, identity, loss…”

He trails off, watching your face. “You’re somewhere else, aren’t you?”

“I’m just—grateful,” you say. “This means everything.”

He places a hand over yours. Warm. Steady.

“You’re not alone, daughter. Even if you’re walking straight into fire.”

You nod.

You don’t tell him you already feel the heat.

The letter is sealed in a thick, white envelope. No name. Just the red ink on the corner — a sigil you’ve come to recognize: a single black tower circled by laurels. Municipal. Provincial. Cold.

Pastor Eli lifts it with two fingers, studying it like one might study a snake in the grass. His secretary had found it slipped under the church doors before sunrise.

He reads it once. Then again.

And then he sighs, deep from the belly. The kind of sigh that comes with knowing too much.

You are left alone at the church, your finger holding a Bible open, book of Esther, chapter 2:

21 During the time Mordecai was sitting next to the king’s gate, this happened: Bigthana and Teresh, two of the king’s officers who guarded the doorway, became angry with the king. They began to make plans to kill King Xerxes.   22 But Mordecai learned about these plans and told Queen Esther. Then she told the king. She also told him that Mordecai was the one who had learned about the evil plan.   23 Then the report was checked out. It was learned that Mordecai’s report was true. The two guards who had planned to kill the king were hanged on a post. All these things were written down in a book of the king’s histories in front of the king.

It’s dark when he arrives at the estate. The road winds like a secret. No signs. No streetlights. Just iron gates and that creeping feeling in his stomach again — like the old days, when he still carried the war in his bones.

The guards don’t question his arrival. Mordecai always has clearance.

“Don Paterno is inside,” one nods. “Waiting.”

Eli walks slowly through the marble corridor, boots echoing softly. He doesn’t ask for a drink. He doesn’t sit. When he enters the study, Frank is already there — one hand on a crystal glass, the other resting on a file.

“Preacher,” Frank says smoothly. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Eli lifts the letter and tosses it on the desk between them. “They’re coming for you.”

Frank’s jaw moves once. Then stops. He doesn’t touch the letter.

“Is that so.”

“There’s a sting in two weeks. Officially it’s a tax fraud investigation. Unofficially—it’s a power play.”

Frank’s eyes narrow. “Whose?”

“Your old friend, Lambert. Now running for premier. The one who owns half the prison contracts in the province. His whole campaign is based on law and order.”

Frank chuckles, but it’s hollow. “He needs a monster.”

“You’re perfect,” Eli replies. “Rich. Italian. Catholic. Powerful. With just enough truth in the rumors to keep the headlines juicy.”

Frank leans back. “And you’ve come to warn me. Out of what, loyalty?”

Eli doesn’t blink.

“One of my young men — Claude — used to run numbers for your men. Back in ’91. He came to me shaking when he heard about the sting. Said they offered him immunity if he gave a statement. He’s clean now. Got two kids. Works double shifts at a plant. But they don’t care. He’s a body. And bodies make headlines.”

Frank doesn’t speak. He just watches.

Eli steps closer. “You think I came here to save you?”

Silence.

“I came to protect him. And the dozen other poor men of color they’re going to march across a courtroom as proof that Lambert ‘cleans house’. You’re the headline. But they’re the ones who’ll rot in a cell while your lawyers negotiate deals.”

Frank’s lips part. Then close.

“I don’t like you,” Eli adds simply. “But I trust the devil I know more than the ones I don’t. And you—”

He lifts the envelope again and tosses it back.

“You have enough power to stop this quietly. Not just for yourself. But for the ones under you.”

Frank rises. There’s a flicker in his eyes — not gratitude. Not exactly. Something colder. Something closer to… calculation.

“They watch your church, you know,” he murmurs. “My men go every week. You preach like you're free, but they still come back with numbers. How many people. How many dollars. What they wear. What they drive.”

Eli doesn’t flinch.

“Let them.”

Frank lights a cigar, slow. Deliberate. “You’re very bold, Pastor.”

“I serve someone higher than you, Paterno.”

There’s a beat.

Then Frank nods, just once. As if to say so do I — though his god wears better suits.

—

You don’t know any of this, not yet.

All you know is that Pastor Eli called you, asked if you’d like to meet for tea. Said he had something you might want to hear — something about the justice system, about who wins when poor men go to prison, and who profits.

You don’t know that your Mordecai just saved a king. Or how he did it with grit and silence instead of violence.

You just know something is shifting.

And the moment is coming closer.

You're sitting on the church steps. The snow hasn't come yet, but the sky is a flat, pregnant gray. It makes the trees look like paper silhouettes. You're holding a cup of hot tea in your gloved hands, watching Pastor Eli pour another for himself.

It was supposed to be a quick thank-you visit. He opened his congregation to your research without hesitation. But you didn’t expect this heaviness. This quiet.

You look over at him. “You okay, Pastor?”

He gives a tired smile.

“You ever seen a family photo,” he begins, “and there’s one chair left empty? Not because someone’s late. But because someone’s gone?”

You nod. Maybe.

“My mother had eight children. By the time I was sixteen, only three of us were left in the house.”

He pauses. His breath clouds the air.

“They called it ‘adoption.’ Called it ‘saving them.’ But we knew. My youngest sister was taken from the reserve when she was three. Catholic charity. White couple from Ontario. We never saw her again.”

You blink. “Was this... during the Sixties Scoop?”

Eli nods slowly. “Closer to the tail end. Late seventies. But the Scoop never really ended. Not where I come from. They just gave it new names. Child welfare. Integration programs. Same theft. Different paperwork.”

The silence between you sharpens.

Then he adds: “My brother ended up in juvie. Not because he was dangerous. But because they said he was ‘loitering’ near a shopping center. He was fourteen.”

You swallow. “And now?”

Eli looks out across the snow-dusted street.

“Died in prison. Gaspé, 1985.”

You close your eyes. The air feels thinner.

He shifts in his seat.

“You want to understand what’s happening with Frank Paterno? The prisons, the raids, the stings dressed up as virtue?” He gestures with his mug. “Look at Bill C-36. Passed just last year. They say it’s about criminal law reform — mandatory minimums, tougher parole conditions. But it's just another tool.”

You try to keep up. “Tool for what?”

“For business, girl. Since 1989, we’ve had our first for-profit prisons getting talked about in Parliament. And now? Well. You see the direction. In the States, they got the Thirteenth Amendment — slavery’s abolished except for punishment. We’ve got something slicker.”

He leans in, voice lower.

“Incarcerated folks here in Canada can be legally forced into manual labour. Penal labour. There’s a whole labor program for inmates — CORCAN. Makes furniture. Clothing. Things for the military. Pays them cents per hour.”

“But that’s—”

“—Slavery. Repackaged.”

You feel your hands clench around the cup.

He sits back. “Frank Paterno’s not the only one making money from desperation. He’s just more honest about it than Lambert.”

There’s a silence again. Not awkward. Not angry. Just real.

“Can I ask something?” you murmur. “Why do you still come here? To this city. This work. These people.”

He looks at you. Something gentle in his face.

“Because someone has to. Because there’s always one Esther. And one Haman. And if I have to stand at the gate every week, count the damn tithe reports, and keep my kids out of chains — then so be it.”

You feel the lump rising in your throat. The tea is cold now.

Pastor Eli pats your knee.

“Frank sees you, you know,” he adds softly. “Not just sees you. I mean he’s watching. Choosing. That kind of man doesn’t court. He claims. You be careful.”

You whisper: “I already saw something. At the butcher.”

His expression doesn’t change.

“I know,” he says, two simple words that let know the two decades he has spent seeing far worse things.

That’s all.

And suddenly, you don’t feel like you're walking into your thesis anymore.

You're walking into war.

You're still at the church. The tea’s long gone cold, but you haven’t moved. The way Pastor Eli sits — like someone who’s buried too many truths — draws the silence out until it begins to ache.

Then, his voice breaks the stillness.

“Do you want to know when I stopped asking God for morally acceptable solutions?”

You look up.

“I was barely twenty. Fresh out of seminary. More faith than sense. I came here to help Pastor Simmons — a black man, strong voice, Mississippi roots. He came north thinking Québec would be safer than Georgia.” A bitter smile. “He was wrong.”

He shifts in his chair, then leans forward. His hands are clasped tight.

“Frank’s father owned the land the church was built on. Most of Québec was papered in Patérno deeds by the '70s. And once a month, Frank would come collect the dues. He was on his late twenties then. Clean boots. Quiet mouth. Watching everything.”

You see the way Eli’s eyes fog, not with cold — with memory.

“One night I came late. Meant to drop off keys. Found Simmons out front. On the ground. Bleeding so hard I thought he was dying. Four cops had worked him over. Said he’d ‘interfered with an arrest.’ You know what that meant?”

You nod.

Eli exhales through his nose.

“He didn’t press charges. Said it would only get worse.”

You don’t ask what happened next. You already know the shape of this kind of story.

But Eli continues.

“Next morning, two of the officers were found stuffed into their patrol car. Guts like red scarves across the windshield. The third was in his backyard. Alive. Although at the state he was it would have served him better to be dead. With a note nailed to his chest.”

He swallows.

“It read: Don’t touch what’s under my roof again.”

There’s a long silence.

You whisper, “Frank?”

Eli shrugs. But it’s not indifference — it’s surrender.

“They never proved it. But everybody knew. Even the other cops started steering clear of our block. After that, Simmons preached three more decades. Died of old age in his own home.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re saying Frank protected you?”

“I’m saying,” Eli replies slowly, “that there are wolves in this world. Some tear flesh. Some keep worse wolves out.”

He looks you dead in the eye.

“Frank Patérno never once asked what color a man was. Didn’t care if you were Protestant, Catholic, Hindu, Muslim, atheist, gay or straight — if you were his, you were safe. If you crossed him…” He lets the sentence hang, then finishes softly. “You didn’t last long enough to do it twice.”

You feel your fingers tighten. The image of Frank’s face — those patient, molten eyes — swims up in your mind.

“But Pastor… doesn’t that make him a monster?”

Eli leans back and speaks slowly, like he’s quoting from memory.

“‘Woe unto those who call evil good.’ I’ve never called Frank good. But necessary?” His gaze hardens. “He was that, once.”

Then: “Maybe still is.”

You don’t speak.

You can’t.

Because in that moment, you realize — it’s not the blood on Frank’s hands that scares you.

It’s the way your heart is starting to understand it.

"The day I met Frank’s dad," Pastor Eli murmurs, "he had fresh blood on his hands. It stuck onto mine as we shook them."

You glance at him, unsure if you’ve heard right. But he goes on, calm as ever.

"They were sincere," he adds. "And never once pretended to be something they weren’t. I’ve had politicians ask me to endorse their campaigns, business owners make generous donations for tax write-offs… They all come smiling. But the mob? They came with their guns out. They didn’t lie. They didn’t flatter. There’s something to be said for that kind of honesty."

You nod slowly, your heart a strange mixture of chilled and comforted. And then—

Knock knock.

A light rap at the church office door. Pastor Eli straightens.

“Looks like your escort’s here.”

You turn.

The man standing at the threshold wears a gray wool coat, slim black gloves, and a smile so refined it could slice glass. His hair is slicked back, just a little too perfect. His features are angular — all sharp edges and stillness. There’s something reptilian in his composure, the way he stands too still, like he’s suppressing a more natural instinct.

“Miss,” he says, offering his hand with a theatrical little bow. “Mr. Patérno sends his regards.”

You shake his hand — reluctantly. His palm is soft, cold.

“I'm Nico,” he adds. “You may call me that.”

He glances around the office with a sniff, as if trying not to inhale the worn leather and dusty hymnals. His tone is polite — too polite.

“A charming place, this. How quaint.”

Eli narrows his eyes, but says nothing. You, meanwhile, are fighting the urge to recoil.

“Mr. Patérno thought you might want a lift back,” Nico continues. “And he asked me to bring you something.”

He produces a sleek black envelope from inside his coat and offers it to you with two fingers, like it might stain him.

As you reach for it, he studies you.

“Quite the little academic, aren’t you? Frank speaks very highly of you.”

His eyes scan you a moment too long.

You clear your throat. “Thank you.”

He smirks.

“My pleasure. I’m always delighted to see Mr. Patérno take an interest in education. Even when it involves… delicate company.”

“Delicate?” you repeat.

He chuckles. “I only mean… soft-hearted. The type that still sees the world as something to fix, rather than survive.”

You catch the glance he gives Eli — like he’s something beneath notice. A fly on a windowpane.

“Of course,” he adds with a smile that never touches his eyes, “I’m sure your research will be very enlightening.”

Your spine prickles. There’s something in his tone — an undercurrent of mockery.

Pastor Eli stands now. Taller than Nico. Older. But there’s a tension in the air now, sharp as electricity.

“Tell Frank,” Eli says quietly, “that if he wants her to keep writing, he best keep the snakes out of the garden.”

Nico blinks. Still smiling.

“I’ll be sure to pass on the sentiment.”

You clutch the envelope in your coat pocket. You don’t dare open it here.

But as Nico leads you out into the cold, you know — this man is not like Frank.

Frank may be brutal, even terrifying. But Nico is… hollow.

Something that bites not because it’s hungry, but because it can.

[justapoet]

these roads are changing me (but they all lead back to you)

Annabeth wanted to ask if everything was all right, but Percy beat her to it. "Stop the car," he requested, his voice seemingly stuck in his throat. Annabeth frowned in concern, but did as she was asked, turning the wheel and parking the car on the curb, watching her best friend as his mind seemed to race and he didn't quite know where to run to with it. "I—" Percy mumbled, swallowing hard and looking breathless. "I don't know, I..." he interrupted himself, feeling the tears that hadn't fallen fill his eyes and roll down his cheeks. "It hurts to breathe."

read on Ao3

chapter 1: to those who ask

chapter 2: to whose who wait

chapter 3: to those who gaze

chapter 4: to those who left

chapter 5: to those who went so far away

chapter 5: to those who remain

to those who never saw me

It was pretty early in life when Annabeth discovered that failing wasn't a thing.

Or, rather, perhaps it was — but it never was, and would never be, a possibility for her, in her life, in her future, in her past.

Failure was bad, and she was supposed to be good. A good daughter, a good sister, a good student, a good person that shouldn't, and wouldn't, by any means, waste her father's time and money by not being somewhat successful in whatever it was that she had to do.

Because being good meant not failing, of course; but she was supposed to be the best in everything she attempted, even if it was something that came from someone else's mind and ideas and ideals.

The best, and the best at what they did couldn't fail. They couldn't misstep, or make a wrong choice, or take the wrong path — according to her father, her mother, her stepmother. She was supposed to know better, to be the best, to never make them once doubt her ability to be someone in life.

She was five when she first learned that she should be ashamed of things she couldn't exceed expectations on. She was five, and had just learned how to write, and she hadn't remembered that 'fish' didn't have plural when it came to a shoal, and she had lost a few decimals on her grade of the small poem she was supposed to write.

She was six when she learned that it wasn't an option not to be the best in Math, and that she should know how to divide things regardless of how the numbers swam all over the page. Annabeth had gotten two out of five questions wrong, and her father was more than displeased with the whole thing.

It was when she began hiding the rare papers that had anything less than an A splattered clearly on them. And even those, when she handed them proudly to her father, were considered nothing more than her obligation — she was expected to be the best student, and she was expected to make sure every penny spent was worth the trouble.

Annabeth was nine when she first won Student of the Month, and she was nine years and six months when she realized that the same achievement would be a burden more than a blessing. Her father wasn't happy, not exactly, beyond sharing Helen's happiness that they would only pay half the school's monthly payment, and she was now expected to win it every month.

And that she did, because she didn't want to learn how it would be when she didn't win it anymore.

She was eleven when she figured it out, and it was the first time she had had a panic crisis. Alone, in the school bathroom, missing one class for the first time in her life — and she made up something, so she didn't have to go back home that day, only to end up on Thalia's doorstep and not say a word for eighteen hours straight.

But Annabeth tried, because it was normal in her reality that she needed to be the best, the best, the better. She tried, because that was the least she could do — she wasn't good at anything else, but she was smart (or so people said) and, therefore, studying and being a good student, the best student, was the bare minimum she could give her father in return.

Annabeth tried. She tried to make Math as easy as trigonometry and history were. She tried to make reading less headache inducing. She tried to make algebra less teary-eyed. She tried to make her panic crises less frequent, and her anxiety less visual, and her presence in the house less noticeable. She tried to make her trophies take less space, her medals a little less loud, her pride a little less shining.

She tried to keep a brave face when she won the Mathematics Olympics of New York and there wasn't someone clapping for her in the crowd in front of the stage.

She tried to not jump out of the moving cab when her final tests came with a nine point two instead of the glimmering ten that she usually held because a headache didn't let her read the last questions properly.

She tried to smile at the pictures someone took as she held up the first-place medal for the judo competition that her father couldn't attend because Helen had just done her hair and the rain would destroy it.

She tried to keep herself together when the article she spent so long working on didn't make it to the nationals past the regionals finals she had presented it to, and her father's smile disappeared as soon as she stepped in his office with the news.

She tried not to listen to how her future would be compromised by the one B in her scholar history as her father held it with defeated hands, Helen screaming how much money they had spent on her education for her to throw everything away with excuses, excuses, and more excuses — and Annabeth didn't dare tell them that, in the semester in question, she had been battling a kidney infection Sally took her to the ER for after she fainted from dehydration.

She tried to understand when Bobby failed a math test and Helen took him for some ice cream, patting his head and saying that there was always a next time for him to do better at school.

She tried to comprehend when Matty lost the swimming competition he had been training for and Frederick bought him a small, shiny trophy and told him that, in their house and hearts, he would always be a champion.

She tried to make sense of how Helen's and Frederick's faces scrunched in displease and their breaths huffed in bother when Annabeth told them she had missed a test in High School because she was nearly delirious with fever and there wasn't any medicine in the house.

She tried.

She tried.

She tries.

✉

"To those who never saw me,

I did all the right things. Cover to cover, I followed the script — the lowering my voice, the acting more polite, the studying enough, the telling them goodbyes. I did all the right things. The being the best one, the never being late, the knowing where I stand, the keeping things at bay.

I did all the things right. The hiding my body, the laughing so much quieter, the cleaning everything. The not biting my nails, the never taking fails, the not saying anything. I did all things right. The taking one more hobby, the swallowing the tears, the talking calm and slowly, the repeated "I am here's".

I did all things right. The being the smartest, the making a plan, the trying the hardest, the trying again. I did all things right. The studying more, the doing new things, the not being sore, the taking the guilt. The masking the pain, the never complain, the last to remain, the using the brain. I did all things right. The changing my ways, the "being like her's", the playing it safe, the hiding the hurt.

I did all things right. The doing too much, the punch to the gut, the keeping it shut, the never enough. The trying my best, the being the last, the begging for help, the turning to ash. I did all things right. The waking up early, the doing one more, the always in a hurry, the beating the score. The swallowing tears, the going out there, the making it clear, the always aware. The knowing the footsteps, the quiet acceptance, the taking the blows and the asking for pardon. The hearing the keys, hating the "we're here", the trying to scream, the not being heard.

I did all things right. The faking a smile, the stepping more quietly, the cooking in silence, the eating by myself. I did all things right. The never more asking, the having the doubts, the forever questioning how it came crashing down. The running away, the coming back scared, the wishing I hadn't, the leaving again. The keeping the backpack, the learning to land, the tracing my footsteps, the making amends. The trying so hard, the learning the rules, the falling apart, the throwing the book.

I did all things right. The hiding the grades, the going on stage, the not getting offended, forever the mender. I did all things right. The doing for others, the changing my colors, the agreeing for silence, the trying to run. The hiding the pills, the taking it still, the praying someone, the then waking up.

I did all things right. The hiding the hurt, the being too much, the lowering the tone, the dying alone.

I did all things right.

How, then, am I still in the wrong?

Rightfully,

Minerva."

✉

Annabeth had always been a curious person.

Ever since she was a child, he would ask questions about everything she saw around him. From why a window is called a 'window' to where we go after our hearts stop beating, and it never changed over the years, much to her mother's, and then her father's, dismay. Her curiosity only grew, because the answers didn't exist, and Annabeth would always find herself asking questions that would make her go after answers that weren't there to be found, anyway.

Annabeth wondered why the stars shine, or why the sky is blue and who called it 'sky' anyway? How come the same thing is called the same thing in different languages, and none of them are wrong? Why does fire burn, and how do we feel the heat? Why can't one breathe underwater, and why can't one breathe in the sky? Who chose the name of the sea, and who was the first person to decide that fish were edible?

Her parents would say that, as a baby, she touched everything she could and was mesmerized by anything new that came into her sight. They would say that they knew she would be a problem when she started walking, because her hands wouldn't be afraid to touch anything. They would playfully, around their friends, remind of how much of a trouble-seeker she was with an unquiet mind.

Annabeth would only realize the hint of distaste much later on in life.

As a child, she would ask too many questions until her mum ran out of patience and asked the kind lady that was so often cleaning their house to take her to the nearest bookshop or library so she could have a source of questions and answers. As a pre-teen, she would ask her teachers, and some of them would be thrilled to be challenged with their knowledge, while others would simply say that they weren't an encyclopedia and, therefore, she should sit still and be glad that they weren't kicking her out of the classroom.

As a teenager, her doubts and curiosity led her to periodic obsessions that kept her awake at night, or it was just something she used as an excuse not to sleep, after all. Either way, it was an escape from her twisted, screwed-up mind — so, for what it's worth, her curiosity kept her alive when the bare facts didn't want to.

When she became an adult, her curiosity was never abandoned. However, her questions changed and she essentially wanted to know what it was like not to feel as downtrodden as she did and what it would be like if someone ever loved her the way she'd always read about in books and fiction. Annabeth wondered why the world wasn't as bright as how she used to see it and ask herself how she could disappear for just a little while.

Asking 'why' was something Annabeth was better at than anyone she knew.

But she never asked herself why it was like that.

With curiosity, Annabeth also learnt that she had to be patient and observe the world around, which led her to get to know people from a different angle. She noticed their movements, word choices, and how their eyes moved in each situation they were put into — she read people like she read books, and tried to place them like puzzle pieces in what she could see of their realities.

Most of the time, anyway.

When she arrived in her father's place after her mother had taken off without her and the burden she represented in her life, Annabeth was still furious at the world and at herself for being so stupid as to believe that Athena would come back, turn the car back around and tell her she was sorry for the mistake she had made when she first decided Annabeth wouldn't be her daughter anymore. Annabeth's anger got the best of her most of the time, as did her sadness — she was a good kid, or she tried to be, but a very revolted one about everything that could and would change as the years went by.

When Luke left and the world was even crueler than she believed it could possibly become, Annabeth found out that anger was something that could grow larger and faster than love ever did — she was pissed, and tired, and wished the world would just stop being the blue hue she had learned to see it as. And while it weighed on her heart and made everything a little harder, a little worse, a little brutal, it opened her eyes to some new lenses.

There wasn't only one perspective, or only one way to know and see people. And learning was something Annabeth excelled at doing.

The people she knew, she discovered, were more than the things she thought she had already figured out. Because there were versions and times and places to be and to become, and she wouldn't be so surprised — like the thought she would — to know more about them than the everything she thought she already knew.

Annabeth couldn’t quite know how she ended up surrounded of such wonderful, different people.

Thalia was, and had always been a star, talented and charming, with strong opinions and more feelings that she let slip out of her sleeve. And despite her pride and the stubbornness that seemed to run in her family, there was no denying how sweet she could be to those who would allow a mask to fall without any judgment. She was strong, fearless, and should have been a little less acidic to those who were only trying to help — but she was a best friend that Annabeth had missed for so many years in her life. A sister she couldn’t even try to explain.

And while she could read Thalia so well — for they were quite similar, and had always been —, Grover was an enigma at first, and Annabeth suspected that this was what he wanted people to think about him. He was observant — a little too much so —, alarmed and always had good advice on the tip of his tongue, even if he rarely followed the suggestions of anyone other than Annabeth or Thalia or Percy. Grover was attentive, patient and wise; and Annabeth sometimes got a little scared, but she wouldn't trade a best friend like that for the world itself.

He was kind when they met, kind when she was just a slippery excuse of a friend, kind when she tried to be better. He was gentle when she hurt, loving when she thrived, constant when she was erratic. For all the answers Annabeth could seek in her life, there was very little she could find to justify what she had done to deserve someone like Grover right by her side, and for so many years.

And when it came to things she couldn’t quite answer, Jason and Leo were an irritating pair, especially as they acted like the siblings she considered them to be, at the end of the day. Interested in theater plays, comic books — Annabeth was to blame for that, honestly —, golf, for some reason, and quite keen to making fun of Annabeth, Thalia and Percy, they were a nice addition to their group when they moved to New York and knocked on Sally’s door under Thalia’s suggestion.

And Sally — gods and heavens bless that woman — was more than kind, more than welcoming, more than anything she should have been to two complete strangers who claimed to know Thalia. Even if Jason was Percy’s cousin (something they would only come to realize a shameful three days into their stay), it was still a miracle that Sally Jackson existed and was as reliable as they knew she was.

The funniest thing is how Percy’s entire family seemed to join their little group, little by little. Even when she didn’t know they were related, even when they didn’t need to get along, even when Annabeth didn’t even know how she ended up in the middle of so many cousins and siblings and oddly comforting presences — Thalia, then Jason and Nico and Hazel.

An odd little group that couldn’t be more different. Annabeth would often wonder how family reunions would go.

Nico was reserved, just like Grover and a little less so than Annabeth, and he was something like a box of secrets. He was kind, did things more from the shadows — however brightly he shone in all of them — and was always there, willing to help or just be present. Some kind of brother that Annabeth got as a present, too — but who could be even more competitive than Thalia when it came to video games, and Annabeth didn't even know that such a thing was possible.

And then there was Percy.

At first, Annabeth didn't want to read into it enough to regret the fact that, sooner or later, she would fall in love with Percy's sincere smiles and sparkling eyes. It was notorious, almost as a fact known to all mankind, that Percy had kindness hanging on his every word and movement. His words were nothing but sweet, and every one of his actions seemed to be careful and calculated.

From the start, Annabeth also noticed how patient Percy could be and how he would never push anyone to do anything. He was devoted to his friends — ever since they met, Annabeth lost count of how many times he would stop by the station where Thalia was to give her something she mentioned she wanted to eat or offer her a lift — and to his work, being a damn good business partner and even better boss whenever he helped his father.

From the start, too, Percy would be a mystery that Annabeth didn't really know how to begin to solve. Contrary to everything she could have predicted or hoped for, Percy didn't seem to want her around just because she knew a lot of things or even because there were no other options — he seemed to want to get to know her, and that was something Annabeth really couldn't understand.

Curiosity about Percy, then, was inevitable.

However, it was a choice. And a choice that Annabeth would never regret making, even if only at the incessant insistence of her friends, who vehemently believed that the two of them would get on well if they could get to know each other beyond a dialogue about a tragedy outside the camp.

They were right, after all. Grover was, mostly — and he'd love to take the credit for that.

She wasn't fluent yet, but the architect would take the time to learn every word Percy had to say, imply or delete. It was a book, a whole universe, that Annabeth was willing to find out more about.

It turned out that Percy never touched anyone without their full consent, but he loved being hugged and cuddled whenever he could. He never complains, and on difficult days, he almost purred at any skin-to-skin contact.

Annabeth loved knowing this, because she was a big — and secret — fan of hugs.

She also discovered that Percy was quiet most of the time, not just in public, and talked a lot when around anyone who made him comfortable. She discovered that he liked to listen to those who made him happy — and she discovered that he didn't mind spending hours listening to all the new things Annabeth had learnt about stars just because he had absolutely nothing to do.

As the years went by, Annabeth couldn't even see how she was getting deeper into a feeling she kept unnamed, too terrified to even think about messing with what was quiet — or not so quiet but growing slowly enough to be ignored.

Now, when she could put a name to that familiar, friendly warmth, Annabeth couldn't help but notice every little detail that she had missed every once in a while.

She was sure that she was falling in love all over again with every passing minute, because that was just the consequence of knowing Percy as he was.

Percy was punctual, had always been much thanks to Sally's education and Tristan's annoying manners, but to discover that he got ready for every appointment about an hour before was surreal for Annabeth, who had witnessed it an incredible few times over the years. He was messy, but never late — and he had an astounding ability of getting ready in just three minutes.

He loved giving people gifts just to make their day better — Annabeth had cried when, after a bad day in which she'd just got too stuck inside herself, Percy had given her a single dandelion, telling her to close her eyes and make a wish, just throwing things to the universe and trusting that it could, and would, listen to genuine things she wanted.

Annabeth had wished that the stars could offer her a new Universe. She didn't regret waiting so long.

Out of all the details Annabeth could have learnt about Percy, one that would always be in red letters at the back of her mind was that Percy could keep quiet not just for his own comfort, but for the comfort of others, as well. And although she had learned a lot from the years they'd shared and the conversations over their pasts and trauma, there was still much she wished and hoped to figure out from Percy's eyes and silences. He wouldn't talk about his feelings or open up to anyone. He would be in pain, miserable and silent, not wanting to bother or worry anyone around him. Annabeth hated how alike the two of them were when it came to that.

The point was that Annabeth paid attention. To Percy more than anyone, in fact, and she had learnt some details that she believed Percy didn't even know about himself, but she was delighted to have noted. Like the way the man talked to himself when he thought no one was looking. Or how his nails always had some remaining nail polish from Estelle's experiments, or how he bit his tongue when concentration was taking over his worries.

There was also that permanent wrinkle at the top of his nose that deepened whenever he was confused and even more so when he was concerned. Percy's eyebrows followed the movement when he was emotional, and he pressed his lips together when he was speechless — and that was when Annabeth most loved catching his attention and watch his face melt into the easy smile.

Annabeth was lucky enough to say that she knew Percy behind all the quietness and politeness he showed anyone who didn't know him at all — she knew the lows, the fears and the clever jokes. She knew him as Percy knew her, and it was the best thing in the world to realize after so, so long sharing a life they chose to walk as companions.

And that's why she knew something was wrong when they were driving back to the hotel after visiting a trail someone had recommended to him when they said they were in Monique on a Saturday afternoon, the sun already parting, sinking into the horizon.

Percy hadn't had a drink, not even a sip, and seemed to be enjoying the company, the conversation, even if he was quieter than usual, and the children that were around — some random kids who were driving their parents crazy and immediately fell in love with Percy after a mere thirty minutes he was trying to keep them from touching the grass they were warned to have snakes hiding in. However, he had given Annabeth the car keys as they were leaving the café they went to after finishing the trail and didn't say much before circling the vehicle and taking the passenger's seat.

Percy loved to drive, and Annabeth usually only took the wheel when he was way too tired to keep himself awake. She didn't ask any questions, though, and got into the car, taking Percy's hand and squeezing his fingers with hers carefully, looking at him attentively with furrowed brows.

The man smiled at her, almost gratefully, and then looked out of the window with searching eyes that wouldn't find anything, she knew.

It was a thirty-minute journey, which had never been a problem for both of them, who, for some reason, liked to go for drives whenever they could, regardless of whether or not they were familiar with the roads they were taking. Ten minutes into the vehicle, however, Annabeth noticed that Percy was moving around too much — even with the ADHD considered —, his hands fondling his trousers and his leg tapping against the floor of the car. His blue eyes weren't focused either, and he swallowed dryly more times in a minute than anyone should.

Annabeth wanted to ask if everything was all right, but Percy beat her to it.

"Stop the car," he requested, his voice seemingly stuck in his throat. Annabeth frowned in concern, but did as she was asked, turning the wheel and parking the car on the curb, watching her best friend as his mind seemed to race and he didn't quite know where to run to with it.

Annabeth didn't have to wait a second before Percy opened the door and stepped out of the car, crossing the field of flowers they'd stopped beside and not looking back, looking too scared to do so. The man's legs seemed to work automatically, and Annabeth quickly snapped out of her preoccupied state to realize what was happening as Percy walked towards the empty gazebo further along the field.

A lovely place to be under normal circumstances, sure; but she didn't really pay much attention to it as she usually would.

Percy kept walking further away, his palms sweaty and his feet seeming to work mechanically. He wasn't looking at anything around him, his eyes unfocused and searching and lost, his mouth dry and him completely unable to hear anything beyond the thin, high-pitched whistle inside his ears.

The man found himself walking towards a small empty gazebo, unconsciously groping the air to find the small gate and then opening it, not even bothering to close it before placing himself against the column, leaning almost in vain against the structure. He took a deep breath, the warm, sun-kissed air entering his lungs and almost hurting his insides. But Percy didn't mind it too much.

He closed his eyes, feeling the world and his head spin a few times. His brain was only able to reproduce a strange sensation of danger time after time, but Percy couldn't utter a single word or move. Not even when he noticed a movement next to him and could assume that someone was ducking. He wasn't sure, and he couldn't be sure at that moment. He didn't want to think about it, or about anything else in the world.

It was when the person sat down next to him, also leaning her head against the wall, that he could connect the dots to the smell of perfume that Annabeth always wore. The architect said nothing, just bent her knees and put one of her arms over her legs and looked straight ahead, not speaking, breathing loudly, waiting quietly by his side.

Because Annabeth knew him well enough to know that he hated being seen in such a vulnerable situation. And she knew that Percy knew it was because she, too, felt the very same way — and had been feeling the vulnerability from the moment she had knocked on their door back in New York.

"I—" Percy mumbled, swallowing hard and looking breathless. "I don't know, I..." he interrupted himself, feeling the tears that hadn't fallen fill his eyes and roll down his cheeks.

His lips trembled and he felt frustrated. Percy threw his head back, knowing it would hit the column that kept the gazebo up. It was then that Annabeth finally faced him and put one of her hands over one of his, the one that was slapped on the floor, while the other reached for the fingers that were pulling his curls on the back of his head.

"It hurts to breathe..." said Percy, then sobbed. Annabeth's grip became more solid, and Percy couldn't stop crying even if he wanted to — he felt pathetic, overwhelmed, and hated to be facing this fact about himself in front of anyone. Even if Annabeth knew a lot about it. Even if, out of everyone he'd pick to see him like that, her name was at the top of the list.

Annabeth inhaled deeply before saying anything, putting her thoughts in order and trying to keep her voice as soft as the wind that bent the flowers and messed a bit with their clothes.

"You're in a gazebo," the woman began, her voice sweet. "There's nothing here but the two of us and the flowers called portulaca, and known as 'eleven-hour'," she said, and she was sure that Percy could hear a small smile in her voice. His hand released his hair, and he began to breathe a little slower. Annabeth kept talking. "The floor is old, dark wood. The fence is sectioned and of dark wood, too. There's only us here, the two of us. And the sky above us."

Percy took a deep breath. Once, twice, three times — just him and Annabeth. Just him and Annabeth, he tried to remember. No one else, nothing more. It was all right. Everything was fine. He was safe, and the world was still the same as he remembered from that morning.

Another breath, and then one more. It didn’t seem to be enough, even if it felt like the air tried to squeeze itself a bit more inside his lungs. Percy tried again, and again, and one more time. Annabeth’s hands were real and solid against his, and her presence was warm and real — still, it felt dizzying not to breathe, not to think, not to see.

He held her hands weakly, and Annabeth made sure to squeeze a little the hand she held carefully. She was there, just her, and everything was fine. He could breathe, there was air, and there was no one else but him and Annabeth by his side — he could breathe, he should breathe, and there wasn’t anyone there to hurt him, to hunt him, to haunt him.

Just him and Annabeth, and nothing more.

Annabeth didn't say a word, her thumb softly stroking the back of Percy's hand and her eyes analyzing each of his breaths as he exhaled just as slowly as he breathed in. His heart was pounding in his chest, so loud and so strong that Annabeth could almost hear it; she could see it in his face that he feared she could.

She had a few questions, or a lot more than that. But everything was fine — everything was fine, and they would have time to talk about it. Later. When Percy didn’t seem so disturbed, when his eyes weren’t so wide, when the fear wasn’t so carved in his face, in his shaking hands, in his stuttering voice.

The minutes continued like that, in silence and thoughtfulness until Percy, just slightly calmer and with a little less shaky hands, opened his eyes, swallowed hard and carefully studied his surroundings. The blue irises looked alarmed, red, and his breathing was still as shaky and faulty as his hands as they tried to grip Annabeth’s.

"You should be a florist," he chose to say, then, his voice weak and hoarse, instead of anything else he could’ve told her. His breathing was softer now, and Annabeth smiled when she realized such, although she hadn't understood what Percy had said until he gestured towards the flowers with his head.

Annabeth chuckled silently, amused to see that Percy was still there despite the distant look in his eyes, and leaned his head against the column again. They stood there for a while — Annabeth couldn't say how long, much less did she care about it — until the man's breathing returned to normal and the whistling in his ears was low enough for him to hear the whole place around the two of them.

The silence, the breeze, the care.

"I'm sorry," he told her, and Annabeth turned her head towards Percy, still leaning against the brick wall. "For—” he swallowed. “—all this."

Annabeth frowned, slightly concerned.

"Percy," the architect called out in a low voice, interrupting him before he could blame himself or try to explain what he wasn't ready to put into words. "You're such a seaweed brain," she chuckled, and Percy tried to smile, she noticed. It didn't quite work, and it broke her heart all the more. "It's all right. You don't have to apologize or justify anything. It happened, it's fine," Annabeth said confidently. Percy swallowed hard. "It's alright, Percy. I promise."

Percy nodded but didn't seem very confident in agreeing with his best friend's words. Annabeth looked again somewhere in front of her, and Percy let his head drop until he was staring at his own lap, his hand on his outstretched legs and his mind racing with sneaky thoughts. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes and threw his head back, not allowing it to actually hit the column, this once.

"I never told anyone," he confessed, then, suddenly. Annabeth turned her head in his direction, hanging it a little with the piece of information given. "About this. The— crisis or the... The disorder," he explained, and Annabeth frowned in concern. "Not even mom. Or you. Obviously."

Annabeth waited, not wanting Percy to close himself off with any questions. She knew all too well just how excruciating it was to admit something one doesn’t want to acknowledge themselves, and she would never try to take it out of him, the words and the confessions.

She was slightly disturbed to realize that it hadn’t been the first time it happened. Slightly terrified that it was something clinical, and absolutely crushed that, not once, she had noticed anything that could’ve been an indication.

After a minute or two, Percy spoke again.

"I feel pathetic," he said, a humorless chuckle leaving his lips. "I know I shouldn't because it's perfectly normal and all, but..." Percy swallowed dryly, his lips twisting in some shade of sadness. "I'm an adult now. I should have left this in my teens, shouldn't I?"

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