#better than lookin like a dead fish at least

[aria0fgold]

GOD MY HEART NEARLY STOPPED WHEN DATE GASPED I THOUGHT I WAS BOUTTA SEE MIZUKI DEAD BUT NO SHE'S BENCH PRESSING?!!?!?!

[when-pigsfly]

WITCHING HOUR, CH 2/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: the prodigal son returns tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but now a little more than kinda), original side character(s), does arthur count as a tag, he needs his own warning, its more exposition please don't leave

word count: 4.9k

a/n: HERE! DAMN! (i'm so sorry this took so long)

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you can find a link to the playlist here! tag list (look how crazy. i have a LIST.): @photo1030

The subsequent mornings are painted with varying shades of gloom. It was smeared over the sky in thick coats, and if it was just a little thicker, it might be able to keep out the spears of light. 

Sometimes, they tickle. Sometimes, they recoil from the rigid mounds of snow and blind you and anything else unfortunate enough to get caught in the line of fire. Pain in the ass, really. A particularly nasty pain in the ass flickers in the cloudy metal of your spoon one morning while you’re shoveling grits into your mouth.

“You planning on eating the table too, kid?”

Your eyebrows shoot up, as does your spine once you lower your spoon back into the chipped bowl. 

“My apologies,” you gulp. “You’ll uh, have to forgive me, Mrs. Campbell. Seems the winter air’s gotten to my head.”  

Mrs. Campbell was a wiry, dark-haired woman of 63, and had spent more time rearing cattle than children. She was rough, tough, and at present, leveling you with a stare so doubtful that you wonder if the look you often catch on the livestock is embarrassment. 

After holding your gaze for a few moments more, she resumes the rocking of her chair from the corner and returns to her darning. A large red sock, the same one she’d whacked Mr. Campbell over the head with after she’d found it on the floor of the living room only thirty minutes ago.

“No, no, you’re alright.” Mrs. Campbell pauses, though her hands continue to work. Under, over. In, out. Not a single finger pricked. “Think that’s the most I’ve seen you take down in one sitting, is all. You bite like a bird.” She makes a funny chewing motion with her mouth—or, at least you think it’s supposed to be funny. It seems to amuse her well enough; most strange things did. 

She then asks how much horse feed is left, and you tell her enough to last for the next two weeks. You ask how her daughter’s baby boy is doing, she tells you he’s been picking his nose, and the two of you return to your respective distractions: the pulling of thread and a spoon fishing around a now empty dish while you consult silently with the peeling floral wallpaper. 

Arthur Morgan’s appearance had set you on edge, loathe as you were to admit it. The fact that there’d been no sign of him since you’d first spoken only hastened the growing dread, more so than the lack of response after your father’s men had been so kindly disposed of. 

Contingencies had been thoroughly accounted for, leaving you mildly inconvenienced at best and dead at worst. There were other conclusions you’d drawn up, of course, but dealing in extremes had its benefits.

You press your thumb absentmindedly into the corner of the dining room table. Could the Campbells have heard your exchange? No, they couldn’t have, too old. And that was excluding the fact that the main house was rather far from the cabin. Given the time frame, it would have been well beyond what was reasonable for your…situation to have been brought up. 

Besides, this was important. Better to sort this out now than when—if—he showed up at your doorstep again.

“I have a question.”

Mrs. Campbell snorts. “I presume you’re lookin’ for an answer.”

You set your spoon down, and stand to clear the table. “Do the two of you get…stray cats often?”

This time her hands waver. “During the warmer months, sure. But in this weather? I mean, if it had the guts to get through all that ‘winter air,’ I don’t see why not.” Her eyes flick up. “Would have to be real hungry, though. Or stupid, which I doubt, ‘cause cats ain’t stupid—sonuvabitch!” 

You jerk as her needle clatters to the floor. She lets a curse slip as she hunches over to retrieve it; another follows as she tugs the string loose, just a little, and her fingers trip over themselves before falling back into a steady rhythm. 

Her brows pinch in concentration. “Never met a stupid cat,” she repeats.

“I…I see.” Moving around to the other side of the table to collect what's left, you frown when you catch your warped reflection in a bent spoon. You pick it up, and your fingers brush over the bump unconsciously. “I saw one,” you say slowly. Mind fumbling over any disastrous outcomes. “A cat, I mean. He’s been hanging around my cabin for a while now. I was only asking ‘cause he’s been spooking the chickens.”

When Mrs. Campbell doesn’t answer, your mouth gets the better of you. “Only, he turned up again a couple nights ago. Acting real docile, you see.” Not docile. The farthest thing from it. “Nearly shot him then and there, but—oh, he just looked so pitiful! He’s real mean looking, all scratched up and such, but I was tired, so when shooing him off didn’t work I let him in. Didn’t hiss, didn’t bite, nothing. But, I think I may have scared him. Skittered right out the door, quick as lightning. He’s been pissin’ me off—pardon my language—but, I just don’t see why he’d go through all that trouble to show up if he was just looking to leave the moment I raised so much as a finger.”

You only cease your rambling once you realize that you’ve bent the spoon too far in the wrong direction. “I…should turn him away, shouldn’t I? If he shows up again?”

Mrs. Campbell lets out an exasperated exhale, smooths out her apron, and sets her mangled sock down in her lap. “He kill any chickens?”

“No, but—”

“You feed him?”

“No?”

“Well, I think you should. It’d be real funny.”

Funny. Funny, she’d said. 

You look to the silverware for consolation, but they can only produce a weak gleam.

“Quit making faces at my utensils, I hate when you do that. If you got something to say, say it now so I can finish this damned sock.”

Instead of making faces at the spoons, you reserve them for the tablecloth. “I just—don’t think it’d be wise.” A wanted man, with a lofty bounty at that, and you were comparing him to a mangy feline. Attempting to see him as anything other than what he so obviously was would be disingenuous. 

And maybe Mrs. Campbell wasn’t the right person to be speaking to about this, because her nose crinkles with such distaste that you have to remind yourself that you’d remembered to bathe. “You’re grown,” she says, “and you work here. I’m inclined to believe that you have enough know-how to keep yourself from doing anything too dumb. If not, oh well.”

“…Right.”

Sometimes you wonder if her daughter had moved out not for marriage, but to escape Mrs. Campbell’s dreadfully indifferent way of speaking. Still, you take her words with relative care and pray that the “feeding” portion of her advice can be altered into something much more metaphorical.

When you attempt to bring the dishes to the water bucket, Mrs. Campbell’s head snaps to you and she clicks her teeth. “Drop it.”

“I was just—”

The sock finds its way into a basket of other half-finished projects at her feet, and she pushes herself up to stand just as tall (if not taller) than any tree before snatching the dishes from your hands. “I don’t pay you to do my dishes, girl.”

You smile. “I don’t believe you pay me at all, Mrs. Campbell.”

“Precisely. Your Pa pays me. And enough with that ‘Mrs. Campbell’ mess; makes me sound like an old crone. Told you to call me Fran, didn’t I?”

Shrugging past the bitterness in her tone at the mention of your father, you turn to the doorway and pull your coat off of the hook you’d tossed it on the night before. It’s only slightly warm from where the sun has touched it. 

The beams have softened their assault on the curtains; it’s still fairly cloudy, but there’s no sign of incoming snow. Chores would be alright, if only for today. 

“I’ll work on it, Mrs. Campbell. But, I do have one more question, if you don’t mind.” You wait for a nod while you pull on your boots with a wince. “How come you don’t take on any other help?”

Like most of her responses, Mrs. Campbell doesn’t give much away. Nothing remarkable that you can discern, at least. She merely winks and carries on with her washing. But just as you set a foot out the front door, she calls out to you. 

“Hey, kid?”

You turn.

“If the worst you can call him is a spooked cat, he can’t be all that bad, can he?” 

You freeze. “Pardon?”

She looks up at the ceiling, as though her next words will appear if she gets her eyes to narrow enough. Glasses had been the first of many neglected suggestions you’d offered upon your arrival. You’d even offered to buy them yourself, with what little you’d been able to bring with you. But Mrs. Campbell, being Mrs. Campbell, had simply laughed.

Squinting, she returns her focus to the bucket and reaches for a cake of lye soap. “Ah, and tell that idiot if he slams my doors, I’ll send my foot so far up his ass that them science folks won’t have any animals left to call him.”

__

Illusory warmth finds you a few weeks later.

It isn’t quite spring yet; winter is a stubborn mule, and though the snow has receded into the dirt it still stamps its hooves into the wind. In the water, too—freezing rain taps its fingers onto the windows. Soft and melodic, it nearly puts you to sleep from your place on the floor before you remember the annoyances it’s dragged along with it. 

There’d been no sign of trouble tonight, and the chicken wire had been reinforced a few hours prior. That’d mostly been the work of Mr. Campbell, though. He’d chirped about some promise he’d made to his “lovely wife,” and went on his merry way after leaving you with some choice words from the wife in question about the importance of rest. 

The rain had started not long after. Which was great, for someone out there. But, bad for you. Pretty bad. Ugly, messy bad—because it was cold, dark, and the dirt hadn’t the moral backbone to keep itself together for any longer than two blinks before your boots were practically swimming in it. 

The trudge back to the cabin was only slightly humiliating, considering the fact that the sole witnesses were the owls you knew were hiding out in the safety of the trees. 

Scampering from the uneven path to the front porch, however, was another story. Although the pliant (no good, backstabbing) earth was quick and eager to drag you to its depths, you were aggravated enough to be slightly quicker, and your palms shot out to catch you just before your chin could meet the full wrath of the wood.

But the word “just” was a pebble cast into a pond, and the first ripple was the metallic tang that flooded your mouth. Diatribes were spat onto the ground alongside the blood, tongue throbbing with a vengeance before you drove the heels of your palms down to push yourself up. The second ripple was a little less red, but just as irritating. The rain had pulled the wet fabric of your work shirt and trousers tight over your limbs, and it had begun to border on painful when water droplets struck like one might strike the skin of a drum. 

“I’m grateful, I’m grateful, I’m oh so fucking grateful…” It was a mantra you often found yourself repeating whenever nature’s pranks sought to drive you mad. Rain was good. Rain was fine, actually, so you’d ignored the creaking of your knees and hobbled your way inside.

And here you sit: back propped up against the wall, shivering like a fool with your knees tucked into your chest. The mud crusting between your fingers barely registers while you work on releasing yourself from your wet clothing.

Which, of course, is when the light tapping on the window takes its cue to crescendo. It’s a rather flimsy cloak for the uneven thunks outside that make no attempt to conceal themselves. But your bones know better. 

Awful timing, that man. 

You feel the weight of his fist against the door before he makes contact. 

(One.)

You shoot up.

(Two.)

You lunge for the table.

You decide against greeting him with the rifle, which is a significant improvement. It’s a revolver. But you did have the good sense not to kick the door again; the rusty hinges were fragile enough without your meddling. Instead, you let it creak open with one hand on the doorknob.

You’re met with a bruise, planted right atop a cheekbone. A swollen bottom lip, blood threatening to split it wide. He’s got a button missing from his rumpled jacket, and the caving of the porch underneath his feet clues you in on the fact that he’s favoring his right leg. He’s been fighting. Fighting, and he looks about ready to keel over and die. Or pick another fight. Probably both.

Part of you unwinds at the sight of him, battered as he was. Present as he was. But the more logical part of you senses that he’s here for something, and the even more logical part of you remembers exactly what it was that stood at your doorstep.

It’s then that the stench of alcohol hits you, and the familiar smell of mud sweeps in not long after. Arthur is completely covered in it, save for his face. And—

There. There it is again.

That look. 

Your pulse trips in your throat, and you pray that he’s inebriated enough to ignore it. “You’re on my porch. Why?”

Bright blue comes back into focus, and his hands fall to his hips. “I can go where I damn well please.”

“That’s all well and good, but why are you on my porch?”

He sniffs. Peers just over your shoulder. “...House call.”

You step to block him. “Now that’s two chances. I have it on good authority that one is just fine these days, but I’m feeling generous.” And confused. Extremely confused.

His face contorts into a heatless grimace, and the doorknob squeals. You’re suddenly reminded of the odd tales of shapeshifters you’d stumbled upon as a child: one moment a man, the next a bloodthirsty predator. Not a particularly helpful development—especially since your talk with Mrs. Campbell—but it was a development nonetheless.

Arthur rattles off the courtesies typically extended toward esteemed guests while you look him over again, and your eyes lock onto his hair. Another familiar connection—doe brown strands, streaked with mud and nearly plastered to his head from the light downpour. Much less ferocious than the rest of him. But, tonight, if you have to pick, he’s a wet dog. A wet, potentially drunk dog, who was missing his hat. 

And suddenly, the natural chatter of the trees comes to a halt. 

“What’d you just call me?”

…You idiot.

“I didn’t call you jack shit,” you lie. Arthur gives a loose smirk, and your next protests become nothing but bluster. “What, the little girl that hit you knock your ears shut?”

“Figured I’d let her get a hit in, out of the kindness of my big ol’ heart.” Arthur sways on his feet a bit, peering down at you through the water that he hasn’t bothered to wipe from his lashes. Gravity finds eventual triumph, and he leans into the post before eying the revolver still in your hands. “Don’t suppose you’re plannin’ on pullin’ that trigger any time soon.”

“What’s it to you?”

Arthur’s face begins to harden, and he crosses his arms tight over his chest. “You know, last time I was here I said you were lucky. Well, I’d like to make an addendum: lucky and stupid, lady.” 

You cast a disbelieving look at the leg he’s been keeping his weight off of. “And you’re drunk. The fact that you got here without your horse cracking your head open is a miracle.”

His brows draw low, and he rubs the heel of his boot against the muddy spot where you’d fallen earlier. Blinks at the ground. Then, with the vigor of a child caught sleeping in church, wipes angrily at a speck of mud on his thigh. “M’not drunk,” he finally mutters, flicking the offending dirt out into the yard and crossing his arms again. “And I’ve got enough trust in my horse to fill at least half of that barn y’all got.”

“Just half? Not the whole thing?”

“Whole thing would be two horses.”

You almost laugh. Almost. When you don’t reply, his eyes drop back down to the gun, gaze contemplative. “You got any idea how easily I could’ve knocked that flimsy thing outta your hands?”

“Why of course I do, Mr. Morgan.” The dampness you’d been struck with pulls at you, bones heavy and patience now worn thin. You give the revolver an exaggerated twirl, the metal snatching what can be seen of the moon through the rain and reflecting it at him. “I’m real lucky you’re here to tell me so, ain’t I? Matter of fact, why don’t you go and fetch me my chair before I topple right on over? ” 

“That ain’t what I meant, and you know it.” You think he sounds somewhat regretful. But somewhat isn’t enough. 

“Do I now,” you say dryly. “You seem to ‘not mean’ an awful lot.” 

Arthur pushes himself off of the post with his shoulder and shoves his muddy hands into his muddy pockets. “I just don’t see why you people are so eager to act like you got your life for dog-cheap.”

“You people?”

“Yeah, you heard me. You people.” He’s looking at everything but you now, eyes wild but body frighteningly still. “You’ll look trouble right in the eye, and lie right through your damn teeth till it gets you laid out cold in a ditch somewhere.” Arthur gestures to the embarrassing height your shooting arm has dropped to in the time that he’s spoken. “I can tell each time you open that door that you won’t shoot. Can’t, I’d argue, ‘cause if you didn’t have my big head within one inch of that barrel, you’d be some deep shit.” His words are a forlorn echo amidst the rain, now nothing more than a light haze. 

You could shut the door and go back inside, you think. Tell him he’s wrong, because he most certainly was. Peel out of your damp clothes, because standing outside in the chill spelled nothing but trouble. Arthur wouldn’t push. He was just as prone to bluffing as you were. 

And yet.

And yet.

“I could say the same about you. Don’t think your kin would take too kindly to the fact that you’re hangin’ around someone that knows your face. Who you are.” You steady your aim. “That’s a loose end, Arthur. You don’t seem like the type of man to keep many of those around.” It’s the first time you’ve said his name all night; you’re only sure because the moment it leaves you, his entire body tenses before he sags back against the wooden post. 

The way he looks at you then might be considered cruel and unusual punishment. You think of butterflies, embroidered into blankets from childhood. Tacked to the wall of your father’s study. The only difference between them and you is that you’re free to leave.

If only you possessed something to sweeten the deal—whatever deal you could come up with in the next five seconds. To mask the returning waver of your voice, now laden with inconceivable realities. “Am I a loose end, Arthur Morgan?” 

He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Untucks a hand from the arms he’s wrapped around himself to scrub at his beard and finally wipe at the water you’ve been eyeballing from his lids. He opens his mouth again, now on the precipice of what might be an explanation.

“S’dangerous,” is all he says.

You see red.

The arm holding the revolver is dropped so you can poke a finger into his chest. “You’re not making any sense!” Each word is enunciated with a jab, and you cringe at the feeling of rain rewetting the mud underneath your fingernails. “You cut and run, turn up drunk and beaten half to death, practically beg me to let you inside, and then you get upset when I say I won’t pop a bullet into your head?”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, voice beginning to escalate. “Now if you would just listen for more than two seconds—”

You cut him down with a harsh whisper. “Listen? Listen?” Your eyes momentarily check for any sign of a light being turned on in the main house. Nothing. Your finger falls away then, and a violent chill wracks your body from head to toe. “No, you listen. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. You said your piece the last time we spoke, and you left, so why are you on my porch!”

“I don’t know!”

Something cracks, and your vision blurs when you whip your head to recheck the lights. Still nothing. The crack fizzles out into nothingness, and you return to find Arthur close. Awfully close. And your hand is warm and—oh.

It seems his pluck is rather contagious. The noise you’d heard wasn’t thunder, but the sound of your treacherous hand clapping right over Arthur’s mouth.  

Time stills. Or speeds up, more like. The only thing you can be certain of is that ring of greenish gold around his pupils. The brush of his lips against your palm. Humid air being released in slow, steady clouds. You briefly wonder what else this warmth has dominion over, save for your cupped hand. Who else. 

The speed of the exhales increases, and envy wriggles in the dirt of your heart like unearthed worms. Did his mind wander, as yours often did? Surely not as emphatically. It no doubt ambled from one thought to the next, attention snagged only when he had the energy to do so. Had you been interesting enough to snag his?

The spell is broken by a lamp flickering on in the distance. 

“Shit!”

Sheer panic sinks its claws into you before rationality can, and you’re curling a hand around Arthur’s wrist and yanking him inside before he can protest.

You’re both panting ragged breaths once the door shuts behind you, in spite of the mere two steps it’d taken to cross the entryway. Tangible confusion permeates the air, and Arthur looks at you expectantly. It’s only fair that the (secondary) perpetrator speak first.  

But words are tricky, tricky things. And as much as you partook in your fair share of falsehoods, finding the right ones when you didn’t feel that your life was on the line was an unfamiliar practice. 

Voice quiet, you blink at the muddy footprints on the floor. “You left my door open.”

“I remember,” he replies. Simple.

The silence returns, eerily reminiscent of your first encounter. You consider telling him about the warning Mrs. Campbell had wanted you to relay to him. But then you think about all of the other things he’s missed since he’s disappeared, and your mind becomes saturated with just about everything, and somehow nothing at all. But Arthur’s voice, once again, cracks the fragile quiet. 

“God damn it!” He begins to pace, rubbing at the shadows under his eyes. You’re thankful that he’s finally lowered his voice to a whisper, though the close quarters don’t seem to help with the intensity. “I ain’t supposed to be here. Not like this.”

“Not like what? Arthur what do you—” 

“This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he says, voice edging on the side of desperation.

“How what was supposed to go?” You look at his hands, fumbling with his belt loops. He sucks in a brittle gulp of air when he catches you looking, like he’s surprised you’re looking at him at all. 

And then, miraculously, the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. 

“I’m to kill you. Ideally this evening.” 

Until it all promptly falls apart.

You turn away. Begin to work open the half done buttons of your shirt. Arthur turns to face the door. You decide to humor him. “Who.” 

“Some man, your Pa, I presume,” he says. For the first time in what feels like eternity, his voice is devoid of any feeling. It sounds small. Not defeated, not yet, but oh so small. “Willing to pay big bucks to get rid of a ‘financial thorn’ in his side. Knew ‘bout my business in Blackwater, which I assume you’re also aware of. Said he’d had some bonds on that boat.” Blunt fingernails scratch lightly at the curtains. “He said I could sniff things out, see if I wanted to to his dirty work.”

Shirt falling to the floor, you allow yourself some time to stew numbly in your naivety while you get the fire going; you could be disappointed all you wanted once you were warm. You can hear Arthur scrubbing at his beard again when you begin to drag a chair in front of the fireplace. You sit, or collapse rather, and shuck off your boots with little care for where they land. Where the mud splatters.

“How’s Marlene?” You ask.

Rustling. He’s turned around. More frantic rustling. He’s turned back to the wall. “I’m sorry?”

“Marlene. Chicken. ”

“Ah. She’s uh, good. Eating good. Still pecks like hell, though.”

And, once again, more silence.

You bark out a dry laugh. It hurts—hurts like hell, but it tumbles out of you with a sharp snap. It snowballs into pure, unadulterated laughter. Bouncing off the walls, the drinking glasses, the mud, right into the fire and back out again. It continues until you’re left with nothing but a pathetic wheeze rattling your lungs.

Settling into the back of the chair, your head lolls back till you can see an upside down version of the bewildered Arthur you’d turned away from. The angle is awkward, and the blood rushing to your head makes him look all warm and fuzzy, but it’s precisely why you’ve chosen it.

“Didn’t think finding all this out would be so funny.” He speaks as if poking a tiger.

Another half-hearted chuckle slips out of you. “Good god, I thought you were trying to proposition me.”

“Proposition you?” He scowls. “What on earth would I—” 

Arthur stops. Blinks one of his blinks. Gives his eyes another rub. Blinks again. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. This “blinking” thing.

“Oh.” He frowns.

Frowning right back, you push yourself to stand and toss some old papers from your table into the fire. “No need to seem so put off by it, gosh. Should’ve told me you were out for my head from the start. Would’ve made this a hell of a lot less embarrassing.” Disappointment had beat out the warmth.

You wait for an apology, or a joke. Or something. Anything. But you’re met with nothing. The paper eventually crumbles into nothing, too, smoke tickling your nostrils alongside the smell of rain.

His voice sounds from the back of the room.

“I didn’t say that.”

You whip around.

“Say what.”

He speaks as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I didn’t say I wasn’t. Interested, I mean.” When you point to yourself, he rolls his eyes. “No, the couch.”

There was no couch.

The two of you watch each other for a bit. Then Arthur finds another annoying spot on his thigh to rub at, and you’re watching him.

“You’re drunk,” you conclude, voice flat. You pull on a blanket, suddenly conscious of the bareness of your shoulders. “You’re drunk, or tired, or both. You weren’t here. I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me. Am I clear?”

You stand on wobbly feet and motion for him to leave.

“You don’t think I’m joking, do you? I meant what I said.” He brushes past your outstretched hand to clunk into the chair, mirroring that same awkward position you’d found yourself in earlier. Strong neck arched, fire light catching the water that’s begun to bead on his cheeks. “I don’t do charity. Don’t think I have the money for it, actually.”

“How kind of you.”

“I mean it. Truly.”

“Then come back tomorrow,” you blurt.

Fuck.

What the hell were you doing? “You come back tomorrow night, sober, and we’ll see.” No, we would not.

But it’s too late—Arthur is rebounding off of the chair, straightening out his jacket (he’s noticed the missing button, finally), and striding to the door before you can retract your mistake. Even so, you follow after him like a besotted moron, only stopping when he turns to face you once the door is back open.

“Tomorrow, then,” he says. Eyes dark. Searching.

And then he’s stooping down. Reaching for your hand. Pulling it to his dry lips, and pressing a chaste kiss right to the top of it. He chuckles when you shiver, still clutching the blanket tight around your shoulders.

You’re released soon after. And Arthur gives you one long look, tells you to lock your door, and leaves.

—

next chapter >>

[the-oaken-muse]

Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse

Dannymay Day 24: NASA

Read it on AO3, if you dare.

Of all the places in the Infinite Realms Juno could have sent him for community service, it had to be the fucking Ghost Zone. He never thought he’d miss the Netherworld, but at least there he didn’t have to deal with Warden Pasty Face and the stick up his entire ass.

He banked a hard left, bobbing and weaving through the zero gravity obstacle course provided by the ectoplasmic landscape. Behind him, the thud of armor against rock let him know he was down a pursuer, as one of the guards collided with an island of floating debris.

God, this place was a dump.

He dove through a thick patch of green fog before ducking behind one of the many floating doors littering the not-air; grateful that he didn’t have breath to catch. Walker’s goons zoomed past his hiding place, following his previous trajectory on a trail that didn’t exist.

Ha! Suckers!

He may have evaded them for now, but he would have to keep moving. When they realized that he’d lost them, they would fan out and search, leaving no stone unturned until they eventually found him and dragged him squirming back to that hell hole of a prison to be crushed under Walker’s boot once more. He needed to put as much distance between himself and this part of the Zone as possible. Or better yet, find a way to the human realm.

He looked to his left, green. He looked to his right, green. He looked down, an endless abyss of green stared back at him.

Looks like he was going to have to ask for directions. Great.

The next door he came across was a deep shade of plum with intricate panels of solid mahogany and a crystal knob. He yanked it open.

“Hey! Anybody home? Hello? I’m lookin’ for—”

A sopping wet sponge splashed against his face. It lingered there for a moment before slowly sliding down, down, down and falling into the chasm below, leaving his face dripping suds. “…the ...nearest portal to Earth.”

The door slammed shut.

“Ugh, soap.” He wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing it with fresh grime.

He floated over to another door, this one a dark weathered indigo with a heavy iron latch. He pulled it open with a loud creak, “Wazzup!”

A burly, tattooed arm emerged from the dark interior and slapped him across the face with a dead fish before slamming the door shut.

Jesus, the ghosts here were rude. At least it wasn’t soap this time.

Next, he spun the wheel on a silvery lavender hatch until it popped up with a hiss.

“Hullo down there!” his voice echoed back. “I’m lookin’ for a human portal! Can ya help a brother out?”

A thick tentacle, in a green so dark it was almost black, snaked out of the hole. In a blink, the tentacle lashed itself around his neck, crushing his useless windpipe.

“Look, I’m a hugger as much as the next guy, but this is a little forward, don’tcha think?” he wheezed.

In response, it whipped him back and flung him into the infinite green like a pitcher throwing a fastball.

He soared, eyes watering, hair whipping, and jowls flapping, for what felt like an eternity, but the five watches on his arm all agreed was only a few minutes.

His flight ended abruptly when he splatted against a strange metal structure. Its surface hummed with energy, vibrating his entire being. He peeled himself off, smoothing out the dents its rivets left in his skin, and took a look. A swirling vortex brighter than the surrounding ectoplasm filled its patchwork steel frame. Unlike the other doors, it remained fixed in place rather than floating up and down gently in a sea of green; it was anchored to something, to another dimension.

Bingo.

He stood on the edge of the portal, plugged his nose, and dove into the pool of light.

The portal spat him out in a large room made of the same patchwork metal as the doorway. Though the scent of death was strong here, in the glowing green of the machinery and in the air, it was mixed through with the unmistakable vitality of the living.

Perfect. Now he just needed to… find a way to get his powers back again…

He slumped forward and groaned.

Living people with The Sight were one in a million, and of those, the ones that were dumb teenagers were even fewer. There was no way Lydia was going to help him out again after the whole fiasco with their wedding either. He needed a new plan, a new pawn… well, there was no time like the present to start looking.

He floated up, poking his head through the ceiling into a modest kitchen. There was a table for four in the middle of the room, but only one chair was occupied. A pair of faded blue jeans and beat up red sneakers bounced impatiently and he could hear the scratch of pencil on paper. Sounded like homework. Bo-ring!

Like a shark fin cutting through the waves, the top half of his head glided across the floor to the fridge. Maybe they had beer.

A small pile of brown crumbs just under the door caught his attention. He sniffed at them, chocolatey. He floated a little higher so that his mouth breached the tile and licked up the remains of someone else’s fridge raid.

“Mmm, fudge.”

The kid at the table startled and looked over in his direction. He could almost believe they were making eye contact right now.

It couldn’t be that easy, could it?

“Who the heck are you?”

Looks like it could. He cracked a rotten grin and rose fully out of the floor.

“I’m the Ghost with the Most, pleasure to meet ya, kid.”

He held out a hand to shake, a centipede skittered down his arm and around his dirt-crusted knuckles before heading back into his sleeve. The boy just stared at the proffered digit in disgust.

“The most what? Grease stains on your shirt?”

“That and so much more! You name it, I’ve got it. Charm, good looks, STDs—”

“Modesty.” The boy deadpanned.

“Hey! I’ll have you know I wear pants at least…” he began counting the fingers on one hand, “thirty percent of the time!”

“That’s not what I— You know what? Give me one good reason I shouldn’t soup you right now.” The boy snatched a thermos off the table and waved it threateningly.

Jeez, tough crowd.

He wasn’t sure what kind of soup was in there, but something told him he didn’t want to find out.

“Beeecauuuuse…” His eyes darted around for something he could use to turn the situation to his favor. Math worksheet? No. Half eaten sandwich? Maybe later. NASA t-shirt? Perfect. “I’m a star, kid.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of star?” The boy narrowed his eyes skeptically.

“Red supergiant, Orion constellation… I’m sure you’ve heard of me…”

He crossed his fingers behind his back. Please work, please work.

“Betelgeuse?”

“Got it in one, kid.” He swallowed his relief and winked. “You’re even quicker on the uptake than Lydia!”

“Who?”

“Uhh, no one! Hey, what’s that?”

Betelgeuse darted over to a group of photos on a shelf and picked one up.

“Who’s the chick in the tight blue suit?” He whistled, letting the back of the frame fall open and the picture to unfold. “Really doesn’t leave much to the imagination does it?”

“Um, ew! That’s my mom!” The kid snatched the photo out of his hands and inspected the back of it. “How did you even do that?”

“I’d let her be my mommy any time.”

“…I will literally do anything for you to never talk about my mom ever again.”

“Anything?”

“Like, within reason. I’m not gonna, you know, kill anybody or anything.”

“Would you… be willing to… maybe… say my name three times in a row?” He bit his lip in anticipation.

The kid considered him suspiciously. “Is this like a kink thing?”

“What? No! Pshhh! No! Well maybe sometimes… Absolutely not, no. Cross my heart! See!” He drew an X on the right side of his chest.

“Yeah, no. Still don’t trust you.”

“C’mon kid!” He skidded to his knees in front of the boy. “Please, please, please! I’ll owe you one! I’m good for it! Promise!”

He clutched at the NASA shirt desperately. He couldn’t let this kid slip through his fingers, it might be another hundred years before he found another living person who could see him. He’d tasted the blood of freedom and he wanted more.

The boy grimaced and tried to pull away, Betelgeuse scrabbled after him. “I’ll get out of your hair, promise! Just three little words! Just three!”

“Okay, jeez, fine. If it’ll get you leave,” the boy groaned.

“YES! I mean!” He cleared his throat, “Yes.”

“Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse. Now get out of my house.”

Power surged then fizzled within him.

“Wow. That was anticlimactic.” He deflated. “Ah well, a deal’s a deal! See ya kid!”

He flew up through the ceiling with a sloppy salute.

What a chump! That was almost too easy.

 -later-

 That was definitely too easy.

Betelgeuse scowled as yet another hand reached through his head to grab a jug of milk.

His powers had been on the fritz ever since he got them back. One minute he was turning the floor into a writhing mass of roaches, the next, poof, they were gone! The unsuspecting sap he’d been about to scar for life left… unscarred.

He could tap someone on the shoulder, but when they turned around, they just looked straight through his carefully crafted horror show of a face; he’d hidden in dumpsters to jumpscare people taking out their trash, but they didn’t even see him; and his fruit fly cream pies went right through their targets.

Figures, it was just his luck that the one fucking human in this whole damn city who could see him was fucking defective.

Betelgeuse opened the glass door and stepped out of the grocery store refrigerator, he needed to find that kid.

[palialaina]

Honestly the people of Kilima are something else. Some are less friendly than others (Lookin at you Eshe and Hassian) But for the most part, everyone is so... friendly, welcoming, and even willing to listen if I say something.

I feel like that didn't often happen in whatever life I had before.

Like... okay, Kenyatta. She's trying to find her Path, and it's been... entertaining? Interesting for sure. I gave her to stuff for a pickaxe, and while Hodari said no, Najuma tried to help (Hodari, dude, this is why you are not an uncle.)

I was kind of expecting it to backfire in ways of physical exhaustion, not, uh... literal explosions, but I suppose putting Kenyatta and Najuma in the same room together was bound to cause some trouble.

But, I also think something good came out of it! Sure, Kenyatta caused a landslide, but apparently she's also really good at healing and taking care of animals? Her bedside manner probably needs work, but like. I think she'd make a good healer with some real training.

She seemed surprised by that. Kinda hurts, but I get it. Support from a mother like hers must be hard to come by. Anyways, she said she'd talk to Chayne about a sponsership, so I've got my fingers crossed that everything works out well.

I sold the fish. I am just not a fish person. Also, the palcat brigade was eyeing it like it was gonna be their next meal. Seemed safer.

Naturally, now that she's not making life difficult, it's Uncle B. Honestly, he's not a bad composer, but he's just not prepared to put himself out there as a performer. I'm glad Auni eavesdropped on us, and decided that staying in the valley was better than 'running away' to Bahari Bay (again. This kid, I swear. Gonna be the death of me...), but at the same time, couldn't he have found me an easier recipe? Why bugs?

I have to hunt down dragonflies for a charm, I need to find a flow tree with some other humans, I need to get some rainbow trout for the trout dinner...

Oh, and I need to earn more money so I can build a living room for my house. I mean, I like it, I do, but the entryway is so crowded now, I think moving most of it to a side room will work better.

Reth... worries me. I like him, I do, but why is he all caught up in this magic thing? Also, I really need Tamala to not flirt with me. Eugh. I felt like I needed to scour my skin off after talking to her and delivering Reth's package. (Hassian, what on earth did you see in her? On the one hand, maybe she eases up if I befriend her more, on the other.... ngeh...)

There feels like some bigger reason he's working for Zeki and taking naps in the storeroom. I just don't know what it is yet. I hope Lark isn't getting in over their head when it comes to flirting with him like they said they wanted too...

Jel did make me laugh earlier, at least. I know it's probably not nice to laugh at him, but I think he did good, honestly. It's just a funny situation. He's still working on Kenyatta's gown, using the piranha teeth from the fish I caught him, but Eshe popped in and he dead-ass lied to her face.

I'm impressed he managed it. Majiri kind of suck at lying, I've noticed. Reth is bad at it for sure...

But he lied and said it was for someone else, and then fluttered and fussed about what to do. Honestly, the easiest way to deal with it is give the dress to Kenyatta, and I told him so too. I think he's a lot braver than he gives himself credit for. I mean, making the dress to Kenyatta's specifications instead of Eshe's, lying to, Eshe? Courting me

Maybe not that last one.

I have to remember to bring him some of the macarons I made later. I know Uncle B and Auntie Dal liked them, so maybe he will too? It's still not the 'cookies' I keep thinking off, but it's a nice, sweet treat, and a lot less dangerous to have in my bag instead of bottles of soup for when I get hungry! Maybe I can try adding some blueberry juice to them later. Or apples, once I finally get Uncle B to sell me apples.

I invited Lark and Jel over for a meal later. No idea if anyone will show, but I made everyone their own plate of macarons! Oh, and maybe if Lark says yes, next time they can bring Reth. I'll even make some soup just for him! Something to give him some pep since he and Jel are part of the Insomniacs Club.

Though speaking of, I should probably go work on my garden. My blueberry bushes are coming in nicely, and I really wanna make a blueberry pie.

[justthehiddleswrites]

Accidently Married | Tom Hiddleston x OFC | Chapter 2 | Be Careful with Clive, I Have Grown Attached to Him

A/N:  Tom makes certain comments about an ex (who is unnamed).  It is a fictional girlfriend, take from it what you will.  Keep your hate to yourself.  

SERIES MASTERLIST HERE

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x OFC (Molly Bishop)

Summary: Tom is stuck in a news cycle from hell; Molly is stuck in the dead end job of bartending with a pile of student and credit debt.  Tom has an idea to solve all their problems.  Get married, get the paparazzi off his back, divorce after a year and Tom pays off Molly’s debts.  Tom has everything figured out, that is until he sees Molly as more than a just a friend and so does someone else.  In this vying for affections who will win, the handsome Brit or the boy from Boston?

This Chapter: Tom and Molly are now married.  Surprise! These two talk about the logistics of Tom’s half-baked plan.  And Molly moves to London to face the firing squad, aka the paparazzi.  

Warnings: fake marriage, smut (vaginal sex), mentions of:  child abuse/neglect, foster care, substance abuse, cheating.

TAGLIST IS OPEN! PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED!  THANK YOU FOR READING!

–

After they signed the license along with the apostille, there had been dancing. That much Molly remembered. And drinking. Specifically drinking champagne. Tom danced with abandon, pulling Molly into the whirlwind of activity he created around him.

But now it was morning, and Molly woke up in a bed that wasn’t her own. She groaned as her head pounded, having forgotten that champagne and her have a love-hate relationship. Molly saw the faint outline of Tom asleep on the couch, his long body stretched out, still wearing his suit from last night. After glancing at the alarm clock, Molly fell back asleep.

Several hours, Molly woke up again and headed to the bathroom, not noticing the now opened curtains.

“Hey good lookin, Whatcha got cookin,” Tom’s voice twanged as he stepped out of the shower. His head pounded a bit, but not the worst hangover he had.

“AHHH!!!” Molly screamed as she stepped into the bathroom.

They both froze, which was more embarrassing for Tom, as at least Molly was still wearing her dress from last night.

“You’re naked.” Molly blinked, her head darting around the room until she focused on an interesting corner of the room.

Tom chuckled, grabbing a towel and wrapping it loosely around his waist. “I don’t normally shower in my clothes. You can look back now.”

She slowly turned back around. “Sorry.” She shuffled her feet. “I should have knocked.”

“It’s quite alright.” He moved towards the door. “Shower is yours and we should talk things over.”

Molly nodded. “We should.”

While Molly showered, Tom dressed in the other room. After finding a clean t-shirt for Molly to wear over her dress until she could change, he called the airlines and changed his single ticket for that morning to a later flight for two, fishing Molly’s ID out of her wallet.

“Thanks for the shirt.” she stepped out.

“It looks good on you.” Tom gestured to the sofa. “Sit. Would you like some breakfast?” Her stomach growled. They both laughed. “That would be a yes.” Tom shoved the room service menu. “Order what you like.”

She selected an egg white frittata while Tom got the pancakes. Tom put in the order and returned his attention to Molly.

“So let’s talk about how this will work.” Tom shifted in his seat.

“An excellent idea. You mentioned living together in London. When do we leave?”

“This afternoon.”

Molly coughed. “That quick?”

“I’m afraid so.” Tom’s hands fidgeted in his lap. She noticed he was still wearing the spider ring. “I have work obligations back home and in order for it to be believable you would need to live with me.”

“Naturally.” Molly slapped her thighs. “So after breakfast, I can head back to my apartment, pack up what little I have, say goodbye to my roommate, and change into appropriate clothing. And you need to get us some proper rings.” She waved her hot pink ring in the air. “Unless of course you intend for your bride to wear a ring from the top of a cupcake.”

“Only if I get to keep my ring. I’ve grown quite attached to Clive.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You named the spider?”

“Yes.” There was a knock on the door. “That will be the food. Allow me.” He disappeared and returned shortly with a rolling table, ladened with food. Tom poured a cup of coffee and offered one to Molly.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“I can have them bring up a teapot.”

“I’m pretty sure there are some complimentary ones in the room. Now,” She cut into her food and took a bite. “how will everything else work? Living with you, your life, the paparazzi? That is the whole point of this charade.”

“You do get down to business. So yes, I would expect you to live in my home. In a separate bedroom, I can set up another room as an office for you. We would need to attend events together and generally appear as a loving couple on the outside.”

“And my debts? That is part of the deal, right?”

“Right,” Tom gazed over at her while eating his pancakes. “I would assume the payments while we are together, and after the divorce is final, I would pay off any balance. I would also take care of your daily expenses while we are married. You are welcome to work if you want, but I will give you spending money.”

“So I would be a trophy wife?” Her brown eyes glinted.

Tom waved his hands in front of him. “Not that is not what I meant… I…”

“I am kidding, Tom. If you prefer, I can not work. I don’t mind. Give me some time to figure things out.” A thought came to her. “What about…” Molly searched for the words. “… other needs? Or if you wish to engage in a romantic relationship?” Her cheeks blushed as the words fell out of her mouth.

Tom blushed as well. “I have great self-control and I think if either of us get to that point, we can discuss it. I don’t want you to feel trapped.”

“And I don’t want you to be trapped either. I guess that is as good of an answer I could expect. Anything you want to ask me?”

Tom stared at Molly. The air hung heavy. “Do you regret saying yes?”

“No. Do you regret asking?”

“No.”

Molly downed the rest of her juice. “Well then, it is all settled. I am going to take off to pack. And you have some shopping to do. My ring size is a 7.”

Tom finished up the last bite of pancakes. “Right. We need to leave here by 3 to make it to the airport.”

“I shouldn’t be more than a few hours. Do you have a key to the room I could borrow?”

Tom fished one out of his discarded jacket’s pocket. “Here I will have the front desk make me another one.”

She tapped the key against her nails. “Thanks, Tom. For the help and for being a decent guy.”

“I should be thanking you.”

“You already have.” She grabbed her purse and headed out the door.

-

Tom headed downstairs, asked the front desk for a new key to the room, and also inquired where the nearest jewelry store might be. The front clerk handed him a key and directed him to a small collection of luxury stores in the hotel. He found Tiffanys and purchased a classic platinum solitaire engagement ring and plain platinum band for Molly and a yellow gold band for himself.

Molly wasn’t back when he returned, so he set about packing up for the flight. His phone buzzed. Luke.

It appears you had a good time in Vegas. The papers say you are drowning your sorrows. Looks like the story is here to stay. Call me when you wake up from your nap at home.

Tom typed back.

I did have a good time. I have a feeling the papers will soon find another story soon. Still in Vegas, taking a later flight. Talk to you soon.

His phone rang. He clicked it off, seeing it was Luke. Rather to get all the yelling done in person. The door opened and Molly came in, dragging a suitcase behind.

“Sorry! My roommate had questions.”

“So does my publicist.”

Tom took in Molly for the first time, really. Outside of the light of a casino floor. And not in a wedding dress purchased for fifty dollars on the way to the chapel. She wore faded jeans, a pair of beat up black Converse and a boxy white tee tucked in. A large black cardigan tucked under her arm. Dark hair in a bun. Quite lovely, if Tom told the truth.

“Are you in some sort of trouble?” Her brows knitted together.

“Not yet.” Tom tucked his phone into his jean pocket. “Here.” He pulled out the little blue bag.

Molly gasped. “I thought you would go buy some costume jewelry. This is too much.”

“Nonsense. This marriage may be fake, but the jewelry will be real.” Tom opened up the boxes. “May I do the honors?”

Molly held out her hand, and Tom slipped off the plastic ring before replacing it with the wedding set. “Much better. And yours?”

Tom slapped the box into her hand. “Be careful with Clive.” Molly pursed her lips as she pulled off the spider ring and replaced it with the gold band, putting the plastic ring in the Tiffanys box. “Here you go. Clive’s new home.”

Tom tucked the box into his luggage. “Ready to go?”

Molly rocked back on her heels. “Yep.”

Tom held out his arm. “Let’s go home, Mrs. Hiddleston.”

-

The flight back was uneventful, Molly and Tom dozed off, leaning against each other for support. Molly woke up first. She stared down at her rings. This was not how she expected this weekend going. Molly thought she would scrap together enough tips to make an extra payment on her credit card. Not flying to London with a Tiffany diamond ring on her finger and a famous actor as her husband.

“Life does throw you curveballs from time to time.”

“What was that, darling?” Tom muttered, stretching in his seat.

“Just commenting on the craziness of all of this to myself.” She held out her hand again. Tom laced his fingers with hers.

“I have done the same thing myself. Now when we land, there will probably be paparazzi around. Are you up for getting this whole thing off and running?”

Molly perked up. “What do I need to do?”

-

Tom tightly gripped Molly’s hand throughout the concourse and baggage claim. They eyed the doors.

“Ready?” she asked, squeezing his hand.

“I promise to be gentle.” Tom squeezed back, smiling.

As they stepped through the doors, Tom flashed a killer smile and Molly did as well, giggling as his arm wrapped around her waist. He leaned over and pressed his lips to hers. Molly melted against him, making sure her rings were visible as she cupped his cheek. She was right, Tom was an excellent kisser. After making sure any photographers had plenty of time to snap a pic, they parted.

“Think they got my good side?” Molly giggled.

“Do you have a bad side?” Tom asked.

“Just wait and see. Now take me home, darling!” She threw her arm over her eyes dramatically.

“Drama queen.” Tom pinched her side.

-

Tom’s home was cozy and clean. Definitely a bachelor’s home, as evidenced by the empty fridge except for a few bottles of beer and some questionable brown sauce.

“I can go shopping later.” Tom dragged a toe along the kitchen floor.

“I can go shopping later.” She reached up and smacked his face playfully. “What kind of wife would I be if I didn’t feed my husband?”

“Fair point. I will call the bank tomorrow and get a card in your name. Just run any big purchases past me first. And we will need to get your name changed, passport, etc. I can have someone help you.” Tom prattled on.

“Why don’t you show me the rest of the place first?”

Tom held out his arm. “This way.”

Tom’s book collection was impressive along with his collection of movies.

“I clear some space if you need it.”

“I only packed clothes. My roommate is selling the rest, including my car and wiring me the money.”

“Oh.” Tom’s face fell. “Let me show you the bedrooms.”

He showed you a small guest room. “This could be an office for you and next door is a bigger bedroom for you.” Tom hustled along the hallway to open the next door. “Here.”

It was a bigger room with a queen bed and a wardrobe. Spare and clearly used for company.

“It will do just fine. And the bathroom is across the hall which is nice. Where’s your room?”

Tom made his way to the end of the hall and opened the door to his room, decorated in tones of grey and navy. A large king sized bed taking up most of the room along with a dresser. A bathroom en suite and a small closet completed the space.

“Very nice. Do you mind if I steal the color palette to decorate my room?”

“Please do. I never got around to decorate it. My sisters and mother are the only ones who stay in there.”

Molly paled a bit. She hadn’t thought about Tom’s family. “I supposed I will meet them soon.”

“I supposed so. It would be odd for my wife not to meet them. I hadn’t thought about it.”

Molly rocked back and forth. “Now why don’t I go shopping and you unpack and relax?”

“I would feel better if I came with you. You are in a different country, a strange city. And what if you have problems with the card?”

“Then let’s go and you can point out some of your favorite foods.”

“It’s a deal.”

-

“When I said pick out your favorite foods, I didn’t expect it to be only sweets. Did I marry a seven-year-old?”

“I’m 35, thank you. and I enjoy those sweets.”

“You eat like a college frat boy.”

“Guilty.”

“That is definitely changing now that I am around. You can’t continue to eat like that. There are things called vegetables.”

Tom snapped his fingers. “I’ve heard of those.”

“Get out of here!” Molly swatted at him. “I am certain you have things to attend to, and I need to familiarize myself with the kitchen.”

“Are you kicking me out of my kitchen?”

“Our kitchen. And yes.” Molly smirked.

“I yield! I yield. I’ll be in my study if you need me.” Tom walked out of the kitchen and towards his study.

He spied his phone sitting on the desk, still off from the flight. By now, any pictures should have been posted somewhere. Tom collapsed into his desk chair and clicked the phone on. While he waited for it to start up, he could overhear Molly puttering about in the kitchen, muttering to herself as she put away the groceries.

Buzz. Ten messages and eleven missed calls. He didn’t bother to listen to them and instead dialed Luke.

“Luke, I’m back in town. Thought I wou—” Tom started in as soon as Luke picked up.

“I WASN’T FUCKING SERIOUS WHEN I SAID TO GET MARRIED??! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND?!”

Tom pulled the phone away from his ear. “No, I haven’t. But I am married. To a wonderful girl. Her name is Molly. Molly Bishop. You should meet her, Luke.”

“YOU ARE FUCKING RIGHT I’LL MEET HER. AS SOON AS POSSIBLE! SHE CAN HELP IDENTIFY YOUR BODY, THOMAS!” Luke continued to scream on the phone.

“Can you dial back the volume, Luke? I would like to preserve my hearing. Is there something wrong with marrying the woman I love?”

Luke cleared his throat. Tom understood Luke was doing his best to collect himself. “Apologies. There is nothing wrong with marrying the woman you love, Tom. Nothing at all. Except I don’t think you love this woman, since until a few weeks ago you were in love with—”

“Don’t say her name, it will ruin my marital bliss. I’m a hopeless romantic, Luke.”

“Hopeless, yes. Romantic, the jury is still out. And your fans don’t count, they are blinded by you. But I see the truth.”

“Which is?”

“You are not as smart as you think you are.”

“Did any of the articles mention her?” Tom inquired, spinning his wedding band on his finger.

“No.”

“Then I am exactly as smart as I think I am.”

There was a clatter from the kitchen.

“Tom!” Molly called out. “I need your help.”

“Got to go, Luke. My wife needs my help.” Tom emphasized the word “wife.”

“This isn’t over, Tom.”

“It never is. Bye.”

More clattering and another cry. “Tom!”

Tom rushed into the kitchen to find Molly perched on top of the kitchen counter, reaching high into a cabinet.

“Why is everything so high in here?”

Tom chuckled and reached around her, pressing his torso against her back. Molly jumped for a moment at the touch.

“I’m not used to sharing my space. I’m six two, I put things where I can reach them. What are you grabbing?”

“The roasting pan.”

Tom pulled it down and placed it on the counter. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

“Thank you. Well, I am five six, so unless you want me climbing counters for the next year, we need to rearrange some things.”

“But you’re so cute climbing around like a little monkey.”

Molly frowned. “Is that supposed to be a compliment? If so, then try again.”

Tom opened his mouth and closed it. “I’ll pull things down after dinner.”

“Thank you.” She rubbed his arm. “Now to try my hand at a roast dinner. Did you get stuff done?”

His phone buzzed again.

“I called my publicist. The pictures posted.” Tom pulled out his phone to shut it off.

“Oh good. So I take it, I had the desired effect.” Molly crunched on a carrot and offered one to Tom, who wrinkled his nose.

The two of you. My office 8 a.m. tomorrow. No excuses. I want to meet the blushing bride.

Tom frowned at the screen.

“It would appear so. I suggest you go to bed early because you are meeting Luke, my publicist tomorrow.”

Molly’s mouth fell open. “Should I be worried?”

Tom smiled at her. “No, I should be.”

[sarah-sandwich]

"I need a hug" please and thank you!

Hi friend! Here it is! Remind me to never commit to a fic a day for an entire week again lmao

Happy last day of National Storyteller Week to everyone who creates or consumes stories! Jump over to my ao3 for 5 ridiculous parkner fics 👌✨💛

Peter, no

He probably should have clued in sooner, a lot sooner.

Him and Peter have been attached at the hip for three years, ever since Peter ran into the lab in the middle of a video call with Tony, shouted something about an arm-wrestling tournament with the Avengers, and begged, “You gotta come trash talk them for me! Please, Mr. Stark! No one roasts as good as you!” Then, after receiving Tony’s resigned agreement, exclaimed, “I’m gonna dislocate Captain America’s shoulder!” turned tail and sprinted back out, ignoring Tony’s, “Peter, no!”

It was over in under a minute but he was bewitched.

“Who was that? And why haven’t I met him?”

“I’ve been avoiding this day,” Tony said in a world-weary tone. “You’re either going to hate each other or get on like a house fire. Either way, I’ll never know peace again.”

In usual Tony Stark fashion, he was right.

He thought he’d seen every side of Peter there is. He’s seen him soft and sleepy under the blue glow of the television. He’s seen him wired and manic as he pursues a project on little to no sleep. He’s seen him broken and bleeding in more ways than he cares to count. He’s seen him laughing until he cries, crying so hard the only thing he can do is cry with him, too exhausted to feed himself, too angry to speak, and he’s been there when he’s on the cusp of dropping dead from embarrassment (usually pointing and laughing but hey, somebody’s gotta keep him humble).

He knows him like he knows his sister, like he knows his mom, like he knows himself.

His point is, it shouldn’t have taken this camping trip to put the pieces together. Realization shouldn’t have hit him like a log to the face when Peter rolled up the sleeves of his borrowed flannel and suddenly he couldn’t breathe for wanting to kiss him stupid.

Well, stupider.

A moment later, Peter picked up the bag of tent poles like they weighed nothing and somehow managed to dump them all over the side of the road like a can of pick-up-sticks.

It’s gonna be a long weekend.

~*~

“What’s this thing for again?” Peter asks, raising his arms high over his head to hold up the long swath of fabric two times his height.

“It’s a rain fly, Peter. It keeps out the rain.”

“It’s not supposed to rain. Trust me, Aunt May checked the weather like 50 times before she would let me leave.”

“We still need it.”

“But why? We could sleep under the stars.”

“It traps in heat.”

“Sounds like another tally in the cons column. It’s hot as fuck, dude.”

“Not tonight it won’t be. Temperature fluctuates a lot in the mountains, especially when the sun goes down.”

“Temperature fluctuates in the mountains,” Peter repeats mockingly.

Harley stops what he’s doing. “If you really wanna sleep under the stars I don’t have to share my tent. Enjoy the skeeters.”

“You love me too much to leave me to sleep with the wildlife,” Peter says, voice muffled from under the rain fly as he attempts to drape it over the erected tent.

His heart skips. Does he know? Has he been that obvious even while oblivious to his own feelings? Did Peter figure it out before he did? Has he been graciously not saying anything about his huge undeniable crush while—

Peter squawks and tumbles forward, the tent collapsing under him with a snap that echoes through the trees. The rain fly flutters over him like a burial shroud.

“Please tell me whatever just broke was a part of you.”

“Uhh, sorry.”

He sighs. He’s in love with an idiot.

~*~

The tent leans a little to the left when they’re done with it but he’s pretty sure it’ll hold up through the night. Just in case, they limit how often they go in and out of it (which, in his opinion, is the way it should be done regardless).

A breeze rustles the trees, scattering pine needles as birds chitter and small unseen wildlife scurries around the underbrush. He breathes in deep, savoring the scent of dirt, pine, and fresh air. He’s been in the city far too long.

Peter stands with his hands on his hips, dirt crusted on the knees of his jeans, his borrowed flannel pulling tight across his chest as he watches a puffy white cloud scoot by with a befuddled expression.

He turns to Harley. “So umm, now what?”

He shrugs. “Whatever you want. You’re the one who’s never done this before?”

Peter stares at him blankly.

“Right. Forgot who I was talking to.” He shakes his head and walks over to the car with a sigh. “This way, city boy. It’s time you learned to fish.”

“Sounds smelly.”

“Mmm.” He pops the trunk and pulls out two fishing rods—one old and dinged up, the other brand-spankin-new—and he passes them to Peter so he can grab the tackle box and a white plastic bucket with a lid on it.

“And slimy,” Peter continues, wrinkling his nose at the bold ‘WORMS’ printed on the side of the white bucket.

“That it is, but there aren’t any rats and no one has pissed on the place you need to sit so it’s automatically better than anything the city has to offer.”

“We’ll see about that,” Peter grumbles.

~*~

“Y’know,” Harley drawls lazily, eyes half-lidded as he watches Peter jump from rock to rock along the shoreline, “usually when people are lookin’ to catch a fish they cast their line into the water rather than leavin’ it on the ground.”

“Oh is that how it’s done? I had no idea,” Peter says, stooping down to peer into a small pool sequestered away from the rest of the body of water. “What do tadpoles look like?”

“Uh, little squirmy guys.”

“Very descriptive, thank you.”

“Mhmm. Anytime, darlin’.”

Peter looks up at him, eyes narrowed and he jolts under the sudden scrutiny.

“What?” he asks. He always calls him darling. It’s just a thing he says—a southern thing. So what if over the years he’s stopped using the name for anyone else? It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not weird.

“Are you falling asleep?” Peter asks.

“Pfft, no,” he says. The sun is deliciously warm, seeping into his skin and turning his bones to butter as the katydids buzz and birds sing. A warm breeze ruffs his hair and he finds himself blinking slowly.

“Dude, you’re totally falling asleep.” Peter grins playfully and hopscotches across the rocks back to him as he teases, “You know, usually when someone wants to catch a fish, they do it while they’re awake.”

“I am awake, dummy.”

“Not for much longer.” He comes to a stop at his side and tweaks the brim of his hat. “Look at you. You’re like an old man falling asleep in his recliner in front of the big game.”

“Napping is a perfectly respectable part of fishing,” he argues.

Peter throws back his head and laughs. Backed by blue sky and thickly forested mountain, sunlit from above, he’s never looked better.

Should he tell him? Is now the time? He can’t imagine living like this—knowing how he feels but bottling it up and keeping it a secret from his best friend.

Then again—

His fishing rod dips and he sits up with a start, hands already moving for the reel.

“Woah, is that a fish?” Peter exclaims, peering into the lake.

“Sure hope so. Can’t imagine what else it’d—,”

“Can I pull it in?” Peter asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an excitable puppy.

“No, you if wanna get a fish you have to put in the work.”

“What work? Laying around half-asleep?”

“Yeah, exactly. I’ll let you take it off the line, how ‘bout that?”

“Eh, that’s okay. I’m good.”

He wrestles the fish out of the lake, a bass about two hands long, and then holds the flopping fish, hooked through the lip, out to Peter.

“There you go. Just pop that puppy off the hook and toss ‘im back in.”

“Wait, you don’t even keep the fish?”

“What would I do with a fish?”

“…eat it?”

“That’s a whole song and dance I ain’t got the tools or the patience for. Just grab the fish, Pete. Preferably before it suffocates.”

Peter makes an unhappy sound in his throat but reaches for the fish. Just as his fingers brush the scales, the fish gives a mighty wiggle and Peter flinches back towards the lake.

“Eep!” Peter squeaks and goes into the water with a splash.

Harley hunches over, laughing his head off as Peter sits up, water streaming down his face and dripping from his hair.

“I hate you.” Slipping and sliding in the muck, he makes his way through the mid-thigh deep water, back to dry land, and then keeps walking past Harley and up the hill to the trail that will lead him back to camp.

All the while Harley laughs and laughs, taking a moment to free the fish back into the lake before he sits down and tips his face to the sun, chuckling and committing to memory the way Peter’s soaked jeans and flannel clung all over his body.

~*~

“I still don’t see why—,”

“Shush,” Peter snaps, frowning in concentration over the tiny flame he’s been babying to life for the past fifteen minutes.

He sighs. He tried to convince him to wait until supper for a campfire meal but Mr. Eager Beaver insisted on trying his hand at it now. Had they made sandwiches they’d be done by now and could be hiking. But no. Peter wants to play Boy Scout so they’re going to sit here and starve until he gets a fire built just to spend five minutes roasting hot dogs and then have to put it out again.

To make matters worse, Peter’s no longer wearing his shirt since it got soaked in the lake. He’d gotten attached to how he looks in his clothes. Now he’s wearing on one of his standard nerd-pun tees and a wrinkly pair of khaki cargo shorts and he’s going to have to convince him to at least put on long socks before they hike or he’s going to risk getting poison ivy or poison oak all over his calves and ankles.

“There it goes! There it goes!” Peter exclaims, sitting up tall and motioning at him to look at the little flame as it eats up the pile of twigs and tinder.

“Very good, dear,” he says dryly. “Now see if you can keep it going with some real wood.”

Peter cocks his head at him. “Was that a double-entendre?”

“Why on earth would I imply that we should put a part of my human anatomy in the fire, Peter?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, squatting beside the fire as he breaks up a stick. “Dick jokes are funny.”

“You’re a child.”

“And yet you— Shit!” He flinches back from the fire and falls on his backside.

He comes alert with a spike of adrenaline, rushing forward to— to— pat out flames with his bare hands? He doesn’t know. “What happened?” he demands, checking Peter over for damage and finding nothing, not a burn or singe in sight.

Still sprawled on the ground, Peter looks up at him through his eyelashes with an embarrassed grimace. “I don’t want to say.”

“But you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” he sits up cross-legged and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He stares down at him as he looks down in his lap. “You’re really not going to tell me what just happened? I already saw you fall in a lake because you were scared of a fish. It can’t be worse than that.”

Peter looks up, neck crimped and mouth screwed into an unhappy pucker. “I thought something was on me but it was just the grass.”

Harley stares. “So, you thought a bug was on you.”

“Yeah. I’m starting to think I’m not cut out for this place.”

What has he gotten himself into?

~*~

Peter hasn’t stopped chattering about everything under the sun since they left camp. And considering where they are, there’s a lot to chatter about. From bugs to birds to types of trees and identifying clouds, he’s heard it all. It’s why he’s not paying attention to the path like he should, too busy watching the way Peter waves his hands animatedly as he rambles, the way the sun lights his eyes and makes his hair shine, the way his lips shape the words.

He hasn’t taken in a word he’s said for the past twenty minutes but he’s watched him with rapt attention while his mind churns through his options. He’s not one to ignore something once he knows about it. He doesn’t want to keep this a secret. There’s no reason to. It’s nothing shameful and if Peter doesn’t reciprocate then… well, nothing changes, right? He’s fine with that. Best friends is still good. Great, even.

But if Peter does reciprocate…

His breathing quickens at the thought. How did he not notice this ridiculous crush sooner? It’s like something has been awakened inside him and now it refuses to shut up and go back to sleep. He gravitates towards Peter like an orbiting moon. He’s a moth to Peter’s beam of light. Helpless under the thrall.

Peter suddenly looks right at him. “—you know what I mean?”

“Huh?” His foot lands wrong and rolls over a root. His ankle screams out and then he’s dropping as it gives out.

“Woah!” Peter catches him, one arm around his back and the other fisted into his shirt at his shoulder. His brain goes offline, only processing the way Peter is pressed against him, the way his face is angled over him like he’s on the verge of dipping him into a kiss, the way neither of them moves or speaks, staring instead with startled realization.

He thinks he imagines it when Peter’s eyes dilate but then they fix on his lips and there’s no way he’s imagining that.

Lights flash in his head and he forgets to breathe as they hang suspended in time.

Then Peter bites his lip and his cheeks flush dark pink as he yanks Harley upright.

He stumbles, unprepared, and his ankle gives out a second time.

Peter catches him by the elbows babbling, “Oh my God, I’m sorry! Are you okay? I didn’t mean to—,”

“I’m fine. I…” The rest of the sentence vanishes from his tongue as he looks into Peter’s eyes. He loves his eyes—warm and affectionate, they always give him away. Whether they’re bright with curiosity, sparkling with delight, wide with embarrassment, or narrowed in anger, he’s an open book. That’s why the look in his eyes now gives him pause. He’s never seen it before—or maybe it’s been there all along but he hasn’t noticed until now.

They’re dark and focused like he’s seeing through him into his soul and likes what he sees so much he wants to eat him alive.

His heart thunders as he lifts a hand to Peter’s cheek. This is it. This is the moment he tells him and finds out where they’re going to go next.

Peter’s eyes go wide and he swallows thickly, but then his gaze shifts beyond him and he freezes except to carefully grab his forearm in a too-tight grip.

“Bear,” Peter breathes.

His awareness of their surrounding returns so suddenly it hurts. Birds sing, bugs buzz and chirp, somewhere nearby a creek burbles, and behind him on the path, something scuffs the ground and then snorts and sniffs harshly.

“No,” he says quietly. No, he refuses to allow this to be his reality. This cannot be happening. He won’t allow this to happen.

“Harley, bear,” Peter repeats, grip tightening.

Oh my God, this is happening.

“Don’t run,” he says in an undertone. “You’re not supposed to run.”

“We gotta run.”

“Peter, no.”

“Harley, there’s a fucking bear.”

“Listen to me—,”

“I’m gonna grab you—,”

“—we gotta stay still and—,”

“I’ll carry you and—,”

“—non-threatening so—,”

“I’m going to get you up a tree and then—,”

“—it won’t chase us.”

“—the bear will chase me.”

“Peter—,”

“It’ll be fine.”

“—no.”

~*~

He waits in the tree for over an hour, ankle throbbing, sick to his stomach with worry, wondering if he’ll ever see the idiot he stupidly fell in love with ever again. Even if he didn’t get eaten by the bear, he’s no good out here in the woods. He could be lost. He could be too hurt to move. He could be—

—covered in what smells like animal shit and standing balefully at the base of the tree.

“I need a hug,” Peter says, voice small.

“Did you—,”

“I did what needed to be done.”

“So that’s—,”

“Don’t say it. Do you need help getting down?”

“I’ll figure it out. Don’t touch me.”

“That’s fair. I’ll be in the lake. Will you bring me all of the soap and soap-like products we own?”

“Yeah. Gimme a minute.”

“Thanks, Harley.”

“Peter?”

“Yeah?”

I love you. I’m glad you’re not dead. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come back. My life wouldn’t be the same without you in it. You’re everything I want.

“You’re an idiot,” he says.

Peter nods. “Yeah.”

~*~

“Black bears can run 35 miles per hour,” he says conversationally. They’re sprawled on a blanket while the fire crackles nearby (but not too close, they’ve had enough disasters for one day). His foot is propped on the tackle box, elevating his ankle and Peter is beside him, flat on his back staring up at the stars through the trees, close enough that their arms brush.

“Trust me, I know.”

“They can also climb trees,” he continues reading from his phone. “You should never climb a tree to avoid a bear.”

“Harley—,”

“If a bear notices you, stay calm. Most bears don’t want to attack you.”

“Dude, I get it.”

“Move away slowly and sideways. Do not run. Do not climb a tree.”

Peter snatches the phone out of his hands and sits up. “I panicked, okay? I can’t lose you! I had to get you out of there.”

He goes still, the crackling of the fire and the crickets the only sound in the night.

“Say again?”

“Don’t,” Peter says harshly, still holding his phone far out of reach. “Don’t make fun of me about this one. You don’t get it, okay?”

This isn’t how he expected this to happen. Hyper aware of his heart beating in his chest, he asks, “What don’t I get?”

“I was terrified.”

“And you think I wasn’t?”

“Not in the way I was. I was— It was like— It was like if anything happened to you, nothing would be okay ever again. I don’t—,” He pulls in a deep breath, chest heaving as his eyes shine uncommonly bright in the firelight. “I don’t know. You’re— Ever since we met things have just felt right and good in a way they hadn’t before and I’ve already lost so many people and then you were in danger and I couldn’t do nothing. I couldn’t.”

“Okay,” he says gently, sitting upright and scooting over on the blanket. “Okay.” He takes the phone and sets it aside then takes Peter’s hand in both of his. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m okay.”

“I think I’m in love with you,” Peter says miserably, sniffing and wiping his eyes with the back of his free hand. “I think I have been for a long time.”

“Well, that’s lucky because I think I’m in love with you too.”

“You— What?”

“Mhmm. Since at least this morning.”

Peter stares at him. His lips twitch. “This morning? For real? Are you teasing me?”

“A hundred percent serious. It hit me right before you dumped my tent poles all over 36th street. Unrelated, you should wear my clothes more often.” He pauses and then says, “I think today was the universe asking me if I was sure I wanted to be tied down to your dumb ass for the rest of forever.”

“And?” Peter asks, eyes wide in the firelight.

“Yeah,” he says, smoothing a curl away from his forehead. “I’m sure.”

Peter leans in and kisses him, soft and quick. “Is that okay?”

Heart in his mouth, he says, “I think you can do better.”

Peter laughs and smooths his thumb over his cheekbone. “I love you.”

“I love you too, darlin’.”

[starbeyy]

how haikyuu characters would die on the oregon trail

this is so incredibly stupid. i guess you can imagine this as them playing the game but I like to think that it’s actually the characters in the old west dying from ancient diseases. it’s funnier that way. cw: cursing, lots of death (but it’s kinda funny)

Karasuno

Hinata // died from cholera. shit himself to death. literally the least glamorous way to die when you’re traversing in search of a better life.

Kageyama // he got bit by a venomous snake but we all know he’s the kind of bitch to get bit by a zombie then not tell anyone, so he’s walking around holding his wrist and then one day he just kinda drops dead and everyones like 🤨 huh?

Tsukishima // literally a broken arm. you can die from a broken arm on the Oregon Trail. and everyone is like a little convinced that someone poisoned him to make him die quicker cause they were so tired of his bitching..

Yamaguchi // broke his leg from jumping into a lake bc he didn’t want to pay for the bathhouse; he limped too much and got run over by the cattle that was pulling his covered wagon :(

Nishinoya // died from exhaustion. he just went too hard for too long and then he tried to wrestle a gator and dropped dead literally immediately after. mad respect tho that gator had it coming ✊🏼😔

Tanaka // another tragic exhaustion loss, but it’s only because he tried to carry Kiyoko the entire way. she tried to make him just let her sit in the covered wagon, but he INSISTED on carrying her piggyback. he made a huge deal of his death but Kiyoko was just like “this could’ve been easily avoided”.

Ennoshita // poor thing was doing a great job, more than halfway there, then he got a fever. a fever put this poor mfer down. i don’t even know what to tell you he just fevered himself to death.

Asahi // he was an early loss. he didn’t want to drink any of the river water or eat any of the meat they bought from ~suspicious~ men on the trail so he eventually died from hunger and thirst. like, you gotta eat. but he simply refused.

Daichi // i genuinely think he makes it to Oregon but then, idk tries to build a barn and accidentally lets the wood frame fall on him. like everyone knows him because he braved the entire Orgeon Trail then got K.O.’d by some 2x4s. rip.

Sugawara //  he got measles. like who gets measles? you get it from contaminated droplets and Sugawara just can’t figure out where he might’ve encountered those. except for when he kissed that cow that he didn’t know was dead until he got really close. genuine accident, i swear.

Nekoma

Kuroo // cholera :( he was kinda peeved about it but Kenma caught him one night writing out a bunch of possible jokes to be carved on his tombstone. they ended up just putting the piece of paper on top of his burial spot and calling it a day

Kenma // actually makes it to Oregon. no one knows how, he didn’t even really try. he’s just really good at games, I guess.

Lev // another snakebite lookin’ ass. i think he genuinely just wanted to pet the snake and didn’t think anything of it when its butt rattled. he though it was an invitation like when cats purr. his body didn’t hold up much longer once the venom ran its course.

Yaku // honestly? madness. he didn’t die so much as he tore off all his clothes and abandoned his cattle and covered wagon to run off into the prairie and start his new life as a crazy mountain man. he just shouted “you’re all fools” one day and no one’s seen him since.

Fukurodani

Bokuto // ate some bad wild fruits. it wasn’t hit fault, he was really hungry and he got too attached to his cattle and couldn’t bring himself to kill and eat him :(( but he had a nice little trippy moment before he bit the dust.

Akaashi // y’know what, I’m gonna say it, he makes it to Oregon. and he THRIVES. he builds his house and tends to his cattle. because that’s what he DESERVES. 

Aoba Johsai

Oikawa // HAHA he died of typhoid. and if you think this guy didn’t make the BIGGEST deal out of his death. it was absolutely shakespearean. like he was on the brink for three whole days. and he kept giving these long speeches to each of his friends and pretending to die in the middle. then he actually died in the middle of iwaizumi’s and it was kinda awkward.

Iwaizumi // I think he makes it to Oregon, but he like loses his arm to a bout of gangrene or something crazy. like it just rotted and then fell off. and now everyone in Oregon makes fun of him for only having one arm and it’s honestly kinda pissing him off

Kyoutani // let a snake bite him, just to see if he could take it. he could not. he died very shortly after but not before he could try to suck the venom out of his own arm. it was kind of terrifying, honestly. 

Yahaba // another brave soldier lost to cholera. no one knows how he caught it and he just kinda bitches about it all the time. Kyoutani pushed him out of the wagon once and he sustained some pretty nasty head trauma from that so it really sped up the process.

Matsukawa // he and Hanamaki thought it would be funny to eat literally any mushroom they came across. obviously this worked against them at some point and they both started dying horrible deaths.

Hanamaki // basically when he and Mattsun were on their deathbeads, they gave an engraving on a piece of wood for both of them to be put at the gravesites bc obviously they’re gonna be buried together. it isn’t until they’re six feet under and the pieces of wood have been stuck into the ground that the group looks really closely and sees that the pieces go together to spell “PENIS”. classic.

Shiratorizawa

Ushijima // listen he just looks like the kinda guy to catch typhoid. but he doesn’t tell anyone that he doesn’t feel well, he just kinda coughs on the low and wipes the blood from the crook of his elbow. when he finally dies, everyone just kinda looks behind them and is like “where’s wakatoshi?🤔”. he’s dead, ya’ll, like four miles back.

Tendou // i’m sorry he’s got that sickly victorian child look you know he was one of the first to contract something deadly. i think he like caught multiple diseases. he was collecting them like pokemon: diptheria, dysentery, typhoid, you name it. the worst thing about him dying on the trail was the fact that his body couldn’t be donated to science. no one had any clue how he lived so long with so many ailments coursing through him.

Goshiki // he broke his arm. he BROKE his ARM and then DIED. yes, that can literally happen in the game do not ask me how. there was no foul play, no overexertion, he just 💀. sorry, buddy.

Inarizaki

Atsumu // he drowned. you wanna know how?

Osamu // drowned while wrestling Atsumu. it was a friendly quarrel turned nasty fight as they rolled into the gross river water. everyone kinda stood around and watched but they couldn’t tell when the flailing limbs were cries for help rather than thrown punches. swallowed too much water. guess it’s better than contracting double-cholera with your twin brother.

Kita // exhaustion. this boy doesn’t stop walking. everyone is begging him to set up camp or lay in the covered wagon for a little while but he refuses, he just wants to keep walking. yeah he eventually just drops dead and everyone’s actually pretty sad about it.

Suna // the kind of bitch to fake diptheria. he acts all achey and feverish and says he just HAS to stay in the covered wagon. he says he can’t fish or hunt or do anything and then when someone actually catches diptheria, he’s forced out of the wagon bc he doesn’t wanna catch it. he does anyways. good riddance.

Aran // yeah he was the one who gave Suna diptheria. he didn’t mean to get it, but it was a little bit satisfying to watch Suna cringe as Aran gave him a big hug and called them “diptheria buddies”. they had a nice little double grave though <3.

[smuggsy]

heyo! If you feel like a prompt, I'll offer up one for the flyboys? How about, “Am I going to die?" pls <3

Thank you! I always feel like writing for these two! Two prompts in a day, wow, this is unheard of. I would feel accomplished except I should've been working on an essay for my medieval history class so I only feel guilty lmao.

Anyway. Here, have some pining idiots. Bit of angst sprinkled in but really this is just Collins biting off more than he can chew. You know I love putting him in these situations #sorrynotsorry.

Collins has always been the heavier drinker. He's more easy-going, always accepting pints from the younger lads and beating them at cards and joining in on their bets when dark clouds loom close to the ground and they're allowed to leave for the day.

It's usually Farrier keeping him in check, walking him back to base late at night and watching carefully from behind, giving him space but close enough to grab in case he trips over his feet after a good amount of beer has numbed his reflexes.

Collins naively assumes Farrier isn't a booze lover. Isn't that into alcohol in general; he never has more than two pints, not even when Collins refuses to indulge in it does Farrier let himself get too comfortable at the bar or at a table.

Never when Collins is with him, anyway. This is a thought that has just recently taken form, as in, about ten minutes ago when Collins caught up with the group at the local pub after returning from his daily rounds.

Today he walks into the crowded place brimming with pilots as a thunderstorm announces itself outside, and when he takes a seat next to his wingmate on the far-off corner from the door he finds Farrier doesn't look up to meet his gaze.

"Evening," Collins greets, but he's not sure he's heard him over the music and incessant chatting of their peers.

Even if he does, Farrier pays him no mind.

To say that Collins is instantly bugged by it is an understatement. Farrier stares down at something in his lap, he's hunched down and sports a permanent frown and the overall sight of him just looks wrong.

"Ey, alright?"

He realises, but only once Farrier snaps his head up, that his eyes are a bit too glassy, his breath smelling a bit too strong when he sighs in Collins' direction.

"What? Oh, hey."

Collins only sees the paper in a flash, before Farrier tucks it back into the inner pocket of his jacket. The quick motion clearly meant to keep it away from prying eyes is the only reason Collins doesn't ask. Yet.

"Having fun?" he says instead with a smile, trying to brush away the sudden heaviness of a conversation that hasn't even started, and he leans back on his own seat and surveys the table in front. He counts at least five empty pints close enough to Farrier's side.

"Fun," Farrier scoffs with a shake of his head.

Collins finds the irony dripping from the word so strong and uncharacteristic that he leans over and takes a chug or two of his own beer.

"Let them have fun," his mate continues, gesturing vaguely towards the youngest recruits fooling about on the dancefloor, "they don't know what's fucking coming."

At that, Collins can't help but stare.

He gently places his pint back on the table and doesn't tear his eyes away from Farrier, now stumbling out of his chair looking much drunker than he did just a second ago.

"M'gonna head back," he says, trying to walk past Collins who only manages to move his chair back once Farrier's already on the other side.

"It'll be pouring outside!"

Just then, a thunder rumbles low and menacing under the sweet voice of The Andrews Sisters coming off the gramophone. Farrier stops dead in his tracks for a moment and just when Collins thinks he's going to turn around and sit back down, he shrugs and walks away.

"Ah, s'only a bit of rain, innit..."

He only stops by the bar to pay for his round of drinks, pushing through one or two excited couples dancing away the night and apologizing to one of the gals for almost stepping on her foot.

Collins watches the whole exchange from his spot, a bit taken aback by Farrier so easily brushing him off.

He gives himself a few moments to feel hurt and then he stands up and pays for his own unfinished pint, only catching up to him as he rounds the corner and the first droplets of rain start announcing a hell of a storm.

"Yer gonna be wet straight through if ya walk back now!"

"Yeah," Farrier says over his shoulder, lighting a cigarette and sending a sour smile Collins' way, "I am."

His gaze seems only a bit clearer as he stares Collins down, giving him a once over and taking in the sight with an approving nod. It makes something in Collins' stomach turn.

In a good way.

"You go back though, get yourself a nice bird to dance with. Put in all that effort to walk me back like I'm your granny?"

With the dragging of his words and the cigarette he keeps firmly placed in between his lips, Collins almost doesn't understand him.

He lets out an emotionless laugh and starts walking again when Farrier does.

"What effort? I always look like this."

Farrier blows away the smoke and nods again.

"You do."

"Something happen?"

There it is. He asks.

Farrier almost halts, just almost. He looks like he's about to answer but then the cigarette is back in his mouth and he openly ignores his question for a whole minute. Collins gets the cue but he still doesn't turn back. He figures he can play chaperone tonight, like Farrier's done with him so many times before.

Except, he's always ranting on after his round of pints and his wingmate's not much of a talker. No way to fill in the awkward silence. Collins can't help himself.

"You got mail," he tries again, a statement, just a simple comment that doesn't mean any harm and it definitely doesn't mean to make Farrier turn around like that - like he's properly annoyed at him for asking. For caring.

"Just go back," Farrier bites out, harshly, "you just got 'ere. Go on, don't lemme spoil your night."

"You're not."

"Collins..."

"I'll go if you really want me to."

That makes Farrier look at him again, truly look at him like the words have taken a bit of the alcohol off his blood and sobered him up. He stares for a long moment and then starts walking again without a word. Failing to answer again but answering nonetheless.

The lamp-posts they walk past light up the heavier drops of rain as if warning them of what's to come. Collins' hair is still wet from the shower so he doesn't feel much of a difference.

"You're a good kid, Jackie," Farrier says after a while, hands in the pockets of his trousers and looking up to the moonless sky. When he does, he seems to lose a bit of balance that he quickly regains before Collins can actually grab his arm to steady him.

He reckons it's better he didn't get to, judging by Farrier's general snappiness tonight. Can't be completely sure his help would be welcomed. 

"What did you just call me?" he teases with a grin.

He sees a smile tug at Farrier's lips.

"A good kid."

Jackie.

"I'm twenty-fuckin'-five, thank you very much!"

At last, Farrier lets out a laugh. Collins feels like a heavy weight's been lifted off his shoulders.

"You're a fuckin' tease, s'what you are."

It's just as well that mother nature stops him as he intends to give an answer, because the words get stuck in his throat at the implication of that sentence.

The sky goes white for a split second, lightning flaring up above their heads before the cracking of thunder seems to switch on the merciless pouring rain once and for all. They're already far enough that they'd still end up drenched from head to toe even if they walked back to the pub.

"Shit, come on!"

Farrier starts running forward, where there's a couple of leafy pines by the road before the clearing starts the path back to the airbase: a very long and tree-deserted runway and training field.

In short, they're fucked.

Farrier beats him to the cover of the canopy and Collins thinks that perhaps he wasn't that drunk after all.

"Quicker in the air than on the ground, eh lad?"

"Want to race me, old man?"

"Nah, wouldn't want that spotless suit wrecked with mud."

Collins turns to answer and finds Farrier grinning at him playfully, looking him up and down again for the second time in twenty minutes - the spark in his eyes doesn't go unnoticed because he's never caught him staring so openly before. It makes his pulse quicken and turns his filter off.

"You really like me in my suit, dontcha?"

Farrier's next words sound fuelled by beer, as does that almost imperceptible lick of his lips.

"Why, of course I do."

He looks away to the curtain of falling rain in front of them, pooling down on the grass, and he shakes his head and talks so low that Collins almost doesn't hear him again.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"I'm drunk."

"Yeah, I know. Ye keep lookin' at me like ye want to eat me or somethin'."

Farrier snaps his head back to look at him, mouth half-open like a fish out of the water - like he can't quite believe what he's just heard, and Collins panics, thinks he's misread the situation completely (thinks that even if he didn't, he really shouldn't have called Farrier on it because, as his wingmate so bluntly put it, he is drunk). Thinks that's a very reckless and stupid thing to say and that he hasn't even downed half a pint of beer so he can't even use that as an excuse.

Collins stares back, for a moment he considers stepping away, jumping over that poodle increasing in size and running away in whichever opposite direction Farrier means to walk.

Try and pretend he didn't fuck this up royally.

"Well, would you want me to?" Farrier blurts out all of a sudden, openly staring at Collins' lips and neck and cheeks and hair now.

"What?"

"I said, would you want me to."

Another lightning. Farrier's face is so close that Collins can count the scattered freckles on his nose and cheeks where stray drops of rain slide down on his skin. He has very long eyelashes.

"Eat you or something."

The thunder following the light drowns out that pitiful noise that escapes Collins' throat. He feels drowsy like he's the one who spent hours sitting down at that table in the wet sweet air of the pub gulping down pint after pint.

Farrier is very, very drunk even if he doesn't look like it anymore.

He must be.

Collins wonders: if he answers truthfully, will Farrier remember it tomorrow?

"Yeah," his wingmate snickers, and after what feels like ages he takes the slightest step back and smiles that sour smile from before, fishing another cigarette out of his pack and putting it between his lips, "thought so. Pretty boy like you."

Pretty boy like– what the fuck's that supposed to mean?

"Answer me this, Collins. Am I going to die?"

And just like that, the conversation steers away from longing looks and unspoken words. Farrier's back to smoking that ciggy that's already wet and his hands return to his pockets and Collins feels he's just lost an opportunity that isn't going to arise again any time soon.

"What?" he repeats, like a broken record, refusing to let his own eyes derail from Farrier's face, refusing to look away to the falling of rain, the runway, the clearing, the town far away like Farrier himself is doing. Refusing to let the moment go.

"What are my chances? What are our chances?"

Collins shakes his head in frustration.

"Surviving this shit. Let me tell you: they're very thin. So it's better this way. I mean, it's me but– well it's just not worth it, is it? Forget it."

"Forget. Forget what? Tom, the fuck are you on about? Is this about that letter?"

"Fuck that letter."

He tosses the cigarette to the ground.

There's no remorse in the words, no hatred despite Farrier turning back to him and suddenly standing up straight, shoulders broad, gaze unwavering and challenging. Collins is still a bit taller but that doesn't mean he feels taller.

"I– sorry I– didn't mean to–"

"My fiancée," Farrier cuts him off, cocking his head and studying Collins' reaction for a moment before continuing, "got killed. A bombing over Portsmouth."

He drags the paper out and almost shoves it in Collins' face, who just stands there at a loss for words, again. Stammering like a broken record, again.

"I–," didn't know you were engaged, "–sorry, I'm sorry that happened."

He wants to kick himself for his lack of eloquence but it's the least of his concerns because he was just flirting with Farrier a moment ago, and Farrier was leading him on for some fucking reason – a fiancée?

That tends to mean one's attracted to women.

A dead fiancée.

"Sorry, Tom."

"Don't be."

Another lightning, another thunder, more heavy rain and Collins is already starting to feel the cold reach through his layers of clothes.

"I'm not. Fuck, I'm relieved!"

Farrier runs a hand over his face.

"I'm– fuck."

"It's okay," Collins offers uselessly.

"She's dead and I'm relieved I don' have to marry her. How fucked up is that?"

Collins thinks he hears a cry, and when Farrier tries to look away again he knows he heard a cry, and he doesn't let him turn around and steps forward to hold him in a tight embrace instead. Farrier wraps his arms around him tightly like he'd been waiting for Collins to hug him.

"I'm fucking horrible," he says, words muffled in the fabric of Collins' suit and sniffing through a runny nose. Jack keeps a hand rubbing at Farrier's back in what he hopes is an empathetic touch.

"No you're not, you're not."

They stay like that, holding onto one another against the trunk of a tree that's doing a really poor job of sheltering them from the rain at this point, but is better than nothing. Farrier doesn't really cry, stubborn as he is even in this state of inebriation, and after a while Collins feels his stubbly chin brushing against the side of his neck and smells the scent of alcohol again.

"I like it when you use my name," Farrier mumbles, words still muffled and burrowing his nose in Collins' shirt like it belongs there.

Collins' only thought at that moment, frozen and unable to say anything back, is that Drunk Farrier is a real piece of work. He thinks he understands, now, why he doesn't drink.

[penaltybox14]

@zeitheist @darknight-brightstar @squad51goals @its-skadi At Wynantskill again: Finding family whether it wants to be found or not.  Davey learns some things, not least of which is that Lufty Parker is not quite as grave and terrible as he appears. 

Davey sleeps hard into the day, deeper and darker than he has in a long, long time. 

He dreams: Looking out across a river, windswept after a spring storm.  The streets are damp but the sun, cracking the clouds with its sharp golden teeth, is bright and warm.  The skinny city trees (and he knows this is the city) are heavy with early blossoms that fair glow against the rolling clouds.  When he looks over the railing, down into the water, he is taller, his shoulders broader.  When he turns toward a friendly step, his voice sits more deeply in his chest. 

Dreaming, he feels small and welcome inside this body.  The face of the young man coming up the walk keeps slipping out of true: as if it is a secret, or the sort of face you read about in a book and have only imagined.  This young man laughs and claps him across the shoulder. 

Was looking for you, he says, not so much older than the grown boys.  Was lookin' all over for you. 

He smells salt and creosote, tidal flats and coal-smoke.  The southerly wind calls up thoughts of shirtsleeves, and running for the sake of running.  City air fills his lungs, and his leg is true.

Davey wakes to distant sounds of shouting, but it is not what wakes him.

"This ent your bed, is it?"

He sits up.  His hand hurts from gripping the little brass horse, and he feels all creased from sleeping in his clothes.  Lufty Parker's face is as grim as ever, shadowed even when he's clean-shaven, the scar below his eye and across his temple pale as milk and smart as paint, as if it were painted on.  Pulled from the raw salt-river air and the friendly hand, his sear runs aground on Lufty's like a little coracle on the back of a whale.  Davey can never quite bring himself to look Lufty in the eye, so broad and so deep his presence.  He fears it like you do a night-time doorway.

"Sorry, sir," he says.  His voice is just a boy's again.  It cracks roughly against the roof of his mouth, as if he has been crying all night. 

"The lads is looking for you.  Won't come to breakfast, still."

"Sorry, sir."

"What's that you've got?"

"Nothing."

"A lot of nothing, to fit in your hand so." 

Davey thinks he might hear a little bit of - not a laugh or a smile, but a dappling of some gentleness in that old-city brogue.  He unclenches his fist, and holds the prancing horse out.  "I didn't nick it."

Lufty pushes his hand back toward him, and sits at the foot of Capper's bed.  "Ya know," he says, "that's all Birch brought up here wi' him.  Aside uniforms, but, the only thing of his own." 

Davey tries, subtly, to hunch toward the head of the bed.  Lufty is a tall man, sturdy-built, with wide shoulders and a barrel chest and large, rough hands.  He shouts so loud it rolls across the big yard like wine-casks down the gangplank of a ship, and everyone goes still as rabbits and bend to listen.  Lufty, even in his shirt-sleeves, takes up most of the space in any room, and the bed sags toward him. 

"Swear, he didn't come outta this quarters til a month gone by.  Miserable bastard.  So mad he coulda taken the flight off a falcon."  Lufty sighs.  "Long time he just wore a path 'tween here and his office.  Long time."

" 'Cause of his leg?"

"That last box - Jack Hazel told me," Lufty says, thoughtfully, as if he hasn't heard Davey at all.  "Lotta smoke, was.  Looking for hot-spots on the third floor, whole damn thing came down.  Birchy was at Bellevue two, three months 'tween the breaks and the burns."

Davey thinks about the dream where the house falls.  He closes his eyes, and tries to picture the face of the young man by the river.  The horse is heavy in his hand, heavier than it ought to be.  "I set a fire," he says, because it is easier to talk to the wall with Lufty beside him, somehow.  "At the children's home.  I didn't mean to - I was only - " He grits his teeth, because he doesn't want to cry in front of Lufty the way he cries by the fish pond, or in front of Capper.  "I wanted to - " He struggles to articulate: the yearning for sky and smoke, the urge to run, the mad and raving thing inside him that struck out. 

"I know." Lufty says, and Davey is blindsided by the deep and terrible realization that Lufty does know.  "I know, ya wanted it to stop.  Ya didn't want to be alone no more, m'right?"

He wanted the warmth.  He wanted to go back: to the place where mother and father would wrap him in their arms, where Lyddie's bow was askew and her front teeth had a gap where both had fallen out. 

"Birchy - when he couldn't ride the boards, he thought it all were gone.  Everything he was and wanted."

Davey had shouted for them: down that long dark hall. 

"I lost two my brothers on the boards when I was twenty, lost them in the East River to a pier fire.  The lot of us went in the water but it was just me come up.  Thought I killed them, last I took them hands and jumped.  It was us or it was the pier would give way, and we didn't know what they'd laded out there.  Thought I snuffed 'em right out, and my sear cried out for so long I thought it would not stop.  Silks - Silks I think believed he killed Birch right the same."

"Capper's not dead."

"I told you once Birch is a fool backwards and forwards.  That miserable bastard left the city and let Silks write him and never wrote back, not til you come here.  Too damn mad and miserable to see what Silks believed he'd done."

Davey knows the young man at the rail, now.  Sees him through the eyes of the dreamer.  Only color those cheeks ever got was a sunburn or a laugh, and never a single strand of auburn hair out of place even at three o' clock in the morning.  Was looking for you, he says.  His chest aches.  For all the anger: like something infected, lanced and left to drain. 

"Kid, Birchy will come back home, to you too, I know, because the damn fool finally learnt his lesson by leaving."

"He wants to say he's sorry."

"Well he damn well better."

"I should've said goodbye."

"Could write him."  Lufty - almost then - laughs, his eyes as silver as the hair at his temples.  "But come for mess now.  Lads have looked for ya' long enough."

[inkribbon796]

I Thought We Were Brothers Ch. 1: Wish I Could Relive Every Single Word

Summary: Marvin and Chase have a lot of unspoken grievances between each other and neither of them know what to do about it.

A/N: For Marvin’s birthday. Chapter title from the song “Brother” by Kodaline.

Chapters: 1, 2

Marvin knew he should say something. Anything at this point was better than the growing chasm opening up between him and several of the Septics. J.J and Henrik were civil on a good day but Chase was a different matter.

It started way before time travelers came came back with grim news, or Marvin first voiced the want to train Chase’s daughter in magic. It began with Robbie.

Sweet, innocent Robbie.

Marvin would never apologize or regret raising the young teen from the dead. He couldn’t.

The magician had looked the young man’s mother dead in the eyes and swore that he’d protect Robbie. Had sworn on his magic and own soul that he would do everything in his power to always bring him back to her alive. And Marvin had done just that, he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he hadn’t tried.

But that night had left Marvin and Chase on unspoken bad terms. Chase ceased trusting Marvin, had started drinking again, and then cleaned himself up a couple months after. The atmosphere, forever spoiled.

After the incident with the Suits, Marvin had ceased trusting Chase as well. Chase now had a part of Clubs forever buried in his soul, and it showed in little ways. His beard was getting trimmed instead of him just allowing it to go wild until he shaved it back. He’d gotten a gun, a real one, and was hiding it in his room in the base. None of the heroes tried to talk about it, but many of them knew it was there. The marksman sometimes made especially barbed jabs at Marvin when he was tired or too exhausted to keep his filter up. Then there was the matter of Dark.

Marvin had seen the look in Chase’s eyes whenever Damien was on the news. Chase was especially anxious whenever Marvin got near any of Dark’s kids. Even if those kids were King and Host. Dark was more willing to hold long conversations with Chase, and Chase had been caught by Marvin on more than one occasion texting Dark.

There was something growing between Dark and Chase and everyone was too busy walking on eggshells to confront either party about it.

Well Marvin was sick of watching his friend group tear itself apart. He needed to talk to Chase, before the guy did something stupid.

Marvin walked into the comms room. Chase was in there with Tommy and King.

“This job always as borin’[1] as shit?” Tommy asked.

King chuckled, “Yeah but so long as you’re listening to the feed you can be on your phone or work on stuff. Logan and Bing once built a transforming roomba from the ground up during a couple comms sessions. It’s why Logan likes to be in here, he gets his little side projects done.”

While King and Tommy were talking, Chase immediately noticed that Marvin had opened the door and was just staring at him.

“Hey Chase, can we talk?” Marvin asked.

“Logic, takin’[2] a smoke back,” Chase scoffed into the microphone and stood up, “King, yeh[3] have seniority, call us if anythin’[4] happens.”

“Yes, finally!” King smiled in joy and threw his arms up as Tommy groaned in annoyance, flopping back in his chair and rolling his eyes. “I got it!”

Without a word, Chase stepped out and quietly motioned for Marvin to follow him and took him out to the little smoking area. There Chase lit up a cigarette and took a deep lungful of nicotine laced smoke, before even acknowledging Marvin’s presence, “What do yeh[3] want?”

“I wanna talk,” Marvin reminded. “Why do yeh[3] think I followed yeh[3] out here yeh[3] bollocks[5]?”

Chase took a seat, “Fine, what yeh wanna go on about?”[6]

“Look, I know we don’t usually talk, but we need ta[7] talk about somethin’[8],” Marvin told him.

The marksman gave an amused chuckle, “Nah, we don’t have anythin’ ta talk about. Just go back ta yer books Marv.”[9]

“Yeh[3] hate me, so we got shite[10] ta[7] talk about,” Marvin told him.

“You murdered Stacy an’[11] the kids, ‘a[12] course I fookin’[13] hate yeh[3]!” Chase ripped the cigarette out of his mouth and stomped towards him.

Marvin flinched and Chase pulled away, “An’ sure yeh didn’t this time, but yeh did the other times, yeh did before they came back. Yeh set an entire city on fire, killed hundreds ‘a people. What am I supposed ta say ta yeh?”[14]

“I know,” Marvin called back, terror in his voice. “I know an’ don’t know what the fook was wrong with me ta brin’ me ta that point. That is hundreds ‘a thousands ‘a people who did nothin’ ta deserve the horror ‘a fookin’ burnin’ ta death!”[15]

“I don’t remember what was wrong with yeh[3],” Chase shot back, still angry. “I got stuck with that fooker’s[16] feelings, not his memories.”

The two of them fell quiet, the air nasty and injured between them.

Marvin felt like poison was bubbling in this throat. “The fook[17] happened ta[7] us?”

“Yer gonna have ta be specific,”[18] Chase asked curtly.

“I wanted ta[7] learn magic an’[11] hunt ghosts,” Marvin raked his hands down his face. “I didn’t want ta[7] save the world an’[11] deal with the fact I fooked[19] the future so bad it had ta[7] be fixed.”

“Yeah,” Chase frowned, before his phone went off. Chase pulled it out to see a text had shown up. It was Mori, in the water, near some tunnels with a fish in his mouth, the photo taken from the shoreline which meant Memento or Tempus had probably taken the picture.

The picture got a tiny breathy laugh from Chase, and a small smile. His kids seemed to be having fun, they didn’t seem to be getting into some big trouble. Yet, at least.

“They usually text yeh[3]?” Marvin asked, trying to make his tone sound less hostile.

“Yeah,” Chase’s expression turned bittersweet, he started texting Dark with an update. “Helps ta have a second pair ‘a eyes on ‘em. They tend ta slip out ‘a the Manor or the warehouses when Dark’s not watchin’. An’ that’s on a day when Wil doesn’t just sweep ‘em away an’ cause trouble with ‘em.”[20]

“Why are yeh in charge ‘a watchin’ ‘em?”[21] Marvin asked, completely confused. “Can’t those two just rise an’[11] repeat what they did with the other six? I mean if yeh[3] can handle raising six fookin’[13] demons in secret, three seem like no big deal.”

Chase paused, his fingers still. They were going to figure it out eventually. King already knew, he’d confided that in Chase already. “Cause[22] they’re mine, Marv.”

Marvin spent the next minute trying to figure out if Chase was joking, and then another minute trying to figure out how that was possible since they were demons and Chase was still human.

But a nagging feeling tickled the back of his head: was he still human?

Logan and the other Sides had been demons since the first moment he had met them and no one had been the wiser. Not even the Sides, and Marvin should have known. He should have taken one look at Virgil and more importantly Remus and known. Chase could be a demon, he could not know, and fly under every kind of test and radar known to magic itself. Hell, Patton and Roman still came up as humans for those tests.

“Do— Does uh,” Marvin floundered for an adequate response, because what the hell was he supposed to say to that! “Does Dark know?”

“Yeah, he’s the one who told me,” Chase was moving his cigarette back up to his lips. “Don’t know if he told the rest ‘a[12] his kids but they all know too. King said as much.”

“So what now?” Marvin asked.

Chase let out an ugly, contemptuous snort, “What about now?”

“Dark’s got yer[23] kids, is there another custody battle comin’[24] up?” Marvin winced at the memory of Chase’s last custody battle, one he had lost handedly.

“They’re Dark’s kids, he’s the most powerful bein’[25] in all Egoton, there’s nothin’[26] ta[7] fight against, Marv,” Chase dismissed, rolling his cigarette around in his mouth.

“Chase, no yeh can’t just roll o’er an’ just—”[27] Marvin spat.

“Calm yer[23] fookin’[13] tits, Marv,” Chase scoffed. “Dark an’[11] I have somethin’[8] set up. I see ‘em[28] more than I see my human kids.”

Marvin shoved his hands in his pockets, not sure what to do with them. “Okay, that’s good at least. So did yeh an’ Dark talk about stuff then. I know that the Clubs version ‘a yeh was with him in the future.”[29]

“I don’t have a future with Dark anymore,” Chase snarled. “He’s with Wil.”

“Wil cheats on him with practically the entire town,” Marvin reminded.

“I know!” Chase slammed his fist on the bench before raking his fingers down his face. “Yeh[3] think I haven’t noticed that bubblegum bastard perched on his arm, being the fookin’[13] shittiest arsehole[30] in the whole fookin’[13] world?”

Marvin opened his mouth but Chase turned and started on a tirade, “Dark is loyal ta[7] him. He fookin’[13] raised those kids almost by himself. An’[11] what does he get in return? The fooker[31] rips his heart out an’[11] leaves. It pisses me off.”

“I thought they said Wil died?” Marvin asked and all the momentum bled out of Chase’s system.

“Yeah he did,” Chase corrected himself. “Fook![17] I did it again.”

“Did what again?” Marvin asked.

“I say weird thin’s[32], I do weird thin’s[32],” Chase dismissed. “Yesterday I made like three different coffees, one fer me, one fer Eef, an’ another fer Dark. Crank wasn’t e’en in that day, an’ why the hell should I be makin’ a fookin’ coffee fer Dark? I was in the base.”[33]

“Wasn’t future yeh datin’ him or fookin’ him or somethin’?” Marvin asked.

“I think he was gonna[34] propose,” Chase admitted.

Marvin just stared at Chase, “What? How do yeh[3] know?”

“I caught myself lookin’[35] at rings,” Chase admitted. “Tryin’ ta find somethin’ that looks nice with red an’ blue. Not that it’s ‘a any use now.”[36]

“How much do yeh[3] remember or feel?” Marvin asked, coming closer and taking a seat next to Chase.

“I don’t have memories, just his feelin’s[37],” Chase frowned in thought. “Frustration, anger, love. Future me was so smitten with Dark that I know he was killin’ fer him. The weight ‘a my guns feel off now. Whene’er I look at Mori an’ Memento I feel so upset ‘cause they’re with Wil an’ they’re so big an’ it eats at me. Wilford fookin’ stole my kids an’ changed ‘em, an’ I’m supposed ta stand by an’ watch his aura keep changin’ ‘em.”[38]

“Have yeh tried talkin’ ta Dark about this?”[39] Marvin questioned.

“An’[11] tell him what?” Chase demanded. “That I fookin’[13] hate his guts an’[11] I wanna[40] take him out on a date ta[7] this nice curry place I saw on my last patrol at the same time. That I think his boyfriend is awful fer[41] him an’[11] I wanna[40] put a hollow point right between his fookin’[13] eyes?”

Marvin was trying to find some way to comfort or calm Chase down as he kept rambling. “Yah know maybe I should march my arse o’er ta his office an’ tell him that I hate wakin’ up in the morning. That when I wake up, I can’t stand it when my bed is fookin’ empty. That someone is supposed ta be in my bed with me an’ I just lay there fer hours ‘cause I can’t leave until he knows I’m there.”[42]

“Yeah, Marv, Dark would love that,” Chase laughed sadly. “Big, powerful mob boss would love some sad alcoholic who can barely hold himself together long enough ta[7] get out ‘a[12] bed in the mornin’[43]. That’ll really get his attention.”

“Well he must’a liked somethin’ ‘cause he was datin’ yeh,”[44] Marvin tried to offer.

“Wil was dead,” Chase reminded. “He’s alive an’ kickin’ now. Dark’s not gonna e’en look my way if Wil’s alive.”[45]

Marvin and Chase went quiet again. Unsure how to help either of them.

Fortunately for Marvin, he didn’t have to. King called them both back in. City hall wanted Average, Marvin, and Jackie to come in for a meeting.

Marvin saw the tense look in Chase’s eyes but he agreed and the two of them set off to meet Jackie at City Hall.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Accessibility Translations:

1. boring

2. taking

3. you

4. anything

5. balls

6. Fine, what do you want to talk about?

7. to

8. something

9. Nah, we don’t have anything to talk about. Just go back to your books Marv.

10. shit

11. and

12. of

13. fucking

14. And sure you didn’t this time, but you did the other times, you did before they came back. You set an entire city on fire, killed hundreds of people. What am I supposed to say to you?

15. I know and don’t know what the fuck was wrong with me to bring me to that point. That is hundreds of thousands of people who did nothing to deserve the horror of fucking burning to death!

16. fucker’s

17. fuck

18. You’re going to have to be specific

19. fucked

20. Helps to have a second pair of eyes on them. They tend to slip out of the Manor or the warehouses when Dark’s not watching. And that’s on a day when Wil doesn’t just sweep them away and cause trouble with them.

21. Why are you in charge of watching them?

22. Because

23. your

24. coming

25. being

26. nothing

27. Chase, no you can’t just roll over and just—

28. them

29. Okay, that’s good at least. So did you and Dark talk about stuff then. I know that the Clubs version of you was with him in the future.

30. asshole

31. fucker

32. things

33. Yesterday I made like three different coffees, one for me, one for Eef, and another for Dark. Crank wasn’t even in that day, and why the hell should I be making a fucking coffee for Dark? I was in the base.

34. going to

35. looking

36. Trying to find something that looks nice with red and blue. Not that it’s of any use now.

37. feelings

38. Frustration, anger, love. Future me was so smitten with Dark that I know he was killing for him. The weight of my guns feel off now. Whenever I look at Mori and Memento I feel so upset because they’re with Wil and they’re so big and it eats at me. Wilford fucking stole my kids and changed them, and I’m supposed to stand by and watch his aura keep changing them.

39. Have you tried talking to Dark about this?

40. want to

41. for

42. You know maybe I should march my ass over to his office and tell him that I hate waking up in the morning. That when I wake up, I can’t stand it when my bed is fucking empty. That someone is supposed to be in my bed with me and I just lay there for hours because I can’t leave until he knows I’m there.

43. morning

44. Well he must have liked something because he was dating you

45. He’s alive and kicking now. Dark’s not going to even look my way if Wil’s alive.

[diddlesanddoodles]

DEAD WALLS RISE - CONNAR

PART TWO

Gen was as true to his word as a good compass pointing north. As the bloody war raged on, the giant kept the human family safe and hidden. His reputation from his days working at the castle had lent Gen a certain degree of clout with the blue coats and rarely did they ever bother him. The few times they came to his door, Connar and his family would hurry to a trap door set inside the floor that was then hidden by a rug.

And for the many months, they were safe. His home was modest, but practical and what he had, he readily shared with them.

Since going outside was not permissible, Connar adapted his normal routine of climbing trees into climbing everything within the giant’s home. Once he had figured out how, he spent a lot of his day clambering around the rafters. Even going so far as taking naps up there. His mother did not approve, but both his father and Gen managed to soothe her ruffle feathers.

“He’s young and full of energy,” his father said. “Better he spends it up there than then down here restless and pestering everyone.”

During their time in his home, Connar was able to learn much more about Gen. He was a craftsmen, having been a blacksmith for King Nethrin in his younger years and had retired to the Blackwoods once his apprentice had learned enough to take over for him. He crafted his own cooking pots with a small forge he had outback and even made his own door locks and knobs. Connar and Penny both spent many afternoons watching him work through the back window. And one afternoon, Connar was watching Gen repair a tear in his leather satchel he used to collect wild greens. He sewed a patch onto the hole, but used his stitches and several other tools to make it look at though the patch was a decorative feature rather then a blemish.    

“Where’d you learn how to do that?” the boy asked, fascinated by the process. Gen was seated at the small work table near the far corner of his home and Connar watched from the wooden bean just above his head.

“Hm?” Gen peeked up at the youth. “Working with leather?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, my master taught me,” the giant replied, turning his focus back to his task. “I was a blacksmith’s apprentice when I was your age. But he taught me just as much about leather work. The two often go hand in hand.”

“...could you show me? How to do that?” Connar asked. Gen looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Looking for a trade are you, lad?” Gen asked good-humoredly.

“Maybe I am,” he replied with a grin. “Watching you work the forge is really neat too. But I don’t think I could do that.”

Gen eyed him. “Oh? And why not?”

“I’m too small.”

“You know there are human blacksmiths too, Connar.”

“I know, but I can’t go outside. At least for a while. Until the war ends.”

Gen hummed thoughtfully to himself, leaning back into his chair. “Tell you what, son. Give me a little time to see if I can’t fashion you some tools and we’ll try your hand at leather work. I’m sure you’re poor mother would love you to find something else to occupy yourself then climbing the rafters.”

“I like climbing though.”

Gen laughed. “I can see as much.”

………………………………

Much to Gen’s surprise, Connar had a natural knack for leather work. While Arther had a talent for wood carving, it seemed as though craftsmanship was genetic in their family as Connar took to leather like a fish to water.  The small tools Gen fashioned for him were rudimentary, but sufficient and the techniques seemed almost second nature to the boy by the end of the third week. Gen gave him a whole buck skin to do whatever he wanted with and Connar took a few days to consider what he wanted to do. He didn’t want to waste a single piece. In the end, he decided he was going to make Gen a new sheath for the small knife he carried with him all the time. If he planned it correctly and was smart with his cuts, there would be just enough of the leather to do it.

To keep his project secret, he worked on it nearly exclusively from the rafters. And to keep his tools from falling, he tied them to the beam itself.

His mother really did not approve.

………………………

Connar was very nearly finished with the knife sheath and only had the stitching left to do. The thread itself was very nearly a rope to him, but made sure to take his time and make each stitch even and clean and neat. He wanted the sheath to be a sort of thank you gift to Gen. For taking in his family and keeping them safe. He let the excess thread dangle down from the rafter as he worked. Gen was at the hearth, tossing a handful of greens and chunks of venison into the small pot. Arthur was sitting on the table, re-wrapping the leather binding around his whittling knife. He looked up, movement from outside the window catching his eye.

“Gen,” he hissed in a frantic whisper as he pushed himself off the table and onto the seat of the chair and again onto the floor. “I think someone’s outside.”

Gen straightened up and immediately walked to the small window near the door, carefully peeking around. He cursed and waved at them. “It’s a blue coat. Get in the cellar.”

Arthur frantically motioned for his wife and Penny to come. They had been sitting on a cushion off to the side, mending a hole in one of Gen’s socks. They abandoned their work and ran for the open trap door just under the table and as they got inside, Arthur looked around. “Connar?”

“Huh?” the boy’s head peaked out from behind the beam of the rafter and down at his father.

“Get down here now!” Arthur hissed in a low whisper. “There’s a blue coat!”

“No time,” Gen said, nudging Arther into the trap door to the cellar and pulling down the door. “I’ll hide him somewhere else.”

Gen moved the rug over the door and re-positioned the chair over it. As he went to reach for Connar, there came a knock at the door. Still with his hands outstretched for the boy, Gen’s eyes went to the door and back to Connar who stared back with wide frightened eyes. “Stay low. Keep quiet.”

Connar nodded and pressed himself flat against the wooden beam, his partially finished project tucked up against his side.

There came a second knock just as Gen made it to the door and he slowly opened it and stuck his head through. “May I help you, sir?”

“Lookin’ fer Gendril Taversh.”

“That’d be me.”

“Was told ye know this part of the Blackwood better than anyone else. If ye have a moment, I have some questions fer ye.”

“Of course.”

“May I come in?”

Gen hesitated, shifting his stand. “Can’t we speak out here?”

There was a moment of silence and then the blue coat asked, “Is there a reason fer that?”

“No, I only meant...”

“Because, let me remind ye sir. I do have the authority granted to me to search yer property and home at my leisure.”

Gen was silent and then slowly opened the door, gesturing the other giant in with an outstretched arm. “Have a seat. Please.”

The blue coat stepped inside and Connar sucked in a breathe. The ranger was alarmingly tall and much thicker bodied than Gen. In comparison, the older giant looked downright frail and small. He wore a rider’s cap that blocked his view of his face. “Thank ye.”

“Would you like some tea?” Gen asked. Connar ever so slowly peaked down from the edge of the rafter, watching the two of them.

“That’d be right fine of ye,” said the ranger as he plopped down into the chair and removed his hat to reveal short cut red hair. As Gen went to the cupboard and pulled down the small tin he kept his tea in, the ranger’s head turned slowly from left to right as he took in the small home. “Ye live here by yerself, Gendril?”

“Yes,” Gen replied as he went to the hearth and pulled the kettle off the fire. “My wife died several years back. So it’s just me.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said the ranger, reaching into his coat and pulling out a small slip of paper, but the writing was too small and too far down for Connar to make out the letters. “Now, Gendril, I suppose you heard about Captain Acker.”

Gen tipped two generous spoonfuls of loose leaf tea into a ceramic pot and popped on the lid. He turned his head towards the ranger, shaking his head. “Only that he’d passed.”

“That’s one way of puttin’ it,” huffed the ranger. “He and a few other rangers were ambushed on the other end of the Blackwoods by some mages. Burnt ‘em down to the bones. Had to identify Acker by his wedding band. Not a clue who the other three are.”

Gen turned away. “How terrible.”

“Aye. Have to agree with ye there,” said the ranger. As Gen brought the pot of steeping tea over to the table with two cup, the blue coat gestured to the small pot on the fire. “Did I interrupt yer supper?”

“Oh, no. Not at all,” he said. “Needs to stew a few hours. Just getting a head start.”

“What’s in it?”

“Sorry?” Gen asked, turning to look at the ranger.

“The pot. What’s in it?”

“Oh, just wild mustard and venison. Some onions.”

“Venison.”

“Yessir.”

“...ye sure it ain’t human?” The ranger’s tone had shifted, flicking his hands over to the cutting board and knife sitting near the fire. Still covered in blood.  

“What?” Gen asked, struck dumb by the question.

“Just curious.”

“Uh...no. It’s venison.”

“Them red cages I’ve been spottin’ ‘round yer property?”

“Venison traps.”

“Ever snag a human with one?”

“No,” Gen lied, laughing, but it sounded forced. “They’d spot them from a mile away.”

“Ye could paint ‘em green,” the ranger suggested. “Probably catch a good few. Lot of ‘em are comin’ back this way tryin’ to get into Vhasshal. To make a go towards the pass up to the northern plate.”

“Uh, no. No I don’t...”

“Yer King’s commanded ever citizen to do his duty to bring in all humans.”

“I am aware.”

The ranger was silent for a long moment. “...ye a traitor, Gendril Taversh?”

Gen straighten up and took a step back. “W-what? No!”

The ranger stood up, pressing into the older man’s space. “Because yer neighbors tell me ye were friends with quite a few of the humans who used to live ‘round these parts. And comin’ in here...and I can smell ‘em.”

“What?”

“Ye know what the punishment fer treason is Gendril Taversh? First they hang ye just till ye pass out. The they tie each ‘a yer arms and legs...and pull. Then some nice fella’s gonna come with an ax and relieve ye of yer limbs. And after yer done bleedin’ t’death, they set ye on fire. ‘Cept yer head. That goes on a pike and on display fer all to see.” As the ranger spoke, he continued to step closer and closer to Gen, forcing the older man back until the ranger had him pinned against the wall. “What’s left is tossed to the pigs.”

Gen was visibly shaking, but his eyes were narrowed and mouth set into a grim frown. “I don’t know about any humans, sir. It’s just me here.”

The ranger did not speak for several seconds and then he pulled back and away from Gen. Turning back to the table, he poured himself a cup of tea and sipped at it idly. “Just yerself, eh?”

“Yes,” Gen repeated firmly. “Just me.”

“Hm,” the ranger hummed and nodded thoughtfully. Abruptly, his head lifted up and for a split second, Connar saw a flash of bright green eyes as the ranger reached out to snag the thread hanging from the rafter and gave it a firm tug. The leather knife sheath tucked against Connar’s side was violently pulled along with the thread it was still attached to and it swept him wholly off of the rafter and into the open air. The boy cried out as he fell, before landing in the ranger’s reaching cupped hands. Before he could gather his wits, the fingers closed in and Connar found himself clutched firmly into the ranger’s fist.

“Don’t hurt him!” Gen pleaded, taking a step forward. The ranger pulled Connar closer to his body and held out his other hand in warning to Gen.

“Yer a fuckin’ liar, Gendril Taversh.” Connar’s heart was racing and no matter how he pushed or pulled at the giant’s fingers, they kept a firm hold of him. Like iron bands, unmoving and void of empathy.

“Let me go!” Connar cried.

The ranger smirked down at him. “Yer not in any sorta position t’ be makin’ demands, little fella.”

“Please, sir,” Gen pleaded with his hands raised. “He’s just a boy.”

“He’s a human,” remarked the ranger. “Our King’s demandin’ their blood. His blood.”

“And is he to pay the price for someone else’s crime?” demanded Gen. “You’d kill him – a child – to satisfy the blood lust of a mad man?”

“That mad man is yer King.”

“He is a demon!” Gen yelled, his face turning red. “Seventeen! Seventeen of my good friends and neighbors. Their children. Dead or disappeared and for what? What good has any of this brought? We are no close to finding the truth of the Prince’s death and now his father and brothers disgrace his memory by raging a genocide in his name! And if trying to save one human life makes me a traitor, then so be it! I will travel to the shores beyond with a clear conscious knowing I did what I could to save innocent lives! The lives of my friends.”

Connar blinked away the tears in his eyes, not just crying for fear of his own life, but that of Gen. Sweet old Gen. Who risked everything to try and protect them. He jerked with a start when the rangers other hand drifted over his head, running his fingers lightly against his head and back. “I’m glad to see we’re in agreement then,” said the ranger as he sat down into the chair.

“What?” Gen asked.

The ranger held Connar up to his face, vibrant green eyes studying him. “Had to make sure ye were the kind of man they said ye were.” Connar kicked his feet and redoubled his efforts to free himself. The ranger just grinned. “Fiesty little buggar.”

“You’re not going to arrest me?” Gen asked, moving towards the table.

“No, I’m not,” said the ranger, setting Connar into his other hand, but instead of gripping him around the middle, he held him cupped in his palm. “I’m conscriptin’ ye.”

“Con...conscripting me?” The words tumbled clumsily from Gen mouth.

“Aye,” said the ranger. Connar tried to scramble out of the ranger’s hand, but the other swept in and coaxed him back and after getting the boy settled back down, he patted Connar on the head.  “Ye know these woods better than anyone else. So from now on, ye report t’me.”  

“Why would I do that? You’re a blue coat.”

“Only been wearin’ it fer two weeks, t’be honest. But blue coats use to be an honorable order. Not a Crown endorsed murder squad. I’m changin’ that.”

“...you’re not...gonna kill me?” Connar asked in a small voice that trembled as the words escaped his lips. Green eyes shifted their focus to him and the hand below him raised up and he was carefully placed onto the table.

“No,” said the ranger his tone soft, but serious. “I’m not.”

“Why should I believe anything you say?” Gen demanded. “What keeps you from leaving here and turning me in to the Captain?”

“Well, in all honesty, ye don’t have any real guarantee. But it’d be right idiotic of me to turn myself in...to myself.”

Gen regarded the ranger suspiciously. “What?”

“Never got to introduce myself properly,” said the blue coat. “Name’s Keral Athair. Captain of the Blue Coat Rangers.”

[ofdeath]

OFF THE DEEP END.  ( 1 / ?? )

His eyelashes fluttered slowly, lids painfully pulling themselves open to the sight of this thin ray of sunlight passing through a hole in his prison. It took the pirate a moment to recover his senses as the buzz in his skull faded bit by bit ; first, he heard the sea and the waves that carried the ship he was trapped in, the footsteps of a crew upon the board and then incomprehensible orders being shooted over all that cacophony. The man’s hand came to his forehead and something warm coated his palm, the rare lighting illuminated the deep red stain. Well, he thought, a hit to the forehead with the butt of a gun sure was meant to leave at least a bruise, didn’t think that bastard would take such pleasure in it and hit a couple times more. The pirate attempted to sit up but the chains attached to his wrists kept him from moving as freely as he would have wished, the same chains also connected to his ankles with a boulder at the end of them.

His dark red hair stuck to his forehead where the wound bled and where sweat and saltwater made his skin shiny ; he let his ears travel, above the constant hum of the waves the man singled out the order to drop the anchor alongside approaching footsteps. A sneer escaped the restrained prisoner.

So they had finally decided to come collect me, huh?

“Blimey! Ah, here they appear into me humble lil’ hold!” The pirate’s lips curved in a sinister sharp smile and revealed the sight of golden canines that matched the hue of his eyes. His amber gaze looked as if it was piercing through the darkness of his cell and directly stared into the soul of the two men that presented themselves to him. “The lily-livered traitors that decided to make me fish food, ay?” 

His cold eyes fell upon the youngest of the two men and the one that seemed the most uncomfortable, he fidgeted with his fingers and bounced from one feet to the other awkwardly while avoiding any eye contact with his former captain. He didn’t seem quite alright with the decision of the other guys but, during a mutiny, anybody caught siding with the captain is meant for the same fate as he. 

He still found the young man pathetic.

“What’s the matter, fella? What’s got ye lookin’ so down?”

“Captain…” The young man, who was also the shorter one of the two, seemed to try and choose his words wisely while the other one kept his eyes focused on the chained prisoner ; a certain emotion in his features. “The guys ain’t lookin’ to throw ye out to the sea if only ye choose to step down with no fight. This can still be changed.”

The former captain erupted into terrible laughter in their face, his head rolled back against the rotten wet wood as uninterrupted chortles left his throat ; it took him a moment before he settled down again. Bet even the others up on the deck could have heard that.

“Me name’s Rhaast, the man known as The Red Reaper, captain of the Red Death. Ain’t no one gonna hear me beg or plead for livin’ me life. Ye better kill me and keep me dead or else I’ll come hauntin’ ye assholes ‘round the damn world.” 

That grin was synonym of threat and the crewmates knew it better than anybody else and they also knew that the discussion would lead them nowhere therefore they left the pirate to await the moment of his execution.

Said moment didn’t take much time to present itself, the significant noise of keys clicking against one another and bars being pushed open pulled Rhaast from his mind and he looked up to see the one that had robbed him of his status. A mouth opened and words were being spewed but the pirate cared little about listening and instead he spat at the ground near the man’s feet. It said enough about his thoughts.

All he remembered before the dark engulfed him was being roughly shoved towards the plank trapped in a tornado of screams and swears before being thrown into the saltwater. His restraints dragged him to the deep and the pressure strangled him. The salt began to burn Rhaast’s eyes although he was able to catch the sight of the ship’s anchor being lifted off the sea bottom before his consciousness left.

He wondered how death would feel like and if he would arrive into a land that resembled nothing he had seen of the world before. He hoped he would be reincarnated as a ghost so he could haunt the living.

And yet when the man opened his eyes he wasn’t met with the sight of the underworld or wherever the dead was supposed to be sent to, he was met with another pair of eyes that stared back at his ; big, round eyes that resembled two jewels left at the bottom of the sea, eyes that were not quite human at all with slits as pupils and black in the place of the white. Rhaast was about to speak but a sudden cough shook his entire form and he rolled to the side in order to throw up the water still filling his lungs, the salt still burned his insides which was proof enough he was still in the world of the living.

“I believe you should remain still,” A voice came to his ears and he found it to be quite calming with an elegance that contrasted the ones he’s heard for years, it sounded almost like a melody where each word followed a precise rhythm. “Humans are such fragile creatures, with bones that break as easily as seashells and skin softer than anything I have ever felt.”

“What?”

Rhaast’s body rolled on his back again, the wet sand rubbing against the back of his neck, finally his gaze wandered to the being’s features who was leaning over him while observing him curiously. Besides the infinitely deep eyes, he caught the sight of iridescent scales in the place of skin and gills to each side of a long neck framed by a wild white mane that almost looked transparent in some places. The pirate’s hazy mind dug into some of his memories, tales of creatures of the sea and among them the word “mermaid” surfaced among others. 

“Ain’t yer kind called mermaids?”

The mermaid nodded.

“Came to eat me, huh? Steal me soul or somethin’?”

“If those were my intentions do you believe I would have waited for you to wake?”

An amused exhale escaped him through his nose, a slight smile moving his lips as his amber gaze turned to the waves crashing against the shore not so far from them, licking at the tips of his red hair spilled against the sand like a pool of blood. 

“I have seen you fall into the sea, pushed from your ship into the deep. It made me wonder…” Slowly, the mermaid adjusted her position as she leaned away from the pirate, her long tail now coming into view. If the scales around her face were already quite beautiful to look at, the ones that decorated her tail were maybe even more ; they reminded him of sun rays hitting a necklace made of pearls. “Do humans love killing each others in such cold ways?”

Rhaast released a hoarse chortle and immediately regretted it as pain stung his lungs, he was amused at her question nonetheless.

“Cold ways? Tis’ just the norm with pirates, beauty. Ye either live or get turned into shark bait, these bastards caught me off guard and threw me overboard out of me damn ship.” Yet, a grin full of teeth decorated his lips that contradicted the tone of his words ; he was supposed to be dead, he was dead back there but for some lucky reason fate had given him another chance.

The pirate sat up and he felt like he took a blow to his head all of a sudden which caused him to black out once more ; thankfully the mermaid had been quick enough to catch him with her tail in order to keep him from further wounding himself by hitting his head against a rock. 

A sigh. She had especially told him to not move yet.

“Humans truly are frail creatures.”

[vannahfanfics]

Dependable

Category: General Fluff

Fandom: One Piece

Characters: Nami, Monkey D. Dragon, Sabo

Requested by: farrah87 (Ao3)

The detached pieces of Nami’s Climatact bounced lightly in the holster on her thigh as she strolled merrily through the cobblestone streets of the lively port town. The market district crammed as many little shops as possible in the available space; though this particular street was very short, it boasted a butcher, a fish market, a bakery, a vegetable and fruit stand, a potter store, a jewelry shop, a boutique, and a hat shop all in very close proximity. The alleyways between them were wide enough only to allow for small silver trash bins; so thin they were that the mangy alley cats nearly had to walk single-file, she imagined. The close quarters of course made the crowd seem all the more packed; Nami had to weave through the patrons, bumping shoulders and kicking tows with chiming choruses of polite “Excuse me’s” and “I’m sorry’s.” If Nami didn’t know that they would have to take more than one day to stock, this would be a pickpocket’s gold mine; alas, she didn’t want to run the risk of them being chased from the port town prematurely.

Their forces had been split between Zou and Whole Cake Island. Currently, the squad that had elected to retrieve the falsely-renegade Sanji were on track to reunite with their fellows but had stopped at an intermediate island to restock. Their provisions had been split between the two crews, and the encounter with Big Mom had been a huge strain on their supplies, particularly their medical provisions. It would take at least two days to gather everything they needed, so Nami decided- begrudgingly- to ignore her twitching fingers which were eager to pluck every jewel, Belli, and expensive watch that pranced teasingly in her vision. Maybe tomorrow, she told them. It did little to settle their excitement. She would have to find something else to occupy her mind for a while, lest she give in to their temptation.

Nami had spied it from the crow’s nest of the Thousand Sunny; the island they had stopped at was a strange half-and-half arrangement of bustling industry and natural radiance. She meandered her way northward through the labyrinthine arrangement of docks and shops and houses until it suddenly all fell away, the cobblestone melting into dirt roads and the concrete crackling with shoots of grass that were slowly invading their way south. Tall, towering stone structures yielded to wooden cabins spaced further and further apart, until acres of farmlands and untended wilderness stretched between them. Nami graciously breathed in the welcoming aroma of wildflowers and tree sap and sunny grasses; as soon as she had spied the green expanse beyond the boring smear of gray, Nami knew she had wanted to visit. The gentle countryside reminded her so much of home, after all- of Cocoyashi Village, so far away in the East Blue.

She veered from the dirt path to walk into the wild grasses. Giddy to have a visitor, they fought each other to kiss her bare calves and knees, tickling her in greeting. The wildflowers all turned to her to shout wildly, begging her to choose which was prettiest. Nami suddenly giggled aloud and whirled on her heel with her arms outstretched. She fell into the country’s embrace, allowing the green grasses to curl around her to hug her with feather-soft touches. The little aphids and large grasshoppers leapt into the air as they were startled by her arrival, bounding in the fresh open air above her head to seek shelter. Through the patches of waving green, the blue sky blazed above her with sailing ships of clouds trawling through its expanse. She reclined her arms behind her head. The sun’s warm ways washed over her skin to make it glow and hum. She had missed this; lying in the grasses with naught a care in the world while the world sheltered her. What a faraway dream that was.

Nami laid in the grass for quite a long while, listening to the symphony nature played for her. The wind flew over the scenery like a diving eagle, shaking the leaves and grasses in thunderous cacophony. Flower petals and grass blades and tree leaves arched into the air in its wake to shower Nami in natural confetti. Every so often a songbird would flit from one tree line to the other, chirping in greeting. A deer wandered out to nibble at the long grasses, its fawn skipping around beside it, before quickly descending back into the safety of the darkness. Nami watched a wee snail slowly ascend the hiking trail of a grass blade, bending it under its weight when it reached the pinnacle, its slimy antennae wiggling as it considered its next challenge. It could have been minutes, hours, or even years that Nami laid there silently enjoying the atmosphere that she had sorely missed, but every moment she was there, she could almost hear Nojiko calling her name, or Ginzo yelling at her to get her lazy bum up and work, or Bellemere calling her home for dinner…

The last image sent bitter acid flooding over her tongue. Nami sat up so quickly that her vision became static with headrush. Holding her forehead while waiting for the grainy black-and-white fuzz to fade, her contentment threatened to be overtaken by melancholy.

“I suppose I should be getting back.” She knew not who she was speaking to. Perhaps, subconsciously, she wanted to bid the area farewell in thanks for allowing her to bask in its presence for a while. Once the tingling had diminished, she pushed herself to her feet. Dead grass and dirt showered down from her back and shoulders; she took a moment to brush off her clothes and comb through her long tresses of tangerine hair. She didn’t want to walk back into the town looking like a wild thing, after all.

Though she had been gone at least several hours, the town was still just as busy- if not more so. It was the height of the afternoon, and it seemed to be prime shopping hour. Nami decided that traversing the main roadways was going to be hell and skirted into the alleyways instead, thinking that it would serve as a shortcut. Unfortunately, even her navigational sense was thwarted by the unusual arrangement of the cross-crossing small passageways, and very soon she found herself lost. “This way? No, I remember that graffiti… Damn it, I can’t even find the main roads from here,” she lamented aloud. She had wandered deep into the packaging district, it seemed; the crowds of the shopping strip were not even a distant hum on the air. She stopped at a crossroads as she contemplated how to approach her dilemma, foot tapping and hand on her chin. That was when a couple of drunk thugs stumbled out of the back door of a bar, hooting and hollering and the picture of hooligans.

It’s not even three o’ clock and they’re this sloshed? People really must not have anything better to do. She decided to ignore them; they were going to be useless when it came to directions, and of course Nami was the type they would hassle. As she tried to turn away, her heel clicked a little too loudly against the flagstone and alerted them to her presence. Great.

“Hey, honey!” one of them hollered at her while the other two began wolf-whistling at her repeatedly. “Are you lost? Or lookin’ for a good time?”

“I’m just fine, thank you. Go back to destroying your livers.”

“Oh, she’s feisty!” Ugh, great, they were shambling towards her now. Nami instinctively reached for her Climatact; however, with how narrow the passageways were, it would be difficult to swing the weather-producing bo staff around. How was it that she always managed to land herself into these messes? As they sluggishly approached, Nami shuffled back a few paces. She could dart off into one of the alleyways, but they would surely pursue, and they knew the area much better than she; if they really put their minds to it, they could corner her, and she could find herself in an even more cramped space than the current. She would just have to whack them over the head the best she could.

Before Nami got the chance, a booted foot came out of the dark alleyway a few feet in front of her to kick the closest thug savagely in the head, sending him crashing into the opposite brick wall. He slumped down, unconscious. The other two yelped as they were snatched into the dark, and all Nami heard was their whimpers and yelps mixed with the unmistakable sound of fists crunching bones. They were thrown onto their comrade to make a pile of moaning, groaning, barely-awake wimps. Nami blinked; it had happened so quickly that she hadn’t even fully assembled her weapon. Wary, she kept the pieces on hand as she timidly called out, “Who’s there?”

A pair of cloaked figures stepped out of the damp, dank alleyway, looming a few yards away from her. They definitely cut intimidating personas, though she couldn’t even see their faces; their cloaks did little to shield their muscular forms. No wonder they had pounded those thugs so easily. The smaller one in the front tossed back his hood to wave placating gloved hands at her.

“Hehe, no worries! We’re not here to hurt you. Are you lost, miss?” His smile was bright and happy, and reminded her much of Luffy’s. He seemed harmless enough- well, relatively speaking- so she returned her Climatact to her hip. Behind him, the taller man shifted and she could see the flash of a blue tribal tattoo coursing down his face. The one smiling at her had shockingly bright blonde hair and a burn scar spanning half his face. Nami felt like she recognized the two, but she couldn’t place from where; regardless, she felt she could trust them. They had smacked down those thugs for her, after all.

“Yes, I’m lost. Would you kindly show me the way to the docks, please?” Nami trusted them but not completely; she wasn’t going to ask them to take her right to her ship. If she got back to the docks she would be able to make her own way from there. The blonde-haired man smiled brightly, if that was even possible, and put his hands on his hips.

“No problem, no problem; we were headed that way anyway. We can’t leave a pretty girl like you alone in these seedy alleyways, right, Boss?” he looked over his shoulder at the long-haired man, which was still eclipsing his features with the hood. He only grunted indifferently in response. “Great, great, let’s get going then!”

Before any of them could move, the miniature transponder snail hooked to Nami’s belt began ringing. Nami had purchased the matching set for herself and her captain so she could keep tabs on him on outings such as this; the only time he called her is when he wanted something.

“Namiiiiiiiii!” he wheedled as soon as she picked up the receiver. “Where are you? Nevermind, can I play a game? It’s in this reaaaaaaally cool house-kinda-thing with all these old men with scars and stuff.” Nami groaned and slapped a hand to her forehead. With their luck, he landed himself in a yakuza gambling den. “It’s got something to do with dice. I don’t really get it all that much but if I win I get lots of moneyyyy!”

“Luffy.”

“Yeah?”

“If you don’t win, and lose all our money, you know what’ll happen, right?”

“… You’re gonna hit me…”

“That’s right, and on top of that, I’ll make sure you don’t get any meat until we get to Wano, got it?”

“What? No meat? For that long? But Namiiiiiiii-!”

“No ‘but’s’!”

“Fiiiiiiiine… I won’t lose alllllll the money… Thanks, gotta go! <3” Nami rolled her eyes as he hung up. She dropped the now-snoozing snail back down and rubbed her temples.

“Ahahaha! Who was that? Your boyfriend?” the scarred blonde teased merrily. Her eyebrow quirked in annoyance and she shot him an icy glare, but she couldn’t hide the faint blush arising on her cheeks.

“My captain.”

“A captain, calling his crew member for permission? How troublesome.” The hooded man had finally decided to speak. His voice was largely monotone, but she could detect the faintest hint of amusement in it.

“He’s troublesome at times like these, but when it really comes down to the wire, he’s a good captain,” she shrugged, straightening up with her hand resting on her jutted hip. “He protects us,” she smiled. It made her heart hum just talking about him. He was an idiot, but at least he was a dependable idiot.

“You like him a lot, don’t you, Miss Nami?” the blonde laughed good-naturedly. There he went again, implying things. She pursed her lips as the blush deepened.

“I like him the perfect amount a crew mate should!”

“Riiiiight~ Well, time’s-a-wastin’! We better get you to the docks so your captain can join you soon with his winnings, yeah?” the man laughed while tossing his hood back up. He beckoned with his hand for Nami to follow, and the two men dipped back into the dark alley. Nami hurried after them, following the only thing of them she could see in the gloom; the flash of his white gloves swaying at his side. The two of them were interested in Luffy, but Nami felt it was more out of genuine curiosity rather than malicious information-gathering; they mostly asked how he treated his crewmates and how strong he was, and so of course Nami answered honestly. Really, she talked Luffy up real good. By the time they reached the entrance of the docks, Nami felt like she was pretty comfortable with the two guys.

“Thanks for your help. I appreciate it!” she smiled gratefully.

“No problem! I hope your boyfriend didn’t waste all your hard-earned cash~!”

“I told you, Scarface, he’s not my boyfriend!” she cried, that red haze blazing over her cheeks again. The man whimpered and turned away holding the burned side of his face, whimpering playfully about how harsh Nami was. The bigger, tattooed man snorted at his subordinate’s frivolousness before looking down at Nami with dark but non-threatening eyes. Suddenly, he reached up to poke Nami in the forehead.

“Take good care of your captain,” he said with a small smile. Nami blinked, and when his hand retreated, she rubbed at the little pink mark his finger had indented into her skin.

“Oh… Yes, of course.”

“See you around, maybe!” the other man laughed, seemingly recovered from Nami’s scathing nickname. With a wild flap of their black cloaks, they both whirled around to hurry away, boots stomping against the wooden docks with all the power and presence of trained soldiers. As she watched them phase into the crowd of fishermen and deckhands, she wondered once more where she had seen them, because people like that always left impressions one never forgot.

~~~~~~~~~~

Nami didn’t realize where she had seen them until three full days later, when they were already underway for Zou.

“Ahhhhhhhhh! How could I have not remembered?” she shrieked, clawing at her long hair as she looked down at the newspaper article on the kitchen table in front of her. Everyone in the room jumped at her sudden, unwarranted outcry.

“What the hell is up with you, Nami?” Luffy asked as he nibbled on his chicken leg (the goofball had indeed made out like a bandit in the gambling house, and Nami was so proud of him that she convinced Sanji to give him extra meat portions for the next week). She ground her teeth fiercely as she tugged at her hair, clawing her scalp. How could she have been so stupid?

“The Rebel Army! I ran into their leaders, Monkey D. Dragon and Sabo, on the island! They showed me the way back to the docks!”

“Oh, so you ran into my old man and my bro? Neat,” Luffy shrugged nonchalantly as he continued to attack his beloved meat.

“How can you be so nonchalant about it? Just what the hell is your family, Luffy?!”

“Shishishishishi! We all just like to be free, that’s all!” he laughed while licking the chicken juices off each of his fingers. Nami slumped into her seat with a groan, staring at the black-and-white photographs of the two wanted renegades. Frowning slightly, she recalled Sabo’s smile, so bright and sunny like his brother’s, and Dragon’s words.

“Take care of your captain.”

Her gaze flickered up to the oblivious Luffy who was now pestering Sanji for more meat. Her mouth curled into a wry smile. Yep. He was an idiot, her dependable idiot. She didn’t want another one.

Don’t worry. I have every intention on taking care of him.

Nami could be depended upon in that regard.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

Tag List: @searchfortheonepiece

[the-awkward-outlaw]

Second Chances - Ch. 28

The Widow of Willard’s Rest 

Warnings: swearing, mild blood

Word count: ~7000

Masterlist

Read on AO3

The next morning finds you waking up curled against Arthur’s side, trying to absorb his warmth and avoid the chill. After opening your eyes, you see his eyes are still closed. Brushing your hands gently across his bare chest, his hand on your exposed shoulder moves slowly, rubbing your skin. He sighs, so you stretch up and place a lazy kiss on his jaw. 

“Morning, cowboy,” you say.

He sighs again and cracks his eyes open. “Mornin’, beautiful. You cold?” 

You nod. He rolls over onto his side, pulling you tight against his chest and draping the blanket to cover your shoulders. You bury your head into his chest, curling your arms to your sides. 

After a short while, Arthur sighs again, sounding more awake. “I know you ain’t gonna have a problem with this, darlin’, but there’s somewhere I wanna go before we go back to camp.” 

“Okay. Where to?” 

“I been hearin’ rumors of a big white moose up above Brandywine Falls. Wanted to go lookin’ for it.” 

“Okay,” you say again. 

He pats your shoulder and extracts himself from your grip, sitting up and pulling his clothes back on. You do the same, even pulling out your duster. Arthur restarts the fire to make some coffee. You wander the area, coming across a nest near the pond with nine eggs inside. It looks like a duck’s nest so you take three of them, hoping the mother duck won’t notice. You show Arthur your find and he nods approvingly. 

After eating a quick breakfast of duck eggs and tinned biscuits, you both pack up and leave the spot. A pair of riders waves to you from the path as you grab Rannoch’s saddle; you return the gesture. 

You both saddle back up and Arthur leads you up the path and towards the train tracks crossing through Ambarino, explaining it’ll be the most direct route. You just hope you don’t run into a train on your way there. Arthur guides you east along the tracks for quite a long while, making small talk with you. The scenery changes once more from the gray rocks and green meadows back to the thick oak forests of Roanoke. After seeing a tiny, abandoned train station, you realize where you are. Recalling the strange scientist Marko Dragic, you look up the path and see the familiar metal ball.

“You ever wonder about him?” you ask Arthur.

“Who?” 

“Dragic, that funny scientist with his walking metal man?” 

“Oh, him. To be honest, I ain’t given him much more thought. We’ve had a lot goin’ on since then.” 

“Should we stop by? See how he’s doing?” 

Arthur agrees and you both abandon the train tracks and dash up the path towards the laboratory. Once the horses are hitched by the back entrance, you walk slowly up to the double doors. Last time you were here, the place had been full of light and noise, but now it sits dark and still. Too still. 

“Hold on, darlin’,” Arthur says. He seems to be as suspicious as you. He opens the door slowly, one hand on the butt of his pistol. “Hello?” he calls out. No answer. Over his shoulder, you can see the interior of the building looks exactly the same, only nothing seems to be on.

Arthur opens the door further and takes a step inside. He looks around. “Shit.” 

“What?” you ask. 

“Well, professor’s here.” 

You walk inside and stand beside Arthur. Lying on the ground in front of the metal cage that housed the electrified metal man lies the professor in a pool of dried blood. He’s been here a day, maybe two, the stench of his decay filling the room. 

Arthur approaches the body to inspect it. You look around, wondering where the metal man is. It seems to no longer be here. 

“He’s been stabbed,” Arthur says, picking up an electrified lantern laying near the body.

“Where’s his creation?” you ask.

“Don’t know.”

“Do you think it killed him?” 

“I couldn’t say, darlin’. I don’t know if it could have, all it did was waddle a few steps.” 

“It’s been a long time since we were here, Arthur. He could have done more work on it, given it better capabilities to move on its own. So either it killed him or someone killed him and stole it.” 

“Shame. I kind of liked him. He didn’t tell either of us how to think, despite bein’ smart as he was.” 

You nod and then ask to leave. This place gives you the creeps. Arthur closes the door behind you and you both mount up, heading east once more. After only a matter of minutes, you come upon a wide and tall waterfall. The cliff it pours from looms high over your heads. The river is even wider than the falls, but it seems to be relatively shallow. The forest lies thick on the edges of the river, and there’s a small island near the railroad bridge that crosses the river. 

Arthur guides his horse across the river to the other side, thinking he might pick up the tracks of the moose on the other side of the falls where the land rises slightly, the forest thinning a little. You follow and then split off, saying you want to try and fish again.

As you approach the roaring falls, you can tell the river is deeper here. You dismount and bring out your pole, change bait and toss the lure into the river. After several moments, you’re getting no action, despite seeing fish jumping. They just aren’t interested in your bait. 

Sighing, you hear the sound of Arthur’s voice over the falls. He isn’t yelling though. Sounds like he’s talking to someone. You pull in your reel and collapse your rod, wandering in the direction of his voice. As you get closer, another voice joins his. A woman’s.

“If you need any poisonous berries, I’m a natural at finding those,” the voice says as you walk slowly up to the path. 

“Well,” Arthur says, “you ain’t gonna last much longer out here if you don’t know how to hunt. Come on, I’ll show you.” 

As you walk over the rise, you see Arthur with his back to you, staring at a pale woman in dirty clothes standing next to a fresh grave. Her eyes are red as though she’d been crying. She doesn’t notice you as she looks at him, glances back to the grave and then back to him. She stares at him challengingly. 

“Alright. But you better not try any funny business. Now I may be weak but I still know how to stand up for myself.” 

“Oh, that I don’t doubt,” he says. “Besides, ya ain’t gotta worry about me. I’m a soon-to-be happily married man.” 

You approach, not worried about keeping quiet. Your footsteps draw both their attentions. Arthur smiles. “Ah, speakin’ of which, there she is.” 

He pulls you in with one arm and then looks back at the woman. “Ma’am, let Y/N and I show you how to hunt. You mind, darlin’?”

“No, course not.”

The woman smiles, relaxing at the sight of you. “You’re both very kind to do this.” 

You smile at her as Arthur slowly walks down the path, beckoning you to follow him. “Tell me,” he says, “you ever skinned an animal before?” 

“No,” she replies. “Then again, I haven’t caught anything either.” You can tell by the tone of her voice she’s unsure. 

“Well, you’ll need to know how to do both if you’re gonna survive out here. Let’s see if we can find anything in the trees down here, near the river.” 

He leads you both to where the train tracks form a bridge across the river. The trees are thick here, bushes and clumps of tall grass sit at their feet. Perfect spot for hunting small game.

“What happened to your husband, if you don’t mind me asking?” Arthur asks the woman.

“Bear got him. He survived but only for a couple of days. It was horrible. I buried him a week ago.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“This was really his dream more than mine. I’d have hopped the next train back to Chicago if he’d said the word, but now… I don’t know how to explain it. I have to do this.”

“I understand,” you say. You can somewhat sympathize with her. If Arthur had asked to live somewhere secluded like this and died, you’d try and live there too as a way to honor what he wanted in life. You curse silently as the thought of your dead husband creeps into your mind, how you did the exact opposite with him. You hope memories of him will fade as you make more of them with Arthur as your husband. 

Arthur stops and puts a finger to his lips, gesturing you both into silence. He looks around carefully through the trees and bushes. You do as well, looking for any signs of small game. 

“What are we looking for?” the woman asks quietly.

With a whisper, Arthur replies, “Think we should start with something small. I kill it, you skin it. Sound fair?” 

“But I don’t even have a knife with me.” 

“You won’t need one,” you say. “Smaller animals are easier to skin.” 

She nods her head, although she looks worried. 

You look around again and suddenly spot a rabbit nibbling on the low hanging branches of a thick bush. You bump Arthur gently in the side, pointing to it. He nods to you.

“Take him down, sweetheart.” He grabs the woman’s attention and points to the rabbit. “See him there? Stay quiet and still. Watch her.” 

You stand up slowly and pull out your pistol. Quietly, you pull back the hammer and aim for the rabbit’s head. You pull the trigger and the trees echo with the sound of the shot. The rabbit doesn’t even squeak, it just falls where it stood. 

The woman jumps. “Oh my! Good shot.”

The three of you approach the dead rabbit and Arthur instructs her how to hold it in order to skin it. She hesitates and then picks it up by the hind legs. She starts tugging on the tail, but nothing happens.

“You need to pull hard and fast,” Arthur says. “Skin should just come right off.” 

The woman closes her eyes and tugs again, rests and tugs again, harder this time. The skin suddenly rips and comes off. “Oh!” she says, shocked. “It worked!” 

“That’s all there is to it,” Arthur says with a smile. “Ya did good.” 

The woman sighs and drops the skin. “I… I think I’ve seen enough blood for one day. Mind if we head back? My cabin’s just up the path.” 

You and Arthur both agree and begin walking up the path with her. 

“That rabbit should keep you fed for a few days,” you say encouragingly to her. 

She smiles at you, the rabbit slung across her shoulder. “Oh yes, at least. Thank you both so much.” 

Arthur looks around admiringly. “This really ain’t a bad spot. Got a good water source. Lots of game. It’s remote, but you could survive here alright.” 

“I have no doubt one can survive here,” she says with a small laugh. “Whether Charlotte Balfour can is a different matter. You two have probably lived your whole lives outdoors.” 

“I haven’t,” you say. “I grew up in a big town, lived with another man for several years just outside Armadillo until he died about a year and a half ago.” You decide to spare her the details of the true nature of how he died. “When he passed, I decided to try and live outdoors as a way to… process his death. About six months ago, Arthur found me.”

Arthur chuckles and brushes your hand with his. “I’ve lived a lot of mine out here, that’s for sure.”

“I’d barely left the city before coming here,” Charlotte admits. She goes on to tell the story of her husband Cal, who grew up partially in the wild. Despite it, he knew little about surviving in a place like this. 

Just as she’s finishing the story, a low growl comes from the right side of the path where the land rises. A bush shudders and a lone wolf prowls out of it, snarling with spit flying from its jaws. 

“Oh Lord,” Charlotte says. “We’re done for now.”

“It’s the rabbit,” you say. “He smells the blood.” 

Arthur hollers at the wolf, trying to scare the wolf off. Instead, another wolf comes over the rise. It snarls and suddenly, both dogs are bounding towards your group. Arthur whips out his pistol and shoots the first one in the eye. He misses the other one, but your revolver is already out and you shoot it in the neck. The wolf yelps and runs off the way it had come, leaving nothing behind but pained howls and a thin trail of blood. 

“Oh thank God,” Charlotte says. She had dropped the rabbit and hunkered down behind Arthur. She picks it up, slinging it back over her shoulder. “You see? If you two hadn’t have been here, I’d be dead by now.” 

Arthur holsters his pistol. “You got a gun?”

“Yes, well my husband had a rifle.” 

“Good. I suggest you learn how to use it.” 

The three of you continue on up the path, more relaxed now that it’s unlikely the wolf or other predators will appear. 

Charlotte sighs behind you. “Ever since we got here, it feels like every step forward has come with a hundred steps back. People always talk about the simplicity of country living, but there’s nothing simple about it.” 

“Well, we all gotta be adaptable to whatever life throws at us, even if we’re armed with nothing but our own knowledge,” you say. 

“Please,” Charlotte says with a small laugh. “I’m sure it wouldn’t take either of you too long to adjust to a privileged life in the city.”

“I don’t know about that,” Arthur says. “It sounds awful.” 

 “Oh it is. A truly empty and boring existence, but an undeniably easy one.” 

You pass the grave of Charlotte’s husband and she sighs heavily. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.” You and Arthur accompany her in silence up the slight hill until you reach the wooden archway marking her property. She continues walking towards the cabin, a shed beside it, and does not question or comment when you both continue on with her. She walks up the steps and opens her front door before turning to you and Arthur standing near the stairs. 

“Thank you,” she says. “That was the first time anyone’s done anything nice for us. Or, for me.”

Arthur says, “Nature provides but she sure don’t always make it easy.”

“No she doesn’t. I’d invite you in, but I’m dead on my feet. Please do call again sometime, both of you. A good rest and hopefully I’ll be a new woman. Perhaps I’ll even look as good as your future wife.” 

You blush and smile. Arthur chuckles. “Oh, you already ain’t far from that, ma’am. Now you take care.” He tips his hat to her. She smiles and closes the door. 

You and Arthur turn down the path and wander back to the river where the horses are. “Ah, Arthur,” you say teasingly. “You two would be so cute together!” 

He laughs as he mounts up. “Too bad I’m already spoken for, darlin’.” 

“Hey, what about your moose?” you say from near Rannoch. 

“Ah, I nearly forgot.” He dismounts again and grabs his bow.

 “Right,” you chuckle. “You nearly forgot the one reason you came up here.” 

He just laughs softly and kisses the back of your head. “Go back to your fishing.” 

As he walks away, you playfully smack his ass and he turns and gives you a playful glare before going back into the trees to find any signs of the moose. 

A few hours pass and he finally finds it. You’re leaning against Rannoch, who’s lying in the grass near the river, reading a book. You had fished for a while as you waited for Arthur, but after catching a massive trout, you decided to call it a day. 

Artemis walks over to you with Arthur on her back. Behind him sits a large rolled-up white moose skin, the velvety antlers tucked into it. 

“You caught another gargantuan fish?” he says when he sees your catch strapped to Rannoch’s back. 

You laugh and stand up, closing your book. “Yup. Guess I’m just lucky.” 

“Well, come on. Let’s go sell these things. But we really do need to get back to camp. Who knows what’s happened since we been gone?” 

You sigh and mount up. After selling the fish and the moose pelt, you both head back to Beaver Hollow. Upon arrival, it doesn’t seem to have changed much except that the mood seems heavier. You and Arthur head off to your tent to drop off a few things. You’re just about to go and help the other girls do chores when you turn and smack right into Dutch. He doesn’t react, nor does he pay any attention to you. His hard eyes glare at Arthur.

“Arthur,” he says. “Where have you been? You’ve hardly been here for days.” 

“I know, Dutch,” Arthur turns to him. “I’m real sorry, but we were out helpin’ a few folk we bumped into.” 

“None of those folk happen to come with a badge, do they Morgan?” Micah’s unpleasant voice simpers from behind Dutch. 

“Excuse me?” Arthur snarls. “You got any idea who you’re talkin’ to?” 

“I’m talkin’ to someone who’s actions can’t be accounted for,” Micah replies. “There’s likely still a rat, cowpoke, and with you sneaking off so much with your girl…” 

Arthur stomps over to Micah, but Dutch puts his arms up. “Now I doubt Arthur is the one spying on us, Micah. He’s… he’s like my son, I known him for twenty years.” 

Arthur stares defiantly at Micah, who sneers at him. “I don’t doubt your judgement on his character, boss. But his accountability is definitely questionable, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Micah,” you spit, “if anyone’s trust is to be questioned, it’s yours. You don’t give a damn about nobody but yourself! Hell, everyone in this dump of a camp would be starving if it weren’t for me and Arthur.” 

“Now you watch your goddamn mouth, you-”

“Enough!” Dutch hollers. “I don’t want any of this finger pointing from anyone. But Arthur, we’ve needed you. I have needed you around. We can’t get out of here without everyone’s help. All I’m asking for is some loyalty, son. If we all work together on getting out of this dump,” he puts emphasis on your word, “then we can get out that much sooner.” 

Dutch throws a glare your way before turning to leave. Arthur glowers at him and Micah. Just before he turns to follow Dutch, Micah says, “Keep your eyes peeled, big man. With so many recent deaths, I’d hate for anything bad to happen to your girl, fiery as she is.” 

“You stay away from her, Micah,” Arthur growls. “You so much as stare at her in a way I don’t like, I’ll put a hole in your head.” 

Micah snickers and heads off, spitting to the side as he does. Across the clearing, he coughs slightly. You wonder if he’s picking up a cold or something, he’s been coughing more and more lately since returning from Guarma. 

Arthur sighs heavily and relaxes. You put a comforting hand to his shoulder. “Just ignore him, Arthur. He’s just trying to get you to do something stupid. Don’t fall for his bait.” 

“I won’t,” he says and takes your hand to kiss it. He sighs and looks around for a moment. “I was worried somethin’ like this was gonna happen?” 

“What?”

“More of Dutch’s raning. I understand he wants to get us all out of here, I’m 100% behind him on that goal. But the way he’s goin’ about doin’ it…”

“I know. Like you said though, let’s think about helping John and his family get out. Then you and I can worry about getting ourselves good and lost.” 

He nods and starts heading out of the tent, you follow him. That is when you notice Trelawney sitting at the round table. While he’s flitted in and out of camp more often than in the past, you’re still surprised to see him. A suitcase sits at his feet and he looks around worriedly. Arthur notices him too and approaches. 

“Josiah,” he says.

Trelawney looks up at him. “Oh, hello I um, I was just…” 

“Leaving again?” Arthur takes a seat and you do the same. 

“Yes, just leaving. I’ll see you soon.” 

Arthur rubs his nose. “Perhaps. But if I was you, I’d disappear too. This,” he looks around. “This is all pretty much over.”

Trelawney looks as though he’s trying to decide if Arthur’s joking. “Well, I’ll be back, Mr. Morgan.” 

  “No you won’t, let’s not pretend anymore. Get outta here.” Arthur speaks gently, there is no anger in his voice. 

Trelawney sighs, as though relieved. “Well, I’ll miss you, Arthur. And you, Miss.” He nods his head to you politely. “I, uh, must say I was rather looking forward to being at your wedding. However, with things as they are…” 

He stops. You’re rather taken by surprise. The last person you expected to be willfully present at your wedding was Trelawney. You can’t deny you aren’t touched by his words. While he’s rarely been present in camp, you can recall the times he tried to entertain you and the other girls during chores, pulling ravens out of books and turning pebbles to marbles and giving them to Jack. You return the nod. 

“Thank you, Josiah. I hope you have a good life.” 

“You’ve both been fine friends to me,” he says, standing up.

Arthur follows his motion. “Now let’s not get over-sentimental. Go on, place is quiet. You go with my blessing.” 

Trelawney sighs in relief again. “Thank you, Arthur.” He picks up his suitcase and quickly heads off to the horses without glancing back. 

Arthur sighs heavily and sits back down. You reach for his hand, suddenly sad that Trelawney’s gone. You wonder if he will be the only one to leave and not come back. You’re torn between the hopes that he’s not the last to leave and also not wanting everyone else to go. These people, despite their flaws and the troubles you’ve all gone through, have been more of a family to you than your real family ever was. It breaks your heart to see how upside down things have turned. Only a few months ago, you recall how fighting was uncommon. Now it seems to be all people do in camp. There’s no singing, no laughter. Just yelling and sharp words thrown in every direction. You look at Arthur; he seems to be feeling the same way.

Someone walks from the west side of the camp from the trees lying between the camp and the path. You look up and see Charles. He’s not alone.

“Found a friend looking for you,” he says to Arthur. 

Rains Fall steps to Charles’s side. He nods in greeting to you and Arthur.  

Arthur stands up respectively. “Sir.” 

“I’m sorry to impose on you again,” Rains Fall says. “But I believe I’ve made progress brokering peace. Colonel Favours has agreed to a meeting to discuss and maybe resolve his alleged grievances and mine.”

Charles wipes off a barrel by the table and gestures for Rains Fall to sit, but he doesn’t. He continues, “Now he has lied to me more times than I care to remember. But I am hopeful that this time, he must want peace. Why would he want to torment us any further?” 

Arthur rubs his chin before answering. “We got words for his kind, but they’re colloquial.”

Rains Fall nods solemnly. “I was hoping I could make one last request of you, Mr. Morgan. My men are not allowed to carry arms.”

“You want us to keep the peace?” Arthur beckons to himself and Charles. 

“It’ll be a lot of dull talking and ceremony,” Rains Fall says. “But I feel with some non-tribe members present, his chances of lying or worse will be reduced. Will you, Arthur?” 

Arthur nods. “This ain’t my fight, but yes, I will go.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan.” 

You step up beside Arthur. “I’ll go, too.” 

Rains Fall looks at you in such a way you worry if you’ve stepped over a line. “As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, Ms. Y/L/N, I’m afraid the army would not feel the same way. Colonel Favours is a traditional man and he may find your presence suspicious. I’m afraid it may be best if you remain here.” 

Arthur pats your shoulder. “He’s right, darlin’, as much as I hate sayin’ it.”

You nod to Rains Fall, but say nothing. You’re not surprised that this Colonel Favours would probably be offended simply by your face, but it doesn’t make you less irritated. Rains Fall leads Arthur and Charles to the horses and they ride off. 

You sigh and are about to go off and help the girls with laundry when Sadie walks up to you. She’s holding a repeater and stops you. 

“Guess Grimshaw wants you on guard duty,” she says. “She also mentioned if you sneak away while doing it, she’ll butcher you and hang your skin to dry.” Sadie says the words in a mocking attempt of Grimshaw’s voice. She smiles. “I told her to go pound sand, but here you go.” 

You laugh with her and take the repeater. She heads off to her own tent and you take point in the trees, ready to take on the boring task of keeping watch. 

An hour passes and you’re sitting at the base of one of the trees. You hear someone walking up the path from the direction of camp. You get up to see who it is and find Reverend Swanson, his hair finely swept back, his mustache trimmed. He carries a bag in each hand. He pauses when he sees you.

“Reverend?” you say partially in greeting, partially in confusion.

“Ah, hello, Mrs. Morgan.” He’s been calling you that since Arthur announced you were in engaged. Not that you mind. 

“Heading somewhere?” you ask, trying not to sound accusatory. He hunches his shoulders and looks away as though ashamed. 

“I, um, I’m leaving,” he says after checking you’re both far enough away not to be overheard. 

“Why?” Out of all the people to leave after Trelawney, Reverend was the last person you expected.

“I tried to make Dutch see sense, but he’s very strange recently.” 

You nod. “I know. But what about everyone else? You’ve been such a comfort to the others.” You recall up in Colter how Reverend read from the bible, trying to bring hope to the freezing camp. You’ve never been religious, but you appreciated his efforts. Since arriving at Beaver Hollow, he’s been reading aloud from his bible once more. 

“I asked them to come with me, but they wouldn’t. I’m a changed man, Y/N.” Reverend finally looks at you and you can see the clearness of his eyes. They’re no longer bloodshot or misty. Clear, brown and determined. “I can’t die for a bunch of nonsense spouted by a fool. I don’t want you and Arthur or any of the others to die for him either.”

You sigh and nod slowly. “I understand. I, um, well. To be honest, I think Arthur and I would have left a while ago, but we want to try and save some of them. I just hope we can before Dutch has the chance to get us all killed.” 

Reverend looks at you hard. A light comes in his eyes you’ve only seen in two people: Rains Fall and that Brother Dorkins fellow you met in Saint Denis. 

“You and Arthur,” he begins, “you’re not good people, but you’re not bad either. Your journey, your path will be just fine. And whatever comes your way, you’ll do just right.” 

You smile sadly and look away. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never been a truly good person, Mr. Swanson. When I was younger, I was a drunk until my father beat me badly enough to be afraid of continuing to be one. A few years later, I shot him and my husband and burned my mother alive. After joining this gang, I’ve killed more people than I care to count and robbed even more.”  

“Well, I have faith in you even if you have none for yourself. But you and Arthur, save who you can and let the rest rot and look after yourselves. You’ve both led difficult lives, you’ve earned the right to live the rest of it peacefully.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.” At this moment, you feel like your chances of escaping with Arthur are slim. It’s not just Arther’s unwavering loyalty to Dutch, though it’s been badly shaken recently. It’s Dutch’s determination and madness, aided by the hissed whispering of Micah in his ear. 

Reverend sets one of his bags down and puts his hand on your shoulder. “You do see, you just can’t admit it to yourself. I’ve been keeping a close eye on you since you joined us, Mrs. Morgan. You’ve made some mistakes, no questioning that. But you also possess a calm and unbiased nature. You’ve been good for Arthur. He was a man of violence for many years, but he’s learned to be calm, to be less quick with his trigger. He was never a bad man, but after meeting you he turned into a good one.” 

You look up at him, wondering if he’s being honest. His eyes tell you he is, or at least telling you the version of his truth. “Thank you, Reverend. You be careful out there, okay? World ain’t as friendly as we used to be.” 

He smiles at your bad joke. “I will try. You keep Arthur safe, I know he’ll die doing the same for you.” He pauses and his eyes seem to be far away. “You and Arthur turned out to be some of the best people I’ve known. If we were all more like you, perhaps things could have turned out differently.”

You huff slightly. “Ain’t no use in getting sentimental, Reverend. Now go on, I’m sure Arthur wouldn’t blame you for leaving either.” 

He nods and picks up his bag again. Without another word, he walks on down the path. You watch him until he disappears, feeling sad and incredibly lonely.   

A few more hours pass when you hear a horse coming up the path. You grip the repeater tightly until you see Charles coming up. Arthur is nowhere in sight, so you ask him.

“He met someone at the train station,” Charles explains. 

“Why was he at the train station?” you ask. 

“We, uh, had to escort Monroe there.” 

“Why?” 

Another horse comes up the path and you see Arthur. Charles nods to him. “I’ll let Arthur explain.” Charles prods Taima on towards the path as Arthur approaches. His face is set and heavy. 

“Arthur, what happened?” 

“Oh, whole thing was a mess.” He dismounts and sits down at the base of one of the trees. When you’re settled next to him, he explains how Rains Fall and Favours chatted for a few moments, how Favours accused Rains Fall’s people to be criminals, though they’d done nothing wrong. 

“From what Rains Fall told me about Favours,” Arthur says, “I didn’t have much reason to like him. But when I heard the way Favours talked to him. I don’t think I’d like much else than to put a bullet in that man’s brain. Anyways, he tried to have Monroe court marshalled, so Charles and I got him out of there. Had to shoot half of Favour’s men to do it.” 

“Rains Fall was still there when you did this?” you ask, fearing the worst.

“No. No, he had left at that point. Knew talking wouldn’t do much good. Monroe was arguing with Favours when Rains Fall left, that’s what led to him being court marshalled.” 

You sigh, relieved. After a moment, you tell him about Reverend leaving. He shakes his head sadly.

“I ain’t surprised. What I’m more surprised about is that more haven’t done so sooner, way things are.” 

You nod and take his hand. “To be honest, if I wasn’t engaged to you, Arthur, I would have left with him and Trelawney. I honestly doubt things will get better from here.” 

“I know. I want to leave too, darlin’, but John…” 

“I know. And we’ll try, Arthur. Has John said anything further about leaving with Abigail and Jack?” 

“No. He still seems very torn about loyalty to Dutch. I understand why he is, it was all I believed in once, too. But there comes a point when you have to question if the loyalty you feel towards a mad man is worth it.”

“So if we shouldn’t be loyal to Dutch anymore, what should we be loyal to?” 

“Be loyal to what matters, darlin’. It’s what I told John. At this point, Dutch’s grand plan ain’t worth it, not if it means gettin’ us all killed or worse.”

Something in the trees behind you rustles and you look, but you can’t see anyone there in the gloom of the setting sun. You get a strange feeling as though someone’s there, watching you. Turning back, you suggest to Arthur you talk about something else just in case someone might be listening. He nods.

“Guess who I ran into?” he says.

He tells you about the nun he met who was with Brother Dorkins. “Guess she’s bein’ sent off to a mission in Mexico. She, uh, gave me a few life truths, sort of helped me clear my head. Who knows?” He whispers now. “Maybe we can still have a chance to get out of here together.” 

He puts his arm behind you and pulls you close. After settling your head on his chest, you say, “I hope so, Arthur.”  You both remain this way until Charles comes up to relieve you of guard duty. 

In the morning, you and Arthur walk together towards Pearson’s fire to get coffee. Arthur’s been very quiet this morning, responding little to your words. It’s easy to tell something heavy is on his mind.

 As you’re drinking, you look over to the main path and spot Sadie in the trees. She seems to be throwing something and her brow is furrowed. You nudge Arthur and walk towards her. Once you’re closer to her, she throws a knife at a tree and you hear the dull thud of it’s strike. 

“Sadie,” you say.

She looks over briefly to spot you and Arthur and then throws another knife. “You two okay?” 

“Just peachy,” Arthur says. 

“You still workin’?”

“Is anybody still working?” Arthur puts one hand on his gunbelt. “Whole goddamn place full of people bickerin’, fightin’, lyin’. It makes me real sad.” 

You nod slowly. You’d both been woken up earlier than you’d like by a particularly loud argument between John and Javier. Not only that, but you’d also heard Tilly and Mary-Beth exchange harsh words. If  Mary-Beth was getting nasty for no reason, things were definitely bad.

“I know,” Sadie says, pulling the knives from the tree. She pauses and then looks pointedly at you both. “I need someone to ride with me.” 

“What for?” you ask.

“Finish off them O’Driscolls. I hear the last of ‘em is holed up at Hanging Dog Ranch.”

Arthur takes a few steps towards her and shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t have it in me no more. I saw Colm swing, I just don’t care.” 

This takes you by surprise. Before this whole mess, Arthur would have been enthusiastic about putting down more O’Driscolls. Reverend’s words about you calming him come back to you. You don’t entirely blame him for not caring about that horrible gang anymore. After you saw Colm die, you’ve been less angry about the ordeal where Arthur was kidnapped and you were nearly murdered by his men.  

Sadie gives him a sharp look. “I was a married woman, Arthur. You know what they did to me. And to my husband…” She stops and turns away, rubbing her chin as though she’s about to break. You feel sorry for her. You knew from the first night you met Sadie that her husband Jake must have been a good man. She turns back and looks at you both. “You two are the only ones of these fools that I trust. I’ve gotta do this.” 

You bite your lip. Although you no longer have a fight with the O’Driscolls, you understand why Sadie does. Colm was never in her cabin that night, only his boys were. It’s unlikely he gave them orders to destroy Sadie’s life, though he surely would have encouraged it. Your revenge, Arthur’s revenge, is over, but Sadie’s isn’t. You decide whether Arthur wants to or not, you’re going to help her. 

Before you have a chance to say anything, Arthur walks slowly up to her. “I tell you what. I’ll do it, but there’s something you can help me and Y/N with. Abigail. Jack. John. Help us make sure they make it.” He looks to the camp. “I mean this whole thing is pretty much done. Help them escape.”

He looks at the camp again and a strange sadness enters his eyes. He glances at you and then to her. “You know us three, we’re more ghosts than people. We been broken for too long to be anything else, but them? They could still…” 

“I know,” Sadie says. She looks at him. “Of course I will. Thank you, Arthur.” 

“I’m coming too,” you say. They look at you. “My fight with the O’Driscolls is dead, but you’ve told me what they did to you and your husband. If my last husband had been half as good as your Jake and they did the same thing to him, I’d want them all dead too.”

She nods solemnly and puts a hand on your shoulder. “Alright. Well, I’m riding out now if you both wanna come, or I can meet you there.” 

Arthur whistles for Artemis and you do the same. Sadie thanks you both again and heads over to her horse. 

As you’re both riding towards Big Valley, you ask Arthur to hang back a little ways to talk with him privately. 

“What was that about, Arthur?”

“What?” he says heavily. He’s been in a strange mood all day.

“That whole ‘we’re more ghosts than people. We been broken too long to be much else’.”

He sighs and doesn’t answer immediately. “Look at us, Y/N. I been part of this gang more than twenty years, now it’s all goin’ up in smoke by Dutch’s hand. Everything I ever believed in, everything he taught me, feels like it was all one big lie. Not only that, but this world don’t want folk like us no more. It’s why we been hunted so long. So even if you and I get out together the way we been talkin’, where the hell are we gonna go where they won’t find us?”

You pause at his words. “I thought we could figure that out after we deal with this. One mess at a time, Arthur.” 

“I know, but still. We’re starin’ into a void with no answers and we don’t even know if we’re gonna make it. I overheard Dutch. He knows Trelawney and Reverend left and he was sayin’ they’ll be the last.”

“Then how about this, Arthur,” you say, trying to calm him. “I know you wanna help John and his family escape, I do too, but if they refuse to leave then we need to figure things out for ourselves. Let’s set a date for it all to happen, for them to have escaped by then or for us to leave. No more waiting to see how things turn out.” 

“And exactly how long do you propose?” His voice is heavy. 

“A month,” you say. “No more than that.”

“Okay.” You look back at him and his eyes are dull. You want nothing more than to hug him.

“Honey, I know it’s a… a frightening thing to leave Dutch. He’s been your family for most of your life. But I’m starting to wonder if this thing of his is a suicide mission, way he’s going. I don’t know about you, but… Look, I ain’t had a whole lot in my life worth living for. If it weren’t for you, I’d either already be gone or worse, I’d be willing to go down with Dutch. You’re the only thing keepin’ my head straight, Arthur, and I’ve been hoping you’d want me to be your family now.” 

“I do, darlin’, and I want us to get out. You deserve the chance for a better life, hell you ain’t had much of one before. That’s what I mean when I said we’re more ghosts than people.” 

You sigh and nod. “I know, Arthur. But we’re gonna get out of this. Okay? I ain’t sayin’ it’s gonna be easy, and I ain’t sayin’ we’re gonna have an easy time forgetting this when it’s done, but we have to at least give ourselves a chance. We owe it to each other.” 

He nods and pushes Artemis to run next to Sadie’s horse, signalling he’s done talking.

The next morning finds you waking up curled against Arthur’s side, trying to absorb his warmth and avoid the chill. After opening your eyes, you see his eyes are still closed. Brushing your hands gently across his bare chest, his hand on your exposed shoulder moves slowly, rubbing your skin. He sighs, so you stretch up and place a lazy kiss on his jaw. 

“Morning, cowboy,” you say.

He sighs again and cracks his eyes open. “Mornin’, beautiful. You cold?” 

You nod. He rolls over onto his side, pulling you tight against his chest and draping the blanket to cover your shoulders. You bury your head into his chest, curling your arms to your sides. 

After a short while, Arthur sighs again, sounding more awake. “I know you ain’t gonna have a problem with this, darlin’, but there’s somewhere I wanna go before we go back to camp.” 

“Okay. Where to?” 

“I been hearin’ rumors of a big white moose up above Brandywine Falls. Wanted to go lookin’ for it.” 

“Okay,” you say again. 

He pats your shoulder and extracts himself from your grip, sitting up and pulling his clothes back on. You do the same, even pulling out your duster. Arthur restarts the fire to make some coffee. You wander the area, coming across a nest near the pond with nine eggs inside. It looks like a duck’s nest so you take three of them, hoping the mother duck won’t notice. You show Arthur your find and he nods approvingly. 

After eating a quick breakfast of duck eggs and tinned biscuits, you both pack up and leave the spot. A pair of riders waves to you from the path as you grab Rannoch’s saddle; you return the gesture. 

You both saddle back up and Arthur leads you up the path and towards the train tracks crossing through Ambarino, explaining it’ll be the most direct route. You just hope you don’t run into a train on your way there. Arthur guides you east along the tracks for quite a long while, making small talk with you. The scenery changes once more from the gray rocks and green meadows back to the thick oak forests of Roanoke. After seeing a tiny, abandoned train station, you realize where you are. Recalling the strange scientist Marko Dragic, you look up the path and see the familiar metal ball.

“You ever wonder about him?” you ask Arthur.

“Who?” 

“Dragic, that funny scientist with his walking metal man?” 

“Oh, him. To be honest, I ain’t given him much more thought. We’ve had a lot goin’ on since then.” 

“Should we stop by? See how he’s doing?” 

Arthur agrees and you both abandon the train tracks and dash up the path towards the laboratory. Once the horses are hitched by the back entrance, you walk slowly up to the double doors. Last time you were here, the place had been full of light and noise, but now it sits dark and still. Too still. 

“Hold on, darlin’,” Arthur says. He seems to be as suspicious as you. He opens the door slowly, one hand on the butt of his pistol. “Hello?” he calls out. No answer. Over his shoulder, you can see the interior of the building looks exactly the same, only nothing seems to be on.

Arthur opens the door further and takes a step inside. He looks around. “Shit.” 

“What?” you ask. 

“Well, professor’s here.” 

You walk inside and stand beside Arthur. Lying on the ground in front of the metal cage that housed the electrified metal man lies the professor in a pool of dried blood. He’s been here a day, maybe two, the stench of his decay filling the room. 

Arthur approaches the body to inspect it. You look around, wondering where the metal man is. It seems to no longer be here. 

“He’s been stabbed,” Arthur says, picking up an electrified lantern laying near the body.

“Where’s his creation?” you ask.

“Don’t know.”

“Do you think it killed him?” 

“I couldn’t say, darlin’. I don’t know if it could have, all it did was waddle a few steps.” 

“It’s been a long time since we were here, Arthur. He could have done more work on it, given it better capabilities to move on its own. So either it killed him or someone killed him and stole it.” 

“Shame. I kind of liked him. He didn’t tell either of us how to think, despite bein’ smart as he was.” 

You nod and then ask to leave. This place gives you the creeps. Arthur closes the door behind you and you both mount up, heading east once more. After only a matter of minutes, you come upon a wide and tall waterfall. The cliff it pours from looms high over your heads. The river is even wider than the falls, but it seems to be relatively shallow. The forest lies thick on the edges of the river, and there’s a small island near the railroad bridge that crosses the river. 

Arthur guides his horse across the river to the other side, thinking he might pick up the tracks of the moose on the other side of the falls where the land rises slightly, the forest thinning a little. You follow and then split off, saying you want to try and fish again.

As you approach the roaring falls, you can tell the river is deeper here. You dismount and bring out your pole, change bait and toss the lure into the river. After several moments, you’re getting no action, despite seeing fish jumping. They just aren’t interested in your bait. 

Sighing, you hear the sound of Arthur’s voice over the falls. He isn’t yelling though. Sounds like he’s talking to someone. You pull in your reel and collapse your rod, wandering in the direction of his voice. As you get closer, another voice joins his. A woman’s.

“If you need any poisonous berries, I’m a natural at finding those,” the voice says as you walk slowly up to the path. 

“Well,” Arthur says, “you ain’t gonna last much longer out here if you don’t know how to hunt. Come on, I’ll show you.” 

As you walk over the rise, you see Arthur with his back to you, staring at a pale woman in dirty clothes standing next to a fresh grave. Her eyes are red as though she’d been crying. She doesn’t notice you as she looks at him, glances back to the grave and then back to him. She stares at him challengingly. 

“Alright. But you better not try any funny business. Now I may be weak but I still know how to stand up for myself.” 

“Oh, that I don’t doubt,” he says. “Besides, ya ain’t gotta worry about me. I’m a soon-to-be happily married man.” 

You approach, not worried about keeping quiet. Your footsteps draw both their attentions. Arthur smiles. “Ah, speakin’ of which, there she is.” 

He pulls you in with one arm and then looks back at the woman. “Ma’am, let Y/N and I show you how to hunt. You mind, darlin’?”

“No, course not.”

The woman smiles, relaxing at the sight of you. “You’re both very kind to do this.” 

You smile at her as Arthur slowly walks down the path, beckoning you to follow him. “Tell me,” he says, “you ever skinned an animal before?” 

“No,” she replies. “Then again, I haven’t caught anything either.” You can tell by the tone of her voice she’s unsure. 

“Well, you’ll need to know how to do both if you’re gonna survive out here. Let’s see if we can find anything in the trees down here, near the river.” 

He leads you both to where the train tracks form a bridge across the river. The trees are thick here, bushes and clumps of tall grass sit at their feet. Perfect spot for hunting small game.

“What happened to your husband, if you don’t mind me asking?” Arthur asks the woman.

“Bear got him. He survived but only for a couple of days. It was horrible. I buried him a week ago.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“This was really his dream more than mine. I’d have hopped the next train back to Chicago if he’d said the word, but now… I don’t know how to explain it. I have to do this.”

“I understand,” you say. You can somewhat sympathize with her. If Arthur had asked to live somewhere secluded like this and died, you’d try and live there too as a way to honor what he wanted in life. You curse silently as the thought of your dead husband creeps into your mind, how you did the exact opposite with him. You hope memories of him will fade as you make more of them with Arthur as your husband. 

Arthur stops and puts a finger to his lips, gesturing you both into silence. He looks around carefully through the trees and bushes. You do as well, looking for any signs of small game. 

“What are we looking for?” the woman asks quietly.

With a whisper, Arthur replies, “Think we should start with something small. I kill it, you skin it. Sound fair?” 

“But I don’t even have a knife with me.” 

“You won’t need one,” you say. “Smaller animals are easier to skin.” 

She nods her head, although she looks worried. 

You look around again and suddenly spot a rabbit nibbling on the low hanging branches of a thick bush. You bump Arthur gently in the side, pointing to it. He nods to you.

“Take him down, sweetheart.” He grabs the woman’s attention and points to the rabbit. “See him there? Stay quiet and still. Watch her.” 

You stand up slowly and pull out your pistol. Quietly, you pull back the hammer and aim for the rabbit’s head. You pull the trigger and the trees echo with the sound of the shot. The rabbit doesn’t even squeak, it just falls where it stood. 

The woman jumps. “Oh my! Good shot.”

The three of you approach the dead rabbit and Arthur instructs her how to hold it in order to skin it. She hesitates and then picks it up by the hind legs. She starts tugging on the tail, but nothing happens.

“You need to pull hard and fast,” Arthur says. “Skin should just come right off.” 

The woman closes her eyes and tugs again, rests and tugs again, harder this time. The skin suddenly rips and comes off. “Oh!” she says, shocked. “It worked!” 

“That’s all there is to it,” Arthur says with a smile. “Ya did good.” 

The woman sighs and drops the skin. “I… I think I’ve seen enough blood for one day. Mind if we head back? My cabin’s just up the path.” 

You and Arthur both agree and begin walking up the path with her. 

“That rabbit should keep you fed for a few days,” you say encouragingly to her. 

She smiles at you, the rabbit slung across her shoulder. “Oh yes, at least. Thank you both so much.” 

Arthur looks around admiringly. “This really ain’t a bad spot. Got a good water source. Lots of game. It’s remote, but you could survive here alright.” 

“I have no doubt one can survive here,” she says with a small laugh. “Whether Charlotte Balfour can is a different matter. You two have probably lived your whole lives outdoors.” 

“I haven’t,” you say. “I grew up in a big town, lived with another man for several years just outside Armadillo until he died about a year and a half ago.” You decide to spare her the details of the true nature of how he died. “When he passed, I decided to try and live outdoors as a way to… process his death. About six months ago, Arthur found me.”

Arthur chuckles and brushes your hand with his. “I’ve lived a lot of mine out here, that’s for sure.”

“I’d barely left the city before coming here,” Charlotte admits. She goes on to tell the story of her husband Cal, who grew up partially in the wild. Despite it, he knew little about surviving in a place like this. 

Just as she’s finishing the story, a low growl comes from the right side of the path where the land rises. A bush shudders and a lone wolf prowls out of it, snarling with spit flying from its jaws. 

“Oh Lord,” Charlotte says. “We’re done for now.”

“It’s the rabbit,” you say. “He smells the blood.” 

Arthur hollers at the wolf, trying to scare the wolf off. Instead, another wolf comes over the rise. It snarls and suddenly, both dogs are bounding towards your group. Arthur whips out his pistol and shoots the first one in the eye. He misses the other one, but your revolver is already out and you shoot it in the neck. The wolf yelps and runs off the way it had come, leaving nothing behind but pained howls and a thin trail of blood. 

“Oh thank God,” Charlotte says. She had dropped the rabbit and hunkered down behind Arthur. She picks it up, slinging it back over her shoulder. “You see? If you two hadn’t have been here, I’d be dead by now.” 

Arthur holsters his pistol. “You got a gun?”

“Yes, well my husband had a rifle.” 

“Good. I suggest you learn how to use it.” 

The three of you continue on up the path, more relaxed now that it’s unlikely the wolf or other predators will appear. 

Charlotte sighs behind you. “Ever since we got here, it feels like every step forward has come with a hundred steps back. People always talk about the simplicity of country living, but there’s nothing simple about it.” 

“Well, we all gotta be adaptable to whatever life throws at us, even if we’re armed with nothing but our own knowledge,” you say. 

“Please,” Charlotte says with a small laugh. “I’m sure it wouldn’t take either of you too long to adjust to a privileged life in the city.”

“I don’t know about that,” Arthur says. “It sounds awful.” 

 “Oh it is. A truly empty and boring existence, but an undeniably easy one.” 

You pass the grave of Charlotte’s husband and she sighs heavily. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.” You and Arthur accompany her in silence up the slight hill until you reach the wooden archway marking her property. She continues walking towards the cabin, a shed beside it, and does not question or comment when you both continue on with her. She walks up the steps and opens her front door before turning to you and Arthur standing near the stairs. 

“Thank you,” she says. “That was the first time anyone’s done anything nice for us. Or, for me.”

Arthur says, “Nature provides but she sure don’t always make it easy.”

“No she doesn’t. I’d invite you in, but I’m dead on my feet. Please do call again sometime, both of you. A good rest and hopefully I’ll be a new woman. Perhaps I’ll even look as good as your future wife.” 

You blush and smile. Arthur chuckles. “Oh, you already ain’t far from that, ma’am. Now you take care.” He tips his hat to her. She smiles and closes the door. 

You and Arthur turn down the path and wander back to the river where the horses are. “Ah, Arthur,” you say teasingly. “You two would be so cute together!” 

He laughs as he mounts up. “Too bad I’m already spoken for, darlin’.” 

“Hey, what about your moose?” you say from near Rannoch. 

“Ah, I nearly forgot.” He dismounts again and grabs his bow.

 “Right,” you chuckle. “You nearly forgot the one reason you came up here.” 

He just laughs softly and kisses the back of your head. “Go back to your fishing.” 

As he walks away, you playfully smack his ass and he turns and gives you a playful glare before going back into the trees to find any signs of the moose. 

A few hours pass and he finally finds it. You’re leaning against Rannoch, who’s lying in the grass near the river, reading a book. You had fished for a while as you waited for Arthur, but after catching a massive trout, you decided to call it a day. 

Artemis walks over to you with Arthur on her back. Behind him sits a large rolled-up white moose skin, the velvety antlers tucked into it. 

“You caught another gargantuan fish?” he says when he sees your catch strapped to Rannoch’s back. 

You laugh and stand up, closing your book. “Yup. Guess I’m just lucky.” 

“Well, come on. Let’s go sell these things. But we really do need to get back to camp. Who knows what’s happened since we been gone?” 

You sigh and mount up. After selling the fish and the moose pelt, you both head back to Beaver Hollow. Upon arrival, it doesn’t seem to have changed much except that the mood seems heavier. You and Arthur head off to your tent to drop off a few things. You’re just about to go and help the other girls do chores when you turn and smack right into Dutch. He doesn’t react, nor does he pay any attention to you. His hard eyes glare at Arthur.

“Arthur,” he says. “Where have you been? You’ve hardly been here for days.” 

“I know, Dutch,” Arthur turns to him. “I’m real sorry, but we were out helpin’ a few folk we bumped into.” 

“None of those folk happen to come with a badge, do they Morgan?” Micah’s unpleasant voice simpers from behind Dutch. 

“Excuse me?” Arthur snarls. “You got any idea who you’re talkin’ to?” 

“I’m talkin’ to someone who’s actions can’t be accounted for,” Micah replies. “There’s likely still a rat, cowpoke, and with you sneaking off so much with your girl…” 

Arthur stomps over to Micah, but Dutch puts his arms up. “Now I doubt Arthur is the one spying on us, Micah. He’s… he’s like my son, I known him for twenty years.” 

Arthur stares defiantly at Micah, who sneers at him. “I don’t doubt your judgement on his character, boss. But his accountability is definitely questionable, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Micah,” you spit, “if anyone’s trust is to be questioned, it’s yours. You don’t give a damn about nobody but yourself! Hell, everyone in this dump of a camp would be starving if it weren’t for me and Arthur.” 

“Now you watch your goddamn mouth, you-”

“Enough!” Dutch hollers. “I don’t want any of this finger pointing from anyone. But Arthur, we’ve needed you. I have needed you around. We can’t get out of here without everyone’s help. All I’m asking for is some loyalty, son. If we all work together on getting out of this dump,” he puts emphasis on your word, “then we can get out that much sooner.” 

Dutch throws a glare your way before turning to leave. Arthur glowers at him and Micah. Just before he turns to follow Dutch, Micah says, “Keep your eyes peeled, big man. With so many recent deaths, I’d hate for anything bad to happen to your girl, fiery as she is.” 

“You stay away from her, Micah,” Arthur growls. “You so much as stare at her in a way I don’t like, I’ll put a hole in your head.” 

Micah snickers and heads off, spitting to the side as he does. Across the clearing, he coughs slightly. You wonder if he’s picking up a cold or something, he’s been coughing more and more lately since returning from Guarma. 

Arthur sighs heavily and relaxes. You put a comforting hand to his shoulder. “Just ignore him, Arthur. He’s just trying to get you to do something stupid. Don’t fall for his bait.” 

“I won’t,” he says and takes your hand to kiss it. He sighs and looks around for a moment. “I was worried somethin’ like this was gonna happen?” 

“What?”

“More of Dutch’s raning. I understand he wants to get us all out of here, I’m 100% behind him on that goal. But the way he’s goin’ about doin’ it…”

“I know. Like you said though, let’s think about helping John and his family get out. Then you and I can worry about getting ourselves good and lost.” 

He nods and starts heading out of the tent, you follow him. That is when you notice Trelawney sitting at the round table. While he’s flitted in and out of camp more often than in the past, you’re still surprised to see him. A suitcase sits at his feet and he looks around worriedly. Arthur notices him too and approaches. 

“Josiah,” he says.

Trelawney looks up at him. “Oh, hello I um, I was just…” 

“Leaving again?” Arthur takes a seat and you do the same. 

“Yes, just leaving. I’ll see you soon.” 

Arthur rubs his nose. “Perhaps. But if I was you, I’d disappear too. This,” he looks around. “This is all pretty much over.”

Trelawney looks as though he’s trying to decide if Arthur’s joking. “Well, I’ll be back, Mr. Morgan.” 

  “No you won’t, let’s not pretend anymore. Get outta here.” Arthur speaks gently, there is no anger in his voice. 

Trelawney sighs, as though relieved. “Well, I’ll miss you, Arthur. And you, Miss.” He nods his head to you politely. “I, uh, must say I was rather looking forward to being at your wedding. However, with things as they are…” 

He stops. You’re rather taken by surprise. The last person you expected to be willfully present at your wedding was Trelawney. You can’t deny you aren’t touched by his words. While he’s rarely been present in camp, you can recall the times he tried to entertain you and the other girls during chores, pulling ravens out of books and turning pebbles to marbles and giving them to Jack. You return the nod. 

“Thank you, Josiah. I hope you have a good life.” 

“You’ve both been fine friends to me,” he says, standing up.

Arthur follows his motion. “Now let’s not get over-sentimental. Go on, place is quiet. You go with my blessing.” 

Trelawney sighs in relief again. “Thank you, Arthur.” He picks up his suitcase and quickly heads off to the horses without glancing back. 

Arthur sighs heavily and sits back down. You reach for his hand, suddenly sad that Trelawney’s gone. You wonder if he will be the only one to leave and not come back. You’re torn between the hopes that he’s not the last to leave and also not wanting everyone else to go. These people, despite their flaws and the troubles you’ve all gone through, have been more of a family to you than your real family ever was. It breaks your heart to see how upside down things have turned. Only a few months ago, you recall how fighting was uncommon. Now it seems to be all people do in camp. There’s no singing, no laughter. Just yelling and sharp words thrown in every direction. You look at Arthur; he seems to be feeling the same way.

Someone walks from the west side of the camp from the trees lying between the camp and the path. You look up and see Charles. He’s not alone.

“Found a friend looking for you,” he says to Arthur. 

Rains Fall steps to Charles’s side. He nods in greeting to you and Arthur.  

Arthur stands up respectively. “Sir.” 

“I’m sorry to impose on you again,” Rains Fall says. “But I believe I’ve made progress brokering peace. Colonel Favours has agreed to a meeting to discuss and maybe resolve his alleged grievances and mine.”

Charles wipes off a barrel by the table and gestures for Rains Fall to sit, but he doesn’t. He continues, “Now he has lied to me more times than I care to remember. But I am hopeful that this time, he must want peace. Why would he want to torment us any further?” 

Arthur rubs his chin before answering. “We got words for his kind, but they’re colloquial.”

Rains Fall nods solemnly. “I was hoping I could make one last request of you, Mr. Morgan. My men are not allowed to carry arms.”

“You want us to keep the peace?” Arthur beckons to himself and Charles. 

“It’ll be a lot of dull talking and ceremony,” Rains Fall says. “But I feel with some non-tribe members present, his chances of lying or worse will be reduced. Will you, Arthur?” 

Arthur nods. “This ain’t my fight, but yes, I will go.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan.” 

You step up beside Arthur. “I’ll go, too.” 

Rains Fall looks at you in such a way you worry if you’ve stepped over a line. “As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, Ms. Y/L/N, I’m afraid the army would not feel the same way. Colonel Favours is a traditional man and he may find your presence suspicious. I’m afraid it may be best if you remain here.” 

Arthur pats your shoulder. “He’s right, darlin’, as much as I hate sayin’ it.”

You nod to Rains Fall, but say nothing. You’re not surprised that this Colonel Favours would probably be offended simply by your face, but it doesn’t make you less irritated. Rains Fall leads Arthur and Charles to the horses and they ride off. 

You sigh and are about to go off and help the girls with laundry when Sadie walks up to you. She’s holding a repeater and stops you. 

“Guess Grimshaw wants you on guard duty,” she says. “She also mentioned if you sneak away while doing it, she’ll butcher you and hang your skin to dry.” Sadie says the words in a mocking attempt of Grimshaw’s voice. She smiles. “I told her to go pound sand, but here you go.” 

You laugh with her and take the repeater. She heads off to her own tent and you take point in the trees, ready to take on the boring task of keeping watch. 

An hour passes and you’re sitting at the base of one of the trees. You hear someone walking up the path from the direction of camp. You get up to see who it is and find Reverend Swanson, his hair finely swept back, his mustache trimmed. He carries a bag in each hand. He pauses when he sees you.

“Reverend?” you say partially in greeting, partially in confusion.

“Ah, hello, Mrs. Morgan.” He’s been calling you that since Arthur announced you were in engaged. Not that you mind. 

“Heading somewhere?” you ask, trying not to sound accusatory. He hunches his shoulders and looks away as though ashamed. 

“I, um, I’m leaving,” he says after checking you’re both far enough away not to be overheard. 

“Why?” Out of all the people to leave after Trelawney, Reverend was the last person you expected.

“I tried to make Dutch see sense, but he’s very strange recently.” 

You nod. “I know. But what about everyone else? You’ve been such a comfort to the others.” You recall up in Colter how Reverend read from the bible, trying to bring hope to the freezing camp. You’ve never been religious, but you appreciated his efforts. Since arriving at Beaver Hollow, he’s been reading aloud from his bible once more. 

“I asked them to come with me, but they wouldn’t. I’m a changed man, Y/N.” Reverend finally looks at you and you can see the clearness of his eyes. They’re no longer bloodshot or misty. Clear, brown and determined. “I can’t die for a bunch of nonsense spouted by a fool. I don’t want you and Arthur or any of the others to die for him either.”

You sigh and nod slowly. “I understand. I, um, well. To be honest, I think Arthur and I would have left a while ago, but we want to try and save some of them. I just hope we can before Dutch has the chance to get us all killed.” 

Reverend looks at you hard. A light comes in his eyes you’ve only seen in two people: Rains Fall and that Brother Dorkins fellow you met in Saint Denis. 

“You and Arthur,” he begins, “you’re not good people, but you’re not bad either. Your journey, your path will be just fine. And whatever comes your way, you’ll do just right.” 

You smile sadly and look away. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never been a truly good person, Mr. Swanson. When I was younger, I was a drunk until my father beat me badly enough to be afraid of continuing to be one. A few years later, I shot him and my husband and burned my mother alive. After joining this gang, I’ve killed more people than I care to count and robbed even more.”  

“Well, I have faith in you even if you have none for yourself. But you and Arthur, save who you can and let the rest rot and look after yourselves. You’ve both led difficult lives, you’ve earned the right to live the rest of it peacefully.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.” At this moment, you feel like your chances of escaping with Arthur are slim. It’s not just Arther’s unwavering loyalty to Dutch, though it’s been badly shaken recently. It’s Dutch’s determination and madness, aided by the hissed whispering of Micah in his ear. 

Reverend sets one of his bags down and puts his hand on your shoulder. “You do see, you just can’t admit it to yourself. I’ve been keeping a close eye on you since you joined us, Mrs. Morgan. You’ve made some mistakes, no questioning that. But you also possess a calm and unbiased nature. You’ve been good for Arthur. He was a man of violence for many years, but he’s learned to be calm, to be less quick with his trigger. He was never a bad man, but after meeting you he turned into a good one.” 

You look up at him, wondering if he’s being honest. His eyes tell you he is, or at least telling you the version of his truth. “Thank you, Reverend. You be careful out there, okay? World ain’t as friendly as we used to be.” 

He smiles at your bad joke. “I will try. You keep Arthur safe, I know he’ll die doing the same for you.” He pauses and his eyes seem to be far away. “You and Arthur turned out to be some of the best people I’ve known. If we were all more like you, perhaps things could have turned out differently.”

You huff slightly. “Ain’t no use in getting sentimental, Reverend. Now go on, I’m sure Arthur wouldn’t blame you for leaving either.” 

He nods and picks up his bag again. Without another word, he walks on down the path. You watch him until he disappears, feeling sad and incredibly lonely.   

A few more hours pass when you hear a horse coming up the path. You grip the repeater tightly until you see Charles coming up. Arthur is nowhere in sight, so you ask him.

“He met someone at the train station,” Charles explains. 

“Why was he at the train station?” you ask. 

“We, uh, had to escort Monroe there.” 

“Why?” 

Another horse comes up the path and you see Arthur. Charles nods to him. “I’ll let Arthur explain.” Charles prods Taima on towards the path as Arthur approaches. His face is set and heavy. 

“Arthur, what happened?” 

“Oh, whole thing was a mess.” He dismounts and sits down at the base of one of the trees. When you’re settled next to him, he explains how Rains Fall and Favours chatted for a few moments, how Favours accused Rains Fall’s people to be criminals, though they’d done nothing wrong. 

“From what Rains Fall told me about Favours,” Arthur says, “I didn’t have much reason to like him. But when I heard the way Favours talked to him. I don’t think I’d like much else than to put a bullet in that man’s brain. Anyways, he tried to have Monroe court marshalled, so Charles and I got him out of there. Had to shoot half of Favour’s men to do it.” 

“Rains Fall was still there when you did this?” you ask, fearing the worst.

“No. No, he had left at that point. Knew talking wouldn’t do much good. Monroe was arguing with Favours when Rains Fall left, that’s what led to him being court marshalled.” 

You sigh, relieved. After a moment, you tell him about Reverend leaving. He shakes his head sadly.

“I ain’t surprised. What I’m more surprised about is that more haven’t done so sooner, way things are.” 

You nod and take his hand. “To be honest, if I wasn’t engaged to you, Arthur, I would have left with him and Trelawney. I honestly doubt things will get better from here.” 

“I know. I want to leave too, darlin’, but John…” 

“I know. And we’ll try, Arthur. Has John said anything further about leaving with Abigail and Jack?” 

“No. He still seems very torn about loyalty to Dutch. I understand why he is, it was all I believed in once, too. But there comes a point when you have to question if the loyalty you feel towards a mad man is worth it.”

“So if we shouldn’t be loyal to Dutch anymore, what should we be loyal to?” 

“Be loyal to what matters, darlin’. It’s what I told John. At this point, Dutch’s grand plan ain’t worth it, not if it means gettin’ us all killed or worse.”

Something in the trees behind you rustles and you look, but you can’t see anyone there in the gloom of the setting sun. You get a strange feeling as though someone’s there, watching you. Turning back, you suggest to Arthur you talk about something else just in case someone might be listening. He nods.

“Guess who I ran into?” he says.

He tells you about the nun he met who was with Brother Dorkins. “Guess she’s bein’ sent off to a mission in Mexico. She, uh, gave me a few life truths, sort of helped me clear my head. Who knows?” He whispers now. “Maybe we can still have a chance to get out of here together.” 

He puts his arm behind you and pulls you close. After settling your head on his chest, you say, “I hope so, Arthur.”  You both remain this way until Charles comes up to relieve you of guard duty. 

In the morning, you and Arthur walk together towards Pearson’s fire to get coffee. Arthur’s been very quiet this morning, responding little to your words. It’s easy to tell something heavy is on his mind.

 As you’re drinking, you look over to the main path and spot Sadie in the trees. She seems to be throwing something and her brow is furrowed. You nudge Arthur and walk towards her. Once you’re closer to her, she throws a knife at a tree and you hear the dull thud of it’s strike. 

“Sadie,” you say.

She looks over briefly to spot you and Arthur and then throws another knife. “You two okay?” 

“Just peachy,” Arthur says. 

“You still workin’?”

“Is anybody still working?” Arthur puts one hand on his gunbelt. “Whole goddamn place full of people bickerin’, fightin’, lyin’. It makes me real sad.” 

You nod slowly. You’d both been woken up earlier than you’d like by a particularly loud argument between John and Javier. Not only that, but you’d also heard Tilly and Mary-Beth exchange harsh words. If  Mary-Beth was getting nasty for no reason, things were definitely bad.

“I know,” Sadie says, pulling the knives from the tree. She pauses and then looks pointedly at you both. “I need someone to ride with me.” 

“What for?” you ask.

“Finish off them O’Driscolls. I hear the last of ‘em is holed up at Hanging Dog Ranch.”

Arthur takes a few steps towards her and shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t have it in me no more. I saw Colm swing, I just don’t care.” 

This takes you by surprise. Before this whole mess, Arthur would have been enthusiastic about putting down more O’Driscolls. Reverend’s words about you calming him come back to you. You don’t entirely blame him for not caring about that horrible gang anymore. After you saw Colm die, you’ve been less angry about the ordeal where Arthur was kidnapped and you were nearly murdered by his men.  

Sadie gives him a sharp look. “I was a married woman, Arthur. You know what they did to me. And to my husband…” She stops and turns away, rubbing her chin as though she’s about to break. You feel sorry for her. You knew from the first night you met Sadie that her husband Jake must have been a good man. She turns back and looks at you both. “You two are the only ones of these fools that I trust. I’ve gotta do this.” 

You bite your lip. Although you no longer have a fight with the O’Driscolls, you understand why Sadie does. Colm was never in her cabin that night, only his boys were. It’s unlikely he gave them orders to destroy Sadie’s life, though he surely would have encouraged it. Your revenge, Arthur’s revenge, is over, but Sadie’s isn’t. You decide whether Arthur wants to or not, you’re going to help her. 

Before you have a chance to say anything, Arthur walks slowly up to her. “I tell you what. I’ll do it, but there’s something you can help me and Y/N with. Abigail. Jack. John. Help us make sure they make it.” He looks to the camp. “I mean this whole thing is pretty much done. Help them escape.”

He looks at the camp again and a strange sadness enters his eyes. He glances at you and then to her. “You know us three, we’re more ghosts than people. We been broken for too long to be anything else, but them? They could still…” 

“I know,” Sadie says. She looks at him. “Of course I will. Thank you, Arthur.” 

“I’m coming too,” you say. They look at you. “My fight with the O’Driscolls is dead, but you’ve told me what they did to you and your husband. If my last husband had been half as good as your Jake and they did the same thing to him, I’d want them all dead too.”

She nods solemnly and puts a hand on your shoulder. “Alright. Well, I’m riding out now if you both wanna come, or I can meet you there.” 

Arthur whistles for Artemis and you do the same. Sadie thanks you both again and heads over to her horse. 

As you’re both riding towards Big Valley, you ask Arthur to hang back a little ways to talk with him privately. 

“What was that about, Arthur?”

“What?” he says heavily. He’s been in a strange mood all day.

“That whole ‘we’re more ghosts than people. We been broken too long to be much else’.”

He sighs and doesn’t answer immediately. “Look at us, Y/N. I been part of this gang more than twenty years, now it’s all goin’ up in smoke by Dutch’s hand. Everything I ever believed in, everything he taught me, feels like it was all one big lie. Not only that, but this world don’t want folk like us no more. It’s why we been hunted so long. So even if you and I get out together the way we been talkin’, where the hell are we gonna go where they won’t find us?”

You pause at his words. “I thought we could figure that out after we deal with this. One mess at a time, Arthur.” 

“I know, but still. We’re starin’ into a void with no answers and we don’t even know if we’re gonna make it. I overheard Dutch. He knows Trelawney and Reverend left and he was sayin’ they’ll be the last.”

“Then how about this, Arthur,” you say, trying to calm him. “I know you wanna help John and his family escape, I do too, but if they refuse to leave then we need to figure things out for ourselves. Let’s set a date for it all to happen, for them to have escaped by then or for us to leave. No more waiting to see how things turn out.” 

“And exactly how long do you propose?” His voice is heavy. 

“A month,” you say. “No more than that.”

“Okay.” You look back at him and his eyes are dull. You want nothing more than to hug him.

“Honey, I know it’s a… a frightening thing to leave Dutch. He’s been your family for most of your life. But I’m starting to wonder if this thing of his is a suicide mission, way he’s going. I don’t know about you, but… Look, I ain’t had a whole lot in my life worth living for. If it weren’t for you, I’d either already be gone or worse, I’d be willing to go down with Dutch. You’re the only thing keepin’ my head straight, Arthur, and I’ve been hoping you’d want me to be your family now.” 

“I do, darlin’, and I want us to get out. You deserve the chance for a better life, hell you ain’t had much of one before. That’s what I mean when I said we’re more ghosts than people.” 

You sigh and nod. “I know, Arthur. But we’re gonna get out of this. Okay? I ain’t sayin’ it’s gonna be easy, and I ain’t sayin’ we’re gonna have an easy time forgetting this when it’s done, but we have to at least give ourselves a chance. We owe it to each other.” 

He nods and pushes Artemis to run next to Sadie’s horse, signalling he’s done talking.

[gallowsghost]

Puppy search @mnemosys

She started cackling once he joined her by her side, lowering the book now at the same time before using her freehand to open it. Specially, the red worn ribbon that was dangling from it, aside from the other worn pieces of material that book marked other things - but it was apparent this was the more important one. “I still like to ask and make sure that you do want to tag along, even though y-you’ve said it many times—“ She was short of smashing the book right into her face as a form of face palm, but she shook it off with a soft snort. “Yes, we can go be swampy and seek out the dream puppy. I... Really don’t know what she is though, neither name but we are still going to see her.” Snickering softly, she parted the book before settling her attention down on the two pages. Although, it might’ve been hard to see and let alone understand, the page was completely scratched with ink and hardly decipherable looking intricacies of symbolic designs - even then were foreign. To some degrees.

She glanced to Shiro briefly before moving her hand to gently pat the top of his head before eyes returned the book, parting her lips - but instead of proper words and her recognizable tone, came an arrange of ghosting whispers that pitched something disembodied like. Her focus was elsewhere for the moment, while the uncanny words tumbled fluently but with little clarity, her freehand took a grab for the hanging ribbon, slipping it free from the crease of the book. It’s crimson tinge lost to the void violet hues that crawled up its threads from partial to digits, illuminating it gently until most of it was lost under her boot once Ezme bent over to step on the partial tip of it before she abruptly reefed forward and dragged it out from under her boot in an upward whipping motion, reeling backwards with a trailing of blackened mist once the illuminating hues vanished from the ribbon.

Parted from floor to the hanging air, was a clean, ethereal blue gap that parted the narrow entrance for them but the air that slipped between was stale compared to the atmosphere now.

“Smooth as butter-“ Ezme cackled before taking the first step to skinny up and edge herself inside just partway, before her freehand came up to push away at the opposite edge. Ezme was pushing the entrance open better - like a weird way of holding the door open until it settled. “As annoying as it is to do it like that, it’s much quieter.” She shook her hand, the hues dissipated with a black falling mist before she leant over to snatch one of his with a smile. “We might have a bit of walking and unwanted company, but other than that I got this.”

Saying so, she jerked him close to her side before said hand released to scoop around him. “I don’t control where it goes though, but hopefully it landed us close to the structure. It’s not too hard to miss but if you’re far, it’s going to suck.” Ezme huffed gently, but there was no agitation in the undertones of her voice. It was still enthused, she was more than happy to finally get around to dragging him in here - aside from the dangers. Once the doppelgänger tugged him along by her side, her arm tightened a little more around him after pressing on from the split gap and into the stale atmosphere.

It wasn’t hard to tell this place was littered and meant for the dead and decrepit. The ashy, bone sharpened ridden ground and soil to uncanny larger bone structures that littered - carcasses of varying sizes lost to the ash or strewn. To nothing but black cobbled - old building proportions lost to time in this timeless place, even the fauna didn’t look too appealing, the sky had its own take on a few shimmering beasts that were small but looked an awful a lot like weird fish almost, that had little to no recognizable parts to what they’d known. The bigger ones paid no mind. But just as an environment had its smaller life— there was a lot more to see.

As soon as Ezme was about to say something, a weird high pitched squeaking and squealing filled the air - earning Ezmes attention completely to look down at their feet. Overgrown pill bugs were trying to run away from them from beneath the ash, emerging and some of them balling up into a solid, almost skeletal shell and hiding away. They didn’t move very fast, but their screaming was harmless and had only the doppelgänger staring at them before glancing to Shiro.

“I had a name for these things- so did some of the others, but I completely forgot. They are harmless though, but loud...” Giggling to herself, she moved away just so she could try to pick up one of the balled up ones. At least some were smaller, reminiscent of a basketball. “They just want to run and hide. Isopod lookin’.” Ezme scooped one up into her palm as best as she could while her freehand held open the book. “This place might look dead but it’s teeming with lots of life of its own, although it’s glooming looking. Some of it can be vibrant. Although the atmosphere can get grossly dark and contrasty, it’s not too hard to see.” Saying so, Ezme lifted her head up to look around while placing the pill-like bug back on the ground. “Markers...” She hummed, squinting.

[canid-slashclaw]

The Outliers - A Guildwars Love Story

Chapter 5

Four months had past since Kaleb's introduction into the Seraph guard. During that time, both he and his best friend Brad had distinguished themselves as fine, albeit troublesome, soldiers.  Cynthia Waterstone who had been their mutual friend, commanding sergeant and (occasionally) Brad's lover, had helped the two young men excel in many facets of their military life. 

Training as a warrior, Kaleb had become renown for his use of the broadsword as well as the use of short-range pistols.  Brad, meanwhile, excelled at using the long bow, and as a ranger, he could also do petty well with axes.  

The trio was stationed at a Lionguard base known as Kessex Haven that was located in the Kessex Hills region.  Throughout their brief duration at the base, they had all seen plenty of combat; especially against the centaurs.   Kaleb was busy affixing a piece of armor to his damaged pauldron when Sergeant Waterstone stepped in front of him.  

"Ten hut!"

"Ma’am!  I mean, sir!" Kaleb stood up as he saluted his commanding officer. 

"At ease, private.  How goes the repairs?"

"Armor cracked after receiving a blow from a centaur’s javelin.  It’s all better now," Kaleb said as he showed her the now-repaired piece. 

"Not a bad piece of work there, private.  Even if I do say so myself." Cynthia saluted him then turned away.

"Thank you, sir.  But I have a question..."

"Go ahead and ask." "Rumor has been floating that Seraph are prepping for a major assault on Earthworks Bluff.  Is there any truth to this?"  Kaleb asked as he refastened the repaired pauldron onto his armor.

"Officially, you are on a need-to-know basis.  And right now, officially, you don’t need to know," Sergeant Waterstone replied. 

"Then what about the antithesis of official?" "Unofficially? We may be setting up for a major assault upon the centaur main base. The reason being, our supply lines keep getting disrupted and all roads leading into our fort have become too hazardous for many merchants to travel," Cynthia said with a hint of resignation in her voice. 

"So what you're saying is we are being strangulated."

"Yup, that's what's happening. Unless we find a way of neutralizing their main base of operations, our supply lines will continue to be disrupted to the point merchants will be too afraid to replenish our stores.  The Lionguard are stretched thin as it is and they can only do so much to protect the roads.  The rest is up to us, unfortunately."

Brad located his friends among the throng of gray armor-clad soldiers. As their gazes met, he slung his sturdy long bow over his left shoulder and began to give them a hearty wave.   "Come join the party, corporal.  Three's company is good company as my father used to say," Cynthia shouted as she beckoned for him to come over.

"Any luck scoring a few hits on some apples?"  Kaleb asked as he shook the hand of his lifelong friend.

"One taur got it through the eye socket.  Arrow didn't pierce that thick skull of his, but that beast did run off in full gallop bleating like a castrated bull," Brad said with a laugh.

"Ouch. That must bite for them being unable to wipe their own bottoms.  I mean, what would happen if one of them got shot in the ass and no one was there to pull the arrow out?"  Kaleb mused as he made a mock gesture of firing a bow.   "Only you would think of something like that, Kal."  Cynthia quipped. "Just considering sound military strategy, ma'am... I mean, sir." Shortly thereafter, the platoon captain arrived and announced the official plan in preparing for the assault.  He mentioned that food stores were in dire shortage and that the only feasible supply route was via a nearby lake port town called Triskell Quay. 

Captain Errol Conrad stood in front of his troops to address them.   "Each of you may have heard rumors regarding the assault upon the Earthworks Bluff.  I am here to confirm that those rumors are, in fact, true.  Before the next sunrise tomorrow, our forces will be marshaled at the foothills of the centaur base."

The captain gazed across the rows of armor-clad troops as he continued his speech.  "It is also true that our food stores are running dangerously low.  We are in desperate need of grain and protein staples.  About twenty miles from our base, lies at the lakeport town of Triskell Quay.  Information from the locals indicates that there are a couple of meat supply stores located somewhere within the town."

"Currently, our garrison has only one serviceable supply carriage.  All of the others have either been damaged or destroyed.  Henceforth, what I am calling upon is for at least one qualified volunteer to commandeer said carriage, ride into town and requisition the necessary supplies."

Without hesitation, Kaleb shouted.  "Then I'm you're man, sir."

"Say your name, private."

"Private Kaleb Grimwald, first infantry, sir.  I'm a wagon maker by trade and can probably lift and carry more stuff in a shorter amount of time than just about any man, or woman, here."

"I can vouch for him, sir," Sergeant Cynthia Waterstone shouted as she saluted the captain. 

"Me too," chimed Brad. 

Shortly thereafter, several other soldiers vouched for Kaleb's abilities as well. 

"Congratulations, private.  It looks like you've been volunteered."

"Thank you, captain. All I need is a sturdy dolyak and a trusted comrade to tag along."

Brad whistled.  "That's me! Sir!"

Several of the Seraph soldiers helped Kaleb hitch the dolyak onto the transport wagon.  His friend, Brad, made sure everything was secured properly before climbing onto the riding bench. 

Kaleb made some last minute checks to see if the wagon's structural integrity was secure.  Captain Connor approached then beckoned for the two men to come. 

"A brief word, private, corporeal.  I didn't want to announce this to the rest of the troops, but there's something else you and your comrade should know."

"What would that be, sir?"  Brad asked curiously.

"Just so the two of you are aware - the only meat suppliers in town who have the capability of providing enough stock for our troops are, shall we say, not human."

"Well, if they are norns then loading up a ton of meat will be a breeze," Kaleb said with a smile.

"That makes two problems, private.  First - the owner is disabled.  Second - both he and his offspring are charrs." 

The news hit Kaleb and Brad like a load of bricks. 

"Charr?! Why would their kind be living in a mostly human settlement?" Brad said in a disgusted tone. 

"Dunno.  Perhaps they are taking advantage of the peace treaty to expand their business.  Either way, I don't want this information to become common knowledge.  Is that clear?"

Both man said to their captain in unison.  "Yessir!"

The captain gave a quick salute.  "Good luck you two." 

Kaleb then turned to Captain Connor and asked.  "Sir?  You mentioned about one of them being disabled.  What about the other one?  Are they able to do anything?"

"The other one is about your size - small by charr standards.  And rumor has it that it - can't tell if its a male or female as they all look alike to me - mostly sits up in their room doing whatever it is that charr do.  In other words, I wouldn't hold your breath on expecting any help from either of them.  The both of you are on your own.  Now, dismissed!”

With a final salute, the two lifelong friends headed out from the base as they began their journey towards the small fishing village. 

***

The air that permeated Triskell Quay was rife with the odor of dead fish that emanated from the boat docks.  Kaleb's nostrils had not yet acclimated to the pungent scent that was typical of all waterside communities.  As the two men entered the outskirts of town, they noticed a couple of pedestrians walking by.  Not being of shy disposition, Kaleb immediately took it upon himself to ask for directions. 

"Excuse me.  But where can I find a meat marked that's run by a couple of charr?"

"I dunno why fellas like you would be lookin' fer um, but they's place is just up the road a couple of miles due west.  Look for the sign that says Blazeridge Butcher Shop & Marketplace. And if ye can't find it, just follow yer nose till ya gets a whiff of something that smells like a cross between dead cows and a smeltin' factory."

Kaleb and Brad thanked the gentleman for providing the directions then proceeded to follow the instructions they were given.  When they rounded the west corner, Kaleb could detect the unmistakable smell of burning coal along with the faint stench of ripe meat.

"Holy Balthazar!  Are charr really this nasty?  The cistern in my uncle’s backyard smells better than this place!"  Brad commented as he winced up his nose at the pungent aroma. 

"You are naive, bro.  All slaughterhouses have about the same foul aroma.  As a matter of fact, this one smells rather pleasant compared to some of the places I've been to," Kaleb replied as he slowed the cart to a complete stop just before exiting from the right side of the seat.

"Are you comin in too?"

"Nah. I'll wait outside here and guard the cart.  Besides, you’re better at the PR thing than me," Brad said with a wave.

"You just don't like charr, that's all."

Brad laughed. "Nah.  I think every human should have a right to skin one."

Kaleb looked up and saw the sign that read - Blazeridge Butcher Shop & Marketplace. When he walked in, much to his surprise, his nose was greeted with a symphony of exotic herbs and spices.  Once the door closed behind him, a high-pitched whistle sounded for a split second. 

It must be a charr version of a doorbell, he thought as he walked towards butcher counter. 

Within moments, a massive feline-looking creature greeted him.  It had horns jutting out from either side of its head just above its eyes and its face was caged with rows of menacing dagger-like teeth.  The large paw-like hands sported massive claws and its fur was a tiger stripe pattern of umber and dark orange strip patterns.

"Something I can help you with?"  Came the creature's deep and almost thundering voice. 

Kaleb promptly saluted him then pulled out a series of documents from under his breastplate.  "Private Grimwald of the Thirty-First Seraph Platoon, sir.  I am here on behalf of the Queen's army to requisition a supply of protein products from your establishment, sir."

Ludrick grumbled for a moment then promptly snatched the paperwork from the jaded human's hand.  He quickly looked over the documents while muttering a string of incoherent words to himself. 

"Everything seems in order.  But what makes the Queen assume that we even have enough product to supply an army of your size?  Look around you, human.  I sell to the locals.  My supply chain doesn't accommodate masses of marching mice," the charr grumbled as he handed back the paperwork. 

"Well.  I'll remember to say that the next time I'm enjoying a few brews with my friends.  Just repeat after me - masses of marching mice.  Masses of marching mice.  Masses of marching..."

"Gah!  It's got to be something in the air around this village.  It seems to make everyone around here behave like obnoxious morons."

Kaleb bit his tongue.  "Oh.  Sorry Mr. Charr, sir. The heat has made me a bit loopy.  Plus I've never met one of your kind before.  I just tend to say stupid things when I'm nervous."

"The best thing you can say to me right now, human, is 'what can I buy' or 'I'll take x amount of product y'.  If those aren't the two phrases coming out of your mouth then I suggest you get out of my shop."

"Hey.  I'm just here on the Queen's orders.  No need to bite the head off the messenger, kind sir.  But I had heard things through the asura gate that yours is the best meat supply market around.  My soldiers are in need of food badly and what better way of fostering a sense of good will between our people than to make a noble contribution to mutual corporation," Kaleb said with a smile. 

"You're damn right.  Mine is the best market around!  Now, are you going to reciprocate that 'good will' and buy something from me today?  Look around you, it will take days for me to carve up enough cattle to supply your damn army." Ludrick looked away for a moment before glancing back at the rather bulky-looking human.  

"Well, if you must insist.  I would very much be interested in those briskets over there.  But first - I would very much like to inquire about those oh-so savory spices I've been smelling since I walked through the door."

"Not my expertise.  But hold on..."

"Amalthia!  Customer interested in the spices."

Kaleb stepped back for a moment trying to locate the origin of the fragrant aromas.  As he walked towards the nook of spices on display, he heard an echo of footsteps coming down the spiral staircase.   He turned his head to see a slender charr not much bigger than him, padding gracefully down the bare metal steps.

Her pelt had an orange yellow hue and her markings were of a tiger-striped pattern as well.  Four horns framed her amber-eyed face.  The two bigger horns extended from the mid-ridge of her skull and tapered off into elegant points while and two smaller ones jutted back along the length of her cheekbones. 

The young man deduced right away that this charr was, in fact, a female.  He had done enough history lessons to easily recognize the distinction between the two sexes. 

"How may I help you?" She asked in a slightly deep, but otherwise noticeably feminine voice. 

"Those spices other there caught my eye the moment I smelt them," Kaleb said in a strangely sheepish tone. 

"Hmm.  That's something the legions never told us about when we were at war with your people."

"What's that?  If I may be so bold as to ask."

"Bold you are, then.  For your people seem to become unhinged and stutter about like adolescent cubs whenever you meet one of us for the first time," Amalthia commented as she walked over towards the spice nook and pulled out a tray of some dried herbs. 

"Well, I told your dad...."

"Sire."  She corrected him.

"Excuse me.  Ahem... 'sire', that it was my first time meeting your kind..."

"A fact that I already stated to you.  Did you even listen to what I said just thirty seconds ago?"

"And do you, have a habit of always interrupting your customers before they had a chance to finish their sentences?"  Kaleb quipped.

"You just did and I did not.  At least that time," Amalthia retorted.

"What did I not do to you the thing you said I was supposed to have done?  You lost me there."

"I think you are only confusing yourself further.  What kind of spice would you be interested in?"  Amalthia grumbled.

"No. You are the one who is trying to confuse me. I'll take the Siverpeak bay leaves and the Ascelon sagebrush stalks."

Amalthia plucked the chosen spices from their respective boxes then proceeded to individually wrap them with some tissue paper.  As she moved, Kaleb couldn't help but study her form.  He had never seen a charr up close let alone a female one.

She immediately glanced in his direction.  "Is there something else you want?  You can't seem to take your eyes off me."

By now, Kaleb was visibly blushing.  He rarely felt embarrassed about anything, but yet there was something about this charr that he was drawn to, something he couldn't quite explain.

"You have twice as many ears as I do, yet you only seem to possess half the cognition.  Didn't we make it clear earlier that when I get nervous I tend to say and do crazy, stupid things?"

"I think you must have been talking to the wrong charr.  Or is it because you think that all of our kind seem to look alike... hmm?"  Amalthia chided as she carried the packaged contents to the register. 

Moments later, Brad popped his head through the door.  "Hey, bro.  What the hell is taking ya so long?  Don't you realize we have a mission to complete?"

"Hold your dolyaks, Brad.  I'm in the process of delicate inter-species negotiations.  I'll be there once I iron out a few things."

Ludrick looked at Amalthia then Kaleb.  "Still going to purchase that brisket?"

"How will I be able to get it to my base before it turns rancid?"

Amalthia reached over one of the counters then pulled out a small jar of rubbing salt.  "By using this.  Don't worry, it won't leave an aftertaste like so many other salts do."

After the meat was treated and wrapped, Amalthia handed him the salted brisket as she rang up the final sale. 

"Thirty silver even."

"Thanks for the stuff.  And thank you, Amalthia, for being such an interesting... person.  See ya later," Kaleb smiled as he turned to head out.

"Two rules to follow the next time you come here.  First - we are not on a first-name basis.  Second - I'm not a person... like you.  Got it?" Amalthia said as she gave the impetuous human a clawed thumbs up.

Kaleb gave a wink and a thumbs up in response.  "Forever and always."

Brad looked over as Kaleb stepped out from the shop door.  "Here ye, here ye - to all citizens of Kryta. Today the esteemed Kaleb Grimwald has single-handedly started an entire new round of negotiations with the charr.  From now on humans and charr shall rub salts together and sate each others' hungers with copious amounts of meat."

"Hey.  Don't knock it bud!  It was a classified operation.  Somebody somewhere's gotta take the first step toward world peace.  Am I right?"

"If you say so, bro.  If you say so..."