#body left to grow cold on the tarmac

[bzurk]

 zombie!au 141 x reader

dark content ahead! you've been warned.

It’d been hard at first. Women weren't treated well when people turned on each other, both healthy and infected. You were lucky when the virus started;

You were a dog trainer, surrounded by canines trained in personal protection. It was easy to scare people off. On your travels, your pack grew, a congregation of man’s best friends who were left behind. You had a whole arsenal, eventually; hunting, tracking, attacking.

This winter, though, was particularly difficult. Game was scarce, the ground frozen solid, the older dogs weakened by sore joints and aching limbs. You had run out of supplies weeks ago, trading your trained mutts for scraps and tools. Your only companions were your two remaining dogs, your only hope the compound in the distance, surrounded by wires and gates. The facility's noise, perhaps, was scaring off any nearby game. Maybe, it was already infected. Your doubts were alleviated when you saw little shadows moving about the tarmac.

You walked up to what you hoped was the front gate, arms raised and guns holstered, dogs plastered at each side.

“I come peacefully!” You bellowed, staring straight through the chain links towards the silhouetted figures. They grow closer, slowly, weapons raised and glinting blindingly under the sunlight. “I mean no harm. I would like to know if you have any food to spare. I can trade you for it.” You swung out an arm to gesture to your dogs.

The men wore fatigues and vests, packed with gear and weaponry. Well-equipped. They must have food, fresh game, stocks of MREs, dried rations.

“What you offerin’?” A man’s rough voice called back.

“Can take one of the dogs, if you’ve got enough of worth. I don’t part with them easily. Both trained, they are. Good at keeping out infected.”

It wasn’t long before Price’s three subordinates were staring at him with wide, pleading puppy-dog eyes. “Can we keep ‘em, Cap, please please please?”

Price had to admit you were a sight. Tousled, blood-stained, covered in tattered winter clothes that could barely keep out the cold. A hunting rifle strapped to your back, knives peaking from your pockets. A capable girl. Not many women out this far. He hadn’t come across one in months, not since venturing to trade with nearby settlements. Three or four months, at the least.

“Would you like to come in, love? Looks like you could do with a night of rest.”

They were nice, these four men, if not overly charming and kind. But they were nice enough to let you, and your dogs, in, even providing a tour of the premises – insisting guns were left at the door, of course. You were correct in assuming they were well-stocked. They confirmed they’d been residing in the base since outbreak day, though people came and went. They fed you, and even your two dogs. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the human company.

The base was a stark contrast to the wasteland outside. Boxes of food and warm blankets, running water, and electricity powered by a generator. The men showed you their hydroponic garden, where they grew fresh vegetables, and a storeroom stocked with preserved foods and medical supplies. It was a veritable haven.

They introduced themselves: Captain John Price, Lieutenant Ghost, Sergeant Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish, and Sergeant Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick. They shared stories of their missions before the outbreak, their camaraderie evident in their banter and shared glances.

You felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, you had found a place where you and your dogs could be safe, at least for a few nights. These men were skilled and seemed trustworthy enough, and their compound was secure. It was enough to put your tired mind at ease.

Perhaps too at ease. It didn’t take long for your body to slump in your chair, almost sliding out of it, if not for the hands that held you steady. Your eyes were fuzzy, your hearing diminished to a faint ringing. You could feel a wet snout nosing your limp hand, firm and warm palms divesting you of your coats and the weapons hidden in your pockets, strong arms wrapping around your waist, your tummy digging into a warm shoulder as you were thrown around like a sack of flour.

“Nice little pack of mutts we’ve found, aye, lads? Don’t you worry, we’ll take good care of you. Train you up well.”

if this gets enough interest ill turn it into a fic

[numinousmysteries]

24 - He/she called for him/her in his/her sleep.

super quick and dirty. no edits, just need to grease the old writing gears. s8 for some reason even though i hate it.

She’s not afraid of flying. Being afraid would be irrational and she’s not an irrational person. Commercial air travel is orders of magnitude safer than driving, she knows. Especially safer than driving in the middle of the night on unlit backroads with a Mulder who hasn’t slept in 36 hours behind the wheel, which she’s done on multiple occasions. Experience does nothing to allay her fears. Even before arriving at Quantico, she’d racked up thousands of international air miles as a Navy brat. Seven years as Mulder’s partner tacked on thousands more. 

And yet. And yet, she can’t rationalize away the surge of adrenaline she feels every time the engines start to fire up for takeoff. Recalling statistics doesn’t calm the drop in her stomach whenever the wheels rise off the tarmac and she feels the ground recede beneath her feet. 

Early in their partnership, she cursed Mulder for being able to drift off to sleep in a cramped coach seat while she was left alone to white knuckle the armrest and monitor every rise and fall in altitude as if she knew enough to assign any significance to them. Of course, as the years went by, their hands would find each others and she’d be able to rest with her head on his shoulder.

Don’t fall asleep, she wills herself now. She doesn’t want to show any weakness in front of her new partner. She doesn’t trust Doggett yet. But somehow the first trimester fatigue catches up. Where is this deep exhaustion when she’s lying awake in bed in the middle of the night, her mind racing with fears for her child and guilt that she hasn’t found Mulder yet? 

She twists the air vent all the way open hoping the cold air will keep her awake. The flight attendant offers coffee but she’s already had the single cup she’s allotting herself these days at home this morning so she asks for water instead which does nothing to allay her exhaustion. 

As much as she despises turbulence she wishes this particular flight hit a few more bumps but instead it’s a smooth ride over a cloudless Midwestern sky that only makes her eyelids feel heavier and heavier.

Now she’s lying on Mulder’s couch, leaning her back against his chest. His arms wrap around her and he’s resting his hands on her belly, now heavy and round. His long fingers dance across the taut skin chasing a protruding foot or elbow. “Incredible,” Mulder says quietly, not so much to her or their baby but to himself. Slatted sunlight filters in through the window shades and she feels warm all over. Warm from the sun, Warm from her partner’s body wrapped around her own, warm from the life growing within her. She brings her palms to cover his, holding him in between herself and their baby.

Suddenly, the ground starts trembling beneath them. The window is wide open now and the soft sunlight has been replaced with an unnaturally bright glaring white glow. She feels Mulder’s body rising from behind her and watches helplessly as he drifts toward the window. She’s paralyzed on the couch, the weight of her belly pinning her down. “Mulder!” She tries to scream, but no sound escapes her throat and he keeps being pulled away from her. “Mulder!” 

“Mulder!” She calls again. This time she hears her voice as her hand involuntarily reaches out for him. 

But it isn’t Mulder next to her. His living room has dissolved into the cabin of a plane quaking with turbulence and she’s immediately mortified to find her fingers gripping John Doggett’s dry-skinned hand. She gasps and pulls her hand away but his eyes are already locked on hers. 

“I’m sorry,” she mutters under her breath. 

He gives her the grace of a silent nod and then turns back to the newspaper in his lap. 

She’s too keyed up to sleep for the rest of the flight so she just stares at the casefile she brought to read. She can’t absorb a single word, though. Her mind is running in a loop berating herself for being stupid enough to let her guard down. 

She avoids looking at Doggett the rest of the flight. When they land, he retrieves both of their bags from the overhead compartment and she whispers a quiet thank you. 

“We’ll find him,” Doggett says stoically before turning his back to her and walking up the aisle as she follows behind. 

She still doesn’t trust him, but she wants to believe him.

[anachilles]

Hi! Could I request “You’re cold. Come here.” with buck and bucky??

you certainly can! hope you liiiiike ✨ -> prompt lists i'm currently accepting requests from: [ x ] [ x ] <-

Whiskey burns hot and foreign on Gale's tongue, at the back of his throat and all the way down, and he does his best not to let his expression twist.

It's the first night of what's been promised to be a long and lasting freedom.

He can't explain why he chooses to imbibe then, after years of easily held, steadfast sobriety, only hesitating for half a beat while glancing at John's arm and the proffered hip flask before taking it from him. The war's over. They're going home. It's as good a time as any, right?

The base is alight, not only with the leftover, now useless, flares the ground crews are appropriating for fireworks out on the tarmac, but also with drunken laughter filtering through the music the air seemed to be filled with. It's alight with joy. With optimism they'd been bottling up for months, maybe years, even, but daren't let take root and risk blinding them. All covering up a bone-deep, underlying sadness that dare not speak its name, not now.

They'd let themselves have tonight, at the very least, to celebrate each other and all that had made it before toasting and honouring the memory of those that hadn't.

Sitting here, alone with John on the balcony of the Tower, overlooking the entire airfield, it's hard not to feel an affection for it. During those twenty-odd missions they'd ran, from a birds-eye view, it had come to mean safety in the knowledge that they were in the homestretch. That they could scratch of another one and allow themselves the luxury of considering they could be making it out of this thing alive.

Passing the flask back to John, Gale watches his face carefully, pensive and unnaturally subdued as it seemed to be. He worries that John's missing out on the party on his account, choosing instead to follow Gale out into the night rather than stay back with the men and celebrate properly. He'd tried to insist that John stay, after Gale and he went and put in a bit of lip service having a couple of drinks with what was left of the crew towards the start of proceedings, but when Gale made a move to leave, he was quick on his heels behind him.

It wasn't that Gale is sad exactly, the brusque, three letter word painting a much too broad a stroke over the nuanced complication of what he was feeling. Too nuanced to work through in all that menagerie on the ground, or in the club, at least.

There's quiet understanding in how John catches him looking then, intercepting the stolen, too-long glance, and offering Gale a twitch of a telling smile in return.

Some time later, they find themselves wandering into the depths of the moon-drenched woods, the music and lights and voices of the base growing more and more muffled as they left it further and further behind them.

He's not sure what makes John stop, a handful of steps behind him, but when he notices the absence of his footfall snapping twigs and bracken underfoot, Gale pauses. The brief silence is loaded; any type of silence from John likely means something. Under the shroud of darkness all his senses heightened, on-guard and alert. Unmoving, he focuses his eyes and tries scanning around him. He can't even hear the sound of John's breathing to use as a guide.

"Is this a game?" he asks out into the emptiness, anticipatory, his breath slightly shallower as, stupidly, his heart starts to race despite knowing he's in no danger here. The worst you're going to get in an English wood is a grey squirrel, for God's sake. "What're we playin'?"

He's unsure whether he wants to smile or not.

After an extended few seconds, as if from out of nowhere, there's a breath against the back of Gale's neck, exactly nailed on that secret little spot nobody on earth but one person knows about. A pair of lips meet the full-body shiver that races up his spine with the shock of it, and are quickly displaced from their perch as Gale swivels around.

When he sees John's face in front of him once more, his eyes are suddenly heavy with the weight of something unspeakable, his smirk devilish in the shadows of the moonlight, totally unapologetic, even more so when he clocks the sudden flush that had risen to Gale's cheeks.

His heart is racing, he's blushing, but even still Gale simply raises an indignant, demanding eyebrow. Challenging. All the while his gaze tries for scrutiny, but inevitably trips up every time it stops to linger on John's mouth.

Maybe Gale, maybe they both, truly needed to get away from the commotion of the party. Maybe one followed the other on blind trust and a general, innocent desire for only each other's company. Maybe they both wordlessly understood exactly what they were following each other into the woods for, this night of all nights.

John lets out a breath and steps up closer into Gale's space, his lips lowering so that they were hovering teasingly close to the other man's own, but not touching. Gale doesn't move, digs in his heels and doesn't even flinch, posture rigid with control as he let his own breath ghost out against John's lips.

John breaks the deadlock look they mutually hold, his eyes flitting down to Gale's neck and his hand rises to follow, fingertips tracing the trail of goosebumps visible.

He smiles knowingly, bringing his hand away and slipping it into the delicate curve of Gale's waist, gesturing down towards the evidence of his past efforts.

“Ah, look. See, you’re cold, aren't you? Come here...”

[the-odd-shu]

Sun's coming up

(Pre-Joel x Reader)

If you prefer to read on Ao3, you can find it here! Along with the rest of the series.

Part 1 --> Part 2

Summary: When a spare pair of hands would have made Breakout Day just a little bit easier.

Word Count: 8,633

Reader uses they/them pronouns.

September 2003 - Outbreak Day

It had been just another typical autumnal day. 

A long, cold one spent on the construction site, hauling bags of cement around, and weaving around the puddles left over from the rainstorm the night before. The chill had been biting despite your layers of shirt, hoodie and high visibility jacket, and your temper had been growing short from exhaustion and dealing with delivery delays. You knew the foundations couldn’t dig themselves, but damn did your shoulders ache now from flinging your shovel around for so many hours.

And to top it all off, you had been late leaving tonight thanks to your chatty co-worker and were only just on your way home. 

Your body was weary. Sleep tugged at your eyelids, making it hard to plan what you were going to have for dinner, since your bed sounded like a much better idea than warm food in your belly. 

Perhaps, it was that tiredness that had distracted you enough that the crash had been your fault. Maybe you hadn’t checked properly before pulling out onto the next road. Or perhaps it was purely the fault of the asshole who had rear ended your vehicle at a truly fantastic speed. 

All you knew was that one minute, the radio had been chiming along merrily to ‘Take on me,’ by Aha, whilst you performed a left-hand turn out of a junction. And the next, there was an all-mighty crunch of metal as something colossal bulldozed into you with a painful lurch, that made your seatbelt bite into your neck and jaw, and your teeth clack sharply together. Your tongue only narrowly avoided being bitten clean off from the impact.

The squeal of tires from behind informed you that the driver was attempting to accelerate even now. Your truck was bullied off to the side of the road until one of its front tyres collided with the grassy bank, and then the second car leapt ahead, before veering dangerously off the road, straight into the trunk of a thick oak tree, twenty feet from the tarmac.

For a heartbeat or two, you did nothing.

You stared glassy-eyed down at your hands white knuckling the steering wheel, and then you slowly lifted your head to the busted car ahead of you.

Its headlights were still on full beam. Its bonnet wrapped around the trunk of the tree. From what you could tell, it was a blue Honda Civic, and it only carried the driver.

The driver who was not moving, nor making any attempts to exit their smoking vehicle. Both of which struck you as odd. In your experience, the stuck up people in this town loved to have it out after a crash and spar for the final word of ‘no, it was YOUR fault!’

Tearing your eyes away from the other car, you glanced in the rearview mirror to find your truck bed completely twisted and warped, and your back window spiderwebbed with cracks. 

Not again. This could not be happening to you again! It wasn’t even your car this time, it was a company car. And Joel had been horribly reluctant to lend it to you in the first place. He had only caved because Tommy had argued your case. That you lived in the butt fuck of nowhere, and neither he nor Joel wanted to take it upon themselves to drive further out of town to pick you up and then drive all the way back to town to get to the construction site. Surprisingly, Joel had caved easily enough and you had this truck until you could replace your wrecked old one. 

He was going to ring your neck personally when you pulled into the parking lot tomorrow. And you had no doubt that Tommy was going to be laughing his ass off as he watched.

“Fucking damn it.” You cursed, shakily glancing back forward.

The interior of the other car was still devoid of movement. 

Silently, you debated driving away. And then you debated calling your repair company further down the road. And then you finally realised that you could do neither before checking the other asshole was alive and breathing. That they were simply choosing to channel their anger into calming down before exiting their car to come and talk it out with you.

Anxiously, you waited for another minute.

The driver’s door remained stubbornly closed. So with a groan, you pressed your hazard lights and reached down to unclip your seatbelt. 

With a huff, you angrily slammed open your car door and stepped out onto the tarmac.

“This is what I get for having a bleeding heart.”

The road you were on was one you used every day to commute to and from work. It was a small thing, winding and tight, with a field of tall, yellow grass swaying on one side, and the beginnings of a pathetic forest darkening the other. There were no street lamps out here. So you could only see by the diminishing orange glow of the sunset disappearing over the trees, and what your truck and the Honda’s headlights illuminated.

The air was growing sharper now that the sun was setting, but the driver’s window was rolled down for some reason. But you let the thought slide away unexamined, since that just made it easier for you to talk to them.

Picking your way over uneven ground and fallen sticks, you carefully approached the rolled down window. The yankee candle air freshener blew over your senses from the active air conditioning unit, the car itself still running. Odder still. Wasn’t having the air con on and the windows rolled down counter productive?

People could be so odd sometimes.

Stepping up to the window, you absently noted the woman behind the wheel was dressed in scrubs, her stethoscope still curled around the nape of her neck. Her head was lolled forwards in her chair, only her seatbelt keeping her upright. And she was twitching. Sometimes it was small jerks of her fingers, but mostly it was violent twists of her spine that had spittle dribbling down her chin from her slack jaw. 

“Shit man, are you okay?” You breathed, feeling unease settled like a stone in your belly.

You yelped, jerking back from her window as her seatbelt did the rest of the work. She writhed in her seat, twitching like someone was electrocuting her nerves, and babbling incoherently. She didn’t seem to remember how to unlock her seatbelt. 

At the sound of your voice, her head snapped up and towards you. Her eyes were wild. Her pupils were blown and her eyelids were pulled back to show the whites all around her irises. Spit-slick lips peeled back into a snarl, and she lunged for you.

Okay, tonight just got a whole lot weirder.

“I’m just, I think I should call you an ambulance.” You fumbled to explain, to which she squawked and tried to lunge at you once more. “Shit! Stop that!”

What the hell was that? A fucking breakdown? A panic attack gone wrong? A fit? Rabbies?

Turning your back, you jogged back to your truck.

You didn’t fucking know, and you were no medical expert. Best to leave it to the professionals. 

Tapping your work trousers, you groaned again when you remembered your phone was in your bag in the passenger seat. 

The road was utterly deserted in both directions as you returned to your truck and hauled open the passenger door. Rustling around in your bag, you found your phone tucked away beneath your high-vis jacket, and then you noticed the shovel that had somehow ended up in the footwell. 

Despite your situation, the sight startled a little laugh out of you. You must have been so tired after today, that you hadn’t let go of it until you got into your truck. Even from here, you could definitely see the company logo engraved in the handle. Hopefully, with the truck in the state it was, Joel wouldn’t even notice it was gone. 

Straightening up, you dialled emergency services and waited for the call to go through by leaning on the backdoor of the truck. The line rang and rang, and then suddenly went dead. You frowned and tried again, only for the call to immediately void. 

Pulling the phone from your ear, you checked to see that you had signal. A deeper frown. This road was notorious for four working bars, and now you had absolutely nothing. 

“Shit.” You cursed aloud, because it made you feel a little better.

Mentally, you ran through every first aider course you had ever sat through, and glanced back towards the crashed Honda. Only, the silhouette of the driver within was gone.

Your skin prickled at the eerie sight.

Heart beat picking up in your ears, you slowly retraced your steps back around to the driver’s side. Your phone was heavy in your hands; forgotten.

“Hello?” Your voice sounded too loud in the stillness of the road.

Your feet froze mid-step at the sight of the nurse crumbling to the dirt; convulsing. One of her legs was still awkwardly caught on her window sill from where she had clambered out. And you could just make out a strip of seat belt hanging from between her lips, which she chewed on in jerky, uneven motions. She was panting. A wet, desperate sound as if she couldn’t get enough air in.

Every instinct you possessed, screamed at you to back up. 

This wasn’t right. 

She wasn’t right.

Your boot landed on and snapped a twig when you made to retreat. The resulting crack was sharp and crisp in the otherwise silent atmosphere.

With predatory speed, her head snapped towards you.

You remained frozen.

She audibly sniffed. Dragging in deep lungfuls of air.

Then she harshly yanked her foot down from the car at a muscle straining angle. On wobbly hands, she shot to her feet, and charged at you. 

“FUCK!” You shriek, launching your phone at her head as you darted back. The device smacked into the bridge of her nose and bounced into the grass, but did little to actually slow her down. If anything, she seemed to forget she couldn’t bulldoze through the car as she had your truck, and did more damage to herself by crashing head first into the back of her car and bouncing off. 

“Stop it! You’re freaking me the fuck out!” You bellowed as you continued to scramble away from her.

She let out a warbled squawk in reply, and you heard her claw her way back to her feet. 

You needed a weapon! A stick! ANYTHING!

The awful noises she was making had the hair on your arms sticking up. It sounded like screaming, but the sound was warped and choked before it could fully escape her lips.

Behind you, she was on her feet again. And her attention was solely on you. You dared not look back, but you could hear her. Could hear the sniffing, the uneven, but unnaturally fast footsteps of her chasing you off of the grass and onto the road.

The SHOVEL! You could use the shovel!

Your truck was right there. Its hazards were still on, and its truck bed still twisted up from the collision. How stupid you felt now for not checking if the engine was alright. 

With fumbling fingers, you ripped open your passenger door. The woman slammed into it. Her nose crunched from the force before she toppled backwards and hit the tarmac. You shot your hand into the footwell, and wrapped shaking fingers around the shovel handle. The woman squawked again, rolled onto her belly and found her feet. 

She lunged. You threw yourself backwards just in time for her to slam into the open car door a second time and throw it shut with her weight. She threw herself off balance in doing so. She wailed, spun unsteadily on her heel, and stumbled straight into the shovel head you sent soaring for her skull. 

Dirt encrusted metal collided with bone. Her head snapped to the side with a painfully audible crack. And then she crumbled to the dirt. 

Your panting breaths were the only sound in the now too quiet road. Her car was still running, but you paid it no mind as you stared down at the body. 

“Oh god.” You gasped, as the reality of what you had just done dawned on you. She was dead. You had killed her. “Oh. God!” You repeated, stumbling back from the corpse and the pool of blood growing from her head. The edge of the shovel head had split the skin above her eye, and it was bleeding heavily.

This was a prison sentence lying at your feet. 

“Fuck.” You swore again. Hands shaking so hard around the handle of the shovel, that the tool was practically vibrating in your grasp. “Oh, holy fuck. I am so dead.” 

>_<

After a long few minutes of panicking, you dragged her back to her Honda and hauled her body back into the driver’s seat. If anyone came along, it would just look like a bad crash and they wouldn’t think much of it. Hopefully.

Your mind was hazy with panic. Every possible scenario running round and round in your brain, as you tried to recall everything the police had ever looked for in murder documentaries. You tried to wipe your prints off everything you touched with your sleeve. You stooped to locate your phone amongst the grass and dead leaves, groaning aloud when you found it cracked and glitching green when you tried to turn it on.

And then you thought, fuck it. Who were you trying to fool? Chances were, some Sherlock Holmes wanna-be would immediately deduce that the blunt force trauma to her head couldn’t have possibly been from the steering wheel, and then they’d figure it out from there. It might take them a few hours, but you didn’t have high hopes of getting away with this.

With dignity, you retreated (sprinted) back to your truck and stuffed your bloodied shovel back into the passenger footwell. When you got home, you would heavily bleach it until the metal shone. And then you would return it to the building site in the morning, and NO ONE would even know you were involved in this. 

Shit, how the hell were you supposed to go into work tomorrow pretending everything was fine when you’d just killed someone?

And how were you going to explain the bloody crumbled wreck of a truck that was now your work car? At least it was only the truck bed and the back window, rather than a side or the bonnet. The vehicle still drove fine and the engine sounded good enough for everything it had been through. 

With a couple of turns in the road, the crash sight was swallowed from view and you found yourself breathing a little easier.

Get home. You told yourself. That was all you had to do right now. Get home, have a shower, and try to sleep. You could call in sick tomorrow, and then figure out what the fuck to do from there.

Yeah. That was a good plan.

Cool. Nice. Great. Fuck…

Your truck turned a corner, and suddenly there were blue lights up ahead, and several armed silhouettes blocking the road. Surely they hadn’t found you already!?

The sun was fully set now, and the moon wasn’t yet at its brightness. The darkness meant that you noticed the people in the field rather quickly. Distracted from the road ahead, you realised that the field was in fact teeming with the headlights of several cars. Which was odd. There was no road going through that field. And the farmers certainly wouldn’t be out roaming it at this hour.

With effort, you turned your attention back to the window screen. It wasn’t any of your business. You just needed to get hom-

You almost chose to break, but then you briefly caught sight of the bloodied shovel in your foot well shifting and you knew you couldn’t. In your peripheral, the cars streaking across the field suddenly felt very promising. There was a small stream that cut threw it, you knew, nothing too deep. 

It was your safest bet.

Up ahead, one of the armed officers was striding away from his car towards you, a hand held up to signal you to slow down.

You did not. 

With a wild turn of the wheel, you veered sharply off of the road (like a guilty person) and slammed onto the uneven dirt of the field. The golden grasses were high enough to brush the door handles of your trucks, but not so high as to impede your vision. Plenty of it had already been trampled down by tyres and people, so you found it easy to navigate.

None of the police cars in the blockade seemed interested in following you, so that suited you just fine. 

You just needed to cross the stream and make for the road on the far edge of the field. It would meet up with the one you were just on, and then you were scott free for home. 

Up ahead, the glow of your headlights caught on shapes that rapidly morphed into people. A trio, from what you could tell. 

You were approaching them from the side, so you had a clear view of a duo of pedestrians being held at gunpoint by the third, who was decked out in full camo gear. His posture screamed that he was ready to open fire. And yet, he didn’t quite catch your attention as much as the others. Who, as you drew closer, morphed into a father holding his daughter.

You noticed the blood on them, and the dirt staining the girl’s pink T-shirt. Why did she look so familiar?

Your eyes jumped to the father, who was- WAS THAT JOEL!?

Your eyes leapt between the duo and the armed officer. You watched the way Joel backed up, mouth visibly moving as he turned his body as if to shield Sarah. His daughter was staring at him, only at him, and yet you could see the fear in her eyes.

You leaned forward in your seat and turned your lights up to full beam. Oh shit, it was Joel! And that had to be little Sarah clutched in his arms. Why the fuck was he out here? He left to go home hours ago?

You snapped your attention back to the guard. The guard who clearly had his rifle aimed straight at them. The guard who approached on steady, sure footsteps and didn’t look to be stopping any time soon.

Joel wasn’t even armed for fuck’s sake. He looked pleading, and Sarah just looked down right terrified. And the officer was not backing down. 

You had mere seconds to make a decision, and so you did. 

“Fuck it.” You said aloud.

This choice was an easy one. You were already fucked and destined for jail anyway when they inevitably discovered the nurse. Why stop now?

Setting your jaw, you put your foot down and blared the truck horn. The engine roared beneath your heels, and the tires screamed as they tore up the grass.

The guard froze mid-step, swinging round to face you, gun and all. But it was too late.

Your truck smacked him harshly in the knees and he went under your bonnet with a yelp. The truck ploughed over him like he was little more than a speed bump. A speed bump that shrieked and screamed and crunched under the belly of your truck. The force of him beneath the tires, made your seat lurch, and only your seatbelt kept you from flying across the car. The front types touched down, and the back of the truck jumped as the back set rolled over him. And then the suspension whined, and all four tires were back on the ground. 

You dared not look in the rear view mirror as you slammed on your breaks with a crunch of the brake pads and a lurch of tires.

Joel was just standing there, eyes wide and seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from what had just happened. His attention was stuck on the bottom of your truck, and his posture was ramrod tense.

At least Sarah seemed to not have seen. Her face was now tucked firmly into her father’s neck, one of his hands cradling the back of her skull. Her arms were practically choking him with how tightly she was clinging to him.

Joel did not move towards your car, nor did he seem capable of continuing to run.

Jabbing the button to roll down your window, you stuck your head out. Joel’s attention snapped to you, and the tension around his mouth loosened in recognition.

“GET THE FUCK IN!” You bellowed.

You were uncomfortably conscious of the amount of people milling around the field. Of cars tearing up the ground as they sped off in all manner of directions. Of the police blockade that had forced you on here in the first place, and had no doubt just witnessed you mowing down one of their own as if he were a strand of grass. 

Your voice prompted Joel back into motion, and he rushed over to your truck and ripped open the passenger door behind your seat. “How did you find us?” He asked, panic high in his voice as he tried to quickly but gently set Sarah down in the seat.

Joel strapped Sarah in, and made to retreat and close the door, but her small hands wound tightly into the collar of his shirt. His expression was achingly reassuring as he tried to unwind her bloodied fingers. 

“Pure luck.” You offered, eyes torn between glancing in your wing mirrors to watch his back, and your windshield in case anyone took interest in you. 

Your stomach dropped at the mention of Joel’s brother. He was out here somewhere? Your gaze swept the chaotic field once more, as Joel tried to reassure her.

“What is it, baby girl? I need to get in too.”

“But Uncle Tommy! We promised we’d meet him here!” Sarah cried, sounding horrifyingly distraught. 

Joel rounded the back of your truck, jumping over something (or someone) you couldn’t see in your mirrors. 

“He’s coming, baby girl.” He promised, “Tommy will be here soon! We just need to be ready to leave when he turns up.”

Sarah nodded, her expression so trusting as she let her Dad go and leaned back in her seat. She looked so tiny back there. Exhausted and streaked with cuts and blood. Tension tightened her brows, and you assumed she was in pain. 

The other back door opened and he sat down with a sigh. 

“He’ll be here.” Joel promised, sounding like he was talking more to himself than either you or Sarah. 

“We won’t leave until he’s here.” You agreed, watching Sarah relax even more. 

You returned your attention to the outside world, where no one seemed to have taken much of an interest in your beaten up truck besides avoiding it. Even the military seemed not to give a shit that one of their officers was down. 

Then the phone lines.

Speaking of, what the hell was going on with everyone today?

First the nurse.

The blockade. 

Come to think of it. You paused your scanning of the field to fiddle with your radio. Hadn’t it been playing music before the crash? Had it been damaged? Only radio static came out when you played with the volume. Giving it a firm smack, that you half-expected to fix it, you frowned harder when the static only intensified. 

And the cars collective decided to try out their cross country abilities.

Joel seemed to deflate. 

“Strange.” You muttered aloud, “it was working fine earlier.”

Joel shifted in his seat behind you. “Not that this is the most pressing of our problems,” he began in that tone you always associated as his Dad voice. Judging by the way Sarah subconsciously sat up straighter, she noticed it too. “But what have you done to the truck?” You winced and refused to look back at him. Joel sighed. “You’ve barely had this a week.”

“Hey, it wasn’t my fault.” You quickly defended yourself, “I was on my way home and some crazy fuc-” you bit off the swear before it could finish forming, practically feeling Joel’s disapproving glare on the back of your head, “some crazy lady,” you corrected, “rear ended me and now the back is ruined. And then!” You added dramatically, “she tried to maul me! So I’m sorry that your truck is a little beat up, but it has been one doozy of a night.”

Your anger curdled into anxiety. The last thing you needed was to lose your job over this. “Look.” You reasoned, catching his eye in the rear view mirror. “I’ll replace it-”

“Damn right you’re going to replace it!” Joel jumped in, his voice loud but drained of any real anger. It sounded more like a release of stress, than proper rage. “And I’m demoting you to a bicycle from here on out since you can’t fucking drive.”

“Language.” Sarah interjected, smiling weakly. 

Joel sighed and ducked his head. It wasn’t a yes, but it was gratitude regardless. 

You turned in your seat to look at him. “Bet you’re glad for my horrendous driving skills right now though.”

“I see Uncle Tommy!” Sarah shouted, tapping against her window.

You drew your attention from Joel and followed the direction of Sarah’s pointings. And sure enough, there was a familiar looking shadow running towards the truck. You put the headlights back on full beam just to be sure, and watched as Tommy winced.

Leaning over the passenger seat, you unlatched his door and pushed it open. Tommy climbed in gratefully and collapsed onto the front seat. He grimaced, before shifting and dragging your work bag out from under his ass.

You flicked them down and honked, whilst Joel wound down his window and stuck out his arm to wave Tommy over. The relief that flooded the man’s face was obvious.

“I see you found a friend.” He threw back to Joel.

“Luckily.” Joel says dryly, clutching Sarah a little tighter. “But we need to get out of the open. The military aren’t our friends right now.”

“I don’t think anyone is.” Tommy confirmed. He stashed his rifle into the footwell, and you revved the engine and began cautiously moving again. No one was paying any attention to you, but until you found the stream and returned to the road, you wanted it to remain that way. 

Attention torn between navigating the field and stopping him, you only managed to bark out an aborted, “DON’T-” before he pulled out the shovel and blanched at the blood splattered across the head.

Rusting in your front passenger seat, reminded you of Tommy’s presence, which also unfortunately reminded you of the murder weapon that had previously taken up residence in the foot well.

“Is this one of our shovels?” The younger of the Miller brothers laughed.

Very slowly, Tommy turned to look at you. Thankfully, he did not reach for his gun, but his gaze was heavily judgemental. 

“Now I severely hope this didn’t happen at the site.” He began to lecture.

“Course not.” You immediately dismissed. “Josh is a fucking asshole, but I wouldn’t wait for you and Joel to leave before killing him. I’d do it with witnesses.” You preached honestly, as Sarah chimed ‘language’ in the background. 

“Then, what is this?” Tommy pressed.

You were very aware of Joel’s silence in the back of the truck.

“Just focus on driving, I don’t want to end up back in that stream.” 

“Some lady tried to take a chunk out of me a few minutes before I found you.” You explained, only to breathe a sigh of relief as the stream finally came into view. Your story trailed off momentarily as you navigated the thinnest looking part to cross and did so. The truck was climbing back up the opposite bank when you continued. “It was her or me, and I panicked.”

Tommy whistled. “Good thing you had it on hand then.” He said absently, before returning the shovel to the foot well. He looked mildly impressed rather than scared or murderous in the face of your actions. “Just be sure to return it tomorrow.”

“If the police don’t catch my ass, I’ll buy you a whole new one.” You promised. 

Pointedly, you added more throttle to the accelerator. “I am not that bad of a driver.” You repeated, to which Tommy threw you a look.

“Say that to the back of our company truck.”

You opened your mouth to bite back, but Joel suddenly spoke up. “Y/n, have you actually been home yet?”

“Nope.”

You watched Tommy peer back at Joel in the back seat, and they shared a look.

“Why?” You pressed.

Tommy responded. “Have you spoken to anyone since work? Been on the phone or listened to the radio?”

“Anne was the last one I spoke to at the site. There’s fudge all signal round here, and my radio has died on me, but I’m fairly certain that one was the crash.”

You glanced at Tommy who looked pained.

Joel swallowed audibly in the back. “You haven’t heard anything?”

“Joel, I love you, but you’re freaking me out. What are you implying? What is going on?”

He didn’t respond, and he refused to meet your gaze in the rear view mirror. 

Come to think of it, the nurse had been moving rather unnaturally, and with a speed you didn’t see everyday. 

It was Sarah who finally had the balls to actually speak up. “Dad said it’s a sickness.”

“A sickness.” You parrotted, and the girl nodded in the rear view mirror. “It’s making people act crazy. Makes them chase and hurt each other. One of our neighbours had it,” Sarah paused and glanced at Joel for reassurance, who simply nodded. “She chased me out of her house, and at her age, she certainly shouldn’t have been able to move that fast. It was terrifying.” 

You furrowed your brow. “So what? This is like a zombie apocalypse type shit or something.”

Beside you Tommy subtly nodded his confirmation, whilst Joel made a face and Sarah paled. “No.” The older Miller brother insisted, but you could tell it was more for reassuring Sarah than a real answer. “We don’t know what it is.”

The silence that followed was deafening. You kept driving, willing the field to end and for the road to return. With nothing but the roar of the engine and radio static to fill in the gaps, you decided to keep talking.

You bit your lower lip and sighed in relief when bushes appeared up ahead, with a splintered gate that opened up onto the road. You allowed the conversation to trail off as you carefully slotted the car between the broken gate pieces, and pulled out onto the deserted road and turned in the direction of home. 

“Do they know what’s causing it?”

Joel shook his head.

“We’ll go to my house.” You said aloud to the still car. Tommy was staring out of his window and Joel had his arm wrapped around Sarah’s shoulders. “I was headed there anyway. It’s secure and there was no one around for miles. And the roads are fucking ridiculous right now-”

As if on cue something dragged itself out of the undergrowth up ahead and began to drag itself across the road. It looked human, but it was twitching violently, like the nurse had. And it has no legs beneath the knees. Vaguely, you could see a trail of red marking its path from the trees as if it were some humanoid snail. 

There was plenty of room to go around it, but the rest of the car didn’t seem to agree. 

With a shout, Tommy pointed the thing out to you and lunged for the wheel as if he thought you hadn’t bloody seen it. You were quick to smack his hand away, but the damage was already done. Joel was alert again, his voice rising into a yell as Sarah’s eyes widened and she clung to him, bracing as if you were about to go speeding towards a tree. 

You smoothly avoided the twitching figure dragging themselves across the tarmac, and turned a lethal glare Joel’s way. “Do not yell at me Miller!” You threatened, “you’re freaking your daughter out. Don’t worry Sarah, we're fine.” You gave her a reassuring smile in the rear view mirror before elbowing Tommy sharply, “and keep your hands to yourself or so help me I will turn this car around!”

It is an empty threat, but Tommy complied, looking appropriately chastised, and Joel focused back on Sarah whilst you did your job and navigated the roads. 

“Why are you so calm?” Tommy asked quietly after a moment or two. “Joel and I haven’t stopped since we found out.”

“Home first.” You said instead of explaining, “Sleep. And we can deal with everything else in the morning.”

And for the rest of the drive, the only sound was the distant shriek of sirens and the purr of the engine as you accelerated.

>_<

As predicted, home was peaceful. So peaceful, that you were embarrassed to admit to yourself that if you had returned home earlier without incident, you would have had no idea that a country-wide pandemic had broken out. 

Your driveway gates were still standing and just as secure as they had been this morning when you had left for work. The porch light flickered on when it sensed the motion of the truck as it always did. And when you stepped out of the truck, the world was quiet. The trees lining your yard fence rustled with the breeze, and the pebbles underfoot crunched and clinked together under your weight.

There was not a person or house in sight besides your own. And there were no neighbours for miles. 

It would be safe enough for tonight. 

The next few minutes consisted of getting everyone inside. It turned out, Joel was hauling Sarah around a field because she’d hurt her ankle in a car wreck, which meant she was immediately carried to the couch. Tommy took it upon himself to lock the truck, and then bolt and begin barricading your front door once everyone was in.

Once you’d brought your bag and stolen shovel indoors, you set about hunting down a first aid kit for Sarah, and finding your cat. 

Your search led you up to your bedroom where you found both. The first aid kit in the bottom drawer of your bedside table, and the cat in the back of your cupboard, curled up on a nest of dirty clothes beside the laundry hamper that she must have dragged out whilst you were at work. 

“There you are, my darling.” You cooed in greeting, dropping down on your knees just outside the cupboard to greet her. 

She was a bony old thing, with a short-haired, tri-coloured coat, and the resting bitch face of a great-grandmother. She chirped in confusion at the shift in light before groggily lifting her head from her pillow.

“Hello there.” You mused, allowing her to sniff your hand and duck her head in preparation for affection before you did so. She stretched languidly under your palm, her wiry legs poking out harshly from her body. “We have some visitors over, and I need you to be my assistant.” You continued to say as you carefully pulled her from her nest, her ochre eyes still at half-mast with sleep. 

She was a dead-weight in your arms, content to be carted around the house so long as you were willing to carry her and do most of the work. She was going on twenty afterall, and couldn’t quite get around as well as she used to.

Downstairs, Tommy was busy barricading your backdoor, which left you to return to the living room where Sarah and Joel were talking in hushed voices. You handed over the first aid kit to the latter, who promptly settled himself down by Sarah’s feet.

“Who’s that?” Joel asked absently, eyeing the cat in your arms who was glancing around the room with squinty eyes. 

“She’s not here to see you, you’re supposed to be working.” You lightly scolded, which seemed to startle a small smile out of Sarah. Joel jokingly huffed, and went back to assessing Sarah’s ankle. 

Turning your attention to the girl in question, you knelt down beside her head propped up on the arm of the couch.

“Sarah, I would like you to meet Daisy.” You introduced formally, “she’s an old lady so be gentle with her, but I’m sure she’d love some cuddles from you. Do you want to stroke her?”

At the moment, Daisy was sitting quite contently in your arms. Her feet rolled up and resting on your forearm, whilst her cheek pressed against your bicep. Her purr kicked into motion, when Sarah lightly began to stroke her back, and Sarah smiled again.

This was going to work out perfectly, you decided. 

“Can I hold her?” Sarah asked carefully, glancing from her Dad to you as if unsure if she was even allowed to ask.

“Of course.” You readily agreed, and coaxed the girl to recline back on her cushions. Only then did you gently set Daisy down on the girl’s chest, where the cat immediately purred louder and set to making biscuits with Sarah’s pink shirt. 

You frowned at the dirt and old blood encrusted on the fabric. You should have some spare clothes upstairs for her to change into. But that could wait until later. 

>_<

Distracted by the cat, Sarah seemed to have completely forgotten about her ankle, which Joel had checked over and was tightly wrapping in several lengths of bandages. Something was visibly loosening in him at the sight of his daughter relaxing after everything she had just been through. It was such a raw and vulnerable expression, that you felt like you were intruding, so you excused yourself to the kitchen. 

Your fridge was very empty. Which wasn’t massively surprising, considering tomorrow was shopping day, and you’d been surviving off eggs and cold beans straight out of the can, for the last couple of days. But it was a rather large inconvenience what with everything currently going on. 

“There’s not a lot to pick out for dinner.” You mumbled to yourself, since the others were in the living room, or in Tommy’s case, going around the house and drawing the curtains. 

You drummed your fingers against the fridge door as you stared down the couple of eggs left in their carton, the trio of sad looking apples in the salad drawer and the bottle of orange juice and left over milk in the door. All in all, it wasn’t a very good start rationing wise.

The cupboard next to the fridge bore no fruit either, aside from some canned vegetable soups and a forgotten box of teabags. The cupboard one along was even less promising. There was not a bread roll nor pasta bag in sight, which was damn annoying. 

There was however, enough instant coffee to make a pot, so that was something. And with the day you had had, there was no hope of going to sleep at a reasonable hour anyway, so coffee was a good enough solution to the weight of sleepiness beginning to return to your eyelids. 

The kettle had just popped, when Daisy decided to make herself known by your feet. For an old lady on the cusp of dusting into nothing, she sure still had a set of lungs on her. Lungs which she put to good use by sitting where you were in danger of tripping on her, and vocally demanding that you feed her dinner right that very second. 

Coffee momentarily forgotten, you were powerless to deny her and set about opening a pouch of wet food and setting the bowl down by her water bowl. Her nails clicked against the hardwood floor as she followed you across the kitchen and began to eat without further fuss.  

You smiled fondly at her and poured the coffee out into three mugs. After countless lunches spent on the sites, and hundreds of coffee breaks to ward off sleep at the ass crack of dawn, you knew by heart how each Miller brother preferred their drink. Joel with nothing but a half teaspoon of sugar. And Tommy with enough milk and sugar to almost completely disguise the taste of coffee entirely.

You had scarcely begun preparing your own mug, when Joel drifted into the kitchen, no doubt lured in by the promising smell of coffee. 

He stewed for a minute in his own thoughts, and you preoccupied yourself by blowing on your own drink. 

“Sarah’s asleep.” He said by way of greeting, looking exhausted but somewhat relaxed with his daughter still visible through the doorway. “Is this one mine?” He didn’t bother waiting for a response, as he took the mug containing near black coffee and took a deep pull. He sighed as it went down, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Good?” You asked with a grin, holding your own mug between your hands and letting the heat seep into your skin. Joel nodded and took another grateful sip.

Joel took another deep swig and nodded along. “We can’t stay here.” He said, to which you immediately agreed.

“You should probably get some sleep too, we had a long day on the site today.”

“Not a chance.” You rapidly dismissed, “too much adrenaline at the minute. And I don’t know how much longer we’ll have power for.” You began to say, “but if this is what we think it is, we need to prepare.”

You nodded along, putting aside your mug to pull some paper and a pencil out of one of the nearby drawers. Joel watched you over the lip of his own mug as you quickly scribbled everything down and added things when they came to you.

“I don’t have the food to sustain us.” You explained, “so we’ll need to find it. That, and clothes, as well as a means of starting a fire and a decent water source. I don’t own guns, so we’ll need to track those down too. Until then, we can use kitchen knives or tools.”

“We’ll manage.” Joel reassured, “make sure to add petrol to the list.” 

Further down the counter, you could feel Joel’s eyes on the side of your head. “What?” You asked when he took another obnoxious sip and failed to turn his attention elsewhere.

The rest of the words curdled on your tongue, when Joel suddenly appeared at your side, his mug in one hand and the other gently falling to rest atop your own one shaking around your pencil. His grip was warm and steadying around yours. Helping the tremors to subside.

Joel shrugged, “you’re just taking this really well, and I’m trying to figure out why.” He explained simply, “I’ve seen you freak out over a spider, and yet, a world-wide pandemic doesn’t seem to take the wind from your sails.”

“I’m in denial.” You replied simply, briefly glancing up from your notes to look at him. His expression was open, and you recognised it as the one he uses when Tommy had gotten himself into trouble, and Joel was trying to be patient with him. You looked away before you could get lost in the earnestness of his expression. “I killed two people tonight, Joel, and it doesn’t feel real. They’re dead, and here I am, back in my house, making coffee and feeding my cat, and fucking planning a road trip as if it’s just any other day...”

Your mind however, was back on that road. Instead of the pencil, you could feel the shovel back in your hands. Could feel the dirt caking the handle, now slick with your own sweat. Could hear the sound of the metal colliding with bone. Could feel the vibrations from the blow travelling up your arm. 

Joel squeezed your hand and it disappeared again. 

You were back in your kitchen, and he was a steadying presence at your side. For the first time all night, you felt unsteady and unsure. Until now, you had been operating purely on instinct, but now you had a chance to think, you just felt sick.

“Hey, it’s fine.” Joel soothed, his voice firm but kind. He had completely abandoned his mug now, and had his hands on your shoulders, applying pressure that helped you breathe a little easier. 

“Now, I need you to look me in the eye as I tell you this,” he paused, waiting for you to do just that before continuing. “One of those people was infected with whatever this is.” Joel says quietly, in a tone you’re pretty certain he used to soothe Sarah. “They were beyond reasoning and you had to protect yourself. The other was a military bigshot, who thought it was a good idea to try to kill me and my daughter. He just hadn’t anticipated that you wouldn’t like that idea.” You laughed wetly at the attempt at humour, but your heart wasn’t in it. Joel squeezed your shoulders again and ducked his head to find your eyes and hold them. “You did the right thing in both scenarios.” He promised earnestly.

“Nothing!” He said in a tone that firmly told you it wasn’t ‘nothing’. “I just never knew you had a cat!” He stated, as if you’d revealed you were secretly an ancient pirate captain planning to follow a treasure map to the moon using a scooter, instead of his co-worker who just happened to own a cat.

“But maybe-”

“You did the best you could, in the shitty situation you were dealt.” Joel reitorated firmly, “you reacted in the way you thought was best in the moment. But what is important is that you are alive. I’m alive. And so are Sarah and Tommy and,” he paused with a heavy, put upon sigh, “so is the fucking cat-”

“What do you have against Daisy?” You asked, feeling the panic ebb at the way he playfully raised his eyebrows.

“I’m just saying, you’re weirdly fixated on the cat.” You laughed wetly, and Joel brightened.

“There you go.” He said softly. A small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lip. He gave your shoulders a parting squeeze, and then withdrew to pick up his coffee mug again.

He stepped back into his own space, and you breathed out with forced steadiness.

You let him go, feeling steadier with the lingering warmth of his hands still teasing your skin.

“All jokes aside, I just want to make this clear now.” Joel began, and you tensed. “Sarah is my priority.” Ah, your shoulders dropped down from your ears. You had been expecting this train of thought. 

“She’s your daughter, I’d be concerned if she wasn’t.” 

“No, they’re pretty much zombies.” You reassured, “there was no thought process, only action and basic instinct. They don’t think, they just react to stimuli.” It made sense even as you said it. The nurse had responded to your voice and the sight of you. She had responded to pain but she hadn’t understood the words you used.  All her higher functions had been offline in the face of something primal you didn’t know the motivation of yet. 

Joel nodded. “Every decision from here on out is going to be about keeping her safe, and then keeping Tommy safe. If you want to part ways and take care of yourself, be my guest but-”

“Woah, hey now. What are you expecting me to do? Set up a bat signal on the roof and urge the zombies to come and get us? I don’t have anywhere else to be Joel or anyone else to go to. I am in this. All in.”

“First of all, they’re not zombies-” Joel tried to argue.

“Fine, they’re zombies.” Joel sighed, “but secondly, I assumed you would be with us anyway considering you were using ‘we’ instead of ‘I’ and you brought us to your house instead of dropping us off somewhere random. Which thanks, by the way, but I didn’t want to just assume. And finally, my point still stands, Sarah comes first.”

“And I hear you and I respect your resolve.” You promised, “therefore I’m going to give you a heads up that there has to be enough room in the truck for the cat carrier and several weeks worth of cat food.”

Joel scrunched up his brows.

“You cannot possibly be planning to take the cat.”

“Her name is Daisy, and she’s outlived every owner that has ever adopted her. Of course I have to take her. She’s family.” 

Joel rolled his eyes. “You need to get a partner or something, the cat cannot be all you have.”

You made a face. “Hypocrite.”

Joel returned your over the top expression with just as much enthusiasm.

“Ah, no! That is a company car and you know it!”

“Besides, my truck, my rules. The cat comes with.”

“I cannot hear you, I’m out of earshot.” You sang and promptly chugged your coffee, put the mug in the sink to deal with later, and went to have a shower.

After a day spent out in the sun, cold and sweating, and collecting grime, you desperately needed a freshen up before properly coming to terms with your situation. Only then, would you dare to think about tomorrow. 

During the conversation, Daisy had found her way back into the living room. 

As you passed the couch on the way to the stairs, you saw that she had curled up by Sarah’s head again, and the girl was absently stroking behind her ear. It warmed you to see Sarah’s smile again. Even if it was a subdued thing. Honestly, anything was better than the fear that had been plastered across her face when you had first found her and Joel. 

>_<

Two hours after dawn, the truck was packed up and ready to go. 

Daisy had been fed and loaded up into her carrier, which was now in Sarah’s lap. Joel sat beside them, looking exasperated at Daisy’s presence, but seeming to be coming to terms with it. Whilst Tommy sat in the passenger seat with his gun in the footwell and a map stretched out across his lap. 

“Sun’s coming up.” Tommy commented, “best start moving.”

“She likes hiking. And she’s very good at it.” You returned easily, and made a U-Turn for the property gate.

“Will do, just doing one last check.” You acknowledge, before leaning up and catching Sarah’s eye in the rear view mirror. “Can you make sure we’ve packed Daisy’s leash and harness please?”

Joel’s look of pure despair was worth bringing it up. “You cannot be serious.” He groaned, which prompted Sarah into a small giggle fit as she pulled out both leash and harness. Joel groaned again, playing up how much he hated the idea just to hear her laugh again. “Why is it leash trained?” 

With a bittersweet glance back to your home, you carefully pulled out of your driveway onto the empty road.

You had no idea where you were heading. None of you did. But with a kid, a cat and the Miller brothers in tow, you’re fairly certain it was going to be interesting regardless.

Part 1 --> Part 2

[pacifymebby]

Born to Die

chapter one

Autumn had been strangely humid up to now, September had been warm and a little claustrophobic, but with October had come a sudden chill. One which had crept in over the course of the evening and left me caught off guard without a coat as I walked home from work. 

It was late, too late to be out on my own but the streets were lit and it was a busy night so I wasn't worried. Still, I didn't dawdle on the dark edges of town. I pulled my cardigan tighter around my waist and kept my head down, walking quickly, eyes on my feet and on my breath which condensed in white whispy clouds when it hit the cold night. 

There was a fine mist in the air, thin rain, the kind you only really seem to get in the north of England, and it stung my cheeks whenever the wind picked up. 

It wasn't the night to be walking in but I didn't have a choice. I'd not passed my driving test and the bus routes near my flat left a lot to be desired. It was a fifteen minute walk from the bus stop to my flat and that was if you were being quick about it. 

I shivered as I stopped at the traffic lights. From the bottom of the hill I could see the warm glow of lights in each of the bars, could hear the rabble falling in and out of smoking areas, different songs leaking through open doors and clashing in the middle of the road. The little streams of rainwater running down the middle of the road caught the light from the traffic and the tarmac glistened in pretty shades of red amber and green and had it not been for the cold pinching my nose and stinging my hands I'd have stopped a little longer to admire the scene. 

As it was however I was freezing, tired and growing more inpatient by the second. All I wanted was to be home, in my bed, warm and dry and drifting off to sleep. 

So I stepped out into the road before the red man had swapped out, I only checked for traffic coming from my right, and when I heard the beeping of someone's horn it was already too late. 

Time didn't slow but I did. I froze, my mind blacking out at the sight of the four by four skidding to a halt, travelling too fast to slow before it hit me. I heard someone screaming behind me from the pavement, a woman who sounded like her blood had curdled. Sounded like she'd just watched a girl die. 

But she hadn't because somehow it hadn't hit me. 

One second I was frozen, gazing at a set of headlights speeding towards me, the next I felt the air knocked out of me, my body flung across the street, my fall to the floor cushioned by someone else. 

Someone who lay beneath me just as breathless as I was. Their groaned out "fuck," airy and distant. 

I didn't move straight away, too starry eyed and startled to realise that I could move. 

"Meadow..." Weezed the lad underneath me, their arm which had been wrapped around my waist loosening so that I might sit up and free their crushed ribs. 

I recognised their voice before I recognised the name they'd choked out but when I did my brow knitted in confusion. 

How could they possibly know who I was. They'd thrown themselves across the street out of nowhere, they couldn't possibly have known who they were saving before they'd done it. 

"Fuckin hell Med," they groaned, their voice tight and breathy as they pushed themselves up, "no one ever teach you the highway code... Them stop look an listen hedgehogs retire before you started school or what..." 

When he pushed himself up I realised just who it was who had saved me. My heart dropping to my stomach at the sight of Johnny Bond. One of my "uncles" best friends... 

"Were you following me?" I snapped, not surprised by my realisation, nor when rather than deny the obvious truth he just laughed my horror off and shook his head. 

"Saved your life Med, now usually.." he said lowering his voice, one arm around my shoulder as he steered me away from the crowd of gawping onlookers, "usually when someone saves your life like, common courtesys to say thank you..." 

"You were following me..." I said again, not about to thank him for something he shouldn't have been there to do. 

"Aye and it's a good thing too ain't it or you'd be sorry as a pancake splattered across the main road..." 

"I told Van to stop spying on me..." 

"Ain't spying..." 

"Is spying." I growled hands shoved in my pockets not bothering to try and escape his arm around my shoulders, knowing he was only steering me in the direction I was going anyway. To The Angel, my uncles bar at the top of the hill with its halo of neon held above it by two rust iron bars.

I sang there every Thursday and Friday night as per an agreement made between my "uncle" Van and my dad when my dad was still alive and Van had intended to keep him that way. The agreement had been that our family would always work for his, and when my father had been alive that had meant as a soldier, as cannon fodder for whatever malicious scheme Van had planned. Now I was the only member of my family capable of "working" but I was a girl and so the only real use Van had for me was entertainment. So I sang in his bar every weekend and I let him show me off to anyone he thought he could impress with me. Be it my talents or my pretty face. 

I resented him for it and I spent my weekends miserable but I did it because it kept my mother safe, looked after, fed and off the streets. 

She'd lost everything when my dad had died, Van had taken everything to pay my father's debts until I was the only asset left. 

So I'd all but accepted that I'd be doing this for as long as I could and that when I stopped being useful I'd have to find some other way to look after her. 

"So.." Johnny trailed, whistling his S to try and cut through my irritation as we walked up the hill towards The Angel. When I didn't say anything he nudged me in the ribs, "how was work?" 

"Hard," I said giving nothing away, starring straight ahead and hoping he would leave it at that. I'd always made it clear that singing in the bars was as close to them as I got. Beyond my duty to Van I wanted nothing else to do with any of them. I'd long since learnt however that my wants meant nothing to that man.  For example this wasn't the first time I'd caught Johnny Bond spying on me. 

"Oh come on treacle don't give us that face..." He chuckled seemingly not understanding the temper on me. The sulk his face had plunged me into. 

"I told Van to stop spying on me Johnny and now you're fuckin followin me home from work!" I snapped shoving my hands in the pockets of my hoodie. Still I didn't bother trying to speed up or shrug him off, I knew there was no point arguing with my uncles friends. 

"Ah come on ducklin..." he said, his relentless smile effervescent, "you don't get angry wi' your uncle Johnny..." And unfortunately for me he was right. Of all my uncles friends it was my "uncle" Johnny I was most forgiving of. That was probably why Van had tasked him with spying on me. "An anyway it ain't spyin, it's protection..." 

"And if I turn down your protection who is it thats gonna start threatening me eh? Me uncle Larry?" I asked with a childishly bitchy smile. 

"Don't be like that Meadow," he warned, his tone friendly enough, the look in his eyes just serious enough to remind me who I was and who I worked for. The choices I really had, how few. 

"Oh come on uncle Johnny you don't get mad at your little ducklin" I narrowed my eyes at him, the sweet smile I gave him a saccharine threat. 

"No," he said, the arm around my shoulder tucking me into his side a little closer, "luckily for you, I don't..." But when he kept me tucked into his side as we walked I knew he wasn't finished, that this argument was going to carry on until I relented and gave in. 

"Been a year now Johnny, whoever killed me dad hasn't even tried to come for me and me mam..."

"As long as you work for Van," he cut me off, "there'll be a price on your head... And Meadow doll between you and me eh, your dad pissed off a lot of people in his life..."

"But that ain't got owt do with me." I crossed my arms over my chest stubbornly, stopping where I stood outside the side door to the Angel. Behind the door I could hear music playing, could hear the rumble of the regulars chat getting louder by the second. 

When I stepped up to the microphone I'd hush the whole room, but for as long as I remained outside arguing with Johnny they'd carry on shouting over one another and the songs playing from the jukebox. 

"That don't stop vengeful men and you know it love," he said lighting s cigarette and nodding to the door. "Go on inside it's cold, left you a little present in the back room..." He said with a soft smile, blowing his cigarette smoke up to the sky so as not to let me breath it in. A courtesy which was unnecessary because I'd smoked my way through work that day anyway, uncle Johnny just didn't know it. 

"A gift?" I raised my brow cynically, knowing I was being cold and a little unfair. Johnny had always been soft on me and the odd gift left in the back room, or on my doorstep wasn't exactly unusual. 

So I left him behind to smoke his cigarette and shiver in the evenings cold, his breath rising before him like dry ice. 

Inside the bar it was warm and dark, the condensation on the windows catching the red and blue of the fairy lights strung up in the windows. I shrugged my hoodie off as I moved between the lazily discarded furniture which littered the back room. I noted with a smirk the chair whose arm I'd watched get snapped off the weekend before. A drunken brawl had broken out over a spilt pint and a game of darts and when Johnny had stepped in to diffuse the situation he'd drawn blood with the broken arm he'd dug into the neck of the man who'd kicked off. 

He hadn't done any real damage though, Johnny was always careful. Far more careful than any of the other men I spent my weekends with at The Angel. 

I smirked as I walked my fingers along the splintered wood, remembering how Johnny had turned back to me where I stood behind the bar, how he'd bowed down elegantly to me and blessed me to "sing him out."

Ever the comedian, the eccentric, and always so charming when it came to me. 

That was when I saw the "gift" he'd left hanging from the mirror on the wall. I couldn't help but smirk and roll my eyes at the floor length deep blue velvet dress he'd left for me to wear that evening. The set of black balled slippers I wore every week left neatly for me too. However if I'd thought the dress was the gift I was sorely mistaken. 

"Fuck sake John," I smirked sighing as I reached to take the dress down from the hanger. It was ever so soft between my fingers as I held it, admiring the rich night sky shade of blue. It would suit me perfectly, I'd look, as Johnny often told me, divine. 

I shimmied out of my jeans and studied myself in the mirror. The outline of my tired working girls body making me feel completely unworthy of the luxury Johnny was always showering me with. 

I had a bruise on my waist from having been kicked by a patient at the hospital where I worked two days ago and all my muscles ached when I tried to bend or stretch. It spread across my abdomen like an ugly purple flower, yellowing at the edges turning that sickly shade of green which bruises so often fade to. 

"Oh well," I sighed softly to myself as I stepped into the dress and closed my eyes. 

When the back door opened I didn't flinch because I knew it would be Johnny and when I felt warm fingers on my lower back I let John examine the damage. 

"This from work or do I need to pay someone a visit tonight ducklin?" He asked, his voice soft and low, full of a concern so genuine that for a moment it was easy to forgive him for having followed me there and back again. 

"It's from work Johnny don't worry about it..." I shook my head stepping out of the hold his hand on my waist had me cupped in gently. 

"Get a new job and maybe I won't," he said with a smirk, turning me around to look at him, holding my chin between his fingers before patting my cheek. "Such a canny lass." 

"What's all this for Johnny?" I asked checking my face in the mirror and looking for the lipstick I left in the drawer,"Van trying to impress someone tonight or?" 

"That hurts Meadow," he frowned reaching his hand into his jacket pocket, taking out a little red box, "you know I don't buy you presents for anythin like that.." 

"Then why?" I turned back to him with a frown, a frown which only etched deeper when he told me to turn back around. 

"Cause," he shrugged brushing my hair from my neck as he spoke. His fingers moved lightly over my skin, just cool enough to leave goosebumps, "I think the prettiest girl in the world deserves the prettiest things..." he sneered sarcastically at me in the mirror before placing a silver choker around my neck, fastening the clasp delicately. 

"Johnny no!" I gasped starring back at my reflection in awe, my hand hovering above my heart in shock, "I can't accept this..." I said gazing back at what was the most beautiful piece of jewellery I'd ever seen. 

"Ahh come on now ducklin it ain't that bad is it?" 

"Is it..." I trailed off catching my bottom lip between my teeth, hesitating to ask him because it felt rude, "is it stolen?" 

His crooked smile lingered then, a chuckle escaping him only cut off when he saw the seriousness in my eyes as I hesitated to brush my fingers over the diamonds which studded the silver stems entwined around my neck. 

"No doll," he said brushing my hair away from my cheek, his breath warm as it fanned over my jaw. 

He was stood so close to me then that I was sure I could feel his heart beating just behind mine. The delicate way he held me with his arms around my waist, his cheek skimming my cheek, making it hard for me to think straight. 

"Then why..." I started, my voice barely a trembling whisper. I was stunned, I couldn't take my eyes off the glistening jewels, the tiny flowers and silver leaves which now adorned my neck. 

"It looks like a meadow don't you agree?" He asked letting his own fingers dance over the glittering stones, the celestial meadow he'd given to me. 

"Uhuh," I said though his answer really wasn't sufficient to stop my clouded thoughts. 

"Well then," he said with a small smirk, stepping away from me leaving me suddenly aware of the chill in the room, "I think that answers your question ducklin," 

"Believe me Johnny it does not..."

"Well that's a shame doll," he said offering me a lazy smile as he gestured to the door which lead onto the stage, "because your adoring fans await and the hour grows later by the second..." 

I followed his gaze to the clock on the wall and sighed because he was right and I knew there was no more time left to waist together in the back room. I had a job to do after all and even if Van wasn't trying to impress anyone in particular this evening he wouldn't be impressed if I walked onto that stage late. 

"I'll have a drink sent up to you," he said pulling me into a lazy hug, kissing my cheek before I pulled away and turned my back on him. I only hesitated for a moment before turning back to catch one last glance at the only friendly sight I'd see for the rest of the evening. 

"Uncle Johnny..." I said, my voice surprising me when it shook, it's softness surprising him too so that he turned to me with a small frown. I left us lingering in silence for a second, my voice catching in my throat, a sudden emotion creeping up on me. One which I couldn't quite place. 

"Yeah doll?" 

"It's beautiful... Thank you..."

"Like I said..." He shrugged stepping into the open back doorway, sending me a wink, one final soft touch. 

Then he left me alone to walk out onto the stage. One last breath, one last moment of peace before I had to become someone else. An ice cold, celestial girl. An angel with an angels voice. Pristine...

But it was easier to pretend when I was decorated with Johnny's gifts and as I stepped up to the microphone and the room bristled with expectation, I felt all the more grateful for his kindness. Because every set of eyes in the room had turned to me. I couldn't see them because the lights were so bright but I could feel them. So many sets of eyes watching me. All those people awaiting my first song. 

I didn't usually get stage fright, I wasn't generally a nervous girl, but that night something felt different. 

That night for the first night since I'd started working those long evenings at The Angel, I felt watched. 

I just didn't realise why until it was much too late. 

[hocuspocusbullshit]

he throws the door to the roof open, stepping into cool evening air. the door slams shut behind him with a subtle click. he goes to the edge without thinking about it, still fuming.

/throw yourself off/ a voice in the back of his head tells him. /no one will care/.

no. for once, that is not what he came up here for.

yes, johns song is stupid. he has every right to be angry, really. this whole album is fucking stupid. but its only one, brian tells himself as he lowers himself to the ground. in a few months, they will be gone from this place, the album will be out, they will plan a tour, and he will have something to do.

atleast the view is nice. it might be the only pleasent thing about this godforsaken studio.

silver clouds roll overtop the forest, bringing a soon promise of rain. in the distance is the lake, dark and shimmering. a gentle wind teases his curls.

it really is beautiful here.

he moves forward until his legs hang over the edge. he kicks them freely. a sense of freedom comes over him, one that he has rarely felt since he was 27. if someone comes up here and sees him like this, they will be furious. for now though, it is worth the risk.

he stays there until the first drops begin to fall. cold, but not stinging. living in london his whole life has made rain a welcome friend. just, not here. his hand closes on the handle and-

its locked.

brian frowns.

pushing down and rattling the handle does nothing. theres the telltale sound of rattling on the other side but the door does not budge.

"seriously?" he mutters, then kicks for good measure.

panic unfurls and grips his heart, spreading like ice.

he does not have a watch but judging by the rapidly darkening sky, he has been up here for atleast a few hours. no one has come looking for him, and it will be fully night soon. there is no shelter here. with the incoming storm, there will be no moon or stars to light the sky and pass his time with. if, they dont come for him soon.

which. they might not. today was far from the first time he has ran off in a huff.

"youve got to be fucking kidding me" one paticular drops smacks him directly in the eye and he curses again. yelling for help will not do anything either. every second reduces the chances of someone coming up here looking for him. they stopped chasing after the first half dozen times he left.

he kicks the door again, then sighs. it is going to be a long night.

-

the storm grows fast, angry grey clouds and fat drops that smack against the tarmac so hard they bounce. the wind picks up too, howling so hard it whistles in when his ear when it touches him. he lays spread eagle in the middle of the roof, far away from a chance of the winds blowing him off, and watches until he cannot see anymore. thunder booms and lightning flashes far away. they will miss the worst of it, atleast, and the studio will likely keep its power.

he has not laid in the rain like this since he was a child.

here, there is no mother scolding him for soiling his clothes or a father yelling at him for tracking mud across the floor. the fog had not found him then. but even that momentarily feels like it has been left behind with the rest of civilization, washed away by the sound and feel of rain smacking on his skin.

-

far below, freddie roger, and john go to bed. the red special sits untouched waiting in her stand. te will be back to play later, he always is, they know, when they are not there to bother him.

-

the novelty of being stuck up here fades once every part of him has been drenched in water. his clothes stick his body and his hair hangs flat and tangled and christ alive he is /cold/.

between the damp and the night and the wind, every bit of warmth has been sapped from him. even when he hauls himself up and stumbles to a stickout for a vague attempt at shelter, it cannot stop the onslaught of rain. he is only half hidden from the wind no matter which direction he faces. the metal presses against his back when he crouches and freezes him further.

brian buries his face in his knees.

--

"this fucking sucks"

he walks makes tiny motions to keep his blood circulating. rubbing his hands on his arms, staying curled does nothing to help him or his mind. he screams once from pure frustration, letting the storm carry his voice away into nothing. it does not bring the catharis he wishes for. he wants to burn energy he does not have, scream until his throat is raw and bleeding. no one will hear him anyway (he thinks that might be a metaphor for how most of his life has gone up to this point) but when he opens his mouth a sob slips out instead.

the rain hides his tears.

-

eventually, his stomach grumbles. he folds his hands overtop, flexes his feet. he had to adjust his position when his muscles began to cramp. they are still cramping, beset with chill. now, he is half laid down, leaning against the powerbox. if he stretches his toes just enough, he can brush the lip of the roof.

he is still shivering. at some point he started sneezing too.

atleast if he gets sick, he will have an excuse to hide away for a few days. he will not have to hear how useless he is.

-

this is, far and beyond, the worst night of his life. he is /miserable./ even the night he had collapsed had not been like this. hazy though the memories are, delirious with pain, he knows he had the luxury of speed, his head in freddies lap, a hospital bed, someone always holding his hand.

there is no such comfort anymore. there will not be, either. they are not that close anymore. long are the days of sitting in each others lap, tangling their feet together, even falling into the same bed at the end of a show. he cannot remember the last time any of his friends have even so much as clapped him on the shoulder.

he cannot remember /warmth./

he has never been so cold in all his life.

-

one shiver runs through him so hard he hits his head on the wall. it hurts, he knows it does, can feel it radiating throughout his skull. it is just that it is muffled. his tongue feels like cotton in his mouth. his eyes sting. his hands and feet are numb.

maybe the prospect of throwing himself off here was a good idea.

-

he wonders who will find his body in the morning.

-

the rain has stopped.

-

everything hurts.

-

it is nearly 11 in the morning when roger finally throws a (something) into the wall.

"where the bullocks is he?" he curses. "does he really think he can be lazy and wank off while the rest of us are here?"

"oh leave him, its not like we need him" john rolls his eyes. "the longer he stays out of this, the better. i feel like i can finally breathe without him hounding me"

"youre not doing anything either rog. why dont you go join him?" freddie purrs.

"because i know that i occassionally have an actual job to do!" he spits the words. "im not fucking enjoying this either but atleast im not being a bum about it!"

"oh, you can go have some actual fun" paul, snickering at freddies shoulder.

"oh for fucks sake-" roger abrubtly stands, knocking over a stand. "we are a BAND. ACT LIKE IT." he pays no attention to the mess, stomping over to john and closing an iron grip over his arm.

"what are you-"

"youre the one responsible for this. youre coming with me to drag his sorry ass here. if i have to sit here and do nothing, so does he."

"roger-"

"come." john grumbles, but follows him out the door anyway.

roger is still swearing when they get to brians door. john hands him a cigarette, and it seems to quiet him down, if only momentarily. he leans against the far wall and lights his own while roger knocks.

"brian." he bangs on the door. "wake up."

no awnser

"we need you to play something"

no awnser.

"god i hope hes fucking decent" roger mutters before turning the knob and stepping inside.

"brian harold may you lazy fuck-"

his voice dies in his throat. brians room is empty. sheets pulled back expose an empty bed, the shower is not running, there is no pair of shoes tucked besides the door.

unease settles over him.

he steps back out of brians room, closing it behind with a soft click.

"well? is he coming or not?"

"john" rogers voice comes out tinny and small. "go get freddie. hes not here"

-

there are no other residents in munich studios. only the four of them, their producers, and the staff. there are only so many places a guitarist can hide.

[b33zlebubz]

RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER FIVE

SIMON RILEY X AFAB READER | MASTERLIST | AO3 PREV CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: reader uses she/her pronouns, blood violence & death, suicidal ideology, slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, toxic workplace environment “Abandoned in a battlefield with the one person you thought you would never see again; you're forced to come to terms with the ghosts of your past."

TUESDAY APRIL 23RD 2024  MEXICO, 0800 HOURS

Your hands are ripped to shreds.

Pain spreads from the pads of your fingers and up through your arms every time you so much as grab the boot of a dead soldier or brush against rubble.  The cold metal of equipment wreckage against the rising, hot sun doesn't help either, and you hiss through your teeth as you dig through carnage and haul one heavy corpse after the other.  Then, you drag them across the landscape and line them up nearby with a sheet over them, shielding them from the elements as best as you could.  Some are enemies, some you’ve shaken the hands of on the tarmac, some are faces you remember passing in the barracks—once laughing and hopeful, but now forever frozen in fear.  

You swallow back your feelings and cover their faces, separating the bodies from the soldiers you once knew.

Just faceless bodies to be buried.  A task to complete.

You could handle that.

Arms and legs shake from exertion as you work and there's a growing ache in your chest each time you breathe, but you press on anyway until your hands refuse to cooperate and you can't stand to walk in the mud anymore.  Sweat sheens across your skin as the sky slowly brightens on the horizon.  The line of bodies is so long now you've started a second row, and you pause in your efforts to look over them.  Your body leans back against the side of the truck as you catch your breath, staring out over the row of boots and helmets before you. 

You decide you've done enough for now.

Your boots carry you to where a small stream bubbles up; an oasis of purity in the bloodshed.  You've found some buckets during your endeavors, once filled with ammo or medical supplies but now left empty, and you take one of them before sauntering down to the stream.  Once you're there, you peel off the soiled top of your fatigues and wash it thoroughly. Blistered, burnt, torn hands scrubbing at patches and camo.

The sun kisses the skin of your exposed arms as you work, pausing to check yourself over for any wounds from the battle that may have gone unnoticed.  Hands gently feel under the rips of the uniform green t-shirt to trace bruises left on thick muscle, prodding and checking for any broken bones hidden by the veil of adrenaline.  Your ribs caught the brunt of the explosion that nearly killed you; if the dark, angry bruises that bloom across your side tell you anything.

Other than that, though, you're fine.

After you're as clean as you can manage and the blood is gone from your top, you set it out to dry in the warm sun.  Then, you drag yourself back to the van—shaky and lethargic.

Ghost is still asleep against the wall when you walk in.  He’s shifted a little, his blond head tipped away from the sun that falls through the doors.  You took the time last night to clean him up; wiping the blood and mud away from his scarred face and dressing the worst of his visible injuries while he slept.  You studied his face as you did, trying to remember if the subtle scars at the corners of his chapped lips were there all those years ago, or if they were new.  You ran the cloth gently under his broken nose and remembered, clearly, how he did the same for you years ago.  How his dark eyes and pale lashes—bagged and stained from eye black—looked whenever they met your gaze paired with that lazy, smug grin of his.  Balaclava scrunched up over his nose and an almost-empty glass in his hand.

You catch yourself staring at him through the light of a flashlight whenever you’re finished; running a cautious finger across his cheek and pinning the face behind the mask to the same strange man who was kind to you when no one else was.

He hasn’t changed much; still all heavy muscles, faded tattoos, and mysterious scars.  Only difference is that you’re the one cleaning his wounds—something that, back then, seemed like something that would never happen.  Could never happen.  Back then, he seemed invincible to you.  Untouchable until he wasn’t.

A few minutes passed before you finally caught yourself and pulled your hand away.  You shook the memories from your brain before leaving to properly gather the bodies and write their names down; because somehow burying the dead was easier than unearthing memories of the living.

And now, eight hours later, the sun beats down on the both of you as you shuffle past the blanket you threw over him the night before, and he stirs with a grunt.

You jump slightly, surprised to hear him awake.  Your ears are still ringing painfully from the explosions and gunfire inches from your face, and the sound of a human grunt is the loudest thing you’ve heard since before he passed out.

He grimaces as he shifts, shoulders lurching and the muscles in his neck tensing.  You're at his side in an instant, holding a bucket up to his face as he retches into it—coughing and gagging even though nothing but bile comes up.

"Easy," you remind him lowly as he finishes—his breathing heavy and shaky as he slowly goes limp again, hands weak as they clutch at your arm and the bucket respectfully.  “How long have you been up?”

Eyes shut, faced flushed, and his forehead leaning tiredly against the edge of the bucket, he swallows with a grimace.  He can’t muster any more than a low grunt as he settles himself back against the wall, wiping at his mouth.  “Long enough to know you’re moving bodies.”

“Someone has to,” you reply, reaching over to brush over his forehead, searching for a fever.  He's bled through the bandages on his head already, and you wonder if you might have to somehow sew the wound shut.  “It’s a dead zone out here.  It’s like everyone alive disappeared.  Usually exfil's here by now, searching for survivors.”

Ghost’s eyes shut.  He breathes and shifts uncomfortably, like he wants to stand, but you place a hand on his chest—keeping him back against the wall.

"Price?  Mactavish?  Garrick?"  He strains, "find any o' those names out there?"

You wrack your memory for a second, but nothing comes up.

"No," you shake your head.  "No…not yet."

That seems to make him relax again, if just slightly. His eyes flicker open and he nods as he settles back against the wall with a resigned sigh.

“‘Was quite the ambush,” he lets his head fall back against the wall and runs a hand across his face as he slowly recovers.  “Neither party fancies coming back just to get slaughtered again.”

You let out a breath.  Recognizing the truth to his words, you nod, but you don’t want to think about it.  Someone had to come searching eventually.

You grab the canister of water you boiled and lean back against the van wall, sliding down until you’re beside him.  A moment of silence passes.  The static of the emergency radio buzzes quietly off to the side.  Sunlight that floods in through the open back doors is warm on your pants, damp from the stream.  Ironically enough, somewhere out in the barren, blood-saturated wasteland; birds are chirping.

“‘Guess we’re stuck together, then,” you mutter, staring at the radio.

He lets out another breath.  This one is longer—deeper than the last.  You can’t quite pinpoint the emotion in it.

“Mm,” he grunts softly.  “It appears we are.”

Another heavy silence.

You turn, lazily holding out the canister for him.  Whenever he doesn’t open his eyes and take it immediately, you nudge his arm—urging him to take it.

“You need water.”

He shakes his head a little and swallows again.  “Won’t hold it down.”

“I can get more.”

“Don't.  You need to rest.”

“Ghost,” your voice has an edge to it now, holding a note of concern and frustration. “Please.”

He finally looks at you again, blinking.  His brow furrows at your expression—your eyes pleading.  Ghost seems to think for a second, tired eyes flickering between your face and the bottle you offer him, like he’s surprised by the sudden emotion in your tone.  You watch him take in your condition; your blistered, cut-up hands and arms.  

“You sit.  Let me fix you,” he says lowly.  “And I’ll drink.”

You narrow your eyes at him, reluctant to take him up on his deal.  The bodies outside don't deserve to sit in the sun and rot—you were fully committed to making sure each and every one of them made it back to their families as intact as possible.  Maybe you would kill yourself doing it, at this point, and maybe some part of you was desperate for a distraction.

And maybe, just maybe, Ghost knew all of these things, because he did not back down.  You figure, maybe, he's always been able to read your mind that way.

So, you nod.  He takes the water.  You settle yourself next to him and drag the first-aid kit over.  Useless hands fumble with the latch, and you curse—frustrated.

He eyes you as he takes a few small sips of water and your shaky hands struggle with the red plastic.  "I said I'd help."

"I can do it myself."

"That wasn't the deal, Sergeant."

With a massive, annoyed sigh; you finally relent, pushing the kit towards him. 

"Colonel," you pointedly remind him again.  Your fatigue reveals itself with the rasp in your voice.  "It's Colonel." 

He shifts with a grunt, lifting his head off the wall and rolling his shoulders.  You try not to let your eyes linger on the muscle that ripples under his shirt from the movement; on his large, tattooed arm as it reaches up to rub at his neck.  If he realizes he doesn't have his mask on, he doesn't seem too bothered by it.

Its nothing you haven't seen before, anyway.  This is just your first time seeing it complete—his eyes, his nose, his jaw all exposed at the same time.  Your first time seeing all the pieces slotted together and bare. 

You avert your gaze as he opens the small kit and gestures for you to come closer.  Hesitantly, you do, pulling yourself in front of him with your legs crossed.  For the first time in days your shoulders relax a little, your hands placed in his.

They're warm; that hasn't changed. 

You watch as he turns over your hands, inspecting the gloves that are now ruined, torn pieces of fabric barely fixed onto your flesh from your work. You watch how he notices they're too big on you, how the skeleton print is worn from years of use…

You watch as he realizes, his fingers hovering over the remains of the gloves he lent you so long ago.

You hold your breath as you wait for him to say something, but he doesn't. 

It's silent, for a while, as he gently peels the fabric from your bloody, burnt hands.  Calloused fingers gently massage dirt and blood away from your palms, revealing your own injuries underneath.  Burns from clawing yourself out from burning metal, the pain still bright and fresh as it was in the moment.  You shake the smell of burning flesh from your mind and the moment is heavy, filled by the sound of his deep breathing and the warm breeze outside.

"You're still a lieutenant," you realize quietly, curiously; finally breaking the silence.  Your hand twitches whenever he presses a cloth soaked in antiseptic to your skin, the wounds burning something fierce where damaged nerves haven't affected.

"I am," he confirms, not looking up at you. 

"Figured you would've ranked up by now."

He doesn't answer for a moment, nudging your fingers apart to start to properly bandage your burnt digits.  When he does answer, it's with a resigned sigh.

"Started working for an old mate some time ago."  he says.  "Not really associated with the SAS anymore."

Suddenly, it clicks. 

Price.  MacTavish.  Garrick.  A briefing on the field days before charging into battle and two young-looking sergeants who introduced themselves afterwards.  A man in a boonie hat that looked too kind for the reputation he held on his shoulders.  You, giving commands to treat them as our own and his orders are my orders.  

You look up at him in disbelief.

"You joined one-four-one?"  You question, sounding more surprised than you intend to.  "Under Captain Price?"

Ghost shrugs, unbothered.  "He needed a sniper he could trust."

You swallow, your throat feeling tight.  Task Force 141 has been residing on the same base, working on the same missions as you and your team, for weeks now.  You met Captain Price personally; showed him the base after he talked with your superiors, strategized with him, even got a drink or two with his team.  How did you not run into Ghost sooner if he was part of such a tight unit?  Was he really that hellbent on avoiding you?  

You don't want to know, but you ask anyway: "How long ago?"

He seems to hesitate again, the rhythm of his hands wrapping secure bandages around your wrists faltering for a fraction of a second.  His eyes glance up at you, and then look away again, and he doesn't need to tell you.  You know enough already.

Now, without the veil of adrenaline to hinder your thoughts—you notice things that have changed about him since you last spoke.  He was softer, back then, in more ways than one.  You can't tell if he gained more muscle or just lost some weight, but he's leaner.  More rugged.  You wonder if he truly hasn't changed, or if he's just acting the same for your sake—his heart long cooled and hardened just as yours has.

Why he disappeared, where he went, what he may have thought about it all, though—that all was clear in how he never answers your question.

You don't press.  Instead, you just lean back against the wall in shock as you rethink your entire experience working with 141 up until this point—every meeting you attended that he could've been at and every mission he didn't lead.  Your mind swirls with thoughts, questions.  Did you really screw up that bad?  That he fled his home country for some taskforce?

Did he regret Camp Viking?

You can't find the will to ask.  

Ghost finishes treating your hands in silence.  He wraps them tight and secure to prevent further damage from blisters and to keep your wounds from getting infected.  When he's finished, you push yourself up—eager to get back to work.  You have a lot to think about and having him tend to your wounds for the first time in years isn’t really helping.

"You should lay down,"  you tell him.  "Get more sleep."

He hums, leaning back against the wall and letting his eyes sink shut.  His brow furrows with discomfort, reaching a hand up to rub at the bandage around his forehead.

"M'fine,"  he grumbles.  "Not my first time smashing my head open."

You sigh.  Reaching over and into your collection of supplies from hours scrounging the battlefield, you grab one of the cleaner blankets you found stored back in another abandoned SUV.  You fold it up to make it a somewhat-decent pillow before reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder.

"You can't even remember my rank, Ghost," you say, coaxing him away from the wall and helping him carefully lower himself to lay down on his side.  He doesn't put up a fight.  Instead, he mumbles something incomprehensible, a hand on your arm to steady himself.

"What?"

"Thanks," he repeats, a little clearer.  "For helpin' me.  You didn't have to."

You stare back at him, almost shocked.  You didn't have to?  Of course you had to; with everything he's done to help you in the past pulling him out of that ditch was practically a given.

You want to say something—scold him, maybe, for even suggesting that leaving him to die was even an option.  You want to yell.  Storm out.  Let out the past eight years of confusion and hurt and frustration.  But now that he's in front of you; now that he's physically here and without the mask to hide behind—the words and the anger seem to die on your tongue.  

Instead, you're just tired.

So, you sigh and squeeze his shoulder as he relaxes. 

“Like it or not, we’re a team,” you tell him.  “Nobody gets left behind.  Even if they’re a huge cunt.”

He huffs the closest thing to a chuckle he can muster, letting his head lull away from the direct sunlight.  “Right.”

"Take it easy," you remind him, pressing the canteen of water into his hand.  "And keep drinking this."

He nods weakly, and just like that, brown eyes shut as his expression loosens and he’s out again.  You wait a second until his breathing slows and you’re sure he’s as comfortable as possible before you get up again.  The pain in your hands now soothed; the work is a little easier.  This time, though, you have three names to look for.

[void-star]

You know, I don't really want to be told to mute the world again. I don't want to be advised to put a wall between myself and the world. I don't want to limit what I take in.

I've lived most of my life inside of and behind my own walls.

What I want is for people to encourage and inspire me to meet the sorrow and violence and cruelty of the world and get through the waves to find myself on the other side.

I want to stay sensitive.

[wet-denim]

You Knew!

Pairing: Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell x Kazansky! Fem Reader

Word count: 905

Summary: Maverick knew that Iceman was sick again, but was told to keep it from a certain someone.

Warnings: swearing!

Maverick knew he was in trouble before she even entered the hangar. The thunderous echo of the external metal door slamming open and then shut again, thunk-thunk, acted as a warning shot. He had time to replace the wrench back in the toolbox and run his hands over the white rag in his jean pocket before the internal door flew open on the other side of the room. Moving around the Cessna carcass he was working on, Maverick didn’t have a chance to beat her to the punch. 

‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ she demanded, her cheeks reddened and her stance strong. Pete could never look at her when she was angry without thinking of her brother, and how much of their fury was genetic. Kazansky genes were strong; the faintly blonde hair, ashy blue eyes that threw daggers without showing it, and a chronically unimpressed pout that dares you to challenge them. Maverick could see Tom in her, especially when she was fired up yet cold as ice. 

Not wanting to inflame whatever blaze was ignited, Maverick rested an elbow up on the plane’s body, replying ‘wow, you could start with a good morning.’

At this, her crossed arms jostled, a low laugh emitting from her throat. ‘Good morning, what the fuck is wrong with you?’ She demanded, her mouth tight across her teeth while she waited for an explanation. Pete had to be honest with her, he had genuinely no idea why she was so angry. As far as he could remember, she had still been asleep when he left the house before the sun went up, and was only going to get groceries for the dinner they were sharing with Tom and Sarah tomorrow night. As for him, he had been at the hangar all morning, working in peace even with the birds that had decided that building a nest in active Navy property was a good idea. 

Maverick watched as her face slowly fell, the back of her hand coming up to cover her mouth, the corners of her lips twitched and her eyes squeezed shut. A choked sob cut through the growing silence between them.

‘I ran into Penny in the store… and she asked me how you were coping with the news… I had to ask her… what she meant…’ she took breaths while dragging her voice from drowning in the shame and hurt filling her entire body, like a sticky ocean she had no hope of swimming in. She moved her hand away from her face and pointed a finger at Maverick. ‘He’s sick again and you knew! You knew and you kept it from me, you bastard!’ She seethed, her chest heaving. 

‘I’m his best friend-’

‘And I’m your wife! And his sister! I had to find out my own brother is dying from Fucking Penny Benjamin in the middle of the goddamn Cash and Carry!’

Maverick was no Iceman. He couldn’t keep it cool in situations like this. He had known. He’d known for days, and had immediately made his way to the Hard Deck to get it out to Penny. Sarah had called him last week to pass it on, Ice was no longer able to hold verbal conversations without pain. But she had made him promise to say nothing to her, that he wanted to tell her in person. Tom decided that it had to come from him, in his voice, not the messenger she would probably shoot when the bomb dropped. Of course he had, look at her now. She was staring beyond him now, out to the sunbathed tarmac of the runway past the hangar doors, willing herself to not fall to her knees and sink through the ground.

Maverick took a step forward, hands slack by his side in resignation. 

'Baby, I wanted to, I really did.' He sighed, now close enough to place both hands on her shoulders, 'please don't think I didn't want you to know. Ice wanted to tell you himself.'

She swallowed hard and blinked, nodding and turning her face up to the ceiling as Maverick wiped a tear from her cheek with his left hand. She knew Tom would exactly be the kind of person to do this. He was direct, and didn’t do second-hand news. 

‘He’s always been like that. Prick.’ She joked, her voice rattling on its way out. She shifted her gaze to look back at Maverick, at the concerned frown on his face. The hooded eyes and furrowed brows gave him away, and the tight corners of his mouth pushing into his cheeks added to the signs of anxiousness. 

A sigh of resignation left her lips as she pressed her forehead into his shoulder, the smell of kerosene from the plane’s fuel tank and metal reminding her that Mav was her home, her safe island in the stormy sea. Even now, after all the moving around because of the Navy and the restless nights wondering if he was okay, the instability his life had provided, he was still the lighthouse in the dark. 

‘I’m still mad at him.’

‘When are you not?’

‘And I’m still mad at you, even though I understand why.’ She sighed in admittance, a dramatic frown on her face as her knees wiggled petulantly. He gave a small laugh, kissing the top of her head before wrapping his strong arms around her. 

‘I love you too, baby.’

[sp00kworm]

Clove Cigarettes

Pairing: Male Vampire (Clarence Marston) x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: Violence, Blood Drinking, Lewd Content mention.

Part of The Black Dahlia Series

----

---

The room smelled like overpowering lavender. Next to the burning sticks of incense there was a number of long, black candles, the ends burning with small flames. Black wax dripped over the sides of the vanity, and Cal swept back into the room with a soft rumble. He couldn’t remember how long he had been coming and going.

“Mmm.” the woman on the bed moaned, “Cal.” she stirred from her sleep, exposing her pale neck, littered with fangs marks, two puncture holes were bruised and sore, barely scabbed over from his indulgences.

“I’m here.” he rumbled as her hand flopped into his own, “Shh.” he cooed as he spread his leathery wings and crawled over the silk sheets. It was her home. Her room was dark from where he’d closed the blinds and curtains, leaving them in darkness. Cal leaned over her body and touched her skin. She was growing cold. Soon she would die from blood loss.

 “Was it worth it?” Cal asked her as his skin slid over her legs, his curls dripping over his shoulders to tickle at her skin. He pressed his pointed, upturned nose to her stomach, grazing his fangs over the skin there, “Was it worth leaving him, for this?”

“Mmmm.” she hummed again as she reached for his face. Cal felt his skin ripple with glamour, pale skin and soft human flesh replacing the cold grey, stony cold feel of his chest, “I like you more.” she purred into the cold skin, “And your bite.”

“You’re addicted to the saliva.” he commented as he pushed her hands to her sides, “It’ll help.” Cal reached for her face and stroked her jawbone, “You haven’t got that long left.” His fangs touched her neck, and she purred as he reopened the wounds. His stomach clenched happily as the taste of iron flooded his mouth. Crimson dripped from the corner of his mouth as he grew excited, leaning into her neck, his teeth tearing the wounds deeper before the rest of his sharp teeth followed them, piercing the flesh so he could grapple her by the throat like a wolf.

 “Cal…” she uttered as her manicured nails fell from his hair, stroking the fur over his back as he drew away, blood covering his lips and chin, “C…” the kick of the consonant fell from her lips. The sound gurgled with the blood in her trachea. Blood bubbled on her lips as his wing claws reached to curl around the bedposts, holding his chest up over her dying body. Air crackled in her throat. Cal reached to touch her face as her eyes went glossy, the pupils expanding into their relaxed state as she died. Carefully, the vampire reached towards her face, his claws drawing bloodied lines over her skin.

“Loving me was your first mistake.” Cal whispered against her lips before he kissed them and closed her jaw. He closed her eyelids before kissing each of them and leaning back, shuddering as he looked at her throat. Torn pieces of her neck hung over the sides of the wound and down over her clavicle. With a purr, Cal shoved his bloodied fingers into his mouth, licking himself clean with his black, pointed tongue. There was silence. The candles swayed as he batted his wings once and hissed, fangs slipping past his lips as he threw his wings out in upset.

“Again… Again...” he whimpered to himself as he licked the blood from his mouth, “He told me! He warned me, and I’ve done it again!”

With a wail, he smashed his claws into the altar, throwing the candles onto the carpet.

 Roaring, the vampire reared back, pressing himself flat against the wall as he crawled to the ceiling and watched from the corner. The body didn’t move. She laid, her arms pressed up against her cushions and her face turned to the heavens. Maybe she would make it there? Cal whispered to himself as he crushed himself into the corner, his black wing claws hooked into the plaster, and softly uttered his prayers for the deceased. He reached for the cross looped around his neck, clutching the rosary close, for once in his life, as the carpet began to smoke with flames. A fire started by the legs of the vanity, burning orange light quickly moving to consume the cheap fabric flooring. It rippled across the plastic underlayers before it caught the side of the soft cotton bedding and burned its way upwards, consuming the carpet underneath the bed before it caught onto the slats of the bed frame. The fire startled Cal, and he clutched at the walls before panicking and rushing for the window. His claws scrapped at the glass, leaving scratches in the pane as he fumbled with the latches. With a hiss, he smashed his hands against the wood and broke the latches free, the wood splintering against his fingers. Great curls of hair fell over his face before he screamed, the flames catching hold of his hair and burning up the right side of his back, licking the soft, leathery membrane of his wing. Pain burned in his back as he tore open the window and burst out into the sunlight. With another hiss, he covered his eyes, his wings stuttering and flapping wildly as the light burned at his monstrous retinas.

 The sunlight wasn’t a death sentence anymore, but Cal regretted his decision to fly out as the sunlight seared at his open wounds, burning the flesh deeper. The star like pattern up his back ran red with boiling blood, dripping onto the tarmac below as he clumsily flapped through the air, heading towards the shaded back streets of the taller city buildings. With another howl of pain, he flung himself down into a shaded alley, clutching at his burnt wing before he dared to shift back into his glamour, naked and in agony, his eyes burning red with fury as he pressed his back against the cold metal of a dumpster. He screamed again at the pain, his blood boiling and fizzing against the metal. Cal looked up at the brick, trying to ground himself before he peeled his healing skin away from the metal again. He hissed violently and his mouth opened wide as spit and blood dripped from his jaw. He gagged and spat curses, his earlier reverence to the Lord forgotten, damning himself again as he gouged at the wall. He could barely hold himself up. A man wandered over to the dumpster with his bag of rubbish.

“Are you alright?” He asked as he caught sight of the shivering vampire, hunched over by the dumpster, “Oh fuck….” he saw the blood and flinched at the sight of the mouth full of fangs, “Fuck no. No way. You need the…” The elf said no more as he was grappled, fangs slicing his neck open. Cal drank from the wound hurriedly, burning with anger, guilt and pain as he gulped greedily, his back stinging but healing over from the burns. He dropped the elf a moment later and marvelled at the male as his eyes rolled up and looked him dead in the eyes, fingers clawing at the dirt as he attempted to gasp for help.

 He left the elf in the alley and dragged himself along the alleyways until he found the sewers, slipping into the stinking manhole to hide from the sunlight and to try and figure out how he was going to avoid being institutionalized for the slip up. They found him in the evening, clutching his rosary, praying against his bed, the right side of his back covered in burns scars, and his face and neck still covered in blood.

 --

 “It’s been a long time since any of us have seen the owner, he tends to keep to himself.” Flix commented as the male fae handed you a black apron before he shook his head and fished you out a deep, crimson red colour, “It matches you better.” he explained, “But the only rule is that his rooms upstairs are off limits. No one sees him come and go, but Cal likes his privacy, and he’s…”

You took the apron and slipped it over your head, “He’s?” You asked, prompting the fae to continue, “He’s not a serial killer or something, is he?” You joked.

Flix turned his lilac eyes on you as he tied his long, purple tinted silver hair back in a high ponytail, “He’s a recovering vampire. He was institutionalized for three years. They had to get him off the blood.” Flix explained awkwardly, “Ever since he’s been reserved. He likes his space, you understand?”

You nodded, swallowing thickly, “Yeah. I understand.” awkwardly you shrugged your shoulders, “Sorry about…”

“It’s a joke, just don’t let him hear you say stuff like that okay, baby?” Flix purred, “We all know what he is but, just to be safe.” The fae tilted your face up by the chin, two of his fingers pressed under your chin.

 Flix leaned close before he pressed the fingers of his other hand to your forehead, the ends glowing with a soft blue light before the light spread over your eyes for a moment, blinding you to the dim bar. You reared back but Flix laughed softly and held you upright as the bright dancing light faded, leaving you dazed and bleary eyed.

“That’s a little spell to stop the unruly sort from coercing you into giving them free drinks or offering them your neck. It’ll stop fae from being able to trick you too.” Flix’s wings fluttered before he grinned with dangerous teeth, “You don’t have to thank me, sweet thing. Your gaze is enough.”

After a moment blinking you scoffed, “You wish you could have a piece of this, Flix.” You flicked his hands away from you and laughed at him.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t fall for mine.” he sang as he pulled on his own apron, “Lets see what you’ve got newbie. Weldrick gave me the ‘all clear’ to grill you on the hardest things I know.”

“You’re not even trying and you still sound desperate for a lay.” You joked as Flix placed the shaker in front of you, “Pick your poison.”

Flix grinned, his black eyes glinting like an insect, shining with rainbows in the strobes before he pointed up at the menus, “A Bloody Mary.”

“Coming right up.” You grinned as you turned to grab the ingredients from the shelves.

 It was a difficult cocktail to make without a mix, but you worked in bars from being barely eighteen. You had enough years in you to know how to make it, but whether it was to Flix’s taste was another question. You poured the cocktail into the glass and took a step back. Flix’s gossamer wings dragging over your arms as he took the drink, smelling it before he took a sip.

“Pretty good, for a human.” he joked as the strength of the drink hit him, “Though maybe for the human customers you might want to tone down the booze.”

“If they can’t handle it, why are they drinking?” You laughed as he knocked back the rest of the drink.

“Vampires might appreciate a real bloody to go along with it.” Flix flicked his hair away with a scoff, “There’s blood bags in the fridge, and fresh frozen in the back. Don’t let them fool you into thinking they need warm living stuff, they’re all just con artists.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice.” You took the glass and placed it in the boxes for cleaning, “So, do you want to test me on anything else, or am I good to go?”

Flix grinned as he leaned over the bar, “You’re good to go, sweet thing.” He batted his long, circular tipped eyelashes, and left you to the end of the bar, “Get those liquors in order, we open in twenty!”

 The bar opened to a few guys, larger orcs who were older than the usual bruisers who came through. They were shaved bald in a traditional manner, their heads covered with tattoos and their ears pierced with numerous rings. They snorted in orcish to one another before thanking you for the drinks and leaving to sit in the corner, sighing in relief after their days work. The rest of the customers trickled in later on. The Black Dahlia attracted numerous clienteles and you were witness to all of them. The group of orcs that came in later were younger, headstrong, and brash as they swaggered between the bar and their put together tables. A faun at the end of the bar scoffed and talked to her friend as two of them ordered drinks. Flix served the men with a flirtatious wink, fluttering his eyelashes and you made sure to bump his backside purposely hard as you went past, smacking his hips into the bar roughly as the two orcs turned to the faun and human sat on the end.

“Do you ever give it up, Flix?” You asked with a snort as you placed some glasses into the tubs for washing.

“Not while I’m awake, no.” Flix grinned as he walked towards the next customer. You shook your head and carried on with your shift as the human and taller, older orc headed to the balcony to watch the show.

 You had a break at about ten o’clock. It was much busier now that the band were on stage, in full swing of their show. You’d served humans, fae, werewolves and centaurs alike this evening, and you’d not had to deal with anyone who was unruly. You waved to Flix as you left him flirting with a group of Orcs, heading to the balcony to catch a bit of the show as you ate your food from the kitchen and drank the soft drink that you’d stolen from Flix’s personal favourites. The band chugged along before the female brought out a whip and bared her sharp elven teeth, her ice white eyes shining as she ran it along the audience. You laughed as you stabbed another fry, lathering it in sauce before you shoved it into your mouth, and washed it all down with a few glugs of the fizzy juice. Happily, you sat on the stool, watching the clock every now and then as you finished off your food.

 As you took another drink, a cold shadow passed over you. You shuddered in your seat and peered behind you to see a slouching man take three long strides towards a table where the handsome orc and his entertainment for the night were sat. The man was a giant, clad in a soft turtleneck and black jeans covered in chains and small crosses. Around his neck sat a long, drooping rosary, and it bounced against his chest as he stopped, tossing black curls of hair from his eyes to peer at the couple over his sunglasses. His eyes burned red in the light but as fast as the colour appeared, it disappeared back into the steel blue. He shook the human’s hand before looking in his pockets for his cigarettes. The orc returned and the situation turned hostile and cold. The male reached for his gum packet instead and shakily unfolded the wrapper and slinked into the shadows, his hair rippling into the walls as he disappeared again from view. You sat with your mouth open before a hand appeared on your table, black nails thumping against the wood before a cold breath blew against you ear.

“Get back to work, newbie.” the gravelly voice growled, and you were quick to oblige, hopping up from your seat and escaping with your plates down the stairs to the bar front.

 Your shifts at the Black Dahlia were regular. You even picked up extra hours when the female werewolf, Jude, went off on maternity for her second litter. You hoped to god she made enough money to support that many children, but you didn’t dare to question it as Flix talked about the process of werewolf childbirth.

“I don’t need to know, Flix!” You groaned at him, “One child is gross enough! Never mind a litter!” You smacked at him with your towel, “So hush!”

Flix cackled, “I didn’t think children would freak you out so much!” he prodded your arm, “You enjoy all those blood spurting bands on stage! I was sure you’d love seeing blood and mucus come out….”

You thumped the fae in the arm, “Seriously! Enough!” You scowled as you turned back to drying the pint glasses, “Sometimes you are way too much…” You muttered.

“Hey, come on. I’m sorry sweat pea!” Flix cooed, “I won’t mention it again, promise.” he crossed his finger over his heart.

“Fine.” You reached to pinch his cheek, “But next time I’m going to tell Weldrick!” You threatened.

“Ugh. You’re just a little minotaur’s pet.” he hissed at you playfully before turning back to his own job. Flix exited into the kitchen to load some final plates and glasses for washing.

 “You’re fitting in well.” a low voice grumbled from the end of the bar. You jumped out of your skin at the noise, too focused on washing the pots to be paying attention to who was hanging around. You looked up to see the same, dark clad man from the other week. This time his black hair was tied back, revealing the hanging silver cross earrings in his ears. His steel eyes and low brows accentuated a thin face with high cheekbones, making him seem thinner than he was really. Tonight, he was dressed in a set of tight trousers and a tight, long sleeved red shirt, the sleeves long with soft ruffled ends, matched with a tied neck scarf under the collar. His sunglasses were pushed into his hair.

“Cal?” You asked lamely as you placed down the glass you were cleaning.

“Yes. I am he.” he droned as he picked at a beer towel with black painted nails, “Are you enjoying your time here?” Cal asked with a cool stare, his mouth twitching with a sneer, revealing the sharp set of fangs that filled his mouth. It was unlike any vampire you had met before.

“Uh…” Your heart did a flipflop before you could reply, “Yeah. I am. It’s nice to have such a stable job for once.” You confessed quickly, praying he wouldn’t bring up how nervous you were.

 “I can hear you on the verge of a panic attack. Calm down. I know they’ve all told you how I was addicted to fresh blood. Bleeding blood, or whatever they call it now. I’m off it. I have been for years.” He snarled, “So stop panicking.”

You nodded, “Sorry.”

“Don’t. I don’t need it. I know what people think.” Cal pointed to the freezer under the counter, “Get me an O negative, please.” It seemed as though he had to squeeze the manners onto the end.

You walked closer and unlocked the freezer before fishing him a pack out and throwing it into the microwave to thaw after clicking the anticoagulant vacuole to avoid it from clotting. As you turned around, Cal grabbed your wrist, dragging you over the bar so he could sniff at you. The vampire’s eyes burned red for a moment.

“Or would you rather give me your blood?” he purred, the gravelly tone suddenly much more appealing, “It won’t hurt.” he comforted you as he opened his mouth full of monstrous teeth.

 It was then you looked into his eyes, seeing the cold steel, and blinked.

“Flix put an anti-glamour spell on me. That doesn’t work.” You frowned before dragging your wrist out of his freezing cold grip, “Do you do that to all new starters?”

Cal sat back on the stool as he pushed his glasses back down onto his nose, “Not all. Just the ones I know will be snacks if Flix fucked up the spell.”

“What do you mean ‘know will be a snacks’?” You quoted back at him before throwing his warm blood bag onto the bar.

Cal snatched the bag and looked at the contents curiously before he stole a glass from your clean side on the bar and piped the contents into it. The red blood made you feel a little queasy, and you looked away as he greedily drank it, still ignoring your question.

“I meant…” he swallowed the last of the blood, “Vampires like to prey on new things like you. I might be scary, but they’ll do what they want if no one is watching. Keep your wits about you, or you’ll end up as a blood bag, or better yet, a brood barer for a drider.” he tossed the glass and packet on the bar and sneered as he turned. “Happy Halloween, newbie. Stay away from witches tonight.” His hair flowed into a shadowy smoke again before he disappeared up the shadowed walls and disappeared.

 A slim hand fell on your shoulder, shocking you out of your annoyance and making you jump with a small gasp.

“Hey, calm down sweet thing, it’s just me.” Flix’s black eyes appeared next to you before he turned you around to look you in the eyes, “By the look on your face, I’m going to assume you met Cal?” He tilted his head.

“Yep.” You took a steadying breath, “He’s something…” You couldn’t really articulate what you thought in a kind way.

“He’s a bastard. I know.” Flix laughed as he flung his towel onto his shoulder, looking towards the shadows which Cal had disappeared into, “I’ll say sorry on his behalf. He’s…socially awkward.” Flix’s gaze eventually looked away from the shadows, and when you looked back, Flix was quick to wrap his hand around your shoulder and turn you towards the doorway, dragging you down to the other end of the bar.

“Forget about him anyway. Let’s get ready for the costume aspect!” Flix declared as he pushed you into the back room, “I’ve got just the thing for you!”

You shook off the odd feeling and smiled, “It better not be underwear!”

 The feeling of being watched followed you all night as you wandered up and down the bar serving various costumed customers. You were in a cape and a set of polymer fitted fangs. Most of the vampires of the evening had taken to laughing at your fangs and white face. A pretty, tall vampire lady had scoffed before asking you if you’d prefer some real ones. Thankfully, Flix’s glamour worked its magic, preventing you from falling under any of their hypnotic spells. You thanked them, laughed, and served them their heated blood drinks. Flix enjoyed the evening more than you, fluttering around with his great wings dipping and curving as he delivered drinks by air. Halloween was the night monsters could let their hair down.

 “Hey, Flix.” You looked up above the bar, “I’m just going for a quick toilet break!” You shouted up to him. The fae gave you an ‘okay’ sign from the air and fluttered with a graceful dip down to deposit a set of drinks with some gruff looking werewolves. You hung your apron up behind the bar before you headed to the toilets a little way from the bar. You hopped down the steps and opened the door before freezing in your tracks. A monster made of tentacles and thick slime oozed in a cubicle, and you backed away as a woman’s moans came from the where the toilet wall was. A tentacle appeared from around the door, the eyeball on the end rotated and blinked before the woman paused.

“Why have you stopped?” She whined, and you took that as the exact time to bolt with a rush of apologies spewing from your mouth. You slammed the door to the toilets closed and rubbed at your face, embarrassed and feeling hot as you escaped back to the bar.

 A cold shadow lingered over your shoulder before a hand touched you by the bottom of the stairs, icy fingers pressing into the cheap fabric cape.

“A vampire?” Cal’s deep, gravelly voice asked before the rest of his cold body appeared at your right side, “Well, maybe a poor imitation of one.” He chuckled once, twice, and then stepped around your front.

“Cal…” You uttered before composing yourself, “It was Flix’s idea, not mine.”

“Ah. Yes, he does like to do things to get under my skin.” Cal commented before he noticed your squirming, “Is Rendax causing problems in the toilets again?” He asked, “That damn tentacle pest doesn’t know when he’s not welcome.”

“Yeah…well he’s doing a lot more than just causing a problem, I think.” You made a hole with your right thumb and index finger before pushing your left index finger through it, “If you catch my drift.”

“I’ll have Weldrick deal with him.” Cal snapped open his phone with a soft hiss and a scowl as he listened to the phone ring, “Weldrick? Yes… We have an unwanted visitor in the toilets, again.” He snapped the phone closed and you felt yourself smile as you looked at the old flip-phone.

 “You know those have been out of fashion for about fifteen years, right?” You tried not to laugh as the vampire held the phone by its small antenna. A soft giggled escaped you.

Cal stepped from one foot to the other, awkwardly looking at his aloft phone, “It is what I was bought before we toured in two thousand and three.” He muttered to himself, “What do you humans use now?” He asked.

You looked him in the eyes, seeing the sad steel colour of them for a moment before you reached for your pocket and produced a smart phone, “Touch screen, colour, internet access.” You clicked it on, and the vampire jumped slightly at the colours in front of him, “Wait…”

Cal recoiled as you push the phone to him, “What?” He grumbled.

“I don’t think it would work, you know, since you’re dead and all that.” You confessed as you typed on the device.

“Probably not.” He confirmed before taking a step backwards, brushing his ponytail away before he cringed and stepped back towards the shadows, “You…” He looked from you to the bar again, “You are welcome to use the toilet near my office while Weldrick deals with our unwanted guest.”

 As you nodded, the white minotaur came down the stairs. Your mouth opened at the size of the white bison looking minotaur. Weldrick’s fur was printed with black patterning, like tattoos, and he rolled his sleeves as he came to the bottom of the stairs, preparing to deal with the tentacle monster. The sheer amount of metal rings in his ears made him clink as he walked, and you took note of the nose hoop and eyebrow rings as he stopped short of you and Cal.

“Can Rendax not keep it in his fuckin’ pants for one sodding night?!” Weldrick shouted, and the crowd behind you parted as the minotaur gave Cal’s shoulder a clap. He thumped on the toilet door and opened it with a clatter, “You better be fuckin’ decent, Rendax, or I’m dragging both you and your girl toy out of here fuckin’ naked!” He hollered as he ducked his horned head to grab for the monster inside.

Cal turned on his heels, “Come on.” He led the way up the stairs, melting between the bodies as though he wasn’t even really there. No one paid him any attention and you followed quickly, still desperate for the toilet.

 The stairs led to the second-floor balcony before there was another set of doors with a code on the handle. Cal punched in the numbers and opened it to the second set of stairs, letting you go through first before he followed you, closing the door behind him. The locking system re-engaged with a soft click and you turned back to see Cal eye the handle, his hand lingering around the metal before he gave an awkward half smile.

“Carry on up the stairs. It’s the first right door.” He shooed you up the stairs, and you nodded before heading up in front of him. A moment later, he followed in your footsteps, quiet as he made sure to stay a few steps behind you. You quickly found the door and opened it to see a large bathroom. It was perhaps Cal’s personal one, but it was bare, having just a few bottles in the shower basket. You locked the door and listened as Cal stopped outside. The shadow of his shoes remained for a moment before he walked on down the hall and entered a different room. The door closed with a soft click and you let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

 A cold shiver ran down your spine as you pushed off the door and headed towards the toilet. It was then you wondered if vampires even had to relieve themselves. They were technically dead, after all. You pondered the thought for a moment as you finished your business and washed your hands. You looked at the slate tiles for a moment, admiring the décor, before unlocking the door and sticking your head out into the hall. There was no sign of Cal. You stepped out and turned quickly to rush back down to the bar.

A claw grazed at your head, tugging a piece of hair, running through it quickly. You squeaked and looked up to see black hair hanging from Cal’s head. He was hung just over the door, hunched, with his claws in the ceiling and his head near your own.

“I’d like for you to work next Friday. Is that agreeable?” he asked with a tilt of his head.

You got over your fright with a deep breath, “Yes. That’s fine, but you could have just, uh, asked.”

Cal scowled.

“Without being hung from the ceiling?” You added on before moving out of his way, towards the stairs, “Thank you for letting me use your toilet.” You smiled and disappeared back down to the bar as quick as your feet would carry you.

 Cal watched you leave before he slid from the ceiling and snatched your novelty cape from where it was stuck in the door.  

 “Are you okay?” Flix asked as he fluttered down from the ceiling, his wings brushing at your cheeks before he landed softly.

“Huh?” You asked before realising you probably looked rushed off your feet, “Uh, yeah. I’m fine.” You lied with a smile. You rushed back behind the bar before reaching for your shoulders and realising your cape had come free during your escape. You didn’t have the courage to go and fetch it, so you turned back to the people waiting and got started making drinks and taking cash.

 Halloween was forever burned into your mind and your retinas after seeing what you did that night. More importantly, however, you remembered the dark look of hunger in Cal’s eyes as he hung from the ceiling, seemingly with nothing but the soles of his shoes and one hand’s fingertips. He liked to lurk around the left wall of the club, his back pressed to it as he scanned the crowds of people. You had no idea what he was looking for, or if he knew you could see him, but he gave you no inclination that he could see you staring. There was always the sad, lonely coldness to his eyes. It burned to hunger whenever an exposed neck went past, and you saw him fidget and reach for a piece of gum often, like he was kicking a habit other than the cigarettes. You watched him again tonight, his tall frame pushed back into the shadow of the balcony, slouched against the wall in a pair of dark sunglasses, his curls of dark hair dripping over his shoulders where they melted back into the shadows around him. He was shirtless, covered only in a leather jacket and black jeans, the studded belt wrapped around his hips. As he turned, you caught a glimpse of the tattoos on his chest with a centre cross between his pecs. It was flanked by three pairs of shaded wings. You looked at the ink intensely before you looked back at your cocktail mixer and wondered what it meant.

 As you finished serving the masses, you felt out a breath and sat back on the stool behind the bar, taking a moment to rest your feet before people started to queue with orders again. As you relaxed against the wooden shelving you peered back to the left wall, where you had last seen Cal lurking. He was gone, replaced by a couple cuddled together watching the band who were playing. A soft melody rang out from a synth, not unlike a church organ. It petered into some soft vocals and you dared to close your eyes and let out a breath as your body relaxed a little.

“Enjoying a break?” Cal’s gravelly voice carried over the top of the lilt of a guitar.

“Ah!” You jumped a little, smacking your head against the wooden shelf. You clutched at the spot and rubbed furiously to try and push the pain aside, “Sorry.” You winced at you pulled your hand away, seeing a dot of blood from a little scrape on your scalp.

Steel eyes locked onto your fingers, but Cal didn’t move. The vampire swallowed and tore his gaze away from the blood.

 “Here.” Cal reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a small handkerchief, “To stop the blood.”

“Thank you.” You took the piece of soft cloth from him and pushed it to the little cut. You avoided his eyes for a moment before slowly looking up and realising that his neck was bare of the rosary, “You don’t have your rosary on.” You commented, off-handed.

Cal looked down at his chest before nodding and pushing his glasses down his nose, “I don’t. You’re more observant than I thought…But that doesn’t answer my original question, does it?” he reached for his back pocket and slid free a packet of cigarettes.

“Smoking will kill you, you know?” You joked before taking the handkerchief away from the scratch on your scalp. “I was. It’s been madness serving tonight. Flix is off so its just me manning the bar.”

“Oi!” Weldrick ducked his head out of the kitchen door, “I’ve been helping you all night, cheeky little fucker.” the minotaur snorted at you before seeing Cal. His blue eyes widened in shock, “I didn’t expect to see you out and about, Cal.”

The vampire snorted as he turned the packet of empty cigarettes with a sneer, “Well, it is also my bar.” He flicked his painted nails at the minotaur.

“Oh, is it?!” Weldrick grumbled, “Well, maybe you can come help serve fuckin’ drinks in it then!”

 You looked back at Weldrick and then to Cal. The vampire’s teeth poked out from beneath his top lip before he snarled with a hiss.

“Fuck you, Weldrick. You know I can’t!” Cal curled back in on himself suddenly, all his bite lost as though he had been kicked.

“Yeah. I know why. You’d eat the clients.” Weldrick gruffly stated before he dragged you away by the arm, turning your head before you were deposited in the kitchen out of sight of Cal, “So is that what you’re sweetening this one up for?”

Cal looked at Weldrick over the top of his sunglasses again, “No.” he slammed the cheap vampire costume cape on the bar top, “I came to give this back.” His nails were claws as he dragged his hand away and he grabbed his forgotten handkerchief from the bar.

Weldrick saw the blood on the cloth, “Cal. You know you can’t do this again.”

“I’m not doing anything.” He insisted, “I’m not relapsing, so stop. Just stop. I’m not an animal and I’m over it. I was trying to…”

“Be a bit more human.” Weldrick finished for him with a thump to the vampire’s shoulder, “Well. Don’t let me stop you, but I’m warning you, I’ll intervene again if I find out that…”

Cal sighed, “I know.” before he walked away from the bar.

 You peered back around the door with a sheepish smile. Weldrick watched the vampire weave his way back up the stairs before he turned around, his giant tattooed arms crossed over his chest.

“What’s the rule, newbie?” he grumbled at you, his nostrils flared and his pierced ears flicking back and forth.

You ducked your head and fiddled with your apron, “No flirting with vampires?” You looked up, “But I was…”

Weldrick grumbled again, “No. You don’t get close with Cal. Flix warned you about him, and about glamouring!” he insisted, “Watch yourself, that’s all I’m saying.” Weldrick sighed and scrubbed at his messy white fur, “Cal’s a good lad. He’s just…got a lot of issues and things going on in that old head of his. You get me?”

You nodded, “I was just being polite and…he seems nice, just a little eccentric.”

Weldrick laughed at you, “Eccentric is one word.” he clapped your back harshly, winding you, “Look after your neck, newbie. Any vamp would like a piece of you, I’m sure. That girlie in the corner had been eyeing you for an hour before Cal showed up to strong arm his claim. He’s taken a liking to you, whether you like it or not!” Weldrick said before he disappeared into the back again and you sat back on your stool. You looked at the young female vampire, decked in dreads and deadly red lip gloss. She avoided looking back at you and disappeared into the crowd.  

 You plucked your novelty cape from the bar top and looked up the stairs, where Cal had disappeared into the crowd and up to his rooms. You took a breath and turned back to the kitchen.

“Weldrick? I’m just going to thank him for bringing my cape back.” You said around the door frame, peeking inside to see Weldrick carrying two new kegs of beer.

“Fine. Watch yourself heading up there, okay? Do you know the code?” he asked as he stepped around you and ducked underneath the bar.

“No, but I figured that Cal would be able to hear me knock?”

Weldrick nodded and gave you a thumbs up from underneath the bar, “Bat ears come in handy sometimes.” he snorted as he undid the old keg.

You left the minotaur tucked underneath the bar and headed towards the stairs; your hands tucked into your apron pocket.

 A few patrons gave you smiles and greetings as you passed them by, and you smiled and rushed along towards the door, marked by a large ‘private’ sign. You felt silly as you stood in front of the door, awkwardly playing with the frill on the cape collar. One deep breath, you told yourself, as you sucked in air, and held it, calming yourself with a long exhale before you knocked timidly. It didn’t take Cal long to unlatch the lock and open the door inwards, his face painted with a frown and his glasses pushed into the top of his hair. His intense eyes met your own before he looked at the cape in your hands.

“Thank you.” You said, “For returning my cape I mean. I didn’t have the balls to come back and ask for it…and now I realise that I was a bit stupid.”

Cal’s eyebrow quirked, “Its not a problem. I realised you’d left it in the bathroom, but I only just now remembered you were on shift.” he reasoned quietly before he hummed, “Would you like to…”

“Sorry but I’m still on shift, and Weldrick will hang me if I leave him to work alone. But really,” you reached out and laid your hand over his, squeezing it slightly as you smiled, “Thank you. Most people wouldn’t have washed it either.”

You left him stood at the door and rushed back through the customers to help Weldrick pull pints for a rowdy group of elves.

 The vampire watched you head back down the stairs with a small grimace before he snatched his hand back to his side and shut the door with a small bang, his other hand clutching the bloodied handkerchief you had given him. He looked at it before heading up the stairs and throwing it into the washing machine in his small flat.

 Cal seemed to warm slightly after that night, and he would linger a little closer to the bar during the nights you were on shift, ignoring your stares as he leaned by the wall in whatever black attire took his fancy, always with a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, and a piece of gum in his fang filled mouth. This night was no different, but Cal weaved his way towards the stage, the chains attached to his jeans swinging as he tugged the band’s lead singer down to tell him something. You looked over, wiping a glass as he pulled himself up on the stage and threw off his jacket and shirt. Your eyes were drawn to the wings and cross on his chest, and then to the upside-down crucifix on his back, seared on his right side with creeping burn scars. The bar fell silent before the screaming started, and people flooded towards the front, pushing and grinning as Cal pushed his sunglasses into his hair and took hold of the microphone stand. He didn’t say anything but the band on stage grinned and nodded to each other as they started the slow chug of a song.

 “Oh, newbie, are you in for a treat tonight.” Flix chuckled behind you as his insect like wings fluttered over the top of your head, “Cal on stage. He’s not sang a song in nearly a year. You better get the mop bucket for the girlies at the front.”

“He can sing?” You asked, confused.

“Don’t you know?” Flix asked back, with a wide-eyed look, “Oh my sun and moon!” he exclaimed, “Cal was part of Black Blood!”

Your mouth fell open, “No fucking way! You’re fucking with me?”

Flix laughed, a gentle tinkering noise next to your ear, “No way, sweetie. He was part of the band until, well…You know the rest.”

“He was a musical god and now he runs a bar?” You stated, “This is surreal.”

“You tend to lose a lot of reputation when you eat fans.” Flix stated before he squealed as he was hit over the head.

 Weldrick snorted from above the two of you, looming like an all-white shadow, “Better believe he was a god.” he hummed before sighing, “Too bad the addiction killed his career, and the band. Durzub never did forgive him. Poor sod.”

“What exactly happened?” You asked but before Weldrick could answer you, Cal opened his mouth. You watched in awe as he formed the words, and the crowd leaned a little closer. He caressed the microphone stand as he started to sing about a night in a dark palace and you swore the crowd swayed with each syllable, as though they were under some kind of spell.

“Is that a glamour spell?” You whispered to Flix.

The fae only grinned, his black eyes sparkling as he turned your face back to the stage, “Just watch.”

So, you did, you watched him sway and sing, his hands slipping across faces and himself as he weaved something like a story. One night of passion before the sunrise split the lovers apart and the dawn burned his skin away. Everything was enchanting, his deep voice like a drug you couldn’t get enough, but each time you leaned closer you shook your head and took a step back. The audience was entranced, and you watched the men and women at the front swoon. An organ melody marked the end of the song, trailing into the soft plucking of a guitar and Cal’s eyes stared across the audience, finding your own. He held the stare for a moment before he pushed his sunglasses back over his eyes and took his shirt and jacket. No one followed him as he weaved through the swaying bodies and disappeared back into the shadows of the bar.

 “What the fuck was that?” You asked as the audience finally came to and started to cheer, “Were they hypnotised?”

Weldrick huffed, “Not quite. His singing has always had that effect, unfortunately. People are just enamoured. He swears there’s not a trick to it, but something about his singing is plain magical.”

“Magical is one word for it.” Flix snorted as he bumped your hip, “I would say sexy.”

“Watch yourself, Flix.” Weldrick laughed as he turned to head back into the cellar.

“It was amazing.” You stated with a sheepish smile, “I wonder if he’ll sing more?”

Flix nipped your cheek with his finger and thumb, “Once a year, sweet thing, once a year.” he punctuated the statement by poking you in the ribs.

“It’s a shame. He sings so beautifully.” You complimented as you took hold of another glass and dried the water off it.

 “I bet you would sing really lovely in bed.” A brash vampire leaned over the bar, flashing his fangs as his blond hair dripped over his eyes. He pushed it back into its styled quiff with a wide, charming smile. He reached for your hand and you took a quick step back, smiling politely.

“Oi. Vampire.” Flix hissed, “You know what’s allowed and what isn’t here.” The fae took you by the shoulders, “No fresh blood. You get the pack stuff, or you find somewhere else to haunt.”

The vampire scoffed, “Why don’t you let them speak for themselves, huh, sparkly boy.” He took your hand again.

“Sir, thank you, but I’m really not interested.” You carefully tried to slide your hand back, but it was caught in the vampire’s iron grip, “If you would like a drink, I can make you one?”

“Get off, fang bag.” Flix snarled.

 You didn’t get to defuse the situation, because as you tugged your hand again, a moment later, the vampire was slammed against the bar, pinned in place by Cal. The older vampire hissed, fangs dripping by the youngster’s ear as he pressed his claws into his neck, cutting the skin underneath his ears.

“Cal!” Weldrick shouted but he was silenced as Cal drew his head away, eyes pulsing red and his mouth open, his nose upturned. His face was the picture of a monstrous bat, feral and unhinged, his skin bleeding to a soft grey.

Cal held up a finger to you all before he leaned back over the vampire pinned to the countertop, “What is the one rule I have here?” He asked, his face contorted like a feral animal.

The youngster hissed pathetically and thrashed.

“I’ll gladly gut you and hang you from a church spire.” Cal threatened, “Or I’ll take this to your maker?”

The youngster pressed himself flat, “We don’t touch the humans.” he said, finally, as he deflated in defeat.

“That’s right.” Cal growled, “So, I suggest you find a new bar to fuck about in.”

 As he finished the sentence, he threw the youngster towards the door, sending him sprawling against the wall with a slam that shook the bar. The male rushed to his feet before escaping out of the entrance, his hair dishevelled and flying around his head. You closed your mouth as Flix placed a hand on your shoulder.

“Thanks, boss.” Flix uttered as he looked over your hand, “You’re gonna have some mean bruises, newbie.” he commented as he turned your hand palm up.

You couldn’t really focus on Flix as you looked Cal in the eyes. His face morphed back to a human looking guise behind a thin curtain of his hair. He moved his black curls back over his shoulder and nodded at you.

“Thank you.” You flinched as Flix prodded at your fingers.

“You’re welcome.” Cal whispered before he turned and walked away, fiddling with his jacket where it was torn by the youngster’s claws.

“Hey!” You pushed Flix’s fretting hands away and ducked through the bar door, rushing to catch up with Cal. He turned just outside the door to the upstairs flat and looked at you as he reached for a piece of spearmint gum, popping the rectangle piece into his mouth as you floundered, “Can…Can I take you out somewhere? To pay you back for everything you’ve done?”

 Cal stopped chewing, his jaw going stiff before he reached for the empty cigarette packet in his jeans pocket and cursed again. He ducked his head, appearing small despite his towering height, standing at well over six feet tall.

“It won’t be, uh, a date or anything, unless you know, you want that. I just want to say thank you, I guess.” You babbled until he reached out his hand.

“Let me see your hand.”

It wasn’t a question; it was a demand.

You held up your bruised hand, “Its nothing.” You deflated, thinking you had been rejected.

Cal looked at your hand for a moment before letting you cradle it again, “Meet me outside. Friday lunchtime. There’s an old diner a few blocks away.” He grumbled quietly.

You smiled and nodded, “Sure. Dinners on me!” You gushed before catching yourself, “Well, not me. I don’t think I have very good blood and…”

Cal let out a low, deep chuckle, before he pushed his sunglasses back up into his hair. His breath smelled like mint as he took your hand and kissed the sore fingers, “See you then.” he rumbled before he unlocked the door and disappeared up the stairs.

 Deciding what to wear seemed like the end of the world until your finally settled on something not too flashy, but a little dressy. You fiddled with the bottom of your shirt as you waited close to the entrance to The Black Dahlia. It was a little past midday and you wondered if you had come a little too early. Your fears were shot when the door opened, and Cal stepped out into the sunlight. He was in his sunglasses, the collar of his duster turned up to hide his cheeks with a black, red trimmed fedora on his head to shield his face from the sun.

“Hey, sorry if I’m a little early.” You smiled as you reached him.

Cal shrugged his shoulders, “Its not a problem. I don’t tend to sleep much… And I heard you arrive.” he tapped his ear underneath his collar, “A vampire thing.”

“Oh…You know I never thought of that.” You confessed before pointing to his hat, “You’re not going to uh, burst into flames, are you?”

Cal’s lips twisted up in a half smile, “No. I’m a little sensitive to sun, but I’m old enough that it isn’t lethal anymore. I wouldn’t have said daytime if I knew I would burst into flames.” he nodded his head, “Come on. The diner isn’t far.”

You followed him happily, not straying too far from his side as you made a bit of idle conversation to fill the silence.

 The diner was three blocks away. Cal opened the door and let you inside first. It was a cosy place, with wooden interiors and metal accents. It was quiet, with no customers milling around just yet, except for a dwarf, who was asleep in one of the booths furthest away from the door. A female elf looked up from her notebook and smiled brightly as Cal entered behind you.

“Clarence!” she tittered, “By the sun! It’s been so long since we’ve seen you! You know we only live four streets away!” she exclaimed before smacking his shoulder with her towel.

“Sorry, Graeliel.” Cal muttered, “Its…”

“Don’t. I know, sweetheart. I know.” Graeliel reached up and took hold of his cheeks between her palms. She patted his face before tossing her brown braids over her shoulders and dashing behind the counter, “Pam! Pamela!” she screeched, “Clarence is here!”

An older orc woman appeared from the kitchen, her chef’s apron splattered with sauce and her mohawk flattened with the heat of the kitchen, “Boy you best hope I don’t get hold of you!” she shouted as she crossed her arms over her chest, “Three years, and not a word! Not a word!”

 Cal shrivelled in on himself a little, “I’m sorry, Pam, Graeliel. I know I should have called or something…”

Pam held up her hand, “Don’t give me that.” she looked down at him and scrubbed at her silver-streaked hair, pulling it back before sighing, “I know, sweetheart. We’ve been worried, is all.”

“Pamela has been beside herself.” Graeliel added before she patted her wife’s shoulder, “But it’s all right. You’re here now…and with company?” She added as she peered around Cal, spotting you stood by the door.

Awkwardly, you gave them both a wave and stepped forwards.

“Ah,” Cal introduced you before adding, “We’re here for lunch if you have the space?”

“Oh but of course!” Graeliel grinned, exposing her slightly sharp, elven teeth, “I didn’t think you would ever find a partner, Cal!”

“You owe me thirty, Graeliel.” Pamela chuckled as she walked back towards the kitchen, “And no, I won’t accept back massages this time!” she shouted out of the door before disappearing again.

 Graeliel took your arms and rolled her eyes at her wife before she led you both over to a booth in the other corner of the restaurant. She grabbed a napkin holder and two sets of cutleries for you both and laid them on the table carefully before she laid two laminated menus down too.

“I’ll go and get you some drinks to let you decide what to have. How does two lemonades sound?” Graeliel smiled as she tucked her notebook in the front pocket of her apron.

“That sounds great.” You answered before you looked to Cal, “Wait. Is that okay?”

The vampire nodded his head, “Its fine. I can still have human food and drink, in moderation. It holds no nutritional value, and a lot makes me feel sick, but its nice sometimes.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that. I don’t think I’ve ever asked a vampire before though.” You smiled. Graeliel nodded and headed off to go and grab you both a drink, leaving you both with the menu and silence, which was occasionally broken by the snoring dwarf at the other side of the diner.

 “What are you going to get?” You asked Cal as you flopped the menu back on the table, “Are the club sandwiches any good?”

Cal shifted and pulled his coat off before reaching up to the top of the window and pulling down a window shade, which kept the sun off him. When he was comfortable, he carefully pulled his glasses and hat off, revealing his steel-coloured eyes. He was dressed in a shirt and a dark pair of jeans with his rosary sat on top of his chest. His black hair fell down his back and he reached to tie it back quickly before he picked up the menu and crossed a leg over his knee, resting the ankle on his knee.  

“The steak is actually decent.” he commented, “But if you want something light the chicken Caesar wrap is great. They source meat from an organic place…I think. It’s been a while since I was last here.”

“The falafel sounds better.” You grinned, having decided on your meal, “What about you?”

Cal peaked at you over the top of his menu, “The usual.” He shrugged his shoulders and leaned back, leaving the menu on top of your own.

“What’s your usual then?” You prodded his hand on the table.

“A pint of blood and a rare steak.” Cal muttered, looking up at you to check for your reaction.

 You were shocked for a moment, before you started laughing, creasing yourself against the table as you saw his eyes widen and his hands fidget with the edge of the table.

“Sorry.” You wheezed, “I just didn’t think you’d say it like that.”

A ghost of a smile turned his lips up at the corners, “People don’t like vampires. I wanted to see what you thought but,” he gestured to your wheezing, “it obviously doesn’t phase you.”

Once you finally caught your breath you looked him in the eye, “No, it doesn’t bother me. You’re just different to me, and that’s not a big deal. I’ve seen some scary vampires, and you’re not one of them.”

“Like the one that tried to snack on you?” Cal added scathingly.

“Yeah. He was…Well if you hadn’t shown up, I might not have gotten out of that one.” You smiled, “So, thank you, again.”

“Stop thanking me.” Cal sighed, “I didn’t do anything special.”

“But to me, you did! So, hush, and let me buy you lunch!” You jeered at him, pointing a fork at his face like a dangerous weapon. Cal smiled again and let it drop as Graeliel came back with your lemonade.

 “Alrighty then.” she pulled out her notepad out and poised her pen for your orders, “What will you lovebirds be having?”

“Graeliel, we’re just here for lunch.” Cal droned as he rubbed at his temples and reached back to pull the other blind down.

“Hush. I know a date when I see one!” Graeliel tapped the top of his head with her pen, “What do you want sweetie?” she asked. Cal opened his mouth again, but she silenced him with a scathing look, like an insistent mother.

“I’ll have the falafel wrap, please.” You ordered and she nodded before looking at Cal.

“The usual, please.” Cal grumbled before taking hold of his icy glass of lemonade and taking a sip. He didn’t make a face at the sourness but turned to look out of the window, before realising he had the blind down, and staring down at his drink, stirring the straw around idly. Graeliel left you both alone to go and give your orders to Pamela. Cal watched her leave before looking back at you with his ghostly smile again.

 “I’m sure you have lots of questions.” he stated before he took another sip of lemonade, “I know I would if I was in your situation.”

You nodded and played with your own straw, “Lots of questions. I saw your face morph into something like I’ve never seen before. You looked like…well, something out of a kids story book.” You took a sip of your drink from your lemonade.

Cal turned his head, avoiding your gaze as a cringe took over his features, “I figured that would be the first thing you asked me about.” he avoided your eyes as he seemed to think about what to say next, “I’m a vampire, yes, but I’m of an old bloodline. Night Terrors. That’s what we were called by the rest of our own race. I suppose we are like bats. Up turned noses, wings and the ability to hang onto any surface.” He droned quietly as the ice in his drink clinked, “Terachi. That’s what we are called now.”

You listened quietly before interjecting gently, “So why don’t you always look like that?”

“Glamouring. Intense glamouring.” Cal mumbled, “Enough that even Flix’s spell doesn’t enable you to see my real face.”

 The words sat heavy in your stomach. Cal refused to look at you for a while, his eyes trained on his lemonade.

“I can hear your brain churning. Its an ugly face. Its something humans would run. I’ve hidden my face behind my human appearance from the day I was turned.” he whispered as he pushed his hair over his shoulder again.

Gently, you took his hand from around the glass, stroking his fingers before you squeezed them and let him have his hand back, “How long have you been in music?” You asked, eager to stop Cal from scowling. He looked at the window again before meeting your eyes again and smiling awkwardly, the corners of his lips twitching.

“I’ve played the violin since I was around eight years old.” Cal turned his straw in his drink, “I learned to play the piano, but also the organ.” He saw your look, “My family was very religious. My mother was a faithful catholic. She married and dragged my father into it. I’ve said my hail Mary’s since I could speak.”

“Is that why you still wear your rosary?” You asked, pointing at the black beads hung around his neck and the cross which rested over his chest. His shirt hid the tattoo he had over his pectorals from view.  

 Cal picked at the cross and regarded the wooden jewellery for a moment before he dropped it back against his chest, “My relationship with the lord is a little complicated.”

“Isn’t everyone’s?” You joked as he shifted in his seat, “I think its nice you still believe. How long have you been, well, like this?” You trailed off at his grimace.

“A vampire?” he asked, “Since I was twenty-six.” He gestured to himself, “It was a service, in 1784. My maker was amazed by my skill with instruments, and I sang for him after. I’ve been like this ever since.” Cal gave himself a disgusted once over, before he looked back down at the wooden table, his nails scratching at the waxy surface, gouging at a name someone had already cut into the top.

“Did you leave anyone behind?” You asked.

“A fiancé. I don’t think I ever loved her like she deserved.” Cal said, “I disappeared after the service. My maker held me like a child as I changed and stopped breathing. I’ve not seen him since...” he trailed off, “I’ve not seen him since I joined Black Blood. That was over twenty-five years ago now.”

“Wow. That’s a long time. Did you fall out over it all?” You asked.

Cal shrugged his shoulders in response, “He didn’t want me out of his clutches I suppose. Either way, its history.” he dismissed any further questions with a wave of his hand.

 As though she had seen the tense situation, Graeliel came tootling over with your meals. The elf laid the two plates down in front of each of you and smiled warmly as she pointed to the lemonade.

“Is the lemonade sweet enough? I let Pam make it this time, and she’s a bit sour, so she skimps on the sugar.” she teased as she leaned back and tucked her towel against her hip.

“Its perfect.” You assured her as you took another drink of it, “Its just sweet enough. Anymore and I think my teeth would rot.” You joked.

She nodded and quickly scuttled to a microwave as it pinged. You watched curiously as Graeliel snipped open a back of blood and poured the contents into a blacked-out pint glass. She returned with the glass and placed it in front of Cal.

“Make sure you don’t eat too much this time, hm?” She patted his hand before she smiled at you brightly and left to go and dispose of some rubbish.

 You looked at the black glass on the table and wondered just if Cal was going to drink it in front of you or not. He met your gaze and shifted back before he took hold of the glass.

“You don’t have to look, if it makes you uncomfortable.” he reasoned, quietly, holding your gaze for a moment before he peered at the deep red contents.

“No.” You swallowed, “Its fine. Go ahead.” You smiled and reached for your cutlery as he nodded and tipped his head back a little. He pressed the glass to his mouth and quickly downed the blood, his throat working as he guzzled at it like a hungry animal. Cal grumbled softly as he finished and licked at the red blood clinging to his top lip before pressing his finger to it and licking that too. He closed his eyes and swallowed the last of it, his nose curled, before he calmed himself down, and looked back at you. His eyes were wide, as though he had thoroughly enjoyed himself, and you smiled at him.

 Cal’s lips curled a little at one corner before he stood to give the glass back to Graeliel. You appreciated the iron smelling glass being moved and carefully started picking at your salad. He returned and you picked up your wrap.

“Well, lets see if you recommended me something decent!” You took a bite and Cal chuckled quietly as your eyes widened at the taste, “Is this home made or something? The sauce is so good.” You said around your mouthful.

Cal nodded with a smile, “They make everything here in house.” he picked up his steak knife and sliced into the very rare steak before feeding himself a small piece, “Still tastes as good as ever.” He leaned to the kitchen and chuckled again.

“Too right it does!” Pamela hollered from the kitchen. You both laughed at her before digging back into your food.

 “Are you two finished?” Graeliel asked as you leaned back and grumbled about being too full. Cal chuckled again as he pushed his sunglasses into his hair, and you nodded with a content sigh.

“Pamela’s cooking has that effect.” Cal added quietly as you patted your stomach and laughed.

Graeliel laughed as well, “I’ll get you both the bill.” she walked happily to the kitchen to deliver your dishes and glasses before going to the cash register and bringing you the total on her notepad, scribbled underneath your orders.

You took the piece of paper, but Cal had already pulled out the cash, placing it on the table for Graeliel before he grabbed his hat and tucked his hair out of the way. He noticed you gawking and tilted his head, “Are you okay with me paying?” he asked curiously.

You nodded before huffing, “Yeah, but next time I get the food.”

Cal paused as he shrugged one arm of his coat on, “Next time?” he asked quietly.

“If you want a next time?” You asked with an embarrassed smile.

He nodded, completely silent as he turned his face away from you. He was incapable of blushing much more than a faint pink tone after a meal, but you caught the slight pink colour to the apples of his cheeks before he flicked his collar up.

 You followed suit and thanked Graeliel and Pamela as Cal rushed for the door, his long, graceful strides carrying him faster than you could ever hope to be.

Graeliel reached to give you a gentle hug which smelled of jasmine, “Look after him for us, hm? He’s such a sweet boy, just a little wounded.”

“I’ll try.” You felt hot and embarrassed, and your cheeks burned as you looked at Pamela’s smirk. You said your goodbyes and rushed after Cal. He held you open the door and silently offered you his arm. You took the arm and linked your own through it. Cal looked at you through the side of his black sunglasses before he smiled a little wider, revealing his sharp, fang like teeth. It was the only part he consistently couldn’t glamour, you had come to realise. You returned his smile and Cal looked down at you. Your eyes followed a piece of hair as it escaped his hair tie and slipped out over his shoulder.

“I’ll walk you home, if you want?” he asked with a small shake to his voice.

You realised then, that you were smitten with him, and smiled brightly, “Sure. Its not too far. I live near the rose garden park.” Cal nodded and ran his cold fingers over your hand before he slipped your hand down and into his own.

 You reached your small flat just as the roads started to get busy with traffic from people going home from work. You reached into your small bag as you neared the door, and quickly rummaged around for your keys. They jingled in your hand as Cal slipped his hand from yours and let you step up to the door alone.

“Thank you.” He uttered, “For taking a chance with me. No one has…been so kind to me in a while. Certainly not someone as gorgeous as you.” Cal whispered the words, as though you weren’t supposed to hear them. He turned his face away from you, his eyes still hidden behind his glasses. The sun was lower in the sky and the beginnings of the sunset were starting, casting an orange glow over his pale skin and the pieces of his black curls which had escaped his ponytail.

“I didn’t take a chance.” You said as you stepped back down in front of him, “I think you’re…You’re much more than just a monstrous vampire. You’re kind, sweet and considerate and…”

“Handsome?” He asked with a quirk to his lips before he licked them and reached out to take your hand again, running his fingers against your own as he digested your words.

“You make me feel…You make me feel grounded. Whole. Like I’m not…” Cal huffed at himself, “Like I’m not some fucking killer freak. I just… I feel like you understand, and I find myself thinking of you, often. I…”

 Gently, you reached up and pressed a warm finger to his lips, quietening his rambling, “I like you too, Cal. I think you’re…”

Cal silenced you as he pushed his sunglasses up into his hair again, revealing his steel-coloured eyes. He stared at you with such intensity, and you were drawn to the soft curve of his lips all too easily. He smelt like peppermint again, but you forgot that as he pressed his lips to yours. They were soft but icy cold. The temperature made you jump, but you quickly pressed to him. Cal grumbled something before you were backed against the door, his fangs grazing your bottom lip as his cold tongue brushed against your lips. You opened your mouth and moaned quietly as he kissed you deeply, his fangs grazing your lips again. He drew away, as though shot, and you smiled at the blackness to his eyes and the grey sheen to his skin. His nose curled and you touched the pointed tip of his upturned nose before pushing your hands over his shoulders and feelings the musclar tops of his wings. They flexed beneath his coat, the clawed tips scrapping against the concrete before he dived in to nip your lips again.

“I adore you.” He purred as you felt the tips of his ears and fumbled for the handle. The door opened with a soft click and you pulled on his hands. He caught himself at the door, letting you hold his hands before he was drawn into you and found your lips again, “You complete me.” He moaned against your cheek before you closed the door.

[thong-in-the-twist]

Chapter: Gwangju

//Gong Yoo (Kim Shin) x you

Summary: To atone for his sins he is forced to wander the Earth searching for her before it’s too late.

Prologue: Silla Goryeo Joseon Tamna March 1st

It's been three years since I updated this last. Exactly three years and 9 days, and I'm glad to be posting it. God it’s been so long I no longer remember how I used to format my entries. I don’t even remember my tagging system. A word of warning: modern Korean history is heavily marked with suffering and for the purposes of this story I needed "her" to go through... A lot. But there is only one chapter left, so hopefully, we won't be suffering a lot longer.

***

It was obvious to him that she was going to be reborn immediately. It worked like that for centuries, why this time it would have been different? So he started searching for her immediately, anxious. His land was crying, his people were suffering.

Forests were being cut down to fuel the new age, the industrialization age. Instead, the land was being converted into fields: rice, cereals, cotton. Colonizers were laying new roads, tarmac was flowing down the peninsula so similarly to cold mountain streams. All to fuel the new age, all to feed the great Japanese Empire.

Mines on the peninsula were running day and night, long shafts filled with exploited bodies. Names were being changed to Japanese sounding ones, men were forced to cut their hair, celibate Buddhist monks were forced to marry, kids were banned from learning Korean in schools, papers were censored, farmers forced out of their lands, his people were forced to worship Shinto, and to see the Emperor as a god.

Shamanistic rituals were even scarcer than during the reign of the Lee dynasty. People were no longer openly calling for him, but their thoughts thrown into the ether were reaching him. Pleas and begging, prayers and threats, all were filling his mind and heart. The burden was heavy. Not too heavy to carry, but it seemed harder than the sword he was carrying in his heart. It seemed heavier than the last memories of his other life, than the image of red on white stone.

She found her. Young girl in the seaside village, barely 20 kilometers north from the village where she was born as Binna, centuries ago. The village tree was still alive even if the village itself didn’t exist anymore. Kim Shin didn’t know what happened to it after he saw her sacrifice herself back then. Were it pirates, or wars, or famine that drew people out? There was no way of knowing it.

She was four when he found her. Back in Joseon she would have been found just in time, he’d have two years to convince her parents not to give her away. And then 11 years until she had to be wed. Her village was far off the beaten path. It was far from the capital and far from Japanese shores. People were hardened and down-to-earth but it was a tightly knit community. It was as safe as it could have been in that age and time.

Kim Shin spent his days under the Holy Tree, now surrounded by forest. He remembered the village square and colorful ribbons. He remembered tax collectors and their cart. He remembered Binna’s clothes and hair, and sword splitting her throat open.

Kim Shin visited her house by night. He hid in the shadows, not ready to be seen by her nor her parents. He watched her as she slept in the same room as the rest of her family. He watched her wondering what woman she would grow up to be. He hoped that he’d be able to shield her from any hardship that she was destined to face in her life.

While watching her sleep, he was reminiscing about her previous lives. Her bravery, her tenacity, her pride and her selflessness. The lives that were lived and ended for his people, the lives that were ended for him, the ones that were ended because of him.

Kim Shin was restless. He was used to waiting. He learnt to be patient after centuries of waiting and slowly working towards his goal. And yet, he was restless. Sitting by the Holy Tree he was restless and anxious. Her last life was sacrificed for the country. For this land, and for the people. And here he was waiting idly for her to grow up. She was safe.

The Holy Tree was old but strong, with new springs and bright green leaves. It was magnificent even without ribbons and paper talismans. It was safe, far off the beaten path.

Their people were not.

And yet, he was idly waiting for her to grow up and take away his burden, while sitting under the Holy Tree.

While their people were desperately begging for help.

She was safe. And he had time. He had enough time to present her the liberation of their people as a wedding gift.

And thus, Kim Shin was off once more.

*

Koreans were fighting on the peninsula, yes, but there were fighting abroad as well. Kim Shin supported the Provisional  Government of Republic of Korea in Shanghai, and aided students in Japan. When the empire invaded Manchuria, he was there fighting them off. He pleaded and negotiated with Chinese diplomats for them to move against the assailant before it was too late.

But the Central Kingdom waited too long, they were undecided way beyond what was safe. And thus, the Japanese attacked first.

The war that broke out drained the Korean peninsula even more. They were the ones to bear the brunt of feeding and supplying soldiers. And then, when Kim Shin was sure it couldn’t be worse, European war came to their lands, merging with the already raging Sino-Japanese conflict and bringing more players, more arms and more death into the equation. His people were forced into the Japanese army, forced to fight far away from their home – living and dying in China, Indonesia, Philippines.

He went where they were. It wasn’t their fight. They were farmers, artisans, teachers, workers – they weren’t warriors. He was. Kim Shin was back in the field, once more fighting for his homeland. Once more he took upon himself to be the most faithful agent of death. Immortal and determined, with unfamiliar weapon in his hand, but oh so familiar scent of blood, tears and fear clinging to him. The art of war changed through centuries but principles reminded the same.

But now it was harder to understand the purpose. It was harder to face dying foes. Every soul in his wake had hopes, and dreams, and dedication, and destiny – and yet he was invading the realm of the Divine, deciding who was to live and who was to day. What he did was to slaughter.

 But he was also fighting for his compatriots, forced to lay their lives for the occupant. He fought to save them and to bring them back to their land. He helped them escape, he cleared camps, he dealt with Japanese officers.

Japanese defeat was what they were hoping for anyway.

It was in Perek that faced his hardest encampment. It was in Perek that among Japanese officers and soldiers, and his people forced into ranks, he found others. It was in Perek that among male voices he heard female pleas.

It was in broad daylight that he marched through the camp, taking in the tents and appraising layouts and main locations. Where to get food, where to get supplies, where were the blind spots. It was in broad daylight that he heard a plea so similar to one he heard centuries ago in the Song Dynasty’s capital. So earnest and so broken plea of death.

After the first one came another, hurried and repeated like a mantra, like a prayer. And another, and another.

And another.

So familiar. So heartbreaking.

Here, so far from his homeland, he heard her begging for death. For an escape.

But she was safe. She was safe back in her village, on the shores of Eastern Seas. She was safe back in her village, so close to the Holy Tree.

And yet, it was her voice, strung thin and wavering, but unmistakably hers.

A taste of bile invaded his throat as he zeroed on a dilapidated building. Better than a shack only in the name, with dark walls and dirty windows barely containing the horrors inside. His surroundings seemed to disappear, sounds of the encampment dying out, the building his focal point.

He took his time. Waiting itself was horrible, pleas constant, it would have been so easy to just end it. End all of it, all of them, all of the oppressors, just raze the  camp to the ground. But he was afraid. Afraid of going inside and seeing that was happening, how they lived. It was easy to guess, and hard to understand. Justified rage was clawing his insides, not only for her, but for all of them. It wasn’t human to do, not that the occupant was ever human.

His fear was their prolonged suffering.

He fulfilled every one of their pleas. Every single one. Some wished for death, some wished for death for their oppressors. Some wished for health, some wished to never remember. Some wished for another chance in life, some wished for one last meeting with assailants and sharp object to meet them with. He did it all.

She wanted a knife. Sharp, and easy to conceal. She found it with glee and fervor. She wanted for her doors to be open and for night to be dark. She wished for rain, heavy and obscuring. She wished for that man to fall. To suffer. To know. To fear. To never forget.

Kim Shin watched her as she sneaked out of her room. He watched her back as she sneaked through the building, chastising himself for ever believing she was safe. It wasn’t even 15 years since he saw her last. He watched her as she found her prey. He watched her as she made sure that man would never do the same thing to another woman ever again.

His screams were muffled by a gag she made out of her sad excuse of a blanket. His blood was mixing with the falling rain, that matted her hair to her face. Her skin was ghostly, blush and looked paper-thin.

Once again he watched her as she raised her blade against herself. She was sure and focused,  and emanating finally found peace. She was quick and efficient, and he barely had time to catch her before she fell down. She was smiling when her head hit the cradle of his head and her open eyes were staring lifelessly at the rainy clouds.

Kim Shin sat there in the rain, holding her body, obvious to now quiet whimpers coming from the man laying a few steps away from him. Once more her life was filled with suffering. Was her childhood good? How did she grow up? How long was she here?

He didn’t cry – feeling like he did not deserve to. She wasn’t the only one of his people that went through this, and something was telling him that there were countless more suffering now.

*

Finding her was important, but making sure that the world she was being born into was better became urgent. Kim Shin knew he couldn’t deal with her suffering. All recent lives he witnessed ended in a tragedy. Queen trying to protect freedom, young girl fighting for it, and the one that saw it in death.

She deserved freedom, all of his people did.

And freedom came with pain, tears and even more death. Foreign powers fought over his land, influencing its growth and stagnation once again. His land was sold and divided even after its occupant lost the war. Both red and blue powers abhorred giving Koreans back their land and their freedoms, forcing their ideologies upon them.

And thus the greatest conflict shook the land once more. June 25th, the day when brother went against his brother. Three years. Three years of fights, civil war raging on the peninsula destroying what was left after 35 years of the occupation.

And even that conflict ended because outside powers decided so. Every death, every lost soul – it was all because foreigners decided to settle their differences right there on Korean soil. The wound left by the war was painful and still suppurating. Peninsula was divided into two, one nation was split and the border between them became a wall that separated families and broke people’s spirit.

He saw fourteen hundred years of conflicts and changes, and ups and downs, but the last hundred years were far the worst he had seen. For the first time in his long life he wasn’t sure how to go about finding her. If he even should. Every time he found her, he lost her just as quickly. She suffered so much.

But if he didn’t search for her, he was sure that the Divine would find another way to punish them. Like giving her knowledge of his existence and urging her to wait for him.

By now Divine schemes were somewhat readable. He’d find her where he’d least expect her – where she was supposedly the safest, yet in the biggest danger. People in the south were struggling, famine and corruption was rampant. North was getting help from other communist states and plotting expansion. And he couldn’t find her.

Just like when he found her on Tamna, she wasn’t here. She wasn’t within the borders of both Korean states. And that’s what horrified him. He looked in China, so many of his compatriots lived there. He looked in Japan among those who stayed after occupation. He searched in South East Asia among those who stayed after the second world war. He visited the United States of America, hoping to find her there. And yet, as if the Divine was shielding her from him, he couldn’t find her.

In Germany he saw the Wall. The Berlin Wall dividing one nation into two. The blue state and red state, just like his homeland, was divided. The Wall was fresh and imposing, newly built. A palpable sign of schism. A knife in a wound, cutting it more open with every breath. It wasn’t as protected as the inter-Korean border was but it served as a reminder of similarly painful division.

As Kim Shin walked by the Wall, on the western side of the border, he heard a cautious ask. Barely audible, fleeting.

The person was asking for a haircut. If he wasn’t over fourteen hundred years old, he’d dismiss it as an auditory illusion. What would be a Korean doing behind the Iron Curtain – asking for a haircut?

Kim Shin knew better. Kim Shin knew: she was there.

*

Finding his way into the USSR was easier than he thought it to be. As a citizen of the communist, neighboring nation, he was more than welcome. He travelled from Korea, surprised by the sheer numbers of Koreans on the USSR's eastern lands. But the closer he got to Europe the fewer they got. By the time he left Moscow, his head was clear and free of usual prayers. It was in Poland that he heard one more plea – a different voice, exactly the same ask.

Children. Who Kim Shin found were children. From 5 years old to 16. War orphans being cared for by people so vastly different from them.

She was among them, one of the oldest kids, happily chatting in weirdly hard language.

It took him quite long to understand why all the kids kept praying for a haircut. Their hair was neatly kept, just like their clothes, their rooms. There was something of military efficiency in the way they were being brought up, and Kim Shin understood that it was due to a few Korean supervisors that came here with kids.

Kids were cared for, but not exactly loved. That’s why they thought so fondly of getting haircuts. Hairdressers would pat and massage their heads – that was an extent of warmth they were getting.

*

She and the rest of the kids were sent back to Korea a few months later. She drowned in a river when she tried to escape back to her European orphanage for the third time. Yalu River was her undoing, just like those centuries ago cold waters of the sea took her away.

So much death. So much suffering. What for?

As the North's situation was getting worse, the South started fighting for its economy. Authoritarian governments in both Koreas were similar in goals but different in execution, and slowly their fates were changing. South Korea was coming out of poverty, just as North Korea started spiraling into it.

With newly found resources South Koreans were finally able to think and want – and what they wanted was freedom. Freedom through free choice and democracy. Assassination of general Park, southern dictator, seemed like a perfect opportunity – but before democratic movement could raise its momentum it was brutally squashed.

***

“If we all go, they won’t be able to hold him! We need to get him out!”

Every frantic sentence is met with loud approval. You weren’t surprised when they formed a new government without looking back at people. You weren’t surprised when Chun Doohwan took over KCIA while still holding his position in the Korean Army. Of course he would. Even martial law wasn’t a surprise. But a few hours ago you heard that they arrested Kim Daejung.

Kim was an oppositionist. He was fighting for democracy in your country, and what was more important he was from your region. Rumors said that he was being held on charges of instigating demonstrations.

What a bull…

You were there all because you wanted to be there, and wanted better for your country.

“They are closing the university!” The shout could be heard above the other voices. Suddenly the thirty of you fell silent. You focused on the man that shouted it. You knew his face, you might have seen him once or twice in the library.

“What…?”

“Chun declared universities to be dangerous to society!” The roar that follows is deafening. There is no more “inciting”, all of you immediately walk to the university, gathering other students while marching.

The road leading to the main entrance is long, which gives you a perfect view of army vehicles parked in front of it. Soldiers organizing were also visible, moving with purpose or watching you with caution.  Your group wasn’t big. Maybe two hundred souls. You weren’t sure what was the plan – but the goal was clear – to show that you wouldn’t take it lying down. They couldn’t take it all. Freedom, Kim Daejung, universities.

You weren’t sure who threw the first stone. It was all a blur. There was shouting, screams and orders, flying stones and falling batons. The students’ group dispersed only to form back, and to scatter once more but this time closer to the Provincial Office.

This time soldiers were wearing riot gear.

*

“You know well that I am going back out there!”

Your mother's eyes are filled with tension. The same tension pushes her lips into a thin line drawing her wrinkles out. She won’t back down, but neither will your brother and you.

“Mom, it’s what we have to do. They killed Gyeongcheol,” says Chanhwan. He is a high school senior and his goal was to get into your university.

“His poor mother,” whispers your mother as if against herself. That was something she said every time this was mentioned. Soldiers in riot gear killed Kim Gyeongcheol as he was passing by protesters. It infuriated the city and their protest was gathering momentum, but every person counted.

They needed to pay. For Gyeongcheol and for those who were killed yesterday.

What you wouldn’t tell your mother is the fact that you got guns. Yesterday you raided one of the military warehouses. It wasn’t an usual protest anymore, it was an uprising. Chanhwan told you that he heard that folks were talking about liberating Gwangju and making it into a free city. An official request for help was being drafted to be sent to the US Embassy. A country so enamored with freedom would for sure help you.

Freedom.

That’s what you longed for.

A horn outside let you know that your transport was there. Chanhwan was already out the doors, you stalled a second to grab your mother’s hand.

“Believe in us, mom. We will be back, victorious,” you said with emphasis. The world was yours to take and you wouldn’t hesitate. You run outside, not waiting for her to answer, and jump into the waiting taxi.

What an odd vehicle to be driving to a fight.

*

City was cordoned off and outside communications were cut. It didn’t scare you off. Nothing could, really.

Taxi was slowly rolling down the street, Chanhwan laying low in the driver's seat. He knew that as soon as he raised his head, he’d be dead. You knew that there were forces on the other end of the street aiming at you with their guns, hidden behind covers.

You and Chanhwan’s friend Sunwoo were slowly creeping along the car, using it as a moving shield. You could see a body that you were tasked with retrieving. You hoped the girl was alive. You all knew that not moving after being shot increased your chances of surviving if you couldn’t move on your own.

Suddenly you heard a loud bang and sounds of automatic fire.

“Run!” yelled Chanhwan and you didn’t need to be told twice. With Sunwoo you lurched forward trying to match Chanhwan’s accelerations. You kept your head low as smoke filled the street. Sunwoo was the first to reach the body.

Dead.

Boy opened back doors and together you pushed the lifeless body inside – not caring for decency you jumped inside as Sunwoo closed doors behind you. You heard him get in and Chanhwan was speeding off.

Girl’s hair smelt of flowers.

*

A helicopter was flying overhead. You’ve never would have guessed that you’d learn how to make Molotov’s cocktail. But there you were pushing a rag into a bottle. Sunwoo was in the field hospital, chances of saving his leg quite high. Which was more than could be said about many of your friends.

Casualties were high, but you weren’t ready to give up. The uprising cost the city too many lives to be so easily abandoned.

How could your government do that? You didn’t know. But you hoped for those soldiers to spend the rest of their lives knowing that they killed their own.

Chanhwan was on the other side of the street, giving you signs. You focused on him and he started slowly counting down with his fingers. As soon as you saw him countdown to zero, you threw your bottle.

There was an explosion and a sudden yell. You didn’t stay put to see the effect, you needed to escape as fast as possible. On your left you could see a group of fifteen or so students running the other way. There were fires and smoke and it could be hard to realize what was happening.

You lost your footing as you realized that Chanhwan was not running parallel to you. It seemed like eternity as you looked back to see him lying on the corner of the street. You could see his dark uniform jacket slowly dampening with even darker liquid.

It wasn’t conscious. Nor your scream, nor your leap.

The first bullet going through your arm was more surprising than painful. Second one caught your leg, tripping you down, the third one pierced through your clavicle as you fell. You saw smoke, and soldiers moving forward with riot shields, and your brother laying on the street, and an abandoned taxi. You saw another group of students running somewhere to your right.

Pavement was hot from the sun as you fell down. It didn’t hurt, or maybe it was so painful that you couldn’t feel it.

You saw a blue butterfly flying away.

***

Kim Shin forced his way into the fighting city. Through fields and through the army, he walked into the fray. No one knew. A village ten kilometers away? No one knew what was happening in the city. There were rumors, but not one could have prepared him for the riots he saw.

He saw students organizing, he saw local militias forming, he saw field hospitals being erected, he saw taxi and bus drivers using their vehicles to help the cause.

Had he done everything he could? No. Was it resignation? Maybe.

How many times had he seen her fighting? Why every time he saw her she was either suffering or leading a good fight. Why was she always selfless, and always right in the center of a turmoil ailing his nation. Just once couldn’t she be selfish and live?

Seeing her protest against authoritarian government barely half a century after she did the same against occupation filled him with unfamiliar annoyance. Rage. Why her. What did she do to be always reincarnated into such circumstances.

Was it even worth pursuing her?

Was it his atonement for not killing his king eons ago, even when she sacrificed herself. Was she destined to be laying her life for a cause while he watched her do it?

Defiance. That was what stopped him from acting. He could have gone on a rampage. Just like when he was a general, fighting with Gaya’s warriors. It wouldn’t have been hard, decimating troops. Those already stationed in the city, and those that would undoubtedly come to reinforce them.

He felt old. He was old. Looking at the fighting city he felt like it wasn’t his fight.

In the city he saw a foreigner. A foreigner with a camera. Documenting what was happening, what atrocities were committed on Gwangju’s streets.

Instead of watching her die once again he decided to protect the foreigner. To make sure that his recordings would be seen by the world.

As Kim Shin protected the foreigner, he didn’t realize that he could no longer hear prayers.

[whump-town]

Do you take asks for prompts? If you need another way to hurt Hotch how about him hurting his knee while taking down an unsub and trying his best to hide it from his team and going home to Jack. So maybe he doesn't come to work the next day so they check up on him?

Sure you can!

-------------

Hotch doesn’t say anything about it because he’s been an ass all week and the very last thing that he wants is to ruin what little fun they’ve managed to find. The pain really isn’t that bad, it’s just that the hotel they’re posted up in has this long winding set of stairs and they’re on the fourth floor. Wistfully, he glances over his shoulder one more time, double checks that they’re all distracted by the pool before setting his shoulders and starting up the stairs. Besides, it’s his fault that he busted up his knee. He’s not going to interrupt the first sounds of their laughter he’s heard in a month.

They’re taking Emily’s death hard, barely managing to keep their heads above the water. It also means their numbers are odd again and realizing that he’d sent them off with each other (Rossi with JJ, Reid with Morgan) and had gone around the side of the house by himself. They’d ended up chasing the Unsub out to him where he’d taken him down by himself (or rather they’d ran right into one another). They’d heard him fall, the harsh crash of two bodies colliding had drawn in some noise, but he was already on his feet when they got to him. Was already shaking off the ache in his right leg, brushed it off as a skinned knee. Wouldn’t be first and he doubted it would be his last.

He did skin his knee.

Judging by the purplish bruise color around his knee, the skin swollen and sore to the touch, and it’s general refusal to move within the joint he did more than just skin it.

He hasn’t really been an ass, though. That’s just his excuse.

He’s been an ass all week and they’re struggling to cope with Emily’s death and he just wants one second without Morgan comparing their grief or Rossi trying to pry or Reid looking at him like the sky’s falling in and he’s screaming himself hoarse looking for an Atlas to remind him where it’s rightful place is.

He’s been withdrawn and he got a little snippy at Rossi but, in general, nothing worth hating him over. Nothing that any of them so much as took a second glance at. So calling him an ass is really stretching it but he’s just looking for an excuse to not have to tell them. Besides, he can do this on his own. Just needs some ice… and to get up the stairs.

He doesn’t get ice.

He doesn’t even take a shower.

Getting up that many stairs with a leg that tries to buck out from underneath him after the first floor is hard enough without trying to figure out how to wrangle himself into the shower. That’s excluding the problem of getting out of the shower.

That’s about half a lie anyways. He steps into his room, the A.C. blasting on it’s highest setting where he left it, and drags himself to the bed. The sweat across his body is cold and as nice as it would be to stand there at the machine and let it blow the cold into his face he can’t. He’s not slept since they landed, not in this bed and only naps he’d slipped into while coffee brewed. With the room nearly freezing and his knee keeping pace with his heart he sags into bed.

Doesn’t even bother to get under the covers or take off his shoes.

He saves that for their trip back.

They wake him up, Reid shouting at Morgan. They’re sopping wet and Morgan thinks it’s funny watching Reid squirm because he forgot his towel.

His exhaustion has weighed him down, pulled him under the pain. He hears Reid yell and after the initial fight leaves as he realizes Reid’s not in pain or being murdered (Morgan’s deep laughter clears that up) his knee comes back with vengeance. There’s no way he’s making it to the ice machine down the hall and he’s sure as hell not getting in the shower.

Taking his pants off is miserable.

Getting his left shoe off is fine, that knee is bendable. The other is just out of reach and he curses under his breath, loses his temper and throws his shoe down on the ground. Tears gather in his eyes as the pain gets unbearable but this isn’t worse than being stabbed. It’s not so he manages. Holds his breath until his face is pulsing with the heat of his pain and when he finally manages to get the shoelace untied he’s light-headed, dizzy.

The pants are not easier.

It gets the better of him, his belt smacks his knee and he cries out. He hears the other’s, knows that Morgan hears him make the sound and calls out for everyone to be quiet. Hotch holds his breath again, waits out their footsteps until the doors shut and they’re gone.

He lays starfished out on the bed. Stripped down to his boxers and his white undershirt. It’d be nice to get under the covers but even thinking about moving is an excruciating idea. He doesn’t even look at his knee, doesn’t need to sit up to see it. Doesn’t want to.

He sleeps.

Dead to the world for hours until his alarm clock goes off at six in the morning. He’s got hours of just dead, limp sleep in his body and he still can hardly muster the strength to move. But he hasn’t got the time to be hurt. The jet leaves the tarmac at ten and he still has places to be-- hands to shake and people to talk to. It takes fifteen minutes longer than normal to get ready and six long laps around his room until he can walk without a heavy, easy to spot limp. Each movement, if he focuses enough, can be smooth.

You can’t even tell.

“Walking like an old man.” Hotch stops, frowns and chooses not to say anything. He continues locking up his room, grunting in annoyance when Morgan steps around him and grabs his go-bag. “Figured you were just tired,” Morgan informs him, leaning on the wall of the door so he can see Hotch’s face. “That Unsub got you good, huh? What is it? Your back?”

Hotch glances at his go bag, still held easily in the palm of Morgan’s left hand. He’s not getting that back. With a frown he turns for the stairs, “I’m fine.” But he focuses far too hard on his gate and Morgan can see it.

“It’s your knee,” Morgan deduces. He can see it. The way Hotch has to lean on the rail when he extends his right leg out, knuckles white. “Haven’t iced it yet, have you?”

Hotch ignores him, keeps walking down the stairs.

“When we get on the jet let me wrap it up.” He’s not offering so much as warning Hotch of his plans for later. Morgan’s been an athlete his whole life, that’s lent years of practice in figuring out how to tape up and ice various injuries. “You’ll need to put ice on it, it’ll help.”

He doesn’t.

The jet ride home is distracted, buzzing with energy he hasn’t seen out of them in a while. The pain is worth it.

He goes home. Jack can sense his pain, he’s not entirely sure how but he’s gentle. Talking Hotch’s ear off about a book that Jessica bought him and that he intends to beg Hotch to read him tonight. They have their typical “Dad has a concussion” meal-- macaroni and cheese with cut up hotdogs. Jack loves it and it’s a treat to make up for Hotch’s physical status.

He always feels bad about being home but not being able to do dad things yet.

Not that Jack minds, he can always find something for them to do. He just likes having him home. Watching Jack fight sleep, trying to stay awake for a few more minutes of his father’s undivided attention, Hotch decides right then and there to call everyone out. Give them the day off.

“We can make cookies tomorrow,” he whispers into Jack’s hair. He doesn’t respond, which is odd, so Hotch lifts his head up. He shifts them both around until he can see him better, careful once he’s positive Jack’s asleep and not ignoring him. Jack whines at the movement, clutching Hotch’s shirt so that he can’t be pulled away. “Alright,” Hotch rubs his back, soothes him back to sleep.

It’s a fight, nearly impossible, but Hotch gets Jack back to his room. As he’s tucking his blankets in around Jack, double-checking his night light and making sure he’s comfortable, he knows there’s a good likelihood that Jack will still end up in his bed tonight. If so, he’s not fighting this battle. He’ll leave his bedroom door open and what happens, happens.

Jack does make his way into Hotch’s bedroom. Just as the sun’s coming up and Hotch is still half-asleep, having woken up just a little too much to send the other’s the “take the day off” text.

“Morning,” Hotch whispers, hearing Jack’s feet on the carpet but not opening his eyes.

Jack comes to the empty side of the bed but still climbs over Hotch’s shoulder, slipping down over his side until he’s precariously being kept onto the bed by a little bit of bed and Hotch holding him. “Daddy,” he whispers back. He wiggles himself around, stretches his arms up to put a hand on Hotch’s cheek. “Daddy?”

Hotch knows he’s not going back to sleep. “What is it, buddy?”

Jack rubs at the facial hair growing along Hotch’s cheek, short coarse hair that feels funny against his hands. “I want to make, ugh…” Jack taps Hotch’s cheek as he thinks. “To make, uhm, I want pancakes!”

Hotch opens his eyes, smiles, and squeezes Jack. “Alright,” he responds. “We can make some pancakes.”

Despite the text message that Hotch sends out, Morgan and JJ still have to head into the office for paperwork, to at least take it home to work on it. Over the last year, Hotch is better about work. He leaves earlier and spends a lot less time at the office, still averaging more than them but undeniably on the mend. Still, Morgan walks into the BAU and is surprised, he’s cut short in his mission, when he sees Hotch’s empty office.

Morgan assumes the worst.

The knock at the door is surprising, Hotch doesn't exactly get visitors. Jessica doesn’t bother knocking, she just opens the door and shouts for them. Other than that, Rossi calls and Emily used to drop by to find something to do but… “Jack!” Jack’s five, he loves answering the door. He just never gets to do it.

“Look!” Jack cries.

Hotch pushes the pancakes he’s butchering off the stove, limping quickly to get to Jack. “What’re you doing here?”

Morgan frowns, lifts Jack up into his arms with a swoop and a happy squeal from Jack. “I came to make sure you were okay, knucklehead.” He looks at Jack, shaking his head with a look of pure ‘can you believe this guy?’. “Glad I got here,” Morgan shifts Jack over to his hip. “You’re burning the shit out of these pancakes.”

Jack giggles, glancing at Hotch to see his reaction.

Hotch moves to follow Morgan, going to attempt a poor argument on behalf of his pancakes but he’s cut-off. “Sit,” Morgan orders, pointing at one of the kitchen tables. “Jack, can you get me some ice?” Hotch watches as his kitchen is taken over. Morgan grimaces at the pancake currently in the pan but is quick to smile again when Jack calls for him by the freezer. He can't reach the tray.

Jack’s eager to please, right under Morgan’s feet, but constantly looking back at Hotch. Morgan’s pancakes are better and with some ice, Hotch’s knee becomes a bendable appendage once again.

[yoongi-sugaglider]

Daegu Quarantine

Jungkook x reader

Gang/ zombie apocalypse au

Warnings:

Gore, violence, zombies, mention of drugs and drug dealing, weapons discharge in self defense, main character death, zombies, course language, zombies, drinking, did I mention zombies?

Summary:

They were the top of their game, known throughout the city as the smartest and most dangerous crew to ever hit the Daegu streets. But what’s going to happen when this group of young men encounter something right out of a horror film?

Word count: 2825

Part 16===Part 17===Part18

Jungkook sprinted up the stairs two at a time as Rose helped me hobble my way behind him. The house above was a chaotic mess of screaming and pistols cocking by the time we’d made it to the first floor. Rose abandoned me at the stairs, sprinting off towards the kitchen to find Taehyung as I motioned Yoongi over.

“Jin and Jeanette are at the shed. Rose saw movement, so there’s no telling if more are back there.”

He nodded, face a mask of murderous intent as he sprinted for the back door. By the time I’d pulled my own weapon out Jimin was at my side, nervous sweat dripping from his forehead as he handed me an extra clip.

“Go. Jungkook, Namjoon, and Hobi are gonna need you out front. I’ll send Tae your way once he’s armed.” The doctor hesitated for a moment, giving me an anxious once over before nodding and sprinting off without a word.

I grunted, shifting as much of my weight as I could manage to my uninjured leg and hobbling for the front door when Taehyung and Rose rejoined me.

“Front gate Tae. Rose’s got me.” I muttered, wiping at the tears of pain now streaming down my cheeks.

He paused, pecking Rose gently on her cheek and giving my arm a quick squeeze before rushing out the door after Jimin. 

Rose was white as a sheet as she gave me her arm to lean on. “Holy shit...what do we even do…” She wondered as we slowly walked out onto the front porch.

“The only thing we can do, make our way out to the driveway and watch for anything that might flank the boys. We have to have their backs. But with you being new to shooting that means I’ll have to do the work, you just make sure to keep me standing no matter what.”

She nodded, her eyes wild with fear as she helped me down the stairs and out to the driveway.

Already I could hear the shots in the distance, each one sending a pang of panic through my heart as I imagined them being the last one for any one of my boys. Pushing that fear down though I continued on, heart racing and mind focused as the men at the gates came into view.

The barrier that Namjoon and Yoongi had worked so hard to put in place had been somehow smashed to pieces and a pile of bodies was already growing from the boys taking down as many of the monsters as they possibly could.

“Right here’s fine Rose.” We were about 30 yards or so behind the boys. Close enough that I wouldn’t lose accuracy but far enough away that if we got overwhelmed, well….I’d have time to think about how much it would hurt before I died.

I began shooting, Rose bracing me with her body as I fired off round after round.

Two bodies came at Namjoon, a snarling mess of teeth and grabbing hands as he hastily reloaded his shotgun while struggling to stay on his feet and walk backwards at the same time.

I fired 2 shots, the first hitting one chatterer directly in the forehead and dropping it, though the second missed and buried itself in a tree further back. Namjoon finally managed to reload his weapon, a grimace to his face as he finished off the closest ravaging chatterer to him with two shots to the head.

I’d already moved on though, eyes seeking out Jungkook in the mass of bodies. He was holding his own, alternating between shots from his gun and large sweeping slashes from a machete identical to the one Hobi was using several paces behind him. I knew he’d be okay as I watched one head fall and roll away and another body drop a few seconds later.

I began firing again, picking off chatterers that forced their way through the gate while slowly allowing Rose to back me up a pace or two every few minutes. We weren’t exactly being overrun yet, but we weren’t gaining ground on the gate either. If we wanted this to end we’d have to find a way to shut it.

Jimin shouted, drawing my attention to where he’d been backed up into a  tree. He had 4 bodies on him, two without arms though they kept lunging at him regardless. He fired where he could, tears streaming down his face as he screamed again when one got too close. I picked off two of them, the third having already dropped, leaving Jimin to fight one elderly lady by himself. He hesitated a moment, eyes wide as if in recognition of the woman, though when she went to bite at him again it seemed the moment hardened his resolve.

He fired a shot, gagging as the head exploded and showered him in viscera. But the deed was done and he moved on, providing back up despite his tears.

And then...things changed.

They came out of nowhere. Men and women in army fatigues and black tactical gear, weapons raised and firing at the monsters from all sides.

I’d have felt relieved at the sight in any other situation. But as the monsters were pushed away from the house and back towards the gate I quickly realized these were not Korean Army here to help us.

No. These were Americans.

As I watched them raise their weapons at my boys an entirely different set of fears washed over me. They knew who we were somehow. Had to. And it might just be that some of us weren’t getting out of this alive.

***

They’d rounded us up at the front of the house, the boys on their knees while Rose and I were held at gunpoint to keep them compliant.

“We’ve got two more back here!” A voice shouted from around the corner.

Two…

My eyes widened as I saw Jeanette and Yoongi forced at gunpoint to march towards us, Jeanette in tears and Yoongi being restrained by two large Americans and quite literally being dragged over to where the other boys were.

“Y/n..they...they shot Jin.” Jeanette sobbed when they shoved her into my arms.

My skin flushed cold, adrenaline coursing through my veins as shock hit me like a freight train.

Not Jin...Seokjin the jokester. Our favorite chef and the dad of our group.

Shot…

Gone...

I screamed, dropping to my knees and clinging to Jeanette as tears coursed down my cheeks.

“YOU MOTHER FUCKERS!!!” Jungkook howled, fighting against his restraints as he struggled to climb to his feet.

“Boss, please…” Jimin whimpered. They’d shoved him to the ground, one soldier having planted a steel toed boot in his spine to keep him down despite the handcuffs pinning his wrists to his back.

Tae and Namjoon had been cuffed together, the shorter man serving to pin Namjoon in place, out of convenience or just spite I hadn’t been sure. But each of them was screaming or crying in some way, while Yoongi continued to glare death in their direction. 

Three soldiers appeared from the house, each carrying various weapons from our vault.

“Sarge, you’ll never believe what we found down in their basement.”

I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, grief took hold, gripping me tight in it’s embrace as I sought out Jungkook’s gaze.

They’d invaded our home. Killed one of our own.

The next thing I knew shots were being fired again.

I ducked down, covering Jeanette’s body with my own as I sought out who could have possibly been firing.

There stood Hobi, face bright red with anger and mouth agape in a scream of rage.

“Hoseok no!” I screamed, but it was too late.

His body went flying, a series of shots having rung out from the soldiers behind me.

It was too much. All of it…

“Y/n!!”

I think...that was Jungkook.

I couldn’t tell. 

It was going dark. 

Strange...as it was the middle of the afternoon. And...I could no longer hear....anything.

I let go, allowing my body to relax. Sleep...sleep would be good right now….

***

The next thing I knew my world was filled with a roar of sound. My body tensed up, though a familiar set of eyes bore into mine when I finally managed to open them. 

Jungkook sat across from me, pinned in place between two American soldiers just as I was. I glanced around, unsure of where we were until I glanced over to see clouds moving past at such a high speed that it took me a moment or two to realize we were no longer on the ground.

“The bitch is awake.” A voice muttered into my ears. They’d put headphones on me to cancel out some of the noise from the helicopter blades, how nice of them…

I grunted, shifting upright and taking in my surroundings. Including Jungkook there were several others on the seats surrounding me. Taehyung sat with Rose while Jeanette sat on his other side. The rest of the space was filled with soldiers, each carrying weapons and steel faced as they either glared at our crew or out the windows.

“Airstrip’s clear Sarge. Preparing to land.”

The soldier beside me nodded, reaching over to rip the headphones off my ears as the helicopter descended and landed with a massively jarring thump.

The sudden influx of noise from the blades left me stunned just long enough for the soldiers to shove me out of the doors and onto the tarmac without much struggle, though as soon as I spotted Jungkook I tried to run for him.

He shook his head and I sobbed when my arms were almost dislocated from my shoulders when one of the Americans jerked me back and away from him.

As the helicopter engine shut off my hearing slowly began returning to me and I began to pick out the sounds of yelling and movement that surrounded me.

A second helicopter had landed before ours and the rest of my crew were already lined up, each with at least three automatic rifles aimed at their heads.

As we moved away from the helicopters to join the others I glanced around, quickly realizing they’d taken us to the military base north west of Daegu. I’d only passed the place on a few occasions, a collection of buildings distinctly American in nature with the occasional military plane or helicopter taking off from the air strip for destinations unknown.

A thrill of relief passed through me as I did a quick head count, though the feeling was dampened slightly when I realized that...those of us who’d survived were all here.

“Get to moving.” The soldier I’d been sitting with growled as I turned to look at him.

I hesitated a moment, locking eyes with him and sending him the fiercest look of fury I could muster. The soldier shoved me forward with the barrel of his rifle, causing me to stumble over my shoelaces. Luckily, despite being handcuffed, Jungkook was able to catch me. The sudden pressure of landing against his forearms though had me gasping in pain as my still healing ribs shifted.

“Oi! She’s injured!” Jimin cried out, earning him a jab to the ribs with the same rifle that’d shoved me.

“Shut it tiny. I could give two shits less if she was the Pope or Jesus incarnate. When I say move I mean double time it. You hear?”

Jungkook and Yoongi growled almost in unison at the American’s words.

“I’m killing you first.” Yoongi muttered and I was forever grateful that I’d been the only one to hear him.

“Easy boys, I’m fine.” I straightened with a groan, nodding to each of them for them to keep moving.

As appreciative as I was for that protective nature, now was not the time for posturing.

***

They lead us to one of the smaller buildings, a sign with a ball and pins labeling it as the bowling alley. It’d been heavily reinforced from what I could tell of the barricades on the doors and the armed guards stationed outside.

The interior was dark, several lanterns giving off the only light I could see and lending it the gloomiest of atmospheres I’d encountered in a very long time. But seeing the lanterns let me know they were far worse off than we’d been. No generators.

We were split off at this point, Taehyung and Rose being led off in one direction while the rest of us were forced towards a set of steel double doors that when opened revealed a massive kitchen.

Huddled inside were several dozen people. Civilians from their dress and grouped up into what I could only guess were family units.

There weren’t very many children. Only 3 from what I could see, and their destitute and resigned faces broke my heart to see.

Making my way into the depths of the kitchen I picked a spot, glancing back to watch Jungkook sit directly across from me. Turning to face him I slid down to sit, leaning back against the cool steel of the oven door in the hopes of finding some sort of comfortable position to ease the throbbing in my chest.

I looked up to Jungkook, watching as his head hung low with his knees pulled up to his chest and his fists clenching and unclenching on the floor to either side of him.

He’d been quiet since before they’d taken Tae and Rose away. Silently stewing over our situation. I knew he was plotting, planning some way to get us out of this. But honestly with the amount of guns being pointed at us, there wasn’t a whole lot any of us was going to be able to do.

A sniffle sounded from my left and I glanced over, almost tearing up myself at the sight of Jeanette clinging desperately to Yoongi. He had that thousand yard stare. The one he got right before a mission where he sat and pictured every scenario that could or would go wrong should shit hit the fan. And yet even with that focused glare he still found it within himself to calmly stroke her hair, occasionally whispering reassuring words to her when her whimpers would turn to sobs and her grip on him would tighten.

Namjoon and Jimin sat just opposite them, each staring off into space as if struggling to find a way to cope with everything that’d just happened.

We sat around for several hours, not a soul in the room speaking as we waited to hear news on what they’d done with our friends.

Several soldiers walked in, talking amongst themselves as they stopped to stand before Jungkook.

“We’re never gonna get the woman to talk.” Grumbled one as he glared down at Jungkook who refused to even acknowledge their presence.

“What information are you even looking for?” I demanded, sitting up straighter and glaring at the soldier that’d spoken.

“You’re little hacker friend, Jangmi they call her. She’s got shit we need.” He sneered at me, the look causing my skin to crawl.

“But why do you even need this information?” I demanded angrily.

“Because even when the world’s gone to shit we still have a job to do. Take down the bad guys. And guess what the fuck you and your people are.” He stepped forward, shifting his shouldered weapon as he crouched down before me.

“Don’t you fucking dare touch her.” Jungkook lunged forward, though several soldiers pinned him down immediately to keep him from going further.

“Four soldiers we lost trying to get these useless fuckers. Four good men with wives and children and mortgages. And for what?! A couple of gangsters and some tech smart bitch and her boy toy who can’t even talk??”

“Fuck sake Jenkins get ahold of yourself!” The man who I’d assumed was in charge before barked at the irate soldier that was still in my face.

“No! Fuck this!”

The next thing I knew he had his fist in my hair yanking me to my feet as I screamed out in pain.

Jungkook roared, straining against the four men that held him down as Yoongi and Jimin fought their captors as well trying to reach me.

“Look at them!” Jenkins sneered, pinning me to his chest and pressing his cheek to mine while he glared at my boys.

“This one’s their weakness. This one will get us answers. Maybe she doesn’t have them, but I can guarantee if we push just hard enough,” with that he squeezed his arms around me, shifting my still sore ribs in the process and causing me to scream out again with pain, “they’ll all start squealing. Just you watch me work Sarge. I’ll have all the info those Langley fucks want and you won’t even have to lift a dainty little finger.”

[jefferoni-quotes]

hotter than this heatwave

Jamilton, 13,045 words

I am begging y'all, don't let this flop it took an ungodly amount of time and I am so proud of it. Full fic under the cut.

Also, leave feedback! I love reading what you guys thought of my writing!

Hamilton is hot.

There’s no other way to say it. He’s hot, miserably so. Even with the air conditioner full blast, and a fan directed straight into his face, he’s simply sweltering in the heat. His childish refusal to remove his shirt (even in the privacy of his own home) isn’t helping the sweat cease in their races down his back, and the base of his ponytail sticks to his neck. He grimaces every time he even tries to move, and thus he’s resided himself to the expanse of couch, positioned himself under an open window. But there’s no breeze, none reaching him anyway. If he lifts himself on his shaking arms, and peers out the window, he can see the trees aren’t swaying. The leaves bustle occasionally, but it’s far from the usual dance they perform. He can hear all too clearly conversations, chatter from those subjecting themselves to the summer heat. Perhaps Alexander is more a winter person, ever since he had moved to America he had been, after all, he saw snow, something he thought only existed in movies, and immediately fell in love with the season. Being able to choose if he was to be pleasantly warm, or surprisingly cold during winter was an experience. To have the option of curling up like a cat by the fire, or lying in snow, making snowmen and such. And Christmas dinners- Alexander could go on and on for hours about the wonders of the coldest time of year, alas Hercules would disagree, argue Summer was so much better. But Hercules is Irish, he has enough of the cold to last him a lifetime. Now Hamilton would bet the man wishes he had just held his tongue, because he must be suffering in the heat too. 

Fuck heatwaves, and fuck New York.

He thinks to himself as he throws a cushion across the room in frustration. It hits his air conditioning unit, and before he knows it the apartment is plunged into a volcano. The unit malfunctions, turns off and doesn’t turn back on, even when Alexander shoots up from his languid position and desperately tries to fix it. He beats his fist off the top with pent up frustration, sincerely hoping that magically it would be fixed. Alas, it was not, it gave one last spluttering attempt to turn on before dying with a not so graceful clank. What sin has he committed to be tortured in such a way? It feels as though Satan himself is clawing his way up from the circles of Hell, and has declared Alexander’s apartment his spawn point, where the Heaven vs Hell war will begin. Whatever war is about to commence, Alex is on Satan’s team, as God must have something against him to send this wave of heat his way.

“Fuck!” He yelled, kicking the machine and cursing even louder at the shock of pain coursing through his toes. He clutches his foot, hopping around his apartment like some hurt rabbit and hisses through clenched teeth. He finally jumps his way ungracefully back to his couch, collapsing onto it in one foul swoop. His legs involuntarily give out under him, and he’s almost thankful for it as he half considers stripping out of his shirt, aching for some kind of relief. He starts tugging on the hem of his shirt, mulling over the idea before pushing his own hands away in disgust. A respectable man always remains fully dressed for any occasion. What if a visitor were to come by? He would likely demand their exit from his home, but he would at least like to do so in style.

The rooms are quick to grow stuffy, uncomfortable and as though the walls are too close and getting closer. Suddenly removing any clothing is a thought long forgotten, quickly replaced by the innate desperation to escape the closed doors of his apartment. He scrambles for purchase on the arm of his couch before forcing his muscles to revive and motor him towards the exit. He passes by his kitchen, opens the fridge for a moment just to feel the coolness on his body. He closes the door before all his food defrosts, albeit reluctantly. He would stand there all day if he could. Leaving the kitchen, he examines how his kettle has evaporated of all remaining water inside. There goes Plan B of making iced coffee, or worse, iced tea. Who could subject themselves to the bath water like clutches of cold tea? Disgusting.

He doesn’t stop to grab sunscreen, doesn’t consider sunburn a thing as he grabs his keys and shoves them in the pocket of his ratty cargo shorts. He pushes his feet into sandals, Birkenstocks, brown ones. He half contemplated putting socks on with his sandals, and automatically laughs at how much that would irritate Jefferson if he just so happened to run into him. The man is obsessed with his looks, conceited and vain in every way. Alexander wouldn’t be surprised if the man carries a pocket mirror on him, just to examine his appearance and remind himself of how goddamn gorgeous he is. Because he is gorgeous. Alexander is stubborn, not blind, and even he can admit the things he would give up for a fling with the man. His pride would never allow him to plead Jefferson for a one night stand however, and he knew Jefferson would never come to him, so that fantasy may as well remain just that. A fantasy. 

So he leaves the socks behind, but not because he cares what others think. Of course he doesn’t… simply because socks would just be extra layers. He doesn’t care if people think his hair is a mess, which it is, so he drags his hand through it. The hand comes back damp, and he grimaces, wiping it on the tan material of his shorts. And he certainly doesn’t care that one of the buckles on his sandals is about to break. He glares at it, willing it to sew itself back together. It does not. Hamilton sighs and folds, giving up on attempting to appear presentable. It’s not like anyone else outside looks much better, save for the few teenagers posing on the streets in incredibly short shorts with a Starbucks they probably waited an hour for. 

Alexander practically throws his door open and is met with a pleasurable breeze as it swings, which quickly dissipates into a blast of scorching air, as though opening an oven too quickly. You would think after being born in such a humid climate he would’ve grown used to the hot weather. Apparently, this was a false assumption. He fishes his keys back out of his shorts and locks the door, standing out in the lobby of his apartment complex. 

Now that he’s escaped the confinement of his home, Hamilton doesn’t know what to do. He could run down to Starbucks, take his mind off the heat with an ice cold Frappuccino. However, that would only distract him for a moment, perhaps an hour, until every drop of coffee has been drunk, and he’s left with an empty cup and a smoldering heat once more. And besides, if he's so desperate for an iced coffee then he could just make his own. That idea drains down the gutter, because he doesn't have any ice and there's no way water would freeze very fast in this temperament. He can briskly walk to work if he so pleases, despite being ordered to stay off, but that would require changing into a suit and now that he thinks about it… does his office even have air conditioning? 

A long, broken sigh escapes his lips and he drags a hand through his hair, which has grown ever so slightly damp with sweat. Maybe a walk to clear his head, and if he strolls in the right direction, the wind will hit him perfectly and he should cool down. 

He accepts this as the perfect idea and walks his way out onto the street, practically able to feel the burning tarmac through the soles of his sandals. He hopes there are no poor dogs or felines roaming the streets, or on daily walks on this day. The pavement would be far too much for their paws. Alexander feels which way the warm breeze is flowing and begins to trek directly into it, finding a sense of overwhelming relief at the sensation. (Even if it is relatively brief.)

Alexander’s feet carry him wherever they please, walking him down long streets, past empty stores. He stops to glance into a bustling Starbucks, hears through the glass a man screeching at a barista who is refusing to take his order because, “no shirt, no service.” He continues past, rather glad he had decided not to go inside, as it looks far too crowded, even for a small man such as himself.

His strides are short but swift, floating him along the streets with an air of confidence that he is known to possess. It is undeniably cooler outside, a welcome surprise as a gust of wind blows his hair from his face. He hears the simultaneous sighs of alleviation from the few on the streets, clearly walking around for the same reason as Hamilton. 

Time ticks by and Alexander allows his mind to wander, as it all too often does when he gives it the chance. His thoughts speed past a mile a minute, tempting his brain to consider them longer, grabbing them like falling petals before letting them drift to the ground and blow away once more. 

He passes through Time Square, finding it bustling, more so than he had imagined. However, it’s not ‘Christmas Crowded’, the eloquent name given to Time Square by Lafayette for when the area becomes full at the most amazing time of year. He makes his way past people, brushing shoulders and probably contracting some undiscovered disease off of some of them. It’s New York, he wouldn’t be surprised. He jumps out of his skin when some man behind him traces their fingers up his spine, but when he turns around the person is gone, laughing to their friends. He scowls, half considers shaking his fist and exclaiming about “kids these days!” But he doesn’t, he just shivers despite being roasted alive and continues on his way. 

He spaces out again, wondering about work and then he doesn't know what he starts thinking about. But in his head he can picture a man. A man with a jawline that could cut glass, eyes blacker than the depths of the sea, yet shining as though filled with fire. He can see springy curls, imagines himself running his fingers through the mystery man's hair and cooing as he mumbles his disagreements. He sees a dark complexion, sharp cheekbones, with soft edges. The colour purple is prominent in his clothing, and it takes a moment further for Alexander to identify the male in his mind.

He zones back in as soon as he realises he's thinking about Jefferson. Again. He's thinking about Jefferson in a good way, thinking about doing couple things, about dates. And he grimaces. He convinces himself it's just a fluke, only because he sees Jefferson every day at work. 

He starts checking the watch on his wrist, which is starting to heat up in the sunlight. It’s been almost an hour and forty five minutes since he began walking, and he checks the number on the street. It’s all okay. He can always catch a cab. He looks around and finds himself no longer in the bustling parts of New York, but instead part of a classy suburban area. Rows of white picket fencing and neat little gardens, full of wilting flowers meet his eyes. In the lawns of a few are men and women of all ages tending to the plants, feeding them with water to try and keep them going through the unbearable summer heat. 

All the homes are different colours, some a perfectly average, cream white, others slightly more lavish baby blues. There’s one where the exterior walls are a glowing lemon colour, and it fills Alexander with an unexplained wave of joy. Then again, the colour yellow always has. It feels warm, welcoming, like a friendship long awaited. Something that has awakened the craving in him that demands the enveloping arms of a smothering hug.

A child - probably around eight - runs down the street, being chased by who looks like his friend. The girl racing after him knocks him to the side and he goes down on a patch of grass, flat on his back while his friend stands over him with a look of pure pride. Her curls bob as she jumps up and down beside him with glee, and Alexander observes as the boy stands. They lean against the tree beside them for a moment, before he mutters something and this time the girl takes off sprinting, the boy following five seconds later. He chuckles at the purity of the situation and takes it upon himself to continue his walk. It’s warmer than ever, but he doesn’t care as much anymore. 

The kids race ahead, the girl much further ahead until she stops. Alexander observes from the sidelines as he walks, and the boy taps her on the shoulder. They stand there, childlike joy radiating from their area. 

Alexander breezes past them, halfway down the stretch of street. The houses grow larger than the previous as he continues to walk, yet still feel as homely. An amazing feat really. He can hear the soft patting of his Birkenstocks as they tap off the pavement each time his feet hit the floor. A car trundles past, down the street, at what must be 10 miles an hour, giving kids on the road time to move out the way. He doesn't catch a glimpse of the driver, but he has respect for them nonetheless. 

As he passes a large, pastel green house, a tall woman exits her garden. She’s old, that much is obvious, but she doesn’t live up to the ‘little old lady’ aesthetic. She’s tall, she’s not hunched and the only part that gives away her age is the wrinkles lining her face. She brushes a grey curl from her face, tying back her hair afterwards. She’s mumbling under her breath, something that sounds like, “it starts soon! The concert!” And for a moment he feels awfully bad for her, thinking she has Alzheimer’s or something similar.

She has a thick Southern accent, and reminds him of Jefferson in a way. Her curls are similar, perhaps not as bouncy or as soft looking (in fact the only similar thing is that they’re curls,) but it has the same obvious care put into maintaining their pristine appearance. Her skin tone isn’t at all similar to his however, she’s pale while Jefferson’s complexion is almost tawny in a way. He can’t see her eyes from where he stands, but if they’re anything like Jefferson’s, then they must be dark, and perhaps they sparkle like his does when he gets passionate about what he’s speaking of… And when did he start thinking about Jefferson so much? Why does he know Jefferson’s eyes glimmer in certain lighting, or burn with a fire when they argue? Why is he paying so much attention to the man's pupils, and how they fail to hide the emotions his stone-cold face manages to maintain? When did he begin to study his rival so closely that he noticed all these oddities? Little details; like the way his lips twitch into a soft smile when talking to Madison, or recalling fondly his time in Monticello. Or now his eyebrows quirk upwards whenever Alexander opens his mouth to speak during meetings, conveying his irritation, yet innate fascination with the words flooding the room. How does he know that Jefferson’s curls would be soft to touch, without ever being close enough to feel them between his fingertips. Why does he feel that the man could go pliant with a scratch to the right place of his scalp? Where did all this knowledge come from? The depths of his bustling mind-palace? Or is it some fountain of information that Alexander and few others have access to? Is there some key to access the quirks about Jefferson, a key that he has? Or does he simply have the mould, a fragmented ideology of a key? Has Jefferson personally handed him this key, trusted him with it? Or has Hamilton snatched it from his clutches like a criminal from an off-guard prison warden? To think of it, why does Jefferson - the ever flowing river of confidence - stash his emotions away, hiding them like a gold hoarding dragon in a cave. He sits on them as though a mother bird would protect her eggs. He keeps them unseen to the passing onlooker. Is he scared? The idea is ridiculous. Thomas Jefferson? Scared? Hell would freeze over before the moment Jefferson is frightened. Or is anxious a better word? Why does he covet to know what it’s like to wake up secured in those arms? (God those arms.) Why does his head claw for the intelligence to feel Jefferson? (Whether that be a warm hug or a simple swing of their hands, linked together?) Why is Alexander asking himself all these questions? Why is his brain grasping and reaching for the answers, as though the forbidden apple that he craves a bite of.

Why does he care?

It’s a recurring thought, one that his mind cannot seem to formulate a complete answer to. Perhaps because it’s the nice thing to do? But no, fantasizing about someone’s eyes like some schoolgirl is not a “nice thing to do.” It’s a crush, is what it is. Wanting to know more about Jefferson, seeking the answers to his many personal questions is not simply because it’s a nice thing to do. It’s because he needs the answers. His mind demands he become closer with the man, the vain, uncaring man. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Out of all the people his heart could sing a yearning song for, it chose Thomas fucking Jefferson.

Why has his attention been undeniably captured, held hostage, by the Southern fuck?

This one, he can justify. It’s a simple answer really, one that is half the solution to his hundreds of other questions, the ones that buzz in his ears like insistent flies. And it’s two words, one word if you so wish to keep it incredibly succinct. 

His wit.

His brain, his intelligence only matched and rivalled by Hamilton’s own. The way his fingers tap out word after word on keyboards, or scratch out essays upon essays onto paper with pens, pencils, whatever he can get his hands on. His intense expanse of knowledge that spans from American finance, to Shakespearean literature. His ability to argue and debate and speak for hours and hours with Alexander without losing his pace. The way his mind formulates sentence after sentence where he debates and there’s a fiery, yet somehow icy cold, passion in his tone. The fact that Hamilton finally has an equal. Where it’s unlike arguing against Burr, a stone wall of indifference. Jefferson is a stone wall that Alexander knows exactly how to make crumble. And he does. Over and over, yet Jefferson keeps rebuilding, stronger than before. He makes Alexander fight for his right to get his ideas across and as much as if pisses him off… he can’t deny that he loves it. He adores having to work his way up, enjoys knocking away obstacles that continue to respawn. What’s life without a little competition after all? Alexander enjoys hiking, and Jefferson is the ultimate mountain to climb. 

But he wants more. He needs to know more about this mysterious man. He wants to know what it’s like to share sweet moments with him, wishes to be granted passage to his heart. He wants the key to be given to him, not stolen away. He wants Jefferson to trust him. He wants to know his talents, his skills, his hopes, his dreams. He wants to know about his past, his present and his future. Wants to know his real personality, the one he has secured in a vault. Because Alexander is stubborn, this much as already been said, but he’s not stupid. He can see the twitch in his fingers, the brief panic that flashes through the man's dark eyes whenever he has to present in Congress. He can hear the way he stumbles and stammers his way through speeches, as though he’s ready off a particularly shitty script. It’s only when they debate, when they argue with that familiar intensity, that the inferno is let loose.  And Alexander is happy to be consumed in its flames. 

The thoughts are almost enough to frighten him. The way they consume his constantly changing mind until he can think of nothing else. The burning heat in the air has been forgotten, replaced with a searing, white-hot pain through his chest. A heart attack maybe? More likely a soul attack. Hamilton uses his clairvoyance, he isn’t stupid. He knows this crush has been around since the day they had met. Since the first inklings of their argumentative ways. The kindling that sparked a fiery rivalry. One sure to last a lifetime. Well, maybe on Jefferson’s end. Alexander has felt this way, this white hot pain for a while, but now his body registers it and it hits all at once. Like a slap to the face, a punch to the stomach and a kick in the balls. It’s never hurt this much. Not with Aaron, not with John, not even with Eliza. The three most important relationships of his life had never been this intense, and he and Jefferson aren’t even together. Perhaps that’s what caused the pain to harm him so much. The craving of a thing he can’t have.

He gets the same feeling, the same way he felt around his other relationships. With Aaron, it was calm, predictable. It was boring. He needed more, he needed a spark, something he could bounce off of and then melt together. Aaron was grey. Monotone, and straight lined. He was a man who needed something still. He required security and promises to stay the way they were. But Alexander was a storm, unpredictable and wild and fully intent on ravaging the waters, while what Burr really needed was a lighthouse. Someone who was a beacon of light to shine him to the right place. Hamilton could never provide that.

John had been close. He had been orange. Intense, swirling like a fire, like a burning heat. But not enough. He was too quick to back down, to agree and leave arguments unsettled. He didn’t put up enough of a fight, backed down from debates and left Alexander with many more points to push across. They had the same opinions, there was no need for a friendly debate. It just wasn’t enough for him. There was passion, but not in the way Alexander’s heart craved. John needed something grounding, someone to match his intensity with a cute yellow or a fellow orange. And he found that, he found that in Peggy and Alexander was happy to watch him go. He wanted his orange to be happy.

The third person had been blue. Eliza was the sea and the sky. She was beautiful and calm and swaying. She was helpful and loving, quick to input her opinion only to retract it later on. Alexander had thought she was perfect. She was, Eliza was perfect. But Alexander was not. Blue didn’t mix right with whatever colour Alexander was. Blue turned dark and foreboding, into something he didn’t want to experience. Their fire had been wrong, and if Eliza was the ocean, then Hamilton was the smoke on the water clouding her. She needed a similar colour, a green like the Earth whom she could surround and heal. Or another blue to swim with. It appeared Alexander was neither of those.

But Jefferson. Jefferson was different. He was intense and angry and punched out. He was red. A dark crimson that demanded attention at all times. A matching light to Alex’s own. They bounced off each other, before they crashed together in a mess of colours, an abstract painting of similarities. Jefferson was passionate, he had an intensity that matched Alexander’s previously unrivalled one, and he loved it. He loved red. Red was the colour he needed, the colour that felt best in his heart of hearts. And that’s when he knew that he was red too, that he was a candy red. He was bright and flashing and Jefferson was dark and mysterious and together they were perfect. Together they formed a shade of undiscovered colour. 

That’s what Alexander needed. He needed his red. Everyone else had theirs! It was his turn! It was finally his shot to find love, and he had no intentions of throwing it away.

In his time thinking, he’s almost completely forgotten the putrid heat, and the fact that the woman from before is walking down the street just a foot or two away from him. She’s brisk, in a hurry clearly, occasionally checking the time on her surprisingly high class smart-phone. In fact, another person joins him on his venture down the street, the little girl from before, but without her friend. And if he thought the woman reminded him of Jefferson, then this girl is the spitting image of him. Same hair, but longer and tied into puffy pigtails, the same wide and toothy smile as she taps Alexander on the side.

“Hey there, Mr!” She waves, and the first thing he can think is Stranger Danger. Did this girl's parents never teach her the importance of not talking to random people on the streets? “I’ve never seen you round here before, are you lost?” He supposes that he sort of is. He doesn’t know his way home, but somehow he’s not concerned. He can call a cab, or an Uber or Lyft. There are plenty of ways for him to arrive back home. But the fact that she asks him this is evident that this is one of those neighbourhoods. One where “everyone knows everyone.” Which is sweet, but annoying, because now he stands out. He wants to blend in with the crowd for once, but as he looks around, that’s been impossible for a while. He notices everyone out in their gardens or on the streets are white, which is expected at this point. It’s a flaw in the American housing system, one that he should bring up in Congress. Perhaps he could get Jefferson to support him for once, team up even. That’s the dream. 

He hasn’t said much for a few seconds, and the kid looks up at him with large, expectant eyes. “Oh, I’m not lost, no. Just going for a walk,” he nods gently and she seems to understand. He thinks she’s just going to run off after receiving an answer, but she seems insistent to interrogate Alexander a little more. 

She hums to herself, “what’s your name?” She asks ever so superficially, like an employer ready to write someone up for bad behaviour or poor customer service. Alexander knows those write ups all too well, it’s the reason he’s been forced off work today, something he was happy to let happen as soon as the heatwave hit. Work doesn’t have good air conditioning, if it has air conditioning at all. 

“Alexander,” he answers with a flick of his head, casting his glance to the sky. They’re still walking, nearing the end of the street. The old lady has stopped, and the little girl has too, which subsequently has Hamilton stopping. He looks down at her, chin tilted down as she glares up. She seems livid at his name, and he wonders what he’s done wrong until he realises she’s staring directly into the sun as she tries to suss him out. Her gaze is warm and welcoming however, childlike and pure and it’s a nice break from the cool stares he’s used to.

She nods happily, “my name's Patsy, I’m eight,” she grins and turns on her heel, casting one final look over her shoulder. “I’m going to play, if my Pops leaves the house tell him that’s what I’m doing!” She runs off, leaving Alexander wondering who her father is. The old lady is leaning on the fence of the house in front of him, glancing up to an open window. She looks like an NPC in a video game, purposefully placed in a specific spot just for unimportant exposition. Alexander is an expert in certain video games, and if her position isn’t just begging for him to go interact with her. She seems as though she may have some enchanted knowledge to pass down onto him, maybe even a cherry pie recipe if he’s lucky.

He walks over to her side, resting his forearms on the flat tops of the white fence. The house in front of him is painted a soft violet, it’s pretty. There’s neat rows of tulips and petunias in the lawn, which is freshly trimmed so it seems. There are bushes in the middle of the grass, cut into a point. Everything is seamless, blending together. It’s homely and calm, and Alexander smiles. The woman is smiling too. He glances at other things in the garden. Tucked away into the left corner by the porch is a barbecue, and not too far from that a wooden bench. There are thin cushions resting on it, but no one sits there. The lights in the house are off, the windows open along with the curtains. But when he looks in, he sees no one. Then again, he can only see directly into the window and up, so anything at the other end of the room is out of sight. Perhaps he should’ve worn his glasses today, unable to see very far in front of his face. In the driveway is a family car, a blue Chevrolet still spongy with a few soap studs. Newly washed, he notes. 

“It starts soon,” the elder comments, gesturing vaguely to the home before them. So she’s not an NPC. Alexander can’t put his finger on if that’s annoying or perfect, because he doesn’t have to start the conversation.

Yet his interest has been piqued, he was always a curious soul. It gets him into fits of trouble occasionally, but for now it seems as though the only thing he can get out of it is an intriguing talk. “What’s starting?” He asks quietly, tone low. His lips are dry, and he smacks them together to coat them with saliva to hopefully stop them cracking.

“The concert,” she answers, as though it’s the most typical thing in the world. Alexander is about to open his mouth to argue against that fact, to insinuate that a concert happening in someone’s home is ridiculous - (Even if all the Disney Channel movies taught him otherwise.) - but the woman is talking again. “Tommy always plays at three in the afternoon on a Sunday.” She seems transfixed, and every time Alexander tries to speak she hushes him. She holds up her hand to silence him, and it gives him the same feeling George Washington gives him, authority radiates from her and Alex finds himself actually shutting up. It’s two fifty-nine now, and he’s waiting for the music to start from this mysterious “Tommy.” 

He’s impatient, and authority only hushes him for so long. He fidgets, picks paint off the fence and then speaks. “When does it start?” He hisses, bored. Come on, it’s three! Almost at least. 

“I told you, he plays at three.”

“It is three!” Alexander whines pathetically, crossing his arms over. He’s stood still in wait for long enough, and if music doesn’t start in the next thirty seconds he’s going to walk away and never look back. He’s all set to move when the lady grabs him by the shoulder.

She hisses, “it’s starting!” 

And indeed it is. Through the open windows, pouring out the house are the sweet chords of an expert violinist. It’s a harmony, seems sad, longing almost. The melody starts slow, and carefully picks up pace as it goes. He can only imagine who the player is, male or female it doesn’t matter. His mind whirs with ideas, forming the musician in his mind.

Their hands would grip the bow with precision, glide across the strings with a focussed expression. He can see their- no, his, eyes turned down to the instrument, pupils darkening as they get lost in the notes. The violin is balanced on his shoulder, tucked under his chin and his hair falls into his view but he keeps playing. The straight, actually, it’s curly. The ringlets of curls are brushed away quickly, in one movement as he continues to play. 

Alexander spaces out, losing himself to the music. It appears the lady beside him does the same, but he can’t be sure. He tries to put a colour on the tone of it, tries to decipher the meaning behind the song. The violin fades into an instrumental where it’s clear the player should be singing, but they don’t. He tries to picture a face, going as far as to close his eyes and block out everything but his own imagination and the melody flowing to him. It’s like a siren call, coaxing him towards sudden death. And Alexander is all too happy to submit to the urges. 

He finds a face, dark eyes, curls, complexion. Once again he’s picturing Jefferson. Over and over the man comes to mind. He tries to push him away, attempts to imagine someone else standing in the home and playing just for him. But it’s futile. And the song does feel like it’s for him. It feels like it matches the music his heart sings, the yearning harmony that lathers his soul is rivalled by this player. By Jefferson. It’s not like he’s ever going to meet the violinist, so he’s free to picture whoever he pleases. 

He’s sweating, it’s the heat, it must be. His palms that are clenched into fists by his sides are coated in a thin sheen of sweat, his forehead growing damp again. He makes no effort to wipe it away, he lets the heat sweep over him. He allows the flames to engulf him, the chords of the song floating to him still. 

But as soon as it’s begun, it ends. The violin fades out, leaving the music buzzing pleasantly in his veins. The lady smiles, nods and starts to walk off, back to her house. The concert comes to a close, curtains shut and shun all backstage visitors away. But when has Alexander ever abided by the rules? 

His feet march him into the garden, down the lawn and up to the porch. He steps up the stairs, both of them at once. He’s having trouble summoning courage, something that’s rare for him. Typically he isn’t walking up to a strangers home just to congratulate them on their musical talent… that he probably isn’t even supposed to hear. 

It takes Alexander a long minute of just standing there before he swallows his pride and taps his knuckles off the door. There are footsteps, coming closer and as they do he rids himself of the urge to run away. 

He’s almost expecting Jefferson, he’s built him up in his mind and placed him on a pedestal. Or maybe it’s better to say that he’s trying to force the man into a treasure box, as he does with all the things he loves. His mother’s memory goes in there, his pens and his laptop and the pendant necklace from his mother. He’s trying to push Jefferson into the box too, to keep him by his side but he won’t stay. Perhaps it’s impossible to keep a person preserved in a treasure chest, or maybe it’s just Jefferson. He needs room, he needs space to evolve and change and grow and Alexander’s treasure chest can’t provide that. Alexander can though. He just has to let Jefferson stay out of the box. 

Like he said, he’s almost expecting Jefferson to be at the door. But he still gets shocked when it actually is. It actually is Thomas fucking Jefferson standing in the doorway and Jesus he’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt so tight it should be illegal. It’s difficult enough for Alexander to handle when he can practically see Jefferson’s chest through his sheen white dress shirt at work, but this is too much. This man is an Adonis. He’s the sun, Alexander is an icarus and he feels as though he simply has to fly closer. 

“Hamilton!”

Shit, has he been speaking this whole time? Alexander flicks his gaze to Jefferson’s face, and fuck him he’s wearing glasses. Chunky black hipster frames that balance on the bridge of his nose. Christ, he’s in deep isn’t he? 

Jefferson waves his hand in front of Alexander’s face, grabbing his attention. “Hu-uh?” Alexander stumbles out his words pathetically, lighting up red soon after. He goes the same crimson as Jefferson’s shirt, the colour he identifies the man with. He looks like he’s about to slap Alexander across the face if he doesn’t start properly talking soon.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jefferson hisses, venom laced in his tone. He’s like a snake, coiled up into a spring, ready to attack and bite at the next to approach. In his hands (lord, those hands!) he holds a clear water bottle, knuckles white with the ferocious way he grips it. He brings it up to his lips and takes a careful sip, eyes trained like a sniper on Alexander.

Hamilton collects himself, gathering his thoughts, which shouldn’t be as difficult to do as it is. He coughs into his fist, realising how dry his throat is. The aspect of water is welcoming, and he wants to reach out just to snatch the plastic (reusable, how environmental) bottle off of Jefferson to guzzle down the remaining liquid. Alas, he does not. Because that would be weird. 

He still hasn’t answered, thus Jefferson continues with a hiss. “What are you doing here?!” He’s not angry, Alexander knows this. He has seen the man angry. 

One time, he had seen the man in his furious element. The cabinet meeting had just ended, and Jefferson had stormed out after Washington had taken Alexander’s side once again. It wasn’t Hamilton’s fault he was better! Jefferson had stalked towards his office, and Hamilton had followed after him, the cheap fake leather of his shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum. Alexander had continued his argument, much to the dismay of the taller man. Jefferson had tried his very best to slam the door on Hamilton’s face, using all his force (which was a lot) to close it behind him, but Alex managed to stick his foot in the gap and wretch it open, still blabbering away. Jefferson had collapsed into his office chair, held his head in his hands and muttered to himself as Alexander got closer. His voice had stayed a constant, boisterous and accompanied with gesticulating gestures until he lost his cool and whipped Jefferson’s seat around himself. 

“Answer me already! You spit and stumble your way through speeches, I bring out the real you! I bring out the fires! Show me him and argue back!” The animosity had been high in Alexander’s tone, he liked the unabashed Jefferson who fought with him. The man who poured wisdom from his tongue like his mother language. Why he held it back when talking to anyone else baffled him beyond belief. But this meeting he had barely spoken, just shared his points with a quiet voice and sat back down, not bothering to debate Alexander. He was furious, made sure to target Jefferson in some of his words just to try and get a rise, a reaction, anything! But it had not worked, so he resorted to his last lifeline, and followed the man to his office. 

Jefferson snapped his gaze up, and there it was, the fire he so dearly wanted. The red-hot passion that licked at his pupils, threatened to burn Alexander. “You bring out the real me?! No, Hamilton,” he had spat his name like it was some dirt on the bottom of his polished shoes, “you bring out the worst in me! You bring out the angry, tired part of me that doesn’t want to deal with your bullshit!” 

“My bullshit?” Alexander had smirked as though he had won, and in his sense he had. For a moment at least. Because he had gotten a reaction, the thing he craved as much as air. He had gotten his red to reply and that’s all he really needed. He was happy from here on out. But, he could always push it further. So he had. “Care to explain to me what my bullshit is? Is it my financial plan? Is that what it is, Jefferson?” He had remained sickeningly-sweet, words sugary like honey, dripping in the same way. 

Jefferson had laughed, hysterical really. A break from his usual smug laughter. A break Alexander didn’t enjoy very much. He was never one to like breaks, preferred to continue in a way he always had. And he and Jefferson had a dance, a specific way they did things that they had yet to break. A routine that Jefferson was so arbitrarily destroying just with a fit of chuckles. “Your financial plan is a piece of insulting garbage, but that is not what I mean-“ he had scoffed, and rose from his seat, towering over Alexander with a menacing glint. “-You are a parasite to me, you trail around like some sad puppy, desperate for attention! But why me? I stammer through speeches, but alas it’s better than talking a million miles a minute where no one can understand you! You bring out the fire, the hellfire! You make me want to snap you into pieces and scatter you on my lawn like fertiliser. Do us all a favour and get out!”

A little shocked by the imaginative insult, Alexander resisted. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Jefferson had him by the collar next, shoving him up against a wall, face so close he could feel the hot breath of his rival on his face. “You talk a big game, Hamilton, yet you forget to follow through. The fire you bring out in me is the worst part about myself and I’d prefer to hide it away,” he had growled, low and rumbling in his chest, “you’re not good enough to lick the dirt off my shoes. You must think you’re so special, yet all you do is hump the President’s leg until you get what you desire. God knows why he takes your side on every political matter.” He had dropped Alexander after that, left him scrambling to his feet. “Get out of my office.”

Scared, but stubborn, Alexander had supplied a retort. “Or what, old man? Gonna make me?” 

Jefferson had grit his teeth together, grinding them so hard Hamilton was surprised they hadn’t faded away. “Or else.”

“All bark and no bite.” Alexander scoffed in return, making his way slowly to the door. He cast a look over his shoulder in time to see Jefferson physically slump back into his chair, looking tense and stressed and he couldn’t help but feel bad. He had felt Jefferson’s eyes on his back the whole time he had left, felt them searing holes through his jacket and burning into his skin. Not that he was complaining though. 

And once again, Alexander peers up at him with wide eyes. “Oh, well um-“ he directs his gaze over Jefferson’s shoulder, “it’s kind of a long story.” He’s hinting quite obviously at his pleas to come inside, and Jefferson must catch on because a hint of realisation casts over his dark eyes, the eyes Alexander spends so much of his time thinking about. 

“I have time,” came Jefferson’s grimy reply. One long finger came up to push his glasses up by the rim, unlike anyone else who would push them up by the bridge. Alexander inadvertently stashed this information away in his treasure chest. He taps his foot in a way that almost feels surreptitious. Or perhaps that’s the incorrect word. Jefferson keeps looking over Alexander’s head, then glancing behind him, eyes darting in all directions. 

Alexander has the sun beating down on his back, and he can see Jefferson squinting in the light. It’s hot again, too hot in all the wrong ways, and Alexander only feels hotter with Jefferson’s eyes on him. “Well- uh- it started because my AC unit broke and-“

“Hamilton, I didn’t ask for a life story,” Jefferson fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt, looking almost nervous. Which was ludicrous! Jefferson? Nervous? That… made a lot of sense actually. His stammering through meetings, his constantly tensed shoulders, the time he had overheard Madison and Adams talking about him a few years back, saying “He was born stressed out about something.” It makes the shuffling around start to add up, how he loses his cool around Alexander and loosens up because he stops thinking. He stops worrying and starts concentrating solely on deconstructing Hamilton’s argument. He feels a little rush of pride at that, that he can get Jefferson to let go. Yet at the same time, it feels like it’s perverse knowledge he isn’t supposed to have access too, which brings him right back around to the key metaphor. A metaphor he’s using so often it’s beginning to lose meaning, and he’s beginning to imagine an actual key, which confuses his head even more than it already is. 

He’s broken from his thoughts by Jefferson speaking once more, “would you like to come inside?” He asks quietly, shifting foot to foot. Alexander steals his gaze downwards, unable to look Jefferson in the face as he processes that question. His rival (whom he’s established as the man he wants to date, and god it feels so much more real when he thinks of it like that), has just invited him into his home. His home that Alexander always imagined to be bigger, more spectacular and less… welcoming. “You could inform me of why you’re standing on my doorstep in broken sandals over a glass of Chardonnay?”

“How am I supposed to say no to that?” Alexander responds almost mockingly, stepping into the home as Jefferson moves aside. He shuffles and a hand goes up to card through his curls, and Alexander wonders if they’re as soft as they appear. He resists the urge to stride over and find out for himself as he steps inside. “I would take my shoes off, but I feel as though barefoot is even more disrespectful.” He hums absent-mindedly.

Jefferson seems to tune back in at that as he flicks his gaze to follow Alexander. “And since when have you cared about being respectful towards me?” His words are sharp, upset almost. It’s strange, but Alexander kind of likes the vulnerability, it feels special. As though Jefferson is trusting him with the real real him. “Just leave your shoes on,” he adds carefully onto the end with a flippant wave and a frown. 

Alexander does just that, but wipes his feet on the welcoming mat Jefferson has placed in his hallway. “What’s your liquor of choice?” Jefferson asks, sauntering off towards his kitchen, voice growing quieter as he walks off. Alexander finds his eyes following his back, watching the way his red shirt clings to the muscles of his back, and he swallows slowly, with intent. 

“I believe I was promised Chardonnay, Mr Jefferson!” Alexander calls after him, taking it upon himself to look around the hallway. It’s cooler inside, thank god, but it’s not chilly. Jefferson knows how to set his AC without breaking it, Hamilton could never relate. The walls are painted a warm brown, framed family photos lining the hall. There is one, where Alexander counts twelve people in the image. The camera quality isn’t great, but all the people in the photo are similar in appearance, the only two who stand out are the ones who look like parents, as their hair is turning grey and there are wrinkles along their foreheads. He spots Jefferson - well, Thomas because he’s managed to figure out everyone in the photo is a Jefferson - rather quickly, he’s the second tallest in the picture, just after the one who looks like his father, but he looks younger, smiling wide at the camera and holding a baby boy on his hip. He looks much too young to have a son, so he must be Jefferson’s brother. 

There's another photo of him cradling a small child in his arms, a newborn, little girl based on the pink wool hat on her head. He looks older than the previous photo, so Alexander deciphers that this is his child. He looks around. There are no children about. He’s smiling wider than he’s ever seen before, down at the baby whose eyes are tightly shut. Alexander grins to himself and ghosts a finger over Jefferson’s face, or at least over the glass. There’s a corner of a woman’s face in the top left, she looks tired. Jefferson does too, bags under his eyes and smile creases by his lips. But he still looks… god, what word can he use?

The next photo makes his fond smile fall faster than a rock from the top of a cliff. A wedding photo, Jefferson in his mid-twenties, dressed in a suit (that hugs him in all the right places, damn) and kissing a short woman in a flowing white wedding dress. He looks so happy, beaming as his hands rest on her hips. A wave of jealousy crashes over him as he studies the image closer. It’s outdoors, must be in Virginia, and the two newlyweds are standing under an arch laced with pink roses and light pink tulips. He frowns, there goes his chance. But it won’t hit him yet, it only will at around midnight, when he’s emailing Washington where he will pause and scream for a minute as it sets in.

He’s so focused on the wedding pictures that he doesn’t even notice Jefferson coming up behind him. “That’s Martha,” the low voice by his ear makes Alexander jump out of his skin, clasping a hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out. “Sorry, did I scare you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and continues to talk, “I thought you would’ve been in the living room, but I suppose I never told you to make yourself at home.” Alexander turns around and chokes on a breath. Because fuck, Jefferson is right there, glasses slipping down his nose, cheeks dusted red and lips inches away from his own. He swallows again, takes a step backwards and hits the wall with his back. 

Jefferson hands him a champagne flute with a bubbling glass of white wine, and Alexander nods in return. "Thank you," he studies Jefferson carefully as he flicks his chin up quickly and takes a step away, giving Alexander room to finally breathe. He quickly glances back at the few photos on the wall, catching a glimpse from his peripheral vision as Jefferson sips from his glass. "Martha was…?" He waits for the other to finish his sentence impatiently. 

"My wife," Jefferson answers with ease, gulping back a small drink. "A million years ago at least." He chuckles. And Alexander doesn't quite understand. Typically, divorcees don't keep photos of their marriage hanging in the entrance way to their home. Apparently the confusion is evident in his expression, because his host keeps talking. "She passed away eight years ago, just after giving birth." 

Alexander bites down on his bottom lip, regretful. He was just thinking about how jealous he was, thinking about going home, calling Laurens or Lafayette and talking shit about Jefferson and his supposed wife. Well he certainly wouldn’t be doing that anymore. “Oh,” he says, rather ineloquently, “I’m sorry.”

Jefferson shrugs, takes another long drink from his glass, like the conversation pains him. It probably does, Alexander realises. “It’s alright, it was a long time ago,” he drawls, making sure to not finish his glass. It’s half full now, and Alexander sips the sparkling liquid. Jefferson clears his throat, looking much like he does during meetings. Uncomfortable, small almost. “Well, can I tempt you to sit in the parlour with me?” He raises an eyebrow, leads them through to a room with windows that are almost floor to ceiling, spar for the comfy looking window seat (covered in a knitted quilt and tartan pillows) that Alexander plops himself down on. The other man seats himself by a small round table, mahogany for the looks of it. 

Alexander wants to speak, as always. His tongue flicks in his mouth, forming words but Jefferson cuts him off. “So, Alexander, tell me, what brought you to my doorstep on this… boiling afternoon?” It doesn’t slip past him that Jefferson uses his first name. The way it rolls with his accent, drawling slow as always until Alexander is hanging onto every syllable. 

His brain catches up with the question after being so hung up on the way his given name sounds on Jefferson’s lips, and the fact that he would love to hear it in other contexts- God, he needs to stop. But the man is right there and- No. “I broke my air conditioning unit, and needed to get out.” He shrugs and takes a slurping drink of Chardonnay, perhaps if he irritates Jefferson enough, he’ll see the fire he wants.

“That doesn’t explain why you knocked on my door,” Jefferson flicks his wrist and places his glass down. Alexander can practically hear the cogs in his brain (that wonderful mind) whirring as he thinks. He can see the intelligent man putting the puzzles pieces together, in order to view the whole picture. He stops to admire his fellow Secretary’s brilliance far too often, and he always has. It’s a constant, a comma in his life where he pauses and admits to himself that Jefferson is smart. And sometimes he hates it. He hates that Jefferson is so so bright, but is full of only stupid things to say. Like he doesn’t learn both sides of the argument before presenting. Or perhaps that’s just how humans work, they’re always going to be biased. 

Alexander coughs into his fist again, seeing Jefferson grit his teeth that he had the audacity to slurp his expensive (probably French, pretentious bastard) wine. “I decided to go for a walk,” he began to explain, as confident as always. “And then I ended up here,” he chewed on the inside of his cheek, “because I heard you playing violin and wanted to come speak to whoever the player was. Didn’t know it was going to be you.” 

Jefferson appears uncomfortable. He finishes his glass in one large gulp and places his now empty glass on the table. He pushes his glasses up his nose by the rim once more, sighing softly. “You say that like it was bad playing.” He said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances at his empty glass, refilling it with only his eyes and exhaling as it refuses to fill. How disappointing.

“No, no!” Alexander waves his hands in a flurry, almost spilling his Chardonnay on the laminate flooring. Jefferson’s eyes catch the droplet that flies from the glass and lands on one of his quilted cushions. Hamilton is too busy explaining himself to realise. Why is he being so considerate of Jefferson’s feelings? (He has a crush on him, he knows this. He knows it’s because the man looks so much more vulnerable in his own home, in shorts and t-shirt and glasses. And oh fuck he’s staring again.) “I wanted to come tell the violinist how incredible their playing was!” He watches the man who is supposed to be his rival smile, genuine and pure, and his heart soars. Butterflies swarm in his stomach, flapping their wings at a hundred miles an hour. It’s like he can take flight, all because of Jefferson’s shy little grin, watching the way his lips twitch upwards. It’s so different from his other sly, wicked smirks, all teeth and hatred. Is it hatred really though? Alexander doesn’t have the time to ask himself all of these questions again, he’s never going to find an answer. 

"I've played ever since I was a child," Jefferson replies, tapping his fingers off his thighs. As Alexander has established, everything about this man seems to be carved by the gods out of stone and his legs are no exception. 

"Impressive." He isn't lying. Alexander finds it wildly impressive, violin is a difficult instrument to master. He believes Jefferson mutters something along the lines of 'thank you', but he isn't particularly paying attention. He needs more to drink. He doesn't want to have to think anymore, so he doesn't. Instead, he downs his glass. 

“Want a refill?” Jefferson drawls, rising to his feet and taking both empty glasses. All Alexander can do is nod and watch as the man walks off, eyes concentrated on his back and definitely not other places because that would be crude. 

Alexander crosses his legs (sits criss-cross applesauce) on the windowsill seat, fluffing a pillow behind his back and cautiously leaning back to rest against the window panes. He’s almost scared of breaking them, or of the glass popping out. So instead he turns and tucks his knees in slightly, sitting along it sideways to lean on the wall that slightly juts out. He must appear comfortable, because when Jefferson comes back in he laughs carefully. “Made yourself at home I see?” He hands Alexander the glass of Chardonnay, and he notes that in his other hand is the bottle. 

“Yeah, got a problem with that?” Alexander responds sarcastically. Jefferson plops himself down - surprisingly - beside Alexander, in the small space between his feet and the other wall. He hadn’t expected the sudden closeness, and all cognitive thought grinds to a stop when he realises he can smell Jefferson’s overpriced cologne. It’s probably perfume, when he thinks about it. Flowery and reeking of money. But Alexander thinks (after smelling it before, and now smelling it here) that he’ll kill Jefferson if he ever wears anything else. 

Jefferson sips from his glass. “Not at all.” Alexander wants to stretch his legs out, but felt as though he couldn’t do that. Jefferson was right there! What can he do? Put his feet on the man’s lap? … he could do that. He could actually do that. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, Hammy?” He purrs teasingly, raising a curious eyebrow and chuckling to himself. Alexander can’t help but notice the slight flush of his cheeks, the dusty pink across his skin. He eyes him suspiciously, before he finally realises that the man must be a lightweight. Now there’s something he didn’t expect.

“Hammy?” Alexander quirks an eyebrow, suspect. It’s amusing how Jefferson seems to relax that slight bit as he sips his Chardonnay. The slightly older man just nods in return, bringing his glass to his lips and taking another drink. Alexander does the same, swirling the wine in his champagne flute with a chuckle. “Just that I wanna stretch out.” He shrugs and continues to drink, observing as Jefferson’s face scrunches up unattractively. Somehow, Hamilton still finds it adorable. Who would’ve thought he would find Jefferson cute? How strange.

“Then just do it,” Jefferson suggests with a smile, shrugs his shoulders and sips his drink. Alexander is surprised, never would’ve thought Jefferson would allow him to kick his feet up. It feels intimate, like a cute-couple thing to do. He hesitantly stretches his legs out, untucking his knees and placing his feet up on Jefferson’s lap, who hums his approval. 

Alexander sips his Chardonnay, starting to speak. And Jefferson? Jefferson starts to listen. 

Half an hour, and the rest of the bottle of Chardonnay later, the two are on the right side of tipsy. They’re just drunk enough to feel comfortable enough to sit shoulder to shoulder, resting against each other without looking like they’re being forced into the close proximity. Except they are no longer shoulder to shoulder, in fact, they’re closer than that. Alexander has his head on Jefferson’s lap, his glass long forgotten on the table, along with Jefferson’s champagne flute too and the empty wine bottle. Alexander is continuously muttering about the current political climate, ranting quietly while Jefferson listens, occasionally inputting his opinion.

“Are you not gonna argue with me?” Alexander raises an eyebrow. He’s trying to irritate Jefferson, and pokes his cheek to try and agitate him more. But Jefferson doesn’t react, other than blushing an even darker crimson. The colour he is. He’s crimson, but now he’s dull and Alexander misses his booming red. 

Jefferson hums to himself, eyes fluttering shut. Alexander reaches up and pushes the other man’s glasses up his nose by the bridge. Jefferson flicks his eyes open suddenly and stares down at him, catching his wrist in his hand. Alexander feels paralysed, feeling his large palms around his own bony wrist and holding it in a loose grip. He doesn’t answer the question, “it’s so nice outside. Why are we still sitting here?”

“Why indeed?” There’s a ever so slight slur to his words, drawn out a little more than usual. Alexander kicks his feet to the ground, standing so casually it’s like he stays and hangs with Jefferson all the time and not never at all. He turns to face Jefferson, overlooking his features. He’s never had a chance to look at him so relaxed, and he notices how tense Jefferson typically is compared to now. At work, his shoulders are straight, hunched up to his ears and his posture is a horizontal line. Whereas now, he’s a little more slumped, tension gone from his body. It’s a breath of fresh air, one he never thought he would experience and accept so easily.

Jefferson rises to his feet, and typically he would be towering over Hamilton yet now, he doesn’t feel as dominating. Instead, he’s softer, edges aren’t as sharp or predatory. The mirthful glint in his pupils has faded, but the fire still licks at his eyes. It’s a welcoming heat, like the fireplace on a freezing day. And despite the current heatwave, Alexander finds himself wishing to curl up by the fire like a purring cat. “Come on, let’s go sit in my backyard.” 

Alexander expects to trail after him, certainly not for the man to offer his hand to Hamilton. But he takes it, ignoring the way his heart pounds in his chest and the way his head is screaming at him. “You’re holding his hand! You’re holding Thomas Jefferson’s hand! He offered it to you! You didn’t even have to ask!” His pulse races in his ears, as he leads the two of them into his back garden. It’s beautiful, a large monkey puzzle tree in the far right corner, casting a lovely shadow over a section of the yard. Jefferson guides Alexander over to the tree and sits down under it, gesturing next to him. “C’mon, Hammy, I don’t have all day.” Alexander feels his heart flutter again, starting to race at the ridiculous nickname. If anyone else used it, he would be quickly driven mad. It’s all because of this damn Secretary. 

Alexander takes a seat by him, leaning against the bark of the tree and exhaling. It’s warm, but at least vaguely cooler under the tree. Jefferson certainly seems to appreciate it, as the slightly intoxicated man removes his glasses and places them on the trimmed glass next to him, tips his head back until it hits the tree truck and breathes out happily. Alexander eyes the expanse of skin by his neck, and starts to feel like a particularly famished vampire, gazing at the muscles of someone’s neck of all places. But there’s a familiar itch in his fingertips, the urge to have his face tucked into the crook of his neck and just breathe. The thought would be scarier if it wasn’t for the alcohol in his blood. He feels confident, confident enough to lean against Jefferson and carefully hide his face in his shoulder. Not his neck, sure, but it’s close. 

Alexander can feel his counterparts breathing stutter and he gently nuzzles against him, appreciating the muscle under him. “Hamilton, are you alright?” He’s sobered up, the shock of Alexander curling around him like ivy clings to a house seemingly having knocked the wine out of his system. He allows Alexander to wind himself tighter around his body, like it's cold out and he’s the only viable source of heat. It’s not. It’s still absolutely sweltering, evident in the way sweat beads at Jefferson’s brow and Alexander longs to reach over and smooth out the developing stress lines. 

“Mhm…” Alexander hums his answer and buries his head into Jefferson’s neck, finally finally being close enough to him.  Yet… somehow he’s dying to be closer. “I’m great, perfect! Even,” he giggles, the alcohol definitely making him a fun drunk. He’s a lightweight, that’s for sure, but when it hits him, it hits all at once. He’s got a rush of flirtatious courage surging through his veins, hot in his blood. 

Jefferson moves his hand across and gently caresses Alexander’s pink cheeks, observing how he keens into it like a cat. That’s exactly what Alexander reminds him of, a cat. Hissing and violent in his worst moments, yet clingy and desperate for attention in his best. It’s a good thing Jefferson likes cats then. He drags an arm around Alexander’s shoulder, taking in his appearance. Small and (gross, his back is damp) hunched over, tucking into him and smiling, pink lips twitching into a happy grin. He’s so soft like this, vulnerable in a way Jefferson’s never seen him before. He’s intensity is being channeled into a new emotion, and Jefferson knows he’s still red. Still a fiery red, but it’s dragged in a different direction. It’s pulling him into love, and it makes his stomach do flips. Because if he has to be honest to himself, he’s had a crush on this ridiculous gremlin (excuse of a man) politician since the day of their first Cabinet meeting. Alexander could keep up with his thunderous talking pace, and he loves it. He loves it so much. “You’re sure?”

“Well,” Alexander decides it’s now or never, “I suppose there’s a way it could get…” he darts his tongue out and licks his lips, “even better.” He moves an inch away from Jefferson, eyes flickering between his eyes (no longer covered by lenses) and his lips, which look all too kissable. Jefferson doesn’t seem to catch on, just catches Alexander’s gaze with his own intense one. 

“How so?” He raises an eyebrow, arched brow almost judging him. 

“Kiss me,” Alexander breathes, tilting his chin upwards and leaning forward, hoping Jefferson will close the gap. And he does. God he does. He leans down and in, dipping his head and pressing his lips softly to Alexander’s own. They’re soft and insistent and gentle against his own chapped ones. And Alexander finds himself sober, before getting drunk on the feeling of Jefferson kissing him and ha! He’ll be able to rub this in Lafayette’s face later! Suck it, Frenchie! 

Alexander cards his hand into Jefferson’s curls, because he’s scared he’ll never get the chance to feel them again. They’re as soft as they look, springy between his fingers and wonderful to the touch. It’s such a wonderful kiss, their first kiss, and Alexander wants to keep on kissing him forever. Jefferson makes a quiet whimpering noise and Alexander forces himself to pull away before he melts and never does. “Jefferson,” he breathes across his lips.

“Thomas,” the other corrects delicately, a meer whisper before he’s tangling his hand in Alexander’s hair and tugging Alexander back to meet his lips. It’s feverish this time, desperate and needy. The roasting heat must be getting to them, because they’re rivals, are they not? Well, not anymore. Because he’s pretty sure enemies don’t kiss in summer heatwaves, under monkey puzzle trees in their rivals back garden. But they do now, because Alexander isn’t giving this up for the world. Not now. He has his red. 

“Thomas,” Alexander repeats Jeffer- Thomas’s words as they break away again. The name feels heavy on his tongue with the taste of its owner on his lips. Like it should be a sin, a sin to have enjoyed that so much. But he will gladly go to hell if it means getting to experience that intimacy again. The base of his ponytail has started to be tugged out, knotting where his fingers have tangled in the locks. He lays his head on the man’s shoulder, starting to slide half in and half out of his lap. It’s insane, the burning feeling in his chest as he locks this memory away in his treasure box, saving it for a rainy day, just in case this was a one time thing.

Thomas cradles Alexander’s chin in one hand, thumb hooking under his jaw and tilting his head up so that he can look into his eyes. Hamilton could get lost in those eyes, as he has many times. So many times during cabinet meetings he has stared at Jefferson, at those dark eyes and simply dove in, gleeful at the aspect of drowning in them. Only for the man to spout some ridiculous shit and drag Alexander out of the waters, slap him around and take him to his senses. “Yes, dear?”

That voice was going to be the death of him.

“I-“ He lost all forms of cognitive thought, the train must’ve derailed when Thomas pressed their lips together. Because fuck, he can even feel the violin chords buzzing in his veins again and it’s all so much and he loves it. Alexander flicks his gaze around Thomas's face, (he really has to get used to calling him that) kiss-swollen lips, the deep blush across his cheeks. He must look like an awestruck child from Thomas's perspective, because the man chuckles and takes his free hand through Alex's hair, taking it out of the pony tail in one movement. "Red." Alex mutters finally.

"Red?" Thomas repeats with a cocked eyebrow, hands Alexander his hair tie and brings both hands back to his lap. He really isn't sure what Hamilton means. What does red have to do with anything? If he had to put a colour to this moment, he would call it tickled pink. Intense and warm, but full to the brim of love and devotion. Pink.

Alexander nods, presses a finger to Thomas's chest, and another to his own. "Red," he nods, taking his fingers away, instead splaying his palm across Jefferson's chest absent-mindedly. "That's our colours. We're red."

Thomas never imagined he would be agreeing with Alexander so easily. With Martha, their relationship had been a soft pink. The fire was there, buried beneath the surface of dedication and loyalty. It was comfortable, it was perfect. He never needed anything else, because everything he needed was in Martha. But was he pink? Certainly not. She was his high-school sweetheart, the only real relationship he had ever had. He didn't count the many women (and men) in France, they never lasted longer than a night of sub-par activities and a morning of awkward goodbyes. 

"We are, aren't we?" Thomas hummed, eventually pulling himself from his thoughts before he sunk too far. Thinking was a dangerous activity, one he didn't take time to do in fear of never emerging again. 

"But," Alexander continues, and Jefferson's heart sinks. There's always a catch, isn't there? "We're the opposite reds. You're the darker red, most definitely. You're secrets and feelings are locked away, while I display mine like the lights on Broadway." 

Thomas gulps. Never before has he been called out so boldly, or in such a forward manner. Yet Alexander has hit the nail on the head, first try and won the prize so it seems. He softens a little further, slumping against the tree. A low hanging stick swats at his head, and he bats it away with one hand.

"You keep everything behind lock and key… no one else has the key, I don't think," Alexander draws little swirls and patterns with his fingertip on Thomas's chest, the art fading as fast as it appears. He feels the man quiver, trying to hold himself together, and he knows that stone wall he hides behind is breaking. 

He shakes his head in a curt motion. "Ja- Madison has a key," he corrects, inadvertently agreeing with Alexander, "Martha… Martha had a key." He finishes there, hands folding into each other, fingers fidgeting with discomfort. His face contorts as he screws it up, not allowing his mind to drift, forcing himself to stay in the moment. Stay in the tickled pink time. But how do you make pink from two reds?

"I'd like a key," Alexander adds, "if you'd be willing to lend me a spare." He glances up at Jefferson through his eyelashes, shall he offer something in return? The key to his treasure chest perhaps? The place he stores his most prized memories? 

Jefferson chews on his lip. "I think you already have one. Whether we realised it or not… you've always had one." The metaphor is starting to confuse him, muddling with his mind. So many keys, and so many possible doors they could unlock and it's all a bit much. What door should he go through first? None of them have labels, none of them have a clear cut future secured behind them. How does he choose? Maybe he should let Alexander choose for him, go along for the ride.

Alexander smiles. He drapes himself further across Jefferson, kicking one of his legs over both of the man's and leaning into his shoulder, tucking himself there. The hot air, accompanied by the events that just occurred have sobered him almost entirely, but it feels so much better to experience this without the alcohol tainting his memory. "Thank you."

"For what?" Thomas raises an eyebrow, because as far as he's certain, he should be thanking Hamilton. Or cursing him. Cursing him and whatever magical force drew them together. This may just make him believe in fate, in destiny. He wasn’t a Christian, not anymore anyway, but this had him thanking god. Thanking every god for bringing them together. This was good, he could sit under this monkey puzzle tree, feeling the way he is now for the rest of eternity. Not good, no, that didn’t do this justice. Amazing? Fabulous? Stupendous?

"It's a preemptive thank you, since you'll be paying for tonight's date. Say seven o'clock." Alexander smirks up at Thomas, watches as the man chuckles. That laugh, there's a sound he could get used to. And to know he caused it? Fills him with joy. The laugh is like yellow. He doesn't know why, it just is. Colours fit everything, his mother was a deep navy blue, his father a cold icy white. Lafayette is purple, a mix of strength and flowing like the sea, but passionate like red. Hercules is green like juniper, he’s a grounding presence, one that Alexander can rely on to stay strong for them all. Angelica is pink, full of passion, but for some reason she just doesn’t hit that red mark. Washington stands bold in yellow, along with Peggy, but much like Thomas and Alexander, opposite ends of the spectrum. He can’t say why these colours fit, where he got them from or why they are this way, but it just does. It all slots together, everyone in his life has an assigned colour. And he thinks they always will.

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Alright, I'm sure the neighbour will be fine taking care of Patsy for a bit," he hums. It's nerve wracking, because Jefferson doesn't have a clue if Alexander is alright with kids or not. His brain is screaming at him that Alexander is going to see sense and run, hear the talk of kids and sprint. After all, they're both in their mid thirties, so it's normal for someone their age to have a child. What if Alexander doesn't like kids? God, was this a mistake?

“Patsy? The little girl playing out in the street?” Alexander asks, laying himself across Thomas. He feels comfortable, like himself already, and he feels like this could go places. Because reds match, and opposites attract. They’re just lucky they’re opposite reds. 

“Yeah, yeah, she’s playing with John,” Thomas sighs out his nose, grabbing his glasses and pushing them up his nose. He smiles at Alexander and giggles, actually giggles, a sound that makes Alexander’s heart fly like doves around his chest. “Dress comfy, I hope you like picnics.”

“Picnics?” Alexander raises an eyebrow. “I love picnics.” It’s true. Hell, if they picnic in the back of Thomas’s garden, criss-cross on a blanket under this tree, that could be one of the best dates of his life. 

“I’m glad, it’s my dream date,” Thomas admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “look at us, getting to know each other already!” He chuckles again, noticing the flush it causes to Alex’s cheeks. Gorgeous. He cups his jaw, watches as the smaller man leans into the touch with a soft purr. 

“You know what’ll make it even better?”

“What, if I bring more Chardonnay?” 

“No!” Alexander bats at his arm playfully.

“Then what?” Thomas asks through laughs.

“If you kiss me again.”

And he does. God, he does.

-

Reblogs > Likes

please this is 13,045 words I spent to much time on this I'm begging yall, if you liked it please reblog it, I dont want this to go unnoticed.

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[cloudsnbones]

Ok so quick note, thanks to @wonderofasunrise whose blog I found these prompts on and thus which proceeded to steal. this is no. 11. :)

Excuse for being lazy: also yes this is only meant to be short so like sorry for not expanding on things at all. Perhaps I shall make up for that next time ;)

This is set in s8 around wintery times.

Please enjoy :3

“I thought I would be okay with just being friends but… All I can think of when I’m around you is how badly I want to kiss you and how I can’t do that anymore.”

Kerry lay quietly, her cheek resting on Susan’s chest, her eyes shut in a warm, pensive bliss – two souls in harmony.

Their illicit affair had begun as a matter of surprise to them both; after a night of heavy drinking and deep confessions they awoke the next morning sharing a bed, and what had started as a one-night stand became a regular thing after replicating the original night twice over.

Not only had their sexual relationship grown in a way that neither could have imagined, but an understanding, a friendship had also developed which had allowed themselves to trust wholeheartedly and without the fear of judgment for the first time in a very long time.

Kerry had indeed gotten accustomed to arriving home and finding Susan outside waiting for her, she had started to prepare dinners big enough for two in anticipation of an inevitable phone call asking to spend the night. Everything was falling into place. Therefore, it could never have lasted.

“I think we should end it.”

Whatever ‘it’ was. The nebulous nature of their relationship was growing all too much for Kerry, because, to tell the truth, she had fallen.

She didn’t think that there had ever been a time when she wasn’t in love with Susan Lewis, but to have been finally exposed in full to that euphoria, to live out her long-term dream, one she’d barely registered before now, was bittersweet…when she knew that Susan would never, could never requite what she felt inside.

Susan was surprised at the statement. She had never really thought about ending it, actually ending it. To be honest, since this whole thing started, she hadn’t really thought about anything at all. She knew that they were never going to be a “they”, Kerry Weaver and Susan Lewis: ER Power Couple, but she couldn’t help feel a little, disappointed at the idea of losing her? Although, she wasn’t really going to be lost, just not there in the same way. It just seemed really random, why now? Had she been planning this for a while? It was going well, she had thought, but knowing Kerry perhaps to her this wasn’t right. Anyway, best to end things whilst they’re good right? She clung to that thought in the hope that it might fill the suspicious hole she felt deep down in her chest.

The two promised to stay friends, it’s always nice to have an ally. And Susan was just fine with that, one-hundred-percent completely fine.

“23-year-old male, multiple head lacs, altered, LOC, vitals stable, BP 120/80,” announced the new EMT Danielle as she tried to shake her overgrown fringe out of her eyes.

It was just then as Susan and Kerry approached to take the trauma that the man in question lent over and wretched blood all over Danielle’s jacket causing Kerry and Susan to jump back a little before grabbing the sides of the gurney so that she could sort herself out. The man started to lose consciousness again as they raced to get him inside.

Danielle shed her jacket leaving it on the tarmac of the ambulance bay revealing a white vest and tattoo sleeves before she continued her debrief whilst following the pair to the trauma room, “Received 50 of Lidocaine at the scene, complains of dizziness and neck pain,” she continued.

As they entered the trauma room Susan finally took a look at the woman speaking and what said woman was wearing, “Nice top,” she said her eyes lingering a little bit too long.

“Thanks,” replied Danielle looking down at herself briefly before smiling to show her gratitude.

“LIFT ON 1, 2, 3!” Kerry ordered loudly cutting their little interaction short.

And as Susan lent over to start working on the man she felt Danielle put something small into her pocket whispering, “I’ll see you later.”

She stared as the woman left the trauma room only to look back around to see Kerry watching her icily.

After the man was stabilised, Kerry and Susan left the trauma room ripping their gloves and their aprons off as they did so before tossing them into the trash.

They both started in the same direction, practically colliding, Kerry extending an arm to institute a satisfactory, colleague-appropriate space between them.

“Tough trauma.”

“Yeah, I s’pose…Hey, did I tell you that Susie went to see that film they’ve all been talking about, Shrek(?) the other day, oh my god I have not heard her be so excited about something in months, and the way she talked about the donkey in it you would think that the two were going out, but alas no. Apparently, he is indeed taken by a dragon as is so often the case with actually desirable men,” she ranted enthusiastically putting on a heightened English accent to emphasise the slander.

Kerry listened quietly as she felt Susan’s words dig into her further and further, she should be happier for her, she knew that, but everything was closing in on her and she didn’t like it.

They entered the Doctor’s Lounge and as soon as the door shut behind them and it was clear to Kerry that no one else was in there, she started, “Listen, I don’t wanna make a big deal outta it but I just wanted to let you know that it’s considered a little inappropriate to get distracted by pretty EMTs when working a trauma at least from a management perspective, now as it’s never happened before obviously it’s not a problem but just so you know for any future interactions that they should be left till after you’ve finished working on the patient.”

Susan’s smile failed immediately at the mini reprimand. “Kerry it was nothing I promise.”

“Uhuh – well even if that is the case it’s still inappropriate,” Kerry said pointing her nose in the air.

Kerry’s stiffness on the subject angered Susan who huffed before retorting, “And even if it WAS something I don’t think that’s any of your business, you know Kerry Weaver, not everything is about you I realise, ok, that you’re the only person in YOUR world but that’s not the same for the rest of us,” as she raised her voice, she stepped closer and closer to Kerry refusing to break eye contact for a second.

Kerry was frozen in place, her lip quivering slightly and her eyes conveying only a hint of pain and fear behind their broken shields.

They were practically toe-to-toe, and their proximity almost immediately caused Susan to calm down as if her body was anticipating Kerry’s touch, Kerry’s smell, Kerry’s warmth.

The electricity burning Kerry’s skin as her beloved towered over her, not knowing, never knowing, what those words meant to her. Why although dealing with hurtful comments was part of the job, was always part of the job, they felt different coming from her.

But as cupid’s taunting strings gradually lured them together, the door burst open loudly causing the women to practically jump out of their skin in order to create distance between them.

It was Chuny; “Doctor Weaver there’s a guy wandering around the admit desk I think he’s your patient, Mr. Reid?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute Chuny,” Kerry replied a little too shrilly, her eyes still fixed on Susan. She stayed there for a few more seconds before finally awakening in herself the willpower to sort out the wanderer.

As the last sounds of her crutch hitting the floor faded away into the dissonant noise of the ER Chuny joked, “Did you just have it from Weaver, I bet you didn’t miss those in Phoenix!” before closing the door and leaving.

But ‘missing Weaver’ was really the only thing Susan was able to do at that moment, she turned towards the window to wipe away a tear. Then, she shook herself from head to toe, set her face back to neutrality and spun around so she could go back to work.

Kerry stood alone, her arms restless as if they were missing something, or someone, her kitchen echoing with emptiness. As she stared half-heartedly at the risotto she was making she heard a buzz followed by three rapid knocks. Kerry pulled herself out of her reverie, grabbed her crutch and headed over to the front door.

Upon opening, she saw Susan shivering in a short tan trench coat, her arms wrapped around herself, her right foot tapping the ground beneath her. When she heard the click of the latch she lifted her head and the expression Kerry saw sent a shiver through her, Susan’s eyes were wide and deep inside them there seemed to be some sort of lingering discomfort.

“Hey,” she said shyly before pulling the door to and stepping out into the cold winter’s night also, “What are you doing here?”

“Um…I’m not sure to be honest,” was the esteemed reply.

“Aren’t you cold? Do you want t-”

“Kerry there’s something I have to say and if I don’t say it now, I don’t think I ever will so.”

“Uh…ok, um, go right ahead.”

“I’m so tired, of all this of going to back to the old normal, whatever the hell that was, you know I-” she broke off, her voice cracking slightly as her emotions started to get the better of her, “I thought I would be okay with just being friends but…All I can think of when I’m around you is how badly I want to kiss you and how I can’t do that anymore. And even when you’re mad and being a bitch, I just want to hold you because then I know everything’ll be all right.” And on those final words she broke down, it could have been the cold, it could have been the pressures of moving back to a town where no one really remembered her, but in that moment, it didn’t matter what the exact cause was because her Susan was upset and it yanked at her heartstrings.

The women stood there silently, Susan looking at the floor and Kerry looking at Susan, frozen in light of the revelation, trying to calculate what best to do. When Kerry still didn’t say anything, Susan raised her head once more to look at her and being met only with an unreadable, blank expression, she felt she could take a hint.

Not wanting to stand in the scene of her rejection any longer Susan said, “Goodnight,” in a dejected, barely audible voice before turning around and heading down the steps leading up to the house. And it was this that triggered Kerry’s ability to move once more.

“Wait!” she called out, as she reached her hand out for the banister and tried to rush down the stairs, but her hurriedness and the light frost worked against her and as Susan turned around Kerry practically tumbled into her arms.

And at this intimacy, there was only one thing left for them really, because love doesn’t require logical thinking, sometimes all it needs is an impulse.

Kerry pulled herself up muttering a word of thanks before running her hand through Susan’s hair and slowly, softly bringing her down for a kiss.

And as a thousand fireworks went off in their minds, they simultaneously knew that “they” would last forever.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “Help.”

Based on a discussion I saw between some readers last night. It gave e some ideas, and I thought I would take it and run with it :) Hope you guys enjoy!

He pulled a crate behind him. It rattled over the tarmac of the launch field as his boots pounded against the concrete. Cargo trucks and fuel tanks passed him on either side, their occupants waving in recognition as they passed him. He raised his hands to them in greeting, wincing slightly as his arm dropped back to his side. 

He glanced back at the crate, nondescript. If Krill found out what was inside…. Well he’d throw a fit, he would have called it a bitch fit, but for some reason that title seemed way too funny for what Krill would probably do to him when he figured it out. He sighed and stretched his aching back. Despite the heat out, he was wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. He knew it probably looked suspicious, but the longer it took the others to figure it out, the better.

The Harbinger loomed overhead, all black lines and cold metal. He paused at the base of the ramp closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Even the smells were comforting.

He dropped his hand back to the handle of his cart and began rolling it up the ramp, a task which turned out to be a little more difficult than he had foreseen, and he struggled with both hands to drag his cargo up the incline. Suddenly his load lightened, and he turned to find Ramirez pulling with him.

“Morning, commander, what the hell do you have in here, bricks.”

“Actually I have your mother.” he grunted, pulling harder.

Ramirez snorted, “Dare you to say that to my mother’s face, she’ beat you about the head with her sandal.”

He laughed, “Why doesn’t that surprise me.”

Together they made it to the top of the ramp panting, “Seriously though, where have you been. You’ve been gone for like a week. Krill and sunny have been freaking out.”

He smiled slightly, “They would, and don’t worry. I’ve been requisitioning some stuff for the ship.”

“More jetpacks I hope.” Ramirez muttered.

The commander smiled, “Don’t I wish, but no, all the important boring stuff.”

“Where-have-you-been.” His smile grew stiff, and he sighed turning around to find doctor Krill marching up the deck towards him.

He stepped in front of the crate, “Participating in all kinds of heinous debauchery I assure you, you know like, gentlemen’s clubs, and drug houses, smoking shrooms and whatever the kids are doing these days.”

A hand patted his shoulder, and he looked over to see Ramirez smiling, “You eat shrooms commander, you don’t smoke them.”

“Hmm well shit, that’s why they weren’t working.”

The doctor stormed up, “You always think you're funny, and I never do. So where were you!”

“Like I was telling Ramirez. I had to step out to requisition some parts. I should have left the Lt. in charge, so I don’t see why everyone is so hot and bothered about it.”

Krill stepped forward, looking suspicious, “Why are you wearing that…. In the middle of summer?”

“Pure laziness Dr.” he said waving a hand, “Besides, I was overnight in the car, and just woke up as we were getting here, still trying to wake up. Now if you don’t mind.” He pulled the crate after him and down the hall greeted by other members of the crew as he passed. The spiderlings rushed to say hi, but were on their way almost as soon as they had said hi heading down the hall and out to make mischief. Following behind them, conn floated with extra interest, his eyes seeming to bore into the commander.

“You won't say anything? Will you?”

“I don’t give up internal secrets, but you need help.”

“Yeah and you need to stop being creepy as fuck, but we all have our little problems.” The two passed each other continuing forward. HE had almost made it to his quarters when a new figure stepped up before him. He sighed sufferingly and pulled to a stop as Sunny stepped up in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest, “Where have you been.”

He threw his hands in the air, “Does anyone realize these days that I am a grown ass man who is allowed to go leave and do things without telling everyone about them.”

She looked at him suspiciously. Perhaps a little confused.”

He kicked himself, he never usually talked to her like that.

He let his voice soften, “Don’t worry, I had to requisition some equipment, had a long night.” He motioned to his door, “Don’t mind if I slip in to catch a few winks.”

She eyed him, and he frowned; he did not see why everyone seemed to concerned, but she stepped aside and let him through holding the door open for him as he pulled the crate inside.

The door hissed shut behind him, and he locked it closed with a snap.

He sighed dropping the handle to the crate and walking over to the floor’length mirror along one wall.

He pulled back the hood and stared at his face for a long moment. He looked tired, bags under his eyes and sunken cheeks, but nothing too bad beyond that, maybe just a little pale around the eyes.

He grunted in pain again as he reached up tugging at the zipper of his sweatshirt pulling it down to show he wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

He pulled it off and dropped it to the floor giving himself a closer look.

This is what he couldn’t let krill see.

“Well shit. He muttered to himself turning this way and that to examine the hundreds of small red patches over his chest and abdomen. He reached a hand down to touch them, small red and slightly scaly in nature. He hadn’t had hives since he was in elementary school, but he supposed physical manifestations of stress were better than the mental alternative, besides while Krill wouldn’t have liked to see him covered in hives, he definitely wouldn’t have  liked what was above that.

Tiny disks of clear polycarbonate under a tiny metal rivet. 

From here the little pieces were visible on his chest, biceps, forearms, back of his hands, hips and stomach.

He turned around where to see where a line of them went down his spine from the base of his skull to the upper part of his tailbone, which he couldn’t see 

He took a deep breath and stepped towards the mirror, “Come on, do better.” He muttered to himself. Time to grow up and do what needed to be done.

No one trusted him to make these decisions, which is why he hadn’t told anyone. If he trusted them o trust him he would have asked krill to preform the procedure, but he knew the doctor would never have agreed.

He turned back to the crate and knelt to flick the lid open. The lid popped with a hiss, and he paused with a deep breath before pushing back the lid. He paused to look down at the contents breathing hitching and speeding up. His body went cold and then warm and then cold again.

He had to shake himself as he reached down and ran his fingers over the metal.

Now to test it out.

He took another deep breath. 

No one understood just how much he would do for the UNSC, for Earth. No one could understand what he was willing to do. All of them would just assume he was insane or…. What? Broken? Desperate? Confused?

He wasn’t any of those things.

He Tugged off the rest of the clothing and, Like the scientists had directed, he sat on the edge of the crate and slid backwards positioning himself just right before lying back. He closed his eyes listening to the sharp snap as the first rivet fell into place at the base of his skull. 

More sharp snapping noises came, and he expected agony to come with it, but when nothing did he cracked an eye and looked about. He was fine, no pain at all, though maybe a little pressure.

He sat up using his hands to secure to the rivets around front, locking them around his feet and then his hands.

He stood, the cold metal of the ship hard under his bare feet. Hydraulics hissed and clicked with him as he walked slowly back to the mirror. He paused before it’s reflective surface.

Project Iron eye, the progressive follow up to steel eye (though their choice of name was questionable.

A painless, drug less evolution of the first model, but that required permanent implants into the body to work.

He had made the decision upon learning about the project.

He had consulted no one, spoken to no one and visited with no one.

This was his choice, this is what he needed to do. Whether people liked to admit it or not, he was one of the few people standing between the entire GA and a universe full of threats. He needed to be prepared for anything, he needed to be stronger faster and more prepared than anyone else to make ready for the things he might be asked to do in the future.

The scientists had been hesitant to allow him to participate. They had no idea what a project like this would do to someone with trauma related to Steel-eye. He was, in essence stepping back towards his trauma and forcing himself to wear it like a rope around his neck. Where therapists and psychologist would have suggested moving on from his trauma, he had done the exact opposite.

He looked away from the mirror.

It was alright, as long as he didn’t look at himself he would be fine. His ody clicked and hissed as he moved around the room. Memories battered at the edges of his mind, but he stood firm forcing them back.

Not this time.

Not this time.

He-would-NOT-break. He was done with that. He was done being a loose cannon, he was done relying on other people to help him through his own personal issues. He was done being a child.

He was a man and needed to start acting like it.

He turned back and walked over to the mirror forcing himself to look, forcing himself to stare at the steel that encases his limbs and hands, forced himself to stare at his augmented body covered in that parasitic leaching thing that had destroyed his life so many years ago.

He would look until it stopped bothering him.

Even if he had to sit here all day 

He nearly leaped out of his skin as a knock came to the door. He yelped pushed violently back and nearly went flying across the room as the IE suit responded. He staggered fell over metal clattering against metal with a horrendous crash.

“Adam! Adam are you ok! “

He cursed violently and got to his feet, “yeah! Fine ! You just startled me. What do you need.”

“You sure you’re ok, that sounded like a pretty big crash.”

“Fine, knocked the table over.”

“Can I come in.”

“No I’m naked.” he announced hurrying back over to the crate, sitting on the edge and swinging his feet up, allowing the mechanism to pull from his body and hiss into place inside the crate.”

“You serious?”

“Yes I’m serious.” The rivets clicked open with sharp hisses.

“What is that noise?”

“Are you going to keep interrogating e, or do I get to change in peace?”

He was growing frustrated with constant questions. The last piece clicked into place, and he opened it up crawling form the locks and allowing it to click shut. Then he pushed the crate under he bed and hurried to the closet to grab his uniform quickly pulling on the pants, undershirt and jacket adjusting the cap on his head hoping that none of the rivets would be visible.

He walked over to the door and unlocked it.

“Now you can come in.”

Sunny poked her head into the room, “I thought you were supposed to be sleeping.”

“Just remembered I have a meeting.”

He saw her eyes flick down towards his hands, and he quickly turned away from her to secure his jacket into place discreetly pulling on the gloves before she could see.

“Maybe you should cancel. You need your rest.”

He stepped up to the mirror straightening out the last pieces of his uniform, ‘I can sleep when I’m dead.” He turned on his heel and walked past her patting her on the shoulder. Her eyes were still narrowed as she looked around the room.

He hurried past her out the door adjusting his cap.

***

He suppressed a yawn as he sat in one of the USNC conference rooms surrounded on all sides by brass both higher and lower in rank than he.

Someone raised a hand quieting the voices.

“Our first order of business, Commander.”

All eyes turned to look at him, and he straightened up hands clasped on the table before him.

“We’ve discussed our most recent missions, and I don’t know if I speak for everyone , but I am worried about you, and your crew. That is…. A lot to take on in such a short amount of time.”

He nodded his head doing his best to channel his father, calm and collected, “Yes Ma’am which is why I have requisitioned R&R for my men as well as full pscyh and physical evaluations to be run before our next deployment.”

“And you, commander?”

He felt his face tingle with nerves, “I have a lot to do for our next deployment, but I am sure I can fit something in.”

“Something you might want to consider doing sooner rather than later.”

He turned to look at the man who had spoken, “I’m sorry, Major, but perhaps I don’t entirely understand your implication.”

“I am saying that you are a loose cannon commander.” He sat back in his seat glancing around at the others who shifted nervously clearly agreeing with the man but unwilling to say it.

“I have a near perfect mission record, if not perfect.” He said calmly.

“But your methods are extreme.” Another voice protested.

“I would prefer extreme methods to dead men.” He forced his voice to stay calm.

“Have you been counting the amount of times you have almost died. The amount of missions that should have been suicide. Commander, I am beginning to think you are determined to martyr yourself to the cause. Some of our consultants have suggested suicidal tendencies.”

He sat back in his seat unable to contain his surprise this time around, “Suicidal tendencies.” he repeated, “I think you misunderstand. I have no desire to die, in fact dying scares me, as it does most people. That is why my  missions are successful, because I will do everything in my power to avoid dying.”

“Commander, the only reason we haven’t already grounded you is due to your popularity with the GA, and your integration into their command structure.”

“Grounded!” He took another deep breath. No he had to stay calm, they would take any outburst even understandable as a sign he was off his rocker, “On what grounds?”

“On Every ground commander. First we should ground you simply on principle of what you have gone through these past few months, war, imprisonment, returning to the steel eye project, The incident with the jetpack. You have been showing erratic behavior both physically and emotionally. You are not well enough to be making decisions for a military vessel much less the entire universe.”

HE took a couple of deep breaths, “Grounding me would be a mistake.”

“Why is that.”

He tilted his head, “Simply sir, space is where I am most comfortable. To ground me here on earth would only cause added stress to what I already have. It would be counter-productive.”

“That simple admission just demonstrates why you can’t be rusted.”

“No. if you took someone who loved the forest more than anything and put them in an urban environment it would cause them stress. That is a normal human reaction to being put in places one does not want to be.”

This is not your decision to make commander….”

“No, but maybe I should remind you of a few things.” he stood slowly, “Perhaps you intend to release me from my duties,or move me into a job where I can do no harm, but there is a simple reality you have not considered.” He rested his hands on the table, “I am the most valuable man in the universe right now and this is not simple narcissism on my part, it is a logical fact that I have been forced to accept. I speak three alien languages to near fluency Drev, Vrul, and Tesraki, I am sentinel of a Drev clan, and part of a second. After the debacle with the hybids, I am the only person the adaptid queen will speak with. If I am grounded the entire Tvek homeworld will dissolve into chaos.  I am familiar with and well-informed as to the Rundi command structure and the proper way of addressing, interacting, and making suggestions to the council. I am the only person who can communicate with the starborn. Lord Celzex will treat with me only. I have thousands of valuable contacts who owe me favors, who gather information, and who trust me with their lives. I am, unfortunately, one of the most popular and well followed men on earth. If I am grounded it would cause a media and civilian uproar. Recruiting would drop marginally.” he paused. He could have continued but it was getting almost excessive.

“You seem to think highly of yourself commander.”   

He shook his head, “Not that, I am simply giving you facts. If I were to speak while thinking highly of myself, I would simply remind you that I am the most accomplished pilot in the galaxy, I have more flight hours, more simulation time, and am the only person who can out-fly a burg frigate in open combat with an overheated warp core.” 

The room sat silent before him.

“As this goes on I will only get more experienced and by the time I am a proper age with the proper maturity you all wish for, I will be the single most valuable man in the entire universe.”” 

More silence.

The commander took a seat, “One last addition to my list.” he said quietly.

They all stared.

“I have the lowest mortality rate of any UNSC vessel despite being the longest operating. My ship has the highest ratings of moral and ob satisfaction. My men are loyal to me, and I am loyal to them.” He looked up at the surrounding table, “I would do anything for the UNSC, and anything for my men. You have seen what I will do,s o ask yourself if it is worth loosing what I can bring.”

***

He sort of just wanted to throw up.

The hives were beginning to itch, which wasn’t a good sign, but he had kept himself together during the meeting, and, as of yet, he had not been grounded.

He walked up the ramp and back onto the ship smiling weakly at those he passed.

He needed a nap, so he made his way straight to his room.

He was already thinking about his nice soft pillow as he threw the door open simply intending to pull off his jacket and hat and sleep in his uniform pants, but when he stepped in, he froze.

Eleven pairs of accusing eyes stared at him from the interior, and flicking his eyes around he saw the crate lying open on the floor.

Shit

Shit 

Shit 

Shit!

Ramirez stood up and approached to where he was standing in the door. The commander tried to crack a smile, “This some kind of intervention.”

Ramirexz didn’t crack a smile, instead grabbing him by the arm and pulling of his glove tossing it to the ground.

The little metal disks glittering in the iridescent light above.

The eyes around the room grew even more accusatory, but he didn’t bother to hide it. This was going to happen sooner or later, he had just hoped it would be later rather than sooner.

When he looked up, he saw that Ramirez’s face was twisted into an expression of pain, rather than the anger he had been expecting.

“Ramirez?” He asked in confusion, but the other man  cut hi off placing his hands on his shoulders to look him in the face. It seemed as if he was trying to say something, but gave up and suddenly hugged him, tight.

Adam went with surprise into the crushing hug feeling the man’s desperation as he whispered, “Commander, please, you need help.”

He tried to find words, but it was harder than it should have been.

“Please, you need help.”