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forever-rogue · 4 years

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Honey & Velvet - Part 6

A/N: We love a little cat and mouse game, don’t we? Either way, enjoy. Once you get to the end, you’ll know what happens next chapter ;) If you’d like to be tagged, please let me know, and as always, feedback and comments are always welcome! xx

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x Reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: none really, sexual tension (dot dot dot)

MASTERLIST

»»————-　♡　————-««

After Maxwell had left your office, you gave it a few moments before storming out and attempting to track him down and to make him atone for what he had just done. But he was long gone; your mind had taken just enough time to make its mind up to give him an easy escape. Sighing, your shoulders slumped as you let ran a hand through your hair in exasperation.

“Y/N?” you were snapped back into reality by the sound of Adina’s concerned voice, as she looked up at you with a confused expression etched on her features. Plastering on the best smile you could muster, one most accurately described as your customer service best, you feigned innocence, “what the hell was that?”

“What do you mean?” your voice was about an octave higher than normal as you turned to go back to your office, “where did he go?”

“Mhmm?” she’d already pointedly made the decision not to question you, especially as of late and her focus was already back on her paperwork.

“Maxwell,” you hissed through gritted teeth, loathing the bit of longing that seemed to seep its way into his name, “where did Maxwell Lord go?”

“Oh,” she peered up at your over her glasses, trying her best to keep off the little smirk that threatened to bubble up. She was slowly, but surely, putting two and two together. Not that it was particularly difficult at this point, subtly wasn’t your (or Maxwell’s) specialty, “he asked for directions to the restroom as he was leaving. Dunno where he went after that.”

You inhaled sharply at the revelation, inadvertently picturing him in your mind. You could imagine him stalking into the secluded bathroom, locking the door behind him as leaned against the cool tile of the wave, taking care of the…small problem you had created. You wondered what he sounded like while he worked himself to the point of no return, if he was vocal, if your name rolled off his lips as he spilled into his hand.

But no.

You couldn’t (and wouldn’t) dwell on that idea too much. If you did, you might completely lose any sense of self collection that remained and resort to doing the same thing to yourself. Biting the inside of your cheek to control yourself, you gave her a swift nod before stepping back inside your office and slamming the door.

The nerve. The absolute nerve of that man to walk into your office and pull such a stunt. But…then again, perhaps it was only fair after what happened over the weekend. It had been an accident, more or less, but it you weren’t quite sure that it warranted the little assault he had just committed. To stand him up outside of the boardroom was one thing, a light snub at best, but for him to make it personal and come into your office like a loose cannon? That was a whole different story.

But you had kissed him first.

That was besides the point you reminded yourself. You never would have pushed yourself on him like that if he hadn’t started it. You were…just trying to finish things.

Sure. You could live with that interpretation of things, even though it was only half true at best.

You flopped down in your chair and sighed. It was going to be hard to focus on anything else for the remainder of the day. All you could think about were his lips on yours, all over your chest, how they’d felt surprisingly…soft. Gentle even. And right. You’d half expected him to be as decent of a kisser as a limp fish, but he was pleasantly good. He knew his way around your body already. Maybe you’d just been desperate?

That must have been it. But it couldn’t have been desperation…could it? You’d been getting plenty of attention lately, mainly from Ben, who you were surprisingly on good terms with for once, so you weren’t exactly touch starved at the moment. So that meant…it really could have only left one reasonable answer.

Absolutely not. At least that’s what you told yourself in your head. You were not attracted to the spoiled brat of a man that sported last season’s suits and had hair the color of decaying corn. There was absolutely nothing attractive about him; you’d rather admit you found a squished slug handsome before you said the same about Maxwell Lord.

And yet…he was the one your thoughts kept drifting back to. He was the you thought about as you had brought yourself to orgasm late at night; his name was the only you allowed yourself to whisper. It was his ring clad hand that had been around your throat, turning you on much more than you thought about possible.

“Fuck,” you sighed at yourself, at your foolishness, under your breath. Tossing your head back, you stared at the messy pattern of the cork on your office ceiling, hoping it would provide you with some sort of answer. But it didn’t; instead you stared and stared, and the longer you looked, the more it felt like it was mocking you.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see your reflection in the mirror, the same one Maxwell had stood in front of not long before. Pulling yourself up, you walked over to it, and started to fix your hair. It was a mess, locks out of place and wild, but you made swift work of straightening it back and making it look semi decent. Not like you’d just been on your back practically begging a man to fuck you.

The buttons on your blouse were mismatched, once again, a common theme in your life lately. Shaking your head at yourself you completely undid the whole thing and let it hang open for a moment, studying the upper half of your torso. The delicate skin of your breasts, collarbones and neck were flushed still, and the ghosts of bites and nibbles were already popping up, colorful hues of blue and purple. That fucker had really done a number in such a short period of time. While you rued how hard it would be to cover up in the coming days, sure they would attract some unwanted attention…you weren’t as mad as you though you would be.

They served as a reminder that while you had been the one who initiated the fervent slew of kisses, he’d been just as eager. He’s been just as eager to touch you, to feel your soft skin, to finally kiss you. Your soft moans had been like sweet music to ears, and will he would have gladly taken you then and there, he’d done everything in his power to hold back. And it had been a huge struggle, but somehow he’d managed. But still…he’d kissed you. He hadn’t fought you off, or completely denied you. That had to count for something, right?

Just a taste for now. It would have to satiate both of you for now. That’s what he reminded himself while his hands had been all over your body. Just a taste.

The rewards of him waiting, restraining himself would be the sweetest reward of all. At least that’s what he figured.

You slowly put yourself back together, making sure the buttons of your blouse were aligned, an irritated groan living your lips as the phone on your desk began to ring. You weren’t in the mood to speak to anyone earlier, you most certainly weren’t in the mood to speak to anyone now.

Before picking it up, you let out a small fuck, fuck, fuck of frustration. Hopefully this wouldn’t take long and you could go back to the afternoon of daydreaming you now had planned.

“Yes?” it sounded more defeated than you cared to admit.

“I’ve got Ben for you, if you’re available,” Adina’s tone was colored with bemusement, almost as if she knew the exact predicament you were in. Hells, she probably did. Half of your office probably did by now, “and uh, he wanted me to specifically mention that it was just business related.”

“Of course,” you turned to sit back and kicked your legs up on your desk, “go ahead and put him through.”

“Is…everything okay, boss?” she was desperate for you to spill more details but wasn’t about to push…not more than necessary anyway, “it seems like you’ve been…preoccupied lately.”

“If only that was the half of it,” you rubbed your brow, “men are a tricky situation.”

“That’s why I only date women,” she joked and you had to admit it had its own appeal, “but don’t let me influence your decision. Men always say that women are so complicated, but I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around.”

“I concur wholeheartedly,” you laughed quietly, “I guess I’d better talk to Ben and see what he wants.”

“Good luck,” she snorted with laughter before you heard the click of a button and Ben was on the other line. You heard about half a breath before you could practically see the smirk on his face.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Benjamin?” you couldn’t even lie and say you were annoyed to hear from him. After you’d reached your little…whatever you wanted to call it, you felt better. Like you could actually maintain a civil friendship with him, “okay wait, how bad and sarcastic did that sound?”

“On a scale of one to ten?”

“Hit me.”

“I’d wager a solid eight,” he laughed as you groaned, “I don’t take these things personally. I’m not offended, and my heart will go on.”

“Ahh, what a man,” you let some silence hang in the air for a moment, drumming your fingers along on edge of your desk, “what’s up?”

“I have a favor to ask,” he admitted and it was your turn to laugh at him, “it’s nothing big, but I’d appreciate your help.”

“Alright, alright, I suppose that’s only fair,” you had zero clue as to what he could need help with you. He seemed like the type of guy that had it all handled, that wouldn’t dare to ask for help, “what’s this favor then?”

“I have a gala I need to attend this Friday,” he explained and you leaned forward in your seat, trying to figure out what he was getting at, “our company is one of the sponsors for the center that’s throwing the gala and therefore its prudent that we attend and I realize it will likely be a dull affair and-”

“Ben,” you cut him off mid sentence before he could stammer on further, “you’re rambling. Please cut to the chase.”

“Will you be my date to the gala?” it was a rushed question, and it caught you off guard. You hadn’t been out in public with Ben in what seemed like eons; your first concern was what would people think? But then again…did it really matter what they thought? No. No one’s opinion mattered, not as long as you were satisfied with the truth, “please?”

“You want to be seen in public with me?” you joked, almost immediately having made up your mind, already trying to think of what dress you would wear.

“You make it sound like torture. Is the idea that repulsive to you?” you could tell he was joking, but there was a small part of him that was wondering if you were actually going to say yes.

“Oh the contrary,” you reassured him and there was a small sigh of relief on the other end, “I’ll go with you. I’ll be your date.”

“Perfect-”

“On one condition,” of course there was a stipulation attached.

“Name it.”

“Friends only,” you insisted. You wanted to set clear boundaries, to make sure he knew that you weren’t interested in anything else with him, “no sex. No…whatever else. And we don’t even pretend it’s a date.”

“Fair enough,” he agreed. You were a reasonable woman for the most part and it was a condition he could easily agree to, “saving yourself for someone else? Mr. Lord perhaps?”

“Oh my - goodbye, Ben,” you wanted to work that little smirk you knew was on his face off. He chuckled on the other end, clearly pleased with his little comment, “this is over for now. Send me details and I’ll see you Friday night.”

“So I was right-”

“Goodbye Ben-”

“You didn’t say no!”

“Ben,” you slammed the phone back into the cradle and let out a long sigh. Well, at least you had plans for a Friday night instead of moping around at home. Plus it would give you an opportunity to go and dress up. Now that was something you could get behind. Even if you were picky when it came to men, you liked to give them something to look at. They could always look but couldn’t touch.

Besides, despite how much you tried to fight it, you knew you were on the prowl for someone else. You knew, at one point or another, things would come to a head and one of you would fully snap. You didn’t know when, or where, but something deep within you knew that it would happened.

And you vowed to break Maxwell Lord before he could break you.

»»————-　♡　————-««

It was too much. You knew it was as soon as you had spotted it hanging on the rack at Bergdorf Goodman’s. Ben had told that the affair would be formal, but not overly so, and had insisted that whatever you had at home would probably suffice.

When you’d glanced through your closet, nothing had struck your fancy, nothing screamed pick me, pick me. Even though it didn’t really matter, and you’d be most likely spend the evening a space full of older people who would gloss you over, you still wanted…something special. You’d all but slammed your closet doors shut and made up your mind to go shopping. There was nothing but disappoint to be found in several stores, but at one of your last stops, you had found it. The dress you had been searching for, despite not being consciously aware of it.

But something, deep within you had caused you to gravitate towards the glittering gown. Something even more primal had compelled you to purchase it. You didn’t even bother to try it on, not wanting to waste time in the overly posh store and feel the judgment of the aging women that worked the registers. They were often the worst; they’d try and up sell the most expensive things and then call you a two bit whore as soon as you left.

But with this, you didn’t care. You knew all eyes would be on you and for one you night, you welcomed it.

By the time Ben had arrived to pick you up, you were looking at yourself in the mirror, topping your look off with the oxblood red color. It was indescribably eye catching and hung on your frame perfectly. It was a strappy number, pale pink in color, and glittering at every angle. It left very little to the imagination, but was just enough to be socially appropriate. You, honestly, weren’t planning on getting anything out of this whole evening. You just wanted to feel good…sexy even. That wasn’t a crime after all, right?

“Holy shit…” Ben let out a sigh somewhere between exasperation and pleasure as he met you at his car when the time. Flashing him an innocent smile, you slid into the backseat and followed suit, “I’m pretty sure I mentioned that this was…casual, more or less?”

“You did,” you admitted, feigning innocence, “but you can never be overdressed, can you?”

“I suppose not,” he shook his head, but gave you a gentle nudge with his knee, “if you’re not going to be the death of me, you’ll probably break a few necks when the old geezers get a look at you.”

“Tragic,” you put a hand on your forehead and sighed dramatically.

»»————-　♡　————-««

Conversation with Ben was pleasant, and by the time you arrived, you were feeling strangely at ease. That was until the valet helped you out of the car and you surveyed the swarm of other guests that were in attendance that evening. There were more people than you had anticipated, and a fair number that didn’t look over the hill.

But then your eyes landed on one particular guest, and your heart nearly stopped, plummeting into the bottom of your stomach. It couldn’t be…could it? Of all the people in all the world that had to be there, it had to be him; the golden haired man that had been haunting your every waking thought for the last several weeks.

Ben was behind you, attempting to straighten his bow tie when he noticed your sudden hesitation, the tension in your shoulders, and grim expression on your face, “what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen-”

“Maxwell Lord?” you sighed as your turned back to him, raising an eyebrow in question, “yeah, because I did. What the hell is he doing here?!”

“I-I had no clue,” he insisted, looking around as he tried to spot him in the crowd. His face turned into a mask of worry and confusion; you knew he was being honest. Ben was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar, and you knew he’d never do something that low to you, “I swear it. If I had known he’d be here, I never would have asked you to come.”

“Ben, sorry, it’s just…” you trailed off as you tried to figure out how to convey exactly what you were feeling to him. How were you supposed to explain, and appear rational and sane, to someone that while you loathed Maxwell (more or less), you also harbored a deep, burning desire for him?

“Do you want to go?” he put his hand on the small of your back, almost as if trying to shield from you being seen.

“No, really, it’ll be fine. I’ll suck it up and deal with it,” you promised, linking you arm through his, “but if you see him anywhere near me, warn me so I can run and hide.”

“Running from your demons?”

“Oh no,” you insisted, “Maxwell isn’t my demon…he’s something much more…I can’t describe.”

“Yeah,” Ben agreed, a little smirk on his face, as he started to lead you inside, “that sounds about right. What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself in, silly girl?”

“I wish I knew the half of it,” you sighed heavily, “I wish I knew.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

The evening had been going…surprisingly well. You’d managed to avoid your friend finding solace in tucking yourself behind Ben and remaining out of the center of attention. Normally you’d be out and mingling, enjoying the free flowing champagne and good company. But this evening - you remained almost silent, and pretty much as sober as you were quiet. Being the kind gentleman he was, Ben had promised you both make an exit as soon as it became socially acceptable. To say you were counting down the minutes would have been an understatement.

“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” you whispered into Ben’s ear, hoping for a quick there and back trip. He turned and gave you a nod, a questioning look on his face.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“It’ll be fine,” you promised, giving his hand a squeeze of reassurance, “it’s the ladies room after all, I think it’d be foolish for anyone to try anything there.”

He nodded as you walked away, keeping your eyes training on the floor so you didn’t draw too much attention to yourself. It was difficult with your current state of dress however; maybe you should have stuck to something more simple and muted.

But just before you could reach the reprieve of the privacy of the rest room, you felt a hand on your forearm, trying to stop you and get your attention. You froze in silent horror as you instantly knew who it was. You thought about yanking your arm out of grasp and running away, but instead, you remained there, waiting for his next move. It was all up to him now. Tugging on your hand slowly, you allowed him to turn you around so you were facing him. For once you were surprised to find an almost pleasant expression on his face.

“Miss L/N,” his voice was dripping with honey as he gave you the once over, taking in the dress and how it looked on you. To say it was a pleasing sight to him was a far cry from the truth, “you look positively…stunning.”

For once you didn’t feel like you needed to make a smart remark or give him some sort of witty push back, “Maxwell. Thank you.”

“I didn’t expect to see you here this evening,” he dropped your hand and crossed his arms over his broad chest, leaning against wall of the quiet hallway. You were both thankful that no one was around and you were more or less secluded, but part of you wished that Ben was there. Maybe you should have let him come.

“I could say the same for you,” you gave him your most dazzling smile as you got ready to turn around and head into the bathroom. You were definitely going to need a breather after that. You already felt hot and flushed from the most minute of touches.

“Here with Mr. Vasquez again,” he commented and you stopped, shrugging your shoulders.

“He’s a friend,” you insisted, feeling the need to prove yourself, like you somehow needed him to understand that. Why? Why did it really matter at the end of the day what Maxwell Lord thought?

“A friend,” he remained unconvinced, tilting his head slightly, only working to anger you further. He just had such a way about him, “and does your friend knew what happened to your neck?”

Your hand instinctively went to the flesh of your throat as you trailed a few fingers over it. The marks he had left all over you had been fading throughout the week, but a few particularly stubborn ones had proven to be a monumental challenge to try and cover. They were still peeking through every so slightly.

“He hasn’t asked and I haven’t volunteered the information,” you narrowed your eyes at him and he let out a soft laugh, “does that amuse you so?”

“Indeed it does,” he took a step closer and suddenly there was very little space between the two of you. You could smell his warm cologne, and tried to look anywhere but him, but your eyes found his. Somehow you were still just as drawn to him know as you had always had been, “you practically throw yourself at me and then hide it? What a shame.”

“You weren’t exactly fighting me off,” you reminded him as nodded slowly. He brought a hand to your face and ran his thumb over your cheekbone. Your breath hitched at the surprisingly gentle touch, “y-you want this just as much as me.”

“I do,” he admitted and you felt a small victory run through your veins at his revelation. He did want you, which he had made very clear, but hearing it like was…something else. It was like you’d just established some sort of common ground. He leaned closer and your lips were inches apart, if you leaned forward even slightly you’d be able to kiss him. You wanted to kiss him, every part of you was desperate to feel his touch again, “do you have any clue how hard it is coming here and seeing you look like that? How everyone’s eyes are on you?”

“Maybe,” you smirked slightly, wetting your lips as you stared at him, “and what about it?”

“I want to rip out the heart of every single man whose eyes have lingered on you, even if it was just a moment too long,” his large hand was on your cheek, lips pressed to you ear as he dropped his voice so only you could hear. It sent a delightful shiver down your spine in both wicked anticipation and a slight bit of fear.

“Oh?” you teased, turning your head ever so slightly to press the faintest of kisses to his cheek, “and just what are you doing to about it, Maxwell?”

“I’ll make sure everyone knows who you belong to you,” he trailed a few kisses along your jaw before stopping at your lips and staring into your eyes. You felt like he could see into your soul, and suddenly you didn’t feel like the strong, confident woman you had been playing at all night; you felt vulnerable and weak. Letting out a soft breath, you finally managed to regain some composure.

“And just who do I belong to?” you knew what he was saying, what he was attempting to get at, but you still wanted to hear it from his mouth. He put his hands on either side of your face, keeping your gaze trained on it; it was firm and commanding, but not too harsh or rough.

“You are mine,” he stated and you slowly found yourself nodding in acquiescence. You were his; he had instilled something in you that kept pulling you back in long ago. And here you were, at the precipice of giving into him, “and everyone will know it.”

Where was the brat that you wanted to be? Where was the woman that vowed she would not bow, bend, or break to the will of one man? Where the was the woman that would never give into Maxwell Lord?

You didn’t know her. At least not in the moment. At least not when the familiar fluttering had started in your belly and the throbbing between your legs increased.

He brought his hand to your throat and pressed ever so slightly, causing your lips to part with a surprised gasp. Then, in a surprisingly intimate gesture, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against yours, a contented sound leaving his mouth, “say it. I need to hear you say it. Who do you belong to?”

“You,” you agreed quietly, “I am yours.”

And then he crashed his lips onto yours, kissing you with a hunger and urgency than you had never felt before. And you…gave in. Just like that, just like you had been wanting to you, even if you were loathe to admit to yourself.

But just like that, you were all for him.

So you kissed him back, and wrapped your arms his neck, relinquishing control to him. It was frenzied tango, slowly crescendoing into something more, and you were so lost in what you were doing, you didn’t even remember where you were or what you had originally intended on doing. Until someone cleared their throat, and you pulled apart, pushing Maxwell away from you.

“I was wondering what happened to you,” Ben’s face was a mixture of surprise and concern as he spotted you. Once you’d been gone for some time he’d come going for you, just to make sure you were okay, “is…everything alright?”

“Ben,” you just knew you must have looked a sight but tried to play it off, “I…ugh, yes, everything’s fine.”

“I can see that,” he snorted lightly with laughter and Maxwell tried to smooth out his suit, “I’ll just wait for you and we can leave whenever you want.”

“Actually,” you surprised even yourself with your next words, “you can go without me. I’ll…be okay.”

Max raised an eyebrow at you, but kept his expression neutral as Ben gawked but nodded, giving you a small wave before turning the corner and heading out. You didn’t need to expand further.

“Are you…sure about this?” he searched your face as if to make sure you were positive. As much of an asshole as he could be, he wasn’t going to take this any further without you being fully willing. You turned to him and nodded, biting your lower lip.

“Yes,” you said as you turned to him, “I want this. I want you.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

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#Maxwell Lord #maxwell lord x reader #maxwell lord x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #reader insert #ww84 #honey & velvet

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kbstories · 4 years

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Signification

sig·ni·fi·ca·tion (n.)

The process of assigning meaning to something.

Captain and First Mate, two years later.

(Or: Zoro adores his captain. A lot.)

Tags: Reunions, Nakamaship, Introspection, Fluff, Domesticity (!)

Post-Timeskip setting, between Sabaody and Fishman Island. Read Chapter 2 here.

***

Surrounded by tumultuous battle and the distant booming of cannons, the Thousand Sunny begins to sink. The waves churn and slosh against her hull with increasing might; glinting foam breaks across the sky in half-formed arcs and yet not a single drop touches the grass below.

The crew watches, wonder shining in their eyes. Roronoa Zoro counts, sharp gaze touching upon every familiar face, every smile that glows with shared relief, then starts over.

Nine. Nine, again.

Finally complete, the Strawhats are swallowed by the sea.

In a heartbeat, the breathless moment dissolves into the usual chaos as Nami commands their gradual descent: Usopp and Chopper screech in unison about this sea king and that monster over Franky’s good-natured reassurances at the helm and the melodic humming coming from Brook; blooming and wilting like flowers, Robin’s elegant hands crop up all over the deck where Sanji and Zoro are wrangling the sails against the ocean’s massive current–

The Sunny moves like a living thing underneath them and through it all, Luffy laughs and laughs like he couldn’t get himself to stop even if he tried.

Having his friends back is a delight in and of itself but it’s that sound that does it. Zoro can feel the rough edges of the past months knit themselves together into something nostalgic, something fond, a type of gooey-warm devotion that became second nature somewhere along the line.

Like muscle memory, dormant for a while and never forgotten. It’s good to be home.

And yeah, he’s the first to admit soft things don’t come easy to him. There is a private smile on his lips, though, one he doesn’t care to hide. There’s no reason to, not here. Above them, a school of fish swims by, silhouetted by the sun like silver-coated birds and–

“Woah, it’s huge! Is that a shark?”

–the smile turns into a grin. Zoro’s eye meets those of his captain and, before Monkey D. Luffy can utter the idea brewing in that rubber brain of his, Shusui glides out of its sheath smoothly. Luffy cackles and together they stand, with their crew behind and the vast ocean ahead.

“You ready, Zoro?”

Those three little words settle in the spaces between skin and muscle and bone and – after two long years of worrying, wishing, waiting – Zoro nods and gladly takes his place beside the man who will be Pirate King.

The reunion party takes days to run its course until, on the third night, even the most energetic among the Strawhats are turning to their spot on Sunny’s deck for a cozy evening. A bonfire burns brightly in their midst and, under Sanji’s watchful eye, all kinds of sausages and vegetables sizzle away on a makeshift grill. Curiously, the smoke it produces leaves the resin coating of the ship in small, harmless bubbles – arms crossed and leaning back against the railing, Zoro follows their path until they disappear into depths unknown like sticky shooting stars.

A bit of imagination and even this cobalt sky can yield a few constellations, though it would take a creative mind like Usopp’s to name them all. Their presence is soothing, regardless.

No need to look so glum, Mihawk had said, that first night an eternity ago, after awkwardly hovering in Zoro’s periphery for far too long.

It had been a clumsy attempt at comfort at best. There was blood on the cuffs of his shirt and the soot of cannon fire still clung to his coat; made vague by the darkness, it was nonetheless the kind of tangible proof that all those headlines in the paper lacked. Somewhere out there, the ruins of Marineford smoldered. Somewhere out there, his captain was hurting.

Zoro had just huffed and stared out into the void. There was nothing to say, nothing at all.

There had been a quiet sigh, and steps echoing in the silence. Arms crossed, Mihawk had stared until Zoro couldn’t but stare back, quietly surprised by the intensity of emotion burning where nobody dared to look for it.

Don’t grieve what you haven’t lost, kid. You’re all under the same sky, after all.

Still, Zoro muses, eye slipping shut and shoulders relaxing against the Sunny’s comfortable embrace. Around him, the ever-present chatter of the crew dulls to a low rush. This is better.

The transition between sleep and consciousness is so gradual that Zoro doesn’t bother to track down the moment he dozes off. Eventually, there is a subtle shift around him, like gravity itself bends and realigns towards a greater force – a silent force, and that is what makes Zoro glance up between sleepy blinks.

There Luffy stands, hand on his hat and his hat on his chest and a woven-straw brim barely covering the crater of a scar below it. The fire casts shadows on Luffy’s face (Is it doubt flickering there? Indecisiveness?) and yet they’re fleeting enough to make Zoro question what he sees, fractured as his vision has become.

Then Luffy notices he’s awake and it’s all gone with a smile. “Napping already?”, he chuckles as he hops on the railing next to him. Zoro shrugs and stretches with a satisfied grunt.

“We getting close?”

“Nope, not yet.” Luffy snickers as Zoro slumps right back to where he was, his back snug against warmed wood. Sandals flip-flop along with the carefree swinging of Luffy's feet. “It’s okay, though. More chances to listen to Usopp’s stories! He met the Hercules, can you imagine?”

“Hardly”, Zoro grumbles indistinctly enough to not disturb the starry-eyed marvel on Luffy’s face. “Did he tell the one about the man-eating plant turned island yet?”

“The what?!”

It’s impossible not to laugh at how wide Luffy’s eyes can get: Zoro snorts and gestures towards the shape of Usopp on the other side of deck, a silent have at him that Luffy almost follows.

Almost. Cheers and laughter carry over from Usopp’s loosely assembled audience, and Chopper’s astounded What, really?! proves the story being told is a good one. Even so, the motion to launch himself into an unsuspecting Usopp is stopped mid-way and Luffy bounces back to the railing.

Huh.

At Zoro’s questioning grunt, the man just shakes his head and lowers his hat to his lap. “Ah, y’know. We have time now, right?”, he says with a thread of serenity woven into his voice – one that wasn’t there, last time they spoke, and the realization that Luffy is pacing himself shouldn’t feel this monumental.

Zoro lets his gaze linger, this time: over the subtle lines around Luffy’s eyes and the hint of exhaustion underneath; over all the little scars dusting his knuckles, old and new, and the gentle back-and-forth of his thumb over the ribbon of his hat, a mindless gesture of comfort that aches, somehow.

Threadbare it has become, this most faithful of companions. The red is long washed out by the sun and the sea and hell knows what else. Gratitude registers as a warm glow at Zoro’s core, for it being there when none of them could. For weathering the storms and the tears and the laughter, from the instant it left Shanks’ head to this very moment.

“It’s looking good”, Zoro comments lightly as he sits up and rubs the last traces of sleep from his eye. “Feels like ages ago that Nami had to stitch the hat back together. After… Buggy, was it? The clown guy.”

The expression on Luffy’s face goes a bit funny at that, half-way to a grimace yet too fond to be one. “Hah, yeah, him. I’ll have to thank him next time we see him, him and Jinbei and the others.”

Zoro blinks. That… makes no sense at all. Then again, Mihawk did grumble about the clown becoming a warlord, so weirder things have happened. “Who’s Jinbei?”

Luffy smiles, then, bright and toothy. “A friend! Don’t worry, you’ll meet him soon. He’s all serious and talks about honor a lot, so.”

So you’ll like him, Zoro fills in for him and huffs to himself. That part of himself that is fiercely independent wants to argue the point – then again, Luffy’s instincts are rarely off the mark.

Another thing to look forward to, then. Hopefully this Jinbei guy likes to drink.

“Say, Zoro?”

In a bundle of rubbery limbs and rustling fabric, Luffy joins him on the grassy deck, legs crossed and hat back where it belongs. His head tilts curiously, the steady weight of his full attention one Zoro shoulders with ease. “Where did you go?”

Ah, that. It’s a question he’s heard a few times this week, along with How in the world were you first? and What the hell happened to your eye? and Zoro has no room to complain. He, too, keeps a list of names in his heart, and the question marks around their fates are a subtle discomfort but very much there.

It’s weird to think of adventure as something they can experience even when forced apart.

And so Zoro tells him, about the castle standing proud among ruins and the ship that wrecked before it even touched the sea and the day he bowed to become stronger. He doesn’t mention the tense days spent in-between, reading the newspaper near-obsessively for even a scrap of new information. That black-and-white image of his captain standing alone on a battlefield is fresh in his memory, and will remain there for eternity. “Took me a while to get what you were trying to say”, he admonishes without heat, and Luffy nods sagely.

“I know, right? So complicated… Without Rayleigh I would’ve mixed everything up.”

That confirms that theory, then. A whole library of those exists in Zoro’s mind, years’ worth of theories and questions gone unanswered and wild speculation and it doesn’t matter, not anymore. Not with Luffy sitting next to him, looking more at peace than Zoro expected, deep down.

“You did well, Luffy.”

The words are out before he really thinks them through. It feels right, though, to see surprise dawn on Luffy’s face; the pride Zoro places in his voice soon takes root in the square set of Luffy’s shoulders, too, and the strong line of his back.

Then, he grins, eyes alight and squinting with it. Like this, the signs of weariness melt off entirely and there Luffy is, a little older, a little more mature and scarred to hell but still the happy-go-lucky idiot Zoro chose to follow two years ago.

“We really made it, huh, Zoro? It felt like forever and I was wondering if I’m just dreaming or something but… We’re finally here.”

Zoro sighs and reaches over and pulls the hat down, the brim briefly covering the amused chuckle on Luffy’s lips before it’s righted again. “’course it’s real, captain. You think we’d all bust our asses to be on time for some dream? Seriously.”

Luffy is still laughing, “I mean, you were early! Everyone was so surprised!”, poking him in the cheek and wiggling his feet in delight. Zoro lets him have it for a second longer than he normally would have before he rolls his eye and gets up.

“C’mon, rubber-for-brains, there’s some sake I brought that’s calling my name. Oi, Usopp! What was that thing with the plant island again?”

And with the sound of stretching rubber and a not-so-distant crash, Luffy is gone and Usopp yells.

>>Read Chapter 2

#one piece #roronoa zoro #monkey d. luffy #zolu #one piece fanfiction #i love..... zoro so much.....#my stuff #this fic is also on AO3!#(lets hope the readmore works this time huff huff)

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misc-headcanons · 4 years

Text

(The Straw Hats and Scabbards at the castle ruins, as well as Katakuri's children and O-Tama are eating dinner. The large dining room in the castle has been mostly cleaned of dust and cobwebs, but it's clear that it's been abandoned like the rest of the area for years. Vanilla is talking excitedly with O-Tama, Fritter is keeping to himself, Dochi and Ube are eagerly listening to Luffy talk about his previous adventures, and Maple is expertly eavesdropping on every conversation at once while she eats.)

Vanilla: Wow, you're a ninja-in-training, O-Tama? I'm a witch-in-training! Or, well, I dunno if "witch" is the right word. My momma always says that not everyone who uses magic's a witch, but I like saying it. Papa says I'm too cute to be a witch, but I think witches can be cute. Ninjas can be cute too, right?

O-Tama: I guess so. But I wanna be strong and stealthy as a kunoichi, not cute. I'm training to be a force to be reckoned with!

Vanilla: Yeah, but I think you can be a great fighter AND cute. I mean look at Mr. Chopper! He's a member of Luffy's crew so he can fight really well, but he's super fluffy and sweet too.

Chopper: Awww, who're ya calling a good fighter and cute? How dare you, hehehe~

Vanilla: See? Cool AND cute, just like you, O-Tama!

(Sanji notices Fritter's silence so far and gently puts a hand on his shoulder.)

Sanji: How do you like the soup, Fritter?

Fritter: Oh! Um, it's...it's really good. I'm happy I finally got to eat something you made, even if it wasn't at the castle. You really are a good cook, Uncl--Um, Not-Uncle Sanji.

Sanji: I think I remember Pudding saying you wanted to be a chef one day when you grew up, right?

Fritter: Uh-huh. Dochi and Ube wanna be fighters, and Maple's gonna be in charge of communi--um...comm-you...

Maple, offhandedly: Communications. What Uncle Monty does, remember?

Fritter: Yeah, that. So everyone in the family can talk to each other easy and not get messages wrong. And she's probably gonna be a really important Minister too, since she's so smart and good with magic. But I just wanna cook and bake in the kitchen with the chefs. They like to let me watch while they work, and I have my own chair where I sit and watch and everything!

Sanji: I bet you'll be a great chef, just like your Aunt Chiffon with cake and your Aunt Pudding with chocolate.

(Fritter smiles up at Sanji.)

Fritter: Thanks. I'm gonna make people happy whenever I cook something, just like you!

(Dochi and Ube are seated next to each other, practically bouncing in their seats as they hear more and more about the Straw Hats and the Scabbards)

Dochi: Wait, Miss Nami, you managed to make Zeus YOUR familiar!? Holy crap, that's so cool! I mean, Grandma probably doesn't think it is, but still...wow! Do you use magic like mom?

Nami: Well, I dunno if it's how your mom does things, haha. I mean the people I learned from were called "weather wizards", but it's more about science and learning about climate and stuff than spells.

Maple: Mom always says that "magic is just science turned sideways." Both have solid theories on how they work, and experimenting with both makes you more knowledgeable and powerful. Plus, even if it isn't powered by magic specifically, your staff seems like it has similar functions to mom's.

Ube: And Luffy, I still can't believe you fought Papa and didn't like...die! He's never fought anyone like you before. And the way you two weaponized your softer powers with rubber and Mochi with Armament Haki!? That was so cool!

Dochi: Yeah! Me and Ube were going nuts the whole fight while we watched through one of Auntie Brulee's mirrors. If Mama hadn't held us back, we woulda definitely tried to watch in-person.

Ube: And WE wouldn't ruin it the way Flampe tried to, either. I can't believe she thought Papa needed her help. OOOH, and when she started making fun of Papa's face--

Dochi: Yeah, that was WAY out of line... Mama had to put me and Ube into our own bubbles so we couldn't hop in there to kick her ass!

Vanilla, in a scandalized tone: Dochi! Don't say that! Auntie Flampe was really mean, but still...

Ube: You're right, 'Nilla. We were ready to kick Flampe's butt. And with that dress she wears all the time, it woulda been easy to kick that big, stupid, floating BUTT of hers!

(Fritter, Vanilla, and O-Tama snicker and try to hide how much they're smiling and giggling behind their hands.)

Luffy: How is Katakuri, anyway? I didn't really get to see if he got taken care of or anything before I had to get to my ship. That Mirror Lady probably got to him, right?

Ube: He had to stay in bed for a few weeks, but Mama and Auntie Brulee worked hard to make him better.

Vanilla: And me and Fritter, too! I helped with healing magic on his little cuts and scrapes, and Fritter always fluffed his pillows and stuff.

Fritter: Yeah, and I helped the chefs make donuts for his Meriendas too!

Ube: Oh. Uh yeah, they helped too. But most of it was Brulee being a good nurse and Mom being good with her magic. The day we fell through the portal here, he was taking walks and stuff every day.

Dochi: Heh, and practicing with his trident whenever he knew Mom wasn't around to scold him for getting too carried away.

Luffy: Aw, I get that. Chopper's always saying I'm not healed up enough to do stuff sometimes after a big fight, but I just do it anyway. I bet Katakuri's the same way with your mom.

(Maple's attention is turned to Law.)

Maple: So, I imagine that if you and Luffy are allies, you're the one with a plan to take Kaido on. You seem more...um, strategic than him.

Law: That's one way of putting it...Yes, I do have a plan.

Maple: Hm. You know, now that I know you two were planning to target him, some of the news about you makes a bit more sense. Destroying the main resources for SMILE production in Punk Hazard; kidnapping that idiot scientist to use as leverage in Dressrosa; defeating Doflamingo, Kaido's most powerful ally outside of his own crew and a major source of intel, manpower, and influence...I had a feeling that there was something tying it together.

Law: You're pretty sharp for someone your age. I'm not surprised your Uncle Mont-d'or would want you as the head of communication and intel for the Big Mom Pirates after he's gone.

Maple: Thanks. I'm just glad that there's some explanation for why you and Luffy's crew were seen traveling and fighting together so often. Though to be honest, I was surprised to hear that Doflamingo was sent to prison; if what I'd heard and seen about your history was true, I was expecting you to kill Doflamingo in Dressrosa. But Luffy doesn't seem to support killing your enemies if you can help it.

Law: How do you--

Maple: Don't worry, the Big Mom pirates don't know about that. Not even Uncle Monty does.

Law: And how do you?

Maple: The same way I know the Scabbards over there got sent through time and how they're the surviving retainers of Lord Oden, and that they're trying to defeat Kaido and this Orochi guy so Momonosuke can take his rightful place on the throne. Keeping secrets from me is a pretty hard thing to do.

Ube: Yeesh, quit acting so mysterious. You know everyone's business because you know Mom's spells on reading someone's memories and the All-Seeing Eye and--mmpgh!

(Maple's uses a quick spell to make Ube's tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. She narrows her eyes and frowns at him.)

Maple: And how to stop brothers from sharing too much with strangers. For someone who wants to be a leader within Big Mom's pirate crew, you'd think you'd remember that loose lips sink ships, Ube.

Vanilla: I thought most of Gramma's ships sank after people shot a bunch of cannons and bombs at 'em...

(After she stops giggling, Dochi uses some of her own magic to free Ube's tongue. Ube glares at Maple before turning to ask Zoro about what it's like to fight with a sword in your mouth.)

Maple: Look, I know you're a smart man and you clearly have a talent for strategy. But I just want to make what the backup is in case things go wrong.

Law: You're a newcomer, you don't even know the full extent of the plan, and you're demanding to know more? Just because you're a clever kid with magic, that doesn't mean I'm going to reveal every step of this to you. Your uncle had to have taught you that only one person should ever know the full strategy plan, and that's the one who planned it out.

Maple: Yeah, he did. I'm not asking you to trust me that much; if I were in your position, I certainly wouldn't. All I want to know is what my siblings and I can do to help and ensure that when things go wrong, we can be useful and get things back on track. You've just been handed a very valuable wild card, and I want to make sure you use us wisely.

Dochi: Whaddya mean 'when things go wrong', Maple? With Law's crew, the Straw Hats, the Scabbards, and all the allies they've got here, we're all super strong and you said that Law's really good with strategy.

Maple: True. But when it comes to HIM...(Maple gestures to Luffy, who's gulping down the last of his soup) you have the wildest card of all. And he seems to blow through any well-laid plan without any second thought. (She leans back in her chair a bit and crosses her arms) Whatever plan you have in mind, Mr. Law, it's pointless if you really haven't got a backup in mind for whenever he manages to completely ruin it.

Kin'emon: Do you really think someone as young and inexperienced as yourself could come up with a better idea?

Maple: I'm young, not inexperienced. Believe me, as the eldest in a family of five siblings imbued with magic and various forms of Haki, I'm an expert in making plans that are bound to be thrown off course by the chaotic whims of someone close to you. So, Mr. Law...what have you got in mind?

#one piece #one piece oc #dochi #maple #ube #vanilla #fritter #oc #wano #wano spoilers

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bunnis-babes · 6 years

Note

Could I please get some head cannons for Aizawa, Present Mic, and Hawks that went out on a dangerous mission and don’t come back for a while so when they come home they find their S/O crying because they thought they were dead? Why do I feel like this is super angsty oof-

UwU bb, this is pretty angsty, but it still seems fun. I’m only gonna write for Aizawa and Hawks since I don’t write for Mic. Thanks for requesting!

Hawks

🦃He didn’t want to leave them alone. He hated leaving on missions when he was able to tell them what he was doing, now he can’t even let them know what was going on.

🦃He thinks about them every day while he’s gone, his heart heavy with guilt. He’s worried about them the whole time, wondering if they’re safe or if they’re feeling alright. He doesn’t want this for them, but such is the life of a pro-hero.

🦃While he’s busy living out his days in guilt, they are living it with fear and worry. He disappeared with no explanation and they have no idea if he’s still alive or not.

🦃They find it difficult to sleep and eat and work and do anything really. Their life is filled with concern and thoughts of him and his safety.

🦃They attempted to get ahold of his authorities, praying that they would get some kind of reassurance about him, but yet again nothing. If anything, talking to them made the situation worse.

🦃A couple of months pass by and they are convinced he’s never coming back. No word about him spoken by anyone, and the public hadn’t made it better with their wild theory’s about his whereabouts.

🦃By the time he’d finally came home, they’d almost completely lost hope of ever seeing him again.

🦃They were curled up on the couch, holding a pillow they haphazardly threw one of his shirts on tightly to their chest. They’d been crying for what felt like hours, absolutely devastated and all their hope lost.

🦃Hawks walked in, excitement and worry bubbling in his chest. He was so happy to see them again, but he was also worried about what state they could possibly be in.

🦃He heard their sobbing before he saw them, and his heart instantly filled with grief and guilt. He didn’t want to be gone for as long as he was, the last thing he wanted was to put them through so much fear and pain.

🦃He called out their name gently, his voice shaking with worry. They shot up at the sound of his voice and turned to him in shock.

🦃The joy and disbelief on their face was enough to make Hawks start crying too, realizing just how much he missed them.

🦃He rushed forward and brought them into a soft and protective hug, allowing them to sob into his shoulder. He missed them too much to care about the gross snot they were getting all over his overly expensive jacket.

🦃He spent the rest of the night consoling them, promising he wouldn’t leave them like that and die without a word.

🦃He spent a week away from the media and work just to stay with them, just to have that relationship he missed back.

Aizawa

◾️Aizawa was told the mission would only be a week or two, nothing too long. He knew his lover would be able to handle him disappearing for that amount of time, he’d been gone longer without explanation. If only the two of them knew what was coming.

◾️When he hadn’t come home at all for the first few days, they knew he would be gone for a while. They were not worried about him at first, they had gone through his abscesses before and were ready to wait for a while for his return.

◾️As weeks turned to a month and a month turned into a few months, they started to get worried. He’d normally be gone for only a month at most, but he’d never been one for over two.

◾️They asked all of his hero friends, they hadn’t heard from him either - well they might’ve, but they weren’t talking at all. They asked his agency, where they would normally tell them he was fine or something vague like that, but once again nothing was given.

◾️That was when they started to worry about him. They knew there was no way to get a hold of him, so all they could do was worry.

◾️As more months passed they began to loose hope. He’d never been gone this long, and there was no evidence of him being alive or ever coming home to them again.

◾️Both their and his friends tried to tell them he would be fine, he always come back home, but they just couldn’t seem to feel the same way this time.

◾️They just completely shut down at a point. They only performed basic human functions, but in an almost robotic fashion, as if it was purely because they had too. They were empty without him.

◾️When Aizawa came home, he hadn’t expected to see his apartment so cluttered. It had been cleaned, but only to the minimum that it would be considered reasonable. That wasn’t right, his love was always sure the house looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine.

◾️He walked into the bedroom, expecting them to be busy at their desk they had in the room, always determined to be ahead of them game when working. Instead they were lying in bed, blankly staring at the TV.

◾️He stood for a moment, looking on at the sight of them lazing around hopelessly as he would normally do before clearing his throat. This caught their attention as their head turned sharply to look at him.

◾️They blinked once, then twice, then a multitude of times as disbelief and joy crossed their face. Tears welled up in their eyes as they took in his rugged appearance.

◾️Quickly they leapt up and tackled him to the ground, sobbing out incoherent sentences supposedly about how much they loved him and how worried they were. Shocked but happy, Aizawa hugged them close and let them cry on him for a while.

☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬☬

I got school off finally, and I’m super sore. My left wrist was already aching, but I actually hurt myself even more after falling on it last night, not m y entire left arm hurts and I can barely move my wrist without pain shooting through it, but its all good! I’m writing for you al thats all that matters right? RIGHT?!

((((爾△爾))))

💙River💙

#bnha #mha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #aizawa x reader #shouta x reader #hawks x reader #bnha hawks #mha hawks #aizawa #shouta #aizawa shouta #shouta aizawa #mha headcannons #bnha headcannons #headcannons

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goatfederation · 6 years

Text

In the dream, we keep leaving but we never get anywhere. In the dream, Melissa and I load up the car and we pull out of the driveway. There’s a cutscene and we’re in the Port of Tacoma in the near dawn and she asks me to get out. There’s another cutscene and I’m running alone through the port, barefoot now. I’m sprinting for the water’s edge. Airborne, windmilling towards that polluted water, stained a baby blue by the morning sky. I ploosh into it and I’m deep down beneath it and Melissa is calling to me from the surface and when I dig my way back to it, I’m in the living room and Melissa is telling me I need to load the car. That we need to go. In the dream, we do it all over again.

Dreams like that change the way you see the world when you really do come to the surface. Sitting in the car on the freeway bound for the airport, waiting for the cutscene that will leave you barefoot running for open water. There is no cutscene. Just you and your wife and the road and a plane and new cities and new beds. Just travel and all the ways it wears you down and polishes you up.

We’re going to Cartagena, Colombia. One of those trips that fights its way to fruition at the end of a Northwestern winter. The clouds like a Tupperware lid, sealing in the darkness, the moisture. Sealing out the sun. Just a rippled sheet of foamy grey and the maddening drizzle going tick-tick-tick in the gutter. Three months of it and you think, sunshine. I. Need. Sunshine. But then, once all the planning is done and the arrangements have been made, it’s almost spring. The flowers are blooming and the temperature is crawling towards tolerable and Colombia feels like a long way away. Trip Advisor posts about robberies. Just the word Colombia on your lips gets stranger’s eyebrows jumping. But the tickets are already bought. Confirmation emails received. It might be a hectic trip and could be a dangerous trip, but it would definitely NOT be a refundable trip, so we were definitely going.

We slog our way through cruise season security at the airport, punch a bunch of caffeine and airport food into our faces and Alaska airlines flings us across the country.

There is food that night, found hastily, walked to confusedly and shoveled exhaustedly. There is a brief trip along the river in the perfect night air with the boat lights shimmering on the placid water and the smell of seawater on the merciful breeze. And yet, even when it’s pleasant, even with a mouthful of salty pork, or beer bubbles tickling my nose, even in twinkling lights with a sea breeze at my back, there is that feeling of disconnection. That vague sense of unrealness. Of running barefoot on a loop. That night we drift off to a fitful sleep in the semi-darkness. Late into the night, the sounds of Saturday night mayhem and youth in all its indecipherable wildness.

The next morning finds me wandering the streets in search of coffee. It’s too early again, and again I didn’t sleep well. I live a life of cutscenes. Up and down the street, trying doors, shuffling down the way. Starbucks in my hand. Starbucks in my mouth. We call an Uber to get us to the airport for the second leg of our flight. A man named Jeff whips a red Lexus around the corner and for all the moments between him opening his mouth to greet us and him screaming out his window at us at the airport he is an East Coast Angel with solid cheese halo.

He asks us all about our evening, points out some of the local attractions as they slip past the windows, New Jersey thick in his voice. My boilerplate question about best places to eat in his city elicits an extremely non-boilerplate answer.

“My buddy Brent owns the best Italian place in the city,” he says. He’s reaching for something in the center console. “Mention my name at the register and receive an appetizer valued at $18.99 free of charge.”

And I start to laugh, as he hands me a business card for the Italian place with his name in Sharpie on the back.

He sounds like Joe Pesci when he says it and even though he’s hustling at me, shamelessly, it’s not off-putting. We talk about Colombia with him. Tell him it’s not as dangerous as it used to be. That there’s peace there now. He nods his head, but he’s not assuaged. Tells me to keep an eye on my valuables.

Say, “I’m going to keep my phone in my front pocket. I figure if someone manages to sneak something out of my front pocket without me noticing, then they earned it.”

He likes that. At the airport, we thank him and tip him. We’re walking to the security line and his voice goes booming through the terminal, Joe Peschi on a bullhorn. “YOUR PHONES IN YOUR BACK POCKET!” He’s screaming through his passenger window. “ WATCH OUT!”

Another airport, more caffeine and calories on the end of a tamp. We board a small, old plane with creaky seats and scuffed overhead bins. There are TV’s on the backs of the seats that might as well have glass tubes in them. They flicker in and out in turbulence. I am squished into yet another center seat beside yet another gargantuan man. Like many of the discomforts of adult life, it’s no one’s fault and there’s nothing to be done about it. After a brief and sobering delay involving a stewardess with a family emergency that was most likely far more pressing than middle seats or spotty television, the pilot guides us to the runway and flings us across an ocean to Colombia.

We skate over a sheet of clouds that mostly cover Cuba and Jamaica, start to spiral down to Cartagena, through the fluff to the country below. Holding onto our armrests listening to the old plane groan and rattle, the giant to which I am stuck turns to us and says, “First time in Colombia?” He says it in Spanish and Melissa gathers it up carefully and tells him it is.

“Its very nice,” he says. “Be smart. Take off your watch. Don’t walk around on your phone. Don’t keep your wallet on you. Keep bills loose in your pocket.” He mimes pulling a wallet stuffed with cash out of his pocket, pretends to sort through imaginary money, wags his finger at us.

“Don’t do that.” He says. He takes a pull from the plastic glass of whiskey that he filled from a bottle that he took out of a duty-free bag, says, “Don’t buy anything. It’s all fake.”

We nod like disciples and the plane makes a sound like OOF coming down on the ground in a whole new world. “Have a good time,” he says.

Stepping off the plane is like stepping into soup. There are clouds overhead, but neither of us is upset about it because they protect us from this foreign sun that made the earth so hot. The sounds of car horns and alien birds. The vague pangs of apprehension.

I am awake.

Customs gives us a cursory jostling and then releases us into the world. At the curb in front of the airport we hail a cab, agree to pay him 3 or 4 dollars for the 15 minute ride to the airport and then he lurches off the curb with us, tearing through the streets of Cartagena. The traffic is a tornado that has passed over a junkyard and we are in the grip of it. Our driver flicks at the gear shift, spins the wheel. He honks the horn for everything and for nothing. It is a greeting and a warning. Here, you hear horns that are so worn out they hardly make a noise anymore. A hoarse hooting beneath a battered hood. People step out into the streets on 8 lane roads, froggering past busses, between bumpers. On two separate occasions, I see people texting while driving a motorcycle helmetless. Our driver drifts between lanes, honking all the while. He veers around a man pushing a cart full of mangos in the street, forces a motorcycle between two busses. The cycle honks. The busses honk. The mango cat pusher whistles like a train horn, drowns them all out. We slip past squat houses with wrought iron gates. We hurtle by concrete tenement buildings with laundry drying on the balconies. Massive palms, dogs and cats all in a blur beyond those smudged cab windows. We pull up at the hotel, sweating from the heat and from the ride. He takes our money and lurches off into the fray, again.

The concierge at the hotel buzzes us through a gate into the lobby and we drop all of our needy luggage in the sparkling oasis of air conditioning and silence that is our room. The sheets are white and the tiles on the floor are sandy blocks with seashells pressed into them. There’s a TV on the wall and a pool on the roof and we’ve had a long day.

“So,” Melissa says, “what do you want to do?”

Outside, there is a man screaming sweet nothings about the mangos on his cart. A flock of alien birds rip past the window.

“Let’s go out there.”

May 13th, 2018. You fire “Restaurants” into the search bar of Yelp, “Cartegena, Colombia” into the location and the mighty Goliath of half-assed evaluations from underqualified users heaves a sigh and falls silent. No suggestions, No reviews. Google offers some help and TripAdvisor has some advice, but ‘comprehensive’ is not a word that I would use to describe them. Footpaths in a vast forest. Aerial imagery over deep woods. We do our best. The hotel burps us through its gates and we point ourselves in what we hope is the right direction and walk.

Wide-eyed through bustling streets with narrow sidewalks choked with people. Houses like a pastel crayon box with flags spread out between them. A man wants to sell us a hat. A lone dog barking at an iguana, who doesn’t seem very concerned about it. Out of our neighborhood beyond a park and a tangled mass of traffic We find the entrance to the walled city. It was built in the 1500’s by the Spanish to keep pirates out. 20 feet thick in some places, bristling with old cannons that point out to the ocean. Within those walls, streets like spaghetti on a plate, designed by military engineers to disorient any invaders who actually managed to make it ashore. Your sightlines are limited to the end of whatever block you’re on. Streets meander north and then wander their way back around to the east.

There are no spaces between the buildings, no vantage point to get your bearings. Fortunately for us, pirates have become far less of a bother, and so the security is a bit more relaxed. The government ordered that all the buildings be painted a variety of colors (which helps with the feeling of claustrophobia) and now there are landmarks abound. We zig and zag our way past businesses and restaurants full of colorful goods and memorable features. 10-foot tall doors with lion’s head knockers and courtyards bursting with tropical fauna. A bar named KGB with a Russian flight suit in the window and a massive pastel cathedral. All little pins on a winding map and by the end of the day, I can look at a spot on an aerial photo of the city and navigate us there without consulting it again. We arrive at a place on the north end of the walled city called Quero Arepo, grab up seats by the door.

The waitress brings us laminated menus and Melissa orders eloquently in Spanish that she has worked for years to perfect. The waitress nods at her, turns to me and I sputter,

“I… Need… This…. One…” in a collection of broken syllables like a man who should have a bandage around his head. An amused smile splashes across her face and then a burst of language from which I pluck the word for “drink”.

“I…Need… This … One.” I point at a beer on the menu and if she wanted to, she could insist I was already drunk and ask me to leave and anyone who heard our little back and forth would have a really hard time persuading her that I wasn’t. Instead, she takes our menus and heads into the back.

“Quesiera.” my wife says through the palm over her face.

“Huh?”

“‘Quesiera’ is a more polite way of asking for things in Spanish.” She says.

Dually Noted. The waitress brings the beer that I ‘needed’ and I gulp at it because it is cold and nothing else is. A breeze oozes in through the door. A horsedrawn carriage clomps up the street with a man giving a tour from behind the reigns of it. A few minutes later, our food comes out. It’s spectacular. Fried dough wrapped around a mound of chicken, beef, cheese, and avocado.

I moosh it into my face with the same grace I used to order it. The salt and the fat and the tang of it. The crunch and the chew and the soft of it. I am present for every bite. For every step along the streets. For every word past my lips. For the wind on my skin at the top of that ancient wall. For the sunset over the Caribbean. I am awake. No cutscenes. No loops. Just a notebook in my back pocket and a whole new city to fill it with.

The Travelogue Part One: Waking up in Cartegena In the dream, we keep leaving but we never get anywhere. In the dream, Melissa and I load up the car and we pull out of the driveway.

#Cartagena #Colombia #food #Goatfederation #kellen Burden #travelogue

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starchild-existence · 7 years

Text

In The Back of the Lab

Bethany Rider never expected to become a teacher. Let alone a Biology teacher! And yet, that’s where her college education led her.

She looked back on her college years often and wistfully. She’d been a beauty back then, with long dark hair and a sweet face. Beth, she’d been called. She’d had lots of friends and lots of boyfriends, none of them too serious. She got her bachelor in marine biology before realizing how much she hated marine biology. So young Beth had gone back to school and become a teacher.

Beth had ended up in Maine at the ripe old age of twenty-two. It seemed like fate that she ended up teaching at her local high school, Blue River High. After all, she had to pay off her student loans somehow.

And so Bethany Rider taught at that high school for years and years, becoming attached to the job and also falling further into debt. Truly, she was trapped there, without any other job prospects or ways to move on. She supposed that she could leave, if she wanted to, but she didn’t.

Ten years, fifteen, twenty. Bethany grew out of her youthful beauty. Her hair began to frizz instead of curl, her skin began to lose its elasticity. Her waist grew out, and she traded in small dresses for larger, more comfortable pairs of yoga pants. Before Beth knew it, she was Bethany, an older woman without a man. She was past her prime.

It was depressing, really. Bethany had never been too attached to the thought of settling down, but she’d always romantically wished for a husband, a soulmate. Over a decade of teaching didn’t attract men. Youth did.

In her twenty-third year at Blue River High School, Bethany met Oliver Flint Pilgrim.

Oliver Pilgrim became Blue River’s new Chemistry teacher after Mrs. Rowland retired. Bethany overheard two English teachers, Mrs. Black and Mr. Quincy, chatting about it in the last week of August.

“I met him,” Mrs. Black confided. “He came in here last week, moved a bunch of things into his new room. He was positively bursting with energy!”

Bethany rolled her eyes. English teachers. Always so… poetic. But she was intrigued. She walked over, rested one hand on the counter the teachers were leaning on. “Who are you talking about?” she asked.

“Ms. Rider, hello!” Mr. Quincy smiled. “Mrs. Black was just telling me about Mr. Pilgrim. He’s our new Chem teacher.”

“I heard about Mrs. Rowland,” Bethany said, sighing. “It’s a shame she retired…”

“I know you two were close,” Mr. Quincy said. “But I’m sure Mr. Pilgrim will be popular with our students as well.”

“He seems very… energetic.” Mrs. Black giggled, hiding her mouth behind a perfectly manicured set of nails. Bethany fought back a surge of annoyance.

“You’ll be working with him, since your rooms are right next to each other,” Mr. Quincy said. “It might not be a bad idea to get to know him before school is in session.”

“School is always in session, Mr. Quincy.” Bethany gave him a tight smile, ignoring Mrs. Black. “If you’ll excuse me…”

Bethany went back to her room, stewing. Teachers like Mrs. Black pissed her off.

Four days before class started, Bethany decided to clean up her room. Partially. At least forty percent of the way. Maybe thirty. (Okay, at least twenty-five.)

She set about the room, grabbing stray papers and textbooks. She stacked the books on one shelf and tossed the papers into the recycling bin. Bethany looked over her shoulder at the cluttered room and heaved a sigh.

“Need a hand?”

Bethany jumped, head whipping around. Standing in the doorway was a skinny man, not much taller than her. His hair was sandy brown, greying in parts, and stuck out in all directions, and he was wearing thin-rimmed, rectangular glasses.

“Who are you?” she blurted.

“Oliver Flint Pilgrim,” he said, very quickly.

“Are you the new Chemistry teacher?” Bethany immediately felt like an idiot.

“Yep, yep, that’s me!” He grinned and looked around her room, one time and then again. His attentiveness was a bit… off-putting.

Finally, she had the common sense to go over and shake his hand. “I’m Bethany Rider, the Biology teacher.” She offered him her hand. “Good to meet you.”

He grasped her hand, grip firmer than she expected. “Good to meet you, too. You were cleaning your room just now, right? Do you need any help?”

He said all that too fast for her to understand him. She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Do you need any help?”

“Oh, no, I’m alright.” Against her will, she flushed. “It’s my fault everything’s such a mess. I’m a slob.”

“Well, if you ever want to clean, I’ll help you.” Mr. Pilgrim’s grin flashed quickly, like dry lightning. “See you later!” And he was gone.

Like dry lightning, his smile lit her on fire. Bethany leaned back on a desk, staring at the empty doorway and feeling like she’d been hit over the head with something heavy.

“Welcome back to school.” Bethany looked out over the desks of her homeroom. “I know you’re all just bursting with enthusiasm to be back-” A few titters. “-but I need you to listen up now. There have been some schedule changes concerning lunch-”

There was a loud sound that Bethany recognized as the sound of a door banging open. It wasn’t her classroom door, and it wasn’t her supply room door, so…

She turned and saw the door next to her desk was flung open, the door that connected to the Chemistry room. Mr. Pilgrim was standing there, eyes a bit wild.

“C-can I…?” Bethany almost choked on her words, but pulled herself together. “Can I help you…?”

“How do I take attendance?!?” he whispered.

The class burst out laughing.

Bethany helped Mr. Pilgrim with his computer, and everything was back to normal. His homeroom laughed and teased him a little, and he laughed it off good-naturedly.

“I trust everyone’s first week has gone well,” Principal Wright said, standing from his seat at the head of the table. “As everyone knows, the lunch schedule has been shifted around, but the students seem to be settling into the routine.”

The next ten minutes were of the same caliber. Bethany focused on not falling asleep, which was a struggle. Staff meetings were terribly dull, especially when nobody talked to you. The science department wasn’t exactly forefront in the eyes of the school system.

“Students of the month!” Principal Wright clapped his hands together, startling the vast majority of the table out of a stupor. “Does anyone have a freshman to nominate?”

Mr. Wynn stood up, brushing his hair back from his face in a showy, obnoxious gesture. “Thea Cannon, freshman. She’s been great in my class, an 98 on the first chapter quiz. She’s a natural at Spanish.”

“She moved to Maine from Mexico two years ago,” Mr. Quincy said.

Mr. Wynn deflated. “Oh.”

“Thea Cannon.” Principal Wright made a note on his clipboard. “Any more girls? A boy?”

Bethany tuned him out again.

“Juniors?” the principal asked. “Come on, everyone. We need to nominate some juniors.”

Thinking back to her AP Biology class, Bethany spoke up. “Troye Martell, junior. He is trying really hard in my class - he shows real drive to succeed.”

“Or to pass your hellish class,” someone muttered.

“Quiet!” Principal Wright barked. (Everyone knew that Ms. Rider’s AP Biology class was one of the hardest classes offered at Blue River.)

Bethany crossed her arms and looked out a window at the school parking lot. It wasn’t her fault that the material in her class was so difficult, or that many of her students didn’t bother studying for tests. (It was kind of her fault that she got behind on grading.)

“Anyone else?”

“Ondine Heath,” came a familiar voice.

Everyone turned to see Mr. Pilgrim standing in the doorway.

“She shows great potential in my class,” he said.

“Mr. Pilgrim, is it?” Sarcasm dripped from Principal Wright’s words. “We are looking for more than “potential” when choosing Students of the Month.”

Bethany bit her lip. That seemed a bit unfair.

Mr. Pilgrim shrugged one shoulder and half-grinned. “Ondine is a pleasure to have in class. She’s bright and helpful.”

“How are her grades?” the principal asked.

“Is this process determined solely by grades?” the teacher shot back.

“A significant portion of it!”

Bethany could see this was about to spiral out of control. She knew the principal was stubborn as a grease stain. Bethany stood up.

“Criteria for Student of the Month is very loose, isn’t it?” She put up her hands in the universal symbol of surrender. “I’ve met Ondine - she comes into my homeroom every once in awhile to help her friends with their work. She seems like a very bright girl.”

“Very many very’s,” some English teacher muttered behind Bethany’s back. She gritted her teeth but kept her gaze leveled at Principal Wright.

“Alright, fine!” Principal Wright threw up his hands. “Ondine Heath for juniors. The science branch in action!”

Most of the teachers around the table snickered, but Bethany was looking at Mr. Pilgrim. He was looking at her, too. He smiled, eyes twinkling.

She smiled back, and suddenly she was Beth again, young and beautiful. Her heart pounded.

Then somebody clapped their hands, and the spell was broken.

Mr. Pilgrim’s first lockdown wasn’t pretty, either.

“Everyone, please go into lockdown mode,” someone boomed over the loudspeaker.

“Alright, everybody over here.” Bethany shooed her students over to the corner of the classroom.

“Is it a drill, Ms. Rider?” one sophomore asked excitedly.

Bethany always hated to burst their bubbles. “I don’t know,” she lied, even though she knew full well it was.

As she flicked the lights off, somebody banged on her classroom door. All the students yelped good-naturedly.

Bethany opened the door, and Mr. Pilgrim was standing there, a familiar sheepish look on his face.

“Hello,” she said.

“Is this a drill?” he asked.

“Did you read the email?”

“No…”

“Yes, it’s a drill,” she said. “In the future, if you’re uncertain, you shouldn’t leave your classroom…”

“Ah, yes, I knew that.” He flashed her a grin. “So, do I, well, where do the kids go?”

“In the corner of your classroom, away from the windows and doors,” she said patiently. “Didn’t they go over this in orientation?”

“Probably,” he said, cheery as ever. “Thanks!”

It turned out that when the principal came to his door to give the all-clear, Mr. Pilgrim had had his students smush into his office… and accidentally locked himself in with them. Bethany couldn’t stop laughing for at least five minutes.

To celebrate the end of Mr. Pilgrim’s first year, Bethany invited him to send his students over to her classroom to watch a movie on energy conservation. The students had griped and groaned about that, but when Bethany told them they could bring their own snacks, they perked up a little.

She turned on the movie and went through the door connecting their rooms. “Everyone’s settled in,” she said.

He stood up from his desk and shut his laptop. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“What can I say? We could all use a break once in a while.”

“I love my AP Chem kids,” he said, “but they can really be a pain in the neck sometimes.”

“Same with my AP Bio kids.” Bethany thought about casually leaning against the wall but decided against it. Her blouse was already rumpled enough.

Mr. Pilgrim smiled. “A whole hour, now. What could we possibly do to fill it?”

Bethany did her utmost best to ignore the innuendo, and tried not to wonder how intentionally it had been said. “I should do some cleaning, but since the kids are in my room…”

“Well, we could try and clean mine, but.” He didn’t bother finishing his sentence, glancing out at the lab. His room was spotless.

“Your room doesn’t need any cleaning, Mr. Pilgrim!” Bethany knew her joke was weak at best.

“Oh, don’t call me that!” His eyes twinkled, and his grin was infectious. “We’re partners, basically! Call me Oliver.”

“Oliver,” she said.

They stared at each other for a minute. The weak fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

Then, a girl banged open the classroom door. Bethany nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Xavier fell asleep and hit his head off the desk,” the girl said.

Oliver sighed. “He does have a habit of concussing himself, doesn’t he?”

The moment was gone. Bethany rushed after Oliver, hoping there wasn’t any blood. Then she’d have to stop the movie and the kids would complain.

“So, Open House!” Oliver rubbed his hands together. “Should I dress up? I can wear a plaid button-down!”

“You wear plaid button-downs every day,” Bethany pointed out.

“I got a new one at Reny’s the other day,” he said. “It’s blue with black plaid.”

Bethany held back a smile as Oliver bustled into his office and came out with two mugs. “Coffee?”

“No thanks, I’m trying to break off my addiction,” she said.

“Tea, then?”

Tea still has caffeine in it, but Bethany pretended it didn’t. “Why not?”

He turned on his little electric kettle and ran water into it.

“Aren’t we not supposed to have beverages in the laboratory?” Bethany teased him.

“Says the lady who eats Subway sandwiches in her classroom every day,” he shot back.

Bethany narrowed her eyes at him.

“I took out your garbage last night,” he said. And before Bethany could think of a witty response, he whirled back into his office. “What about Open House?” he called. “What should I wear?”

“I don’t think it really matters that much.”

“Maybe I’ll wear a bowtie,” he mused, handing her a mug of tea from seemingly nowhere. “I’m bad about tying regular ties.”

“I could teach you,” Bethany offered.

He winked. “Maybe another time!” Oliver took a swig of coffee and his eyes bugged out of his head. “Hot!” He made sounds like a dying dragon.

Every day he surprised her. Bethany tried not to grin and failed, again. Every day was a miracle hanging out with Oliver.

#original work #short story #unfinished #i wrote this based on two real people now that i think about it

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readbookywooks · 8 years

Text

Her Majesty’s Servants

You can work it out by Fractions or by simple Rule of Three, But the way of Tweedle-dum is not the way of Tweedle-dee. You can twist it, you can turn it, you can plait it till you drop, But the way of Pilly Winky’s not the way of Winkie Pop!

It had been raining heavily for one whole month–raining on a camp of thirty thousand men and thousands of camels, elephants, horses, bullocks, and mules all gathered together at a place called Rawal Pindi, to be reviewed by the Viceroy of India. He was receiving a visit from the Amir of Afghanistan–a wild king of a very wild country. The Amir had brought with him for a bodyguard eight hundred men and horses who had never seen a camp or a locomotive before in their lives–savage men and savage horses from somewhere at the back of Central Asia. Every night a mob of these horses would be sure to break their heel ropes and stampede up and down the camp through the mud in the dark, or the camels would break loose and run about and fall over the ropes of the tents, and you can imagine how pleasant that was for men trying to go to sleep. My tent lay far away from the camel lines, and I thought it was safe. But one night a man popped his head in and shouted, “Get out, quick! They’re coming! My tent’s gone!”

I knew who “they” were, so I put on my boots and waterproof and scuttled out into the slush. Little Vixen, my fox terrier, went out through the other side; and then there was a roaring and a grunting and bubbling, and I saw the tent cave in, as the pole snapped, and begin to dance about like a mad ghost. A camel had blundered into it, and wet and angry as I was, I could not help laughing. Then I ran on, because I did not know how many camels might have got loose, and before long I was out of sight of the camp, plowing my way through the mud.

At last I fell over the tail-end of a gun, and by that knew I was somewhere near the artillery lines where the cannon were stacked at night. As I did not want to plowter about any more in the drizzle and the dark, I put my waterproof over the muzzle of one gun, and made a sort of wigwam with two or three rammers that I found, and lay along the tail of another gun, wondering where Vixen had got to, and where I might be.

Just as I was getting ready to go to sleep I heard a jingle of harness and a grunt, and a mule passed me shaking his wet ears. He belonged to a screw-gun battery, for I could hear the rattle of the straps and rings and chains and things on his saddle pad. The screw-guns are tiny little cannon made in two pieces, that are screwed together when the time comes to use them. They are taken up mountains, anywhere that a mule can find a road, and they are very useful for fighting in rocky country.

Behind the mule there was a camel, with his big soft feet squelching and slipping in the mud, and his neck bobbing to and fro like a strayed hen’s. Luckily, I knew enough of beast language–not wild-beast language, but camp-beast language, of course–from the natives to know what he was saying.

He must have been the one that flopped into my tent, for he called to the mule, “What shall I do? Where shall I go? I have fought with a white thing that waved, and it took a stick and hit me on the neck.” (That was my broken tent pole, and I was very glad to know it.) “Shall we run on?”

“Oh, it was you,” said the mule, “you and your friends, that have been disturbing the camp? All right. You’ll be beaten for this in the morning. But I may as well give you something on account now.”

I heard the harness jingle as the mule backed and caught the camel two kicks in the ribs that rang like a drum. “Another time,” he said, “you’ll know better than to run through a mule battery at night, shouting `Thieves and fire!’ Sit down, and keep your silly neck quiet.”

The camel doubled up camel-fashion, like a two-foot rule, and sat down whimpering. There was a regular beat of hoofs in the darkness, and a big troop-horse cantered up as steadily as though he were on parade, jumped a gun tail, and landed close to the mule.

“It’s disgraceful,” he said, blowing out his nostrils. “Those camels have racketed through our lines again–the third time this week. How’s a horse to keep his condition if he isn’t allowed to sleep. Who’s here?”

“I’m the breech-piece mule of number two gun of the First Screw Battery,” said the mule, “and the other’s one of your friends. He’s waked me up too. Who are you?”

“Number Fifteen, E troop, Ninth Lancers–Dick Cunliffe’s horse. Stand over a little, there.”

“Oh, beg your pardon,” said the mule. “It’s too dark to see much. Aren’t these camels too sickening for anything? I walked out of my lines to get a little peace and quiet here.”

“My lords,” said the camel humbly, “we dreamed bad dreams in the night, and we were very much afraid. I am only a baggage camel of the 39th Native Infantry, and I am not as brave as you are, my lords.”

“Then why didn’t you stay and carry baggage for the 39th Native Infantry, instead of running all round the camp?” said the mule.

“They were such very bad dreams,” said the camel. “I am sorry. Listen! What is that? Shall we run on again?”

“Sit down,” said the mule, “or you’ll snap your long stick-legs between the guns.” He cocked one ear and listened. “Bullocks!” he said. “Gun bullocks. On my word, you and your friends have waked the camp very thoroughly. It takes a good deal of prodding to put up a gun-bullock.”

I heard a chain dragging along the ground, and a yoke of the great sulky white bullocks that drag the heavy siege guns when the elephants won’t go any nearer to the firing, came shouldering along together. And almost stepping on the chain was another battery mule, calling wildly for “Billy.”

“That’s one of our recruits,” said the old mule to the troop horse. “He’s calling for me. Here, youngster, stop squealing. The dark never hurt anybody yet.”

The gun-bullocks lay down together and began chewing the cud, but the young mule huddled close to Billy.

“Things!” he said. “Fearful and horrible, Billy! They came into our lines while we were asleep. D’you think they’ll kill us?”

“I’ve a very great mind to give you a number-one kicking," said Billy. “The idea of a fourteen-hand mule with your training disgracing the battery before this gentleman!”

“Gently, gently!” said the troop-horse. “Remember they are always like this to begin with. The first time I ever saw a man (it was in Australia when I was a three-year-old) I ran for half a day, and if I’d seen a camel, I should have been running still.”

Nearly all our horses for the English cavalry are brought to India from Australia, and are broken in by the troopers themselves.

“True enough,” said Billy. “Stop shaking, youngster. The first time they put the full harness with all its chains on my back I stood on my forelegs and kicked every bit of it off. I hadn’t learned the real science of kicking then, but the battery said they had never seen anything like it.”

“But this wasn’t harness or anything that jingled,” said the young mule. “You know I don’t mind that now, Billy. It was Things like trees, and they fell up and down the lines and bubbled; and my head-rope broke, and I couldn’t find my driver, and I couldn’t find you, Billy, so I ran off with–with these gentlemen.”

“H’m!” said Billy. “As soon as I heard the camels were loose I came away on my own account. When a battery–a screw-gun mule calls gun-bullocks gentlemen, he must be very badly shaken up. Who are you fellows on the ground there?”

The gun bullocks rolled their cuds, and answered both together: “The seventh yoke of the first gun of the Big Gun Battery. We were asleep when the camels came, but when we were trampled on we got up and walked away. It is better to lie quiet in the mud than to be disturbed on good bedding. We told your friend here that there was nothing to be afraid of, but he knew so much that he thought otherwise. Wah!”

They went on chewing.

“That comes of being afraid,” said Billy. “You get laughed at by gun-bullocks. I hope you like it, young un.”

The young mule’s teeth snapped, and I heard him say something about not being afraid of any beefy old bullock in the world. But the bullocks only clicked their horns together and went on chewing.

“Now, don’t be angry after you’ve been afraid. That’s the worst kind of cowardice,” said the troop-horse. “Anybody can be forgiven for being scared in the night, I think, if they see things they don’t understand. We’ve broken out of our pickets, again and again, four hundred and fifty of us, just because a new recruit got to telling tales of whip snakes at home in Australia till we were scared to death of the loose ends of our head-ropes.”

“That’s all very well in camp,” said Billy. “I’m not above stampeding myself, for the fun of the thing, when I haven’t been out for a day or two. But what do you do on active service?”

“Oh, that’s quite another set of new shoes,” said the troop horse. “Dick Cunliffe’s on my back then, and drives his knees into me, and all I have to do is to watch where I am putting my feet, and to keep my hind legs well under me, and be bridle-wise.”

“What’s bridle-wise?” said the young mule.

“By the Blue Gums of the Back Blocks,” snorted the troop-horse, “do you mean to say that you aren’t taught to be bridle-wise in your business? How can you do anything, unless you can spin round at once when the rein is pressed on your neck? It means life or death to your man, and of course that’s life and death to you. Get round with your hind legs under you the instant you feel the rein on your neck. If you haven’t room to swing round, rear up a little and come round on your hind legs. That’s being bridle-wise.”

“We aren’t taught that way,” said Billy the mule stiffly. “We’re taught to obey the man at our head: step off when he says so, and step in when he says so. I suppose it comes to the same thing. Now, with all this fine fancy business and rearing, which must be very bad for your hocks, what do you do?”

“That depends,” said the troop-horse. “Generally I have to go in among a lot of yelling, hairy men with knives–long shiny knives, worse than the farrier’s knives–and I have to take care that Dick’s boot is just touching the next man’s boot without crushing it. I can see Dick’s lance to the right of my right eye, and I know I’m safe. I shouldn’t care to be the man or horse that stood up to Dick and me when we’re in a hurry.”

“Don’t the knives hurt?” said the young mule.

“Well, I got one cut across the chest once, but that wasn’t Dick’s fault–”

“A lot I should have cared whose fault it was, if it hurt!" said the young mule.

“You must,” said the troop horse. “If you don’t trust your man, you may as well run away at once. That’s what some of our horses do, and I don’t blame them. As I was saying, it wasn’t Dick’s fault. The man was lying on the ground, and I stretched myself not to tread on him, and he slashed up at me. Next time I have to go over a man lying down I shall step on him–hard.”

“H’m!” said Billy. “It sounds very foolish. Knives are dirty things at any time. The proper thing to do is to climb up a mountain with a well-balanced saddle, hang on by all four feet and your ears too, and creep and crawl and wriggle along, till you come out hundreds of feet above anyone else on a ledge where there’s just room enough for your hoofs. Then you stand still and keep quiet–never ask a man to hold your head, young un–keep quiet while the guns are being put together, and then you watch the little poppy shells drop down into the tree-tops ever so far below.”

“Don’t you ever trip?” said the troop-horse.

“They say that when a mule trips you can split a hen’s ear," said Billy. “Now and again perhaps a badly packed saddle will upset a mule, but it’s very seldom. I wish I could show you our business. It’s beautiful. Why, it took me three years to find out what the men were driving at. The science of the thing is never to show up against the sky line, because, if you do, you may get fired at. Remember that, young un. Always keep hidden as much as possible, even if you have to go a mile out of your way. I lead the battery when it comes to that sort of climbing.”

“Fired at without the chance of running into the people who are firing!” said the troop-horse, thinking hard. “I couldn’t stand that. I should want to charge–with Dick.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t. You know that as soon as the guns are in position they’ll do all the charging. That’s scientific and neat. But knives–pah!”

The baggage-camel had been bobbing his head to and fro for some time past, anxious to get a word in edgewise. Then I heard him say, as he cleared his throat, nervously:

“I–I–I have fought a little, but not in that climbing way or that running way.”

“No. Now you mention it,” said Billy, “you don’t look as though you were made for climbing or running–much. Well, how was it, old Hay-bales?”

“The proper way,” said the camel. “We all sat down–”

“Oh, my crupper and breastplate!” said the troop-horse under his breath. “Sat down!”

“We sat down–a hundred of us,” the camel went on, “in a big square, and the men piled our packs and saddles, outside the square, and they fired over our backs, the men did, on all sides of the square.”

“What sort of men? Any men that came along?” said the troop-horse. “They teach us in riding school to lie down and let our masters fire across us, but Dick Cunliffe is the only man I’d trust to do that. It tickles my girths, and, besides, I can’t see with my head on the ground.”

“What does it matter who fires across you?” said the camel. “There are plenty of men and plenty of other camels close by, and a great many clouds of smoke. I am not frightened then. I sit still and wait.”

“And yet,” said Billy, “you dream bad dreams and upset the camp at night. Well, well! Before I’d lie down, not to speak of sitting down, and let a man fire across me, my heels and his head would have something to say to each other. Did you ever hear anything so awful as that?”

There was a long silence, and then one of the gun bullocks lifted up his big head and said, “This is very foolish indeed. There is only one way of fighting.”

“Oh, go on,” said Billy. “Please don’t mind me. I suppose you fellows fight standing on your tails?”

“Only one way,” said the two together. (They must have been twins.) “This is that way. To put all twenty yoke of us to the big gun as soon as Two Tails trumpets.” ("Two Tails” is camp slang for the elephant.)

“What does Two Tails trumpet for?” said the young mule.

“To show that he is not going any nearer to the smoke on the other side. Two Tails is a great coward. Then we tug the big gun all together–Heya–Hullah! Heeyah! Hullah! We do not climb like cats nor run like calves. We go across the level plain, twenty yoke of us, till we are unyoked again, and we graze while the big guns talk across the plain to some town with mud walls, and pieces of the wall fall out, and the dust goes up as though many cattle were coming home.”

“Oh! And you choose that time for grazing?” said the young mule.

“That time or any other. Eating is always good. We eat till we are yoked up again and tug the gun back to where Two Tails is waiting for it. Sometimes there are big guns in the city that speak back, and some of us are killed, and then there is all the more grazing for those that are left. This is Fate. None the less, Two Tails is a great coward. That is the proper way to fight. We are brothers from Hapur. Our father was a sacred bull of Shiva. We have spoken.”

“Well, I’ve certainly learned something tonight,” said the troop-horse. “Do you gentlemen of the screw-gun battery feel inclined to eat when you are being fired at with big guns, and Two Tails is behind you?”

“About as much as we feel inclined to sit down and let men sprawl all over us, or run into people with knives. I never heard such stuff. A mountain ledge, a well-balanced load, a driver you can trust to let you pick your own way, and I’m your mule. But– the other things–no!” said Billy, with a stamp of his foot.

“Of course,” said the troop horse, “everyone is not made in the same way, and I can quite see that your family, on your father’s side, would fail to understand a great many things.”

“Never you mind my family on my father’s side,” said Billy angrily, for every mule hates to be reminded that his father was a donkey. “My father was a Southern gentleman, and he could pull down and bite and kick into rags every horse he came across. Remember that, you big brown Brumby!”

Brumby means wild horse without any breeding. Imagine the feelings of Sunol if a car-horse called her a “skate,” and you can imagine how the Australian horse felt. I saw the white of his eye glitter in the dark.

“See here, you son of an imported Malaga jackass,” he said between his teeth, “I’d have you know that I’m related on my mother’s side to Carbine, winner of the Melbourne Cup, and where I come from we aren’t accustomed to being ridden over roughshod by any parrot-mouthed, pig-headed mule in a pop-gun pea-shooter battery. Are you ready?”

“On your hind legs!” squealed Billy. They both reared up facing each other, and I was expecting a furious fight, when a gurgly, rumbly voice, called out of the darkness to the right– “Children, what are you fighting about there? Be quiet.”

Both beasts dropped down with a snort of disgust, for neither horse nor mule can bear to listen to an elephant’s voice.

“It’s Two Tails!” said the troop-horse. “I can’t stand him. A tail at each end isn’t fair!”

“My feelings exactly,” said Billy, crowding into the troop-horse for company. “We’re very alike in some things.”

“I suppose we’ve inherited them from our mothers,” said the troop horse. “It’s not worth quarreling about. Hi! Two Tails, are you tied up?”

“Yes,” said Two Tails, with a laugh all up his trunk. “I’m picketed for the night. I’ve heard what you fellows have been saying. But don’t be afraid. I’m not coming over.”

The bullocks and the camel said, half aloud, “Afraid of Two Tails–what nonsense!” And the bullocks went on, “We are sorry that you heard, but it is true. Two Tails, why are you afraid of the guns when they fire?”

“Well,” said Two Tails, rubbing one hind leg against the other, exactly like a little boy saying a poem, “I don’t quite know whether you’d understand.”

“We don’t, but we have to pull the guns,” said the bullocks.

“I know it, and I know you are a good deal braver than you think you are. But it’s different with me. My battery captain called me a Pachydermatous Anachronism the other day.”

“That’s another way of fighting, I suppose?” said Billy, who was recovering his spirits.

“You don’t know what that means, of course, but I do. It means betwixt and between, and that is just where I am. I can see inside my head what will happen when a shell bursts, and you bullocks can’t.”

“I can,” said the troop-horse. “At least a little bit. I try not to think about it.”

“I can see more than you, and I do think about it. I know there’s a great deal of me to take care of, and I know that nobody knows how to cure me when I’m sick. All they can do is to stop my driver’s pay till I get well, and I can’t trust my driver.”

“Ah!” said the troop horse. “That explains it. I can trust Dick.”

“You could put a whole regiment of Dicks on my back without making me feel any better. I know just enough to be uncomfortable, and not enough to go on in spite of it.”

“We do not understand,” said the bullocks.

“I know you don’t. I’m not talking to you. You don’t know what blood is.”

“We do,” said the bullocks. “It is red stuff that soaks into the ground and smells.”

The troop-horse gave a kick and a bound and a snort.

“Don’t talk of it,” he said. “I can smell it now, just thinking of it. It makes me want to run–when I haven’t Dick on my back.”

“But it is not here,” said the camel and the bullocks. “Why are you so stupid?”

“It’s vile stuff,” said Billy. “I don’t want to run, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“There you are!” said Two Tails, waving his tail to explain.

“Surely. Yes, we have been here all night,” said the bullocks.

Two Tails stamped his foot till the iron ring on it jingled. “Oh, I’m not talking to you. You can’t see inside your heads.”

“No. We see out of our four eyes,” said the bullocks. “We see straight in front of us.”

“If I could do that and nothing else, you wouldn’t be needed to pull the big guns at all. If I was like my captain–he can see things inside his head before the firing begins, and he shakes all over, but he knows too much to run away–if I was like him I could pull the guns. But if I were as wise as all that I should never be here. I should be a king in the forest, as I used to be, sleeping half the day and bathing when I liked. I haven’t had a good bath for a month.”

“That’s all very fine,” said Billy. “But giving a thing a long name doesn’t make it any better.”

“H’sh!” said the troop horse. “I think I understand what Two Tails means.”

“You’ll understand better in a minute,” said Two Tails angrily. “Now you just explain to me why you don’t like this!”

He began trumpeting furiously at the top of his trumpet.

“Stop that!” said Billy and the troop horse together, and I could hear them stamp and shiver. An elephant’s trumpeting is always nasty, especially on a dark night.

“I shan’t stop,” said Two Tails. “Won’t you explain that, please? Hhrrmph! Rrrt! Rrrmph! Rrrhha!” Then he stopped suddenly, and I heard a little whimper in the dark, and knew that Vixen had found me at last. She knew as well as I did that if there is one thing in the world the elephant is more afraid of than another it is a little barking dog. So she stopped to bully Two Tails in his pickets, and yapped round his big feet. Two Tails shuffled and squeaked. “Go away, little dog!” he said. “Don’t snuff at my ankles, or I’ll kick at you. Good little dog –nice little doggie, then! Go home, you yelping little beast! Oh, why doesn’t someone take her away? She’ll bite me in a minute.”

“Seems to me,” said Billy to the troop horse, “that our friend Two Tails is afraid of most things. Now, if I had a full meal for every dog I’ve kicked across the parade-ground I should be as fat as Two Tails nearly.”

I whistled, and Vixen ran up to me, muddy all over, and licked my nose, and told me a long tale about hunting for me all through the camp. I never let her know that I understood beast talk, or she would have taken all sorts of liberties. So I buttoned her into the breast of my overcoat, and Two Tails shuffled and stamped and growled to himself.

“Extraordinary! Most extraordinary!” he said. “It runs in our family. Now, where has that nasty little beast gone to?”

I heard him feeling about with his trunk.

“We all seem to be affected in various ways,” he went on, blowing his nose. “Now, you gentlemen were alarmed, I believe, when I trumpeted.”

“Not alarmed, exactly,” said the troop-horse, “but it made me feel as though I had hornets where my saddle ought to be. Don’t begin again.”

“I’m frightened of a little dog, and the camel here is frightened by bad dreams in the night.”

“It is very lucky for us that we haven’t all got to fight in the same way,” said the troop-horse.

“What I want to know,” said the young mule, who had been quiet for a long time–"what I want to know is, why we have to fight at all.”

“Because we’re told to,” said the troop-horse, with a snort of contempt.

“Orders,” said Billy the mule, and his teeth snapped.

“Hukm hai!” (It is an order!), said the camel with a gurgle, and Two Tails and the bullocks repeated, “Hukm hai!”

“Yes, but who gives the orders?” said the recruit-mule.

“The man who walks at your head–Or sits on your back–Or holds the nose rope–Or twists your tail,” said Billy and the troop-horse and the camel and the bullocks one after the other.

“But who gives them the orders?”

“Now you want to know too much, young un,” said Billy, “and that is one way of getting kicked. All you have to do is to obey the man at your head and ask no questions.”

“He’s quite right,” said Two Tails. “I can’t always obey, because I’m betwixt and between. But Billy’s right. Obey the man next to you who gives the order, or you’ll stop all the battery, besides getting a thrashing.”

The gun-bullocks got up to go. “Morning is coming,” they said. “We will go back to our lines. It is true that we only see out of our eyes, and we are not very clever. But still, we are the only people to-night who have not been afraid. Good-night, you brave people.”

Nobody answered, and the troop-horse said, to change the conversation, “Where’s that little dog? A dog means a man somewhere about.”

“Here I am,” yapped Vixen, “under the gun tail with my man. You big, blundering beast of a camel you, you upset our tent. My man’s very angry.”

“Phew!” said the bullocks. “He must be white!”

“Of course he is,” said Vixen. “Do you suppose I’m looked after by a black bullock-driver?”

“Huah! Ouach! Ugh!” said the bullocks. “Let us get away quickly.”

They plunged forward in the mud, and managed somehow to run their yoke on the pole of an ammunition wagon, where it jammed.

“Now you have done it,” said Billy calmly. “Don’t struggle. You’re hung up till daylight. What on earth’s the matter?”

The bullocks went off into the long hissing snorts that Indian cattle give, and pushed and crowded and slued and stamped and slipped and nearly fell down in the mud, grunting savagely.

“You’ll break your necks in a minute,” said the troop-horse. “What’s the matter with white men? I live with ’em.”

“They–eat–us! Pull!” said the near bullock. The yoke snapped with a twang, and they lumbered off together.

I never knew before what made Indian cattle so scared of Englishmen. We eat beef–a thing that no cattle-driver touches –and of course the cattle do not like it.

“May I be flogged with my own pad-chains! Who’d have thought of two big lumps like those losing their heads?” said Billy.

“Never mind. I’m going to look at this man. Most of the white men, I know, have things in their pockets,” said the troop-horse.

“I’ll leave you, then. I can’t say I’m over-fond of ’em myself. Besides, white men who haven’t a place to sleep in are more than likely to be thieves, and I’ve a good deal of Government property on my back. Come along, young un, and we’ll go back to our lines. Good-night, Australia! See you on parade to-morrow, I suppose. Good-night, old Hay-bale!–try to control your feelings, won’t you? Good-night, Two Tails! If you pass us on the ground tomorrow, don’t trumpet. It spoils our formation.”

Billy the Mule stumped off with the swaggering limp of an old campaigner, as the troop-horse’s head came nuzzling into my breast, and I gave him biscuits, while Vixen, who is a most conceited little dog, told him fibs about the scores of horses that she and I kept.

“I’m coming to the parade to-morrow in my dog-cart,” she said. “Where will you be?”

“On the left hand of the second squadron. I set the time for all my troop, little lady,” he said politely. “Now I must go back to Dick. My tail’s all muddy, and he’ll have two hours’ hard work dressing me for parade.”

The big parade of all the thirty thousand men was held that afternoon, and Vixen and I had a good place close to the Viceroy and the Amir of Afghanistan, with high, big black hat of astrakhan wool and the great diamond star in the center. The first part of the review was all sunshine, and the regiments went by in wave upon wave of legs all moving together, and guns all in a line, till our eyes grew dizzy. Then the cavalry came up, to the beautiful cavalry canter of “Bonnie Dundee,” and Vixen cocked her ear where she sat on the dog-cart. The second squadron of the Lancers shot by, and there was the troop-horse, with his tail like spun silk, his head pulled into his breast, one ear forward and one back, setting the time for all his squadron, his legs going as smoothly as waltz music. Then the big guns came by, and I saw Two Tails and two other elephants harnessed in line to a forty-pounder siege gun, while twenty yoke of oxen walked behind. The seventh pair had a new yoke, and they looked rather stiff and tired. Last came the screw guns, and Billy the mule carried himself as though he commanded all the troops, and his harness was oiled and polished till it winked. I gave a cheer all by myself for Billy the mule, but he never looked right or left.

The rain began to fall again, and for a while it was too misty to see what the troops were doing. They had made a big half circle across the plain, and were spreading out into a line. That line grew and grew and grew till it was three-quarters of a mile long from wing to wing–one solid wall of men, horses, and guns. Then it came on straight toward the Viceroy and the Amir, and as it got nearer the ground began to shake, like the deck of a steamer when the engines are going fast.

Unless you have been there you cannot imagine what a frightening effect this steady come-down of troops has on the spectators, even when they know it is only a review. I looked at the Amir. Up till then he had not shown the shadow of a sign of astonishment or anything else. But now his eyes began to get bigger and bigger, and he picked up the reins on his horse’s neck and looked behind him. For a minute it seemed as though he were going to draw his sword and slash his way out through the English men and women in the carriages at the back. Then the advance stopped dead, the ground stood still, the whole line saluted, and thirty bands began to play all together. That was the end of the review, and the regiments went off to their camps in the rain, and an infantry band struck up with–

The animals went in two by two, Hurrah! The animals went in two by two, The elephant and the battery mul’, and they all got into the Ark For to get out of the rain! Then I heard an old grizzled, long-haired Central Asian chief, who had come down with the Amir, asking questions of a native officer.

“Now,” said he, “in what manner was this wonderful thing done?”

And the officer answered, “An order was given, and they obeyed.”

“But are the beasts as wise as the men?” said the chief.

“They obey, as the men do. Mule, horse, elephant, or bullock, he obeys his driver, and the driver his sergeant, and the sergeant his lieutenant, and the lieutenant his captain, and the captain his major, and the major his colonel, and the colonel his brigadier commanding three regiments, and the brigadier the general, who obeys the Viceroy, who is the servant of the Empress. Thus it is done.”

“Would it were so in Afghanistan!” said the chief, “for there we obey only our own wills.”

“And for that reason,” said the native officer, twirling his mustache, “your Amir whom you do not obey must come here and take orders from our Viceroy.”

#JungleBook

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