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spine-buster · 4 years

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The President Wears Prada (William Nylander) | Chapter 14

A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews on the last chapter. I hope you guys like this one! :) A quick reminder that I’ve set up a Ko-Fi incase you want to support my writing --> ko-fi.com/spine_buster . Enjoy!

December 25th, 2019

Aberdeen Bloom was celebrating Christmas.

Siena was home from Ottawa, having finished another semester of law school. Camden was the first one up, naturally, screaming at everybody that it was time to open presents. The family had been to Midnight Mass the night before, a tradition Orla had the family do every Christmas since they were young. After opening presents, everybody would shower and help her make the day’s big lunch before passing out in food and wine comas all over the house. If all went well, Gramma Frances and Grampa Alistair would call and they’d all say hi in a short FaceTime.

“Get up! Get up! Get up!” Camden could be heard screaming from the hallway, his footsteps getting louder and louder. “It’s time to open presents!”

“If he comes in here I’m gonna scream at him,” Siena mumbled into her pillow. Aberdeen laughed from her side of the room.

“Siena! Aberdeen!”

“We’re coming!” Aberdeen yelled, not bothering to move.

“Hey mom! Can I finally try coffee?!” their little brother wouldn’t shut up.

The girls snorted, with Siena groaning as she stretched in her bed, unable to fall back asleep. Eventually they got up and got ready, their little brother’s screams getting too annoying to ignore. “He’s getting more annoying as he gets older,” Siena said playfully, running a brush through her hair.

“Yeah,” Aberdeen agreed, “but at least he doesn’t jump into mom and dad’s bed like we did.”

“Remember that time you almost punctured dad’s lung?”

Aberdeen snorted. “Remember that time you almost broke mom’s nose?”

“Maybe we should do it again for good measure.”

The girls finally emerged from their room, finding Orla in the kitchen pouring coffee. Camden was dragging Mirza out of his room, Mirza playfully pulling him back in so Camden would slide on the floor. The family hugged each other before Aberdeen opened a cupboard to get the Chips Ahoy cookies. Camden snatched one right from her hands. She chased him around the house.

Opening presents was always fun. This year, Aberdeen was able to ask around the office for something for Camden, and she ended up with a Kyle Lowry Raptors jersey. When he opened it, he automatically loved it and hugged it like he was five and it was his favourite new toy. Aberdeen’s parents gifted her practical things – a chic new laundry basket and a nice throw she could use when she cuddled with Minerva and a bag of Doritos, and Siena bought her two new books she’d wanted to read. To his credit, even Camden’s gift was cute: a mug that said, “Cat hair, don’t care” in fancy lettering.

Once the gift giving was over and the family room cleaned of all the wrapping paper, everybody started to get ready. Orla began seasoning the roast beef and Mirza began preparing the potatoes. The kids showered and got ready so they’d look nice for photos and for their eventual FaceTime with their grandparents. Siena stayed on the main floor to begin whipping up the trifle. Aberdeen brought Camden to the downstairs kitchen with her to help with seasoning and roasting the Brussel sprouts and carrots.

“So what are the Maple Leafs doing today?” Camden made conversation as Aberdeen sliced the carrots and he laid them in their tray.

“Which ones?” she asked. “It’s not like they’re spending it together as a team. They’re all spending it with their families.”

“What’s John Tavares doing?” he asked. Camden knew much more about sports than she did. He found it genuinely cool that his sister was working for the Toronto Maple Leafs, even though he liked the Raptors a little bit more. When she told him how she sat with Masai Ujiri at the Major Donor Gala, he freaked out and bragged to all his friends. He was officially one of the coolest kids in school.

“Well, John and his wife Aryne just had a new baby in September, so this is their first Christmas with him. I think they’re spending it at John’s house with both their families there,” Aberdeen explained.

“What about Auston Matthews?”

“Auston’s entire family came up from Arizona – they’re having a big family lunch like we are.”

“What about Mitch Marner?”

Aberdeen smiled. “Mitch is spending it with his family, his girlfriend Stephanie, and his dog Zeus.”

“His dog?!” Camden’s face lit up. “Mom and dad won’t let me get a dog yet. They say I’m still too young.”

“Just wait,” Aberdeen encouraged him. “Mom will eventually want to replace me and Siena with a dog, and dad will be too powerless to say no.”

“You think so?”

“Mhm. What kind of breed do you want?”

“I want a German shepherd.”

Aberdeen laughed at her brother. He always dreamed big, which was good for a kid his age, but a German shepherd would be bigger than him. There was no way he’d be able to handle it out on walks. “Aim smaller. What about a corgi?”

“That’s your dream dog cause of their butts,” Camden furrowed his brows. “If mom won’t let me get a German shepherd then I think I want a goldendoodle. Greg at school has one and it’s really cute.”

“Why don’t you just get a regular poodle and cut its hair really weird like that lady in 101 Dalmatians?”

Camden started to laugh as Aberdeen sliced the last of the carrots. She made sure they were all lined up nicely before starting on the Brussel sprouts. “We can shave the Toronto Maple Leafs logo into its hair.”

“Exactly!”

“Then it can become the team dog!” Camden giggled, liking the idea already.

Aberdeen and Camden stayed in the basement kitchen for almost an hour �� enough time so that all the carrots and Brussel sprouts were sufficiently roasted and seasoned properly as Orla taught them. When the carrots were ready to be brought upstairs, Aberdeen made Camden put on oven mitts and told him to grab the dish. “Go run these up to mom,” Aberdeen said. “And absolutely no funny business. If these fall on the floor nobody in this family will forgive you.”

Camden did as he was told, going up the stairs slowly. Aberdeen stayed down for another ten minutes, waiting for the Brussel sprouts to finish before putting on her own pair of oven mitts and bringing the plate upstairs. By then, the roast in the oven smelled impeccably delicious and Aberdeen could already see most of the food on the table as she rounded the corner. Before she could move any further, Siena came through and blocked her passage and sightline towards the front of the house, a look of panic on her face. “Ab—Aberdeen,” she was staring at Aberdeen wide-eyed, like she’d just seen a ghost.

“What? What’s going on?” Aberdeen whispered.

“Hey.”

Aberdeen knew that voice. She knew that voice anywhere. She’d be able to recognize it from miles away. It was the voice that tortured and soothed her all at once. What was it doing here? In her house? Her head turned quickly like she was in The Exorcist.

And there he was.

William Nylander. Standing in the middle of the family room. Her family room.

With her mother.

Aberdeen was going to pass out.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, almost dropping the plate of Brussel sprouts at her feet. What was he doing here? What was he doing here? How the fuck did he even find out where she lived – where her family lived? And why did he have a glass of water in his hands? How long had he been here for him to have been offered a glass of water? Why didn’t she hear the doorbell? Why didn’t she hear a knock? Why hadn’t her parents called down to her in the basement to let her know he showed up unannounced to their Christmas Day family celebrations and why didn’t they—

“Aberdeen!” her mother scolded her as she walked towards her. “I know he’s a little early but that’s no way to treat the guest you invited.”

Aberdeen glared at William and then glared at her mother. She was almost rendered speechless by William’s stupid grin on his face. “I did not invite William to Christm--”

“Aberdeen, please, the Brussel sprouts,” her mother wasn’t having it, walking towards her and grabbing the plate from her hands, only to put it on the table.

Aberdeen looked at William, dressed in a nice pair of navy blue slacks and a fitted grey Ralph Lauren sweater with a collared shirt underneath. He definitely looked the part of innocent-hockey-player-come-to-spend-Christmas-with-a-welcoming-Canadian-family, but he wasn’t fooling her. Aberdeen looked back to see her mother disappear into the kitchen again. Siena was already gone, too. Good, it made it safe for her to cuss him out.

“How do I look?” he asked, waiting for one of her famous retorts.

He wasn’t going to get one. Not this time. He looked too wholesome, but more than that, he didn’t deserve one for crashing her family Christmas. “Seriously, what are you doing here?” she hissed as she stepped forward so she could get closer to him.

“Better than spending Christmas alone,” he shrugged his shoulders, the playful grin still on his face.

“I thought you were Skyping with your family,” she said, immediately regretting it. She knew Skyping was nowhere near close to spending actual time, physically, with your family on one of the most important holidays of the year.

“I already did, while I was having breakfast and they were having lunch. Six hour time difference,” he said.

“Will, I’m serious, what are you—”

“I thought you’d need a friend here after everything that happened,” he said quickly, his tone serious. His blue eyes looked into hers and every ounce of anger and shock in her dissipated. “I figured you probably haven’t told your parents, and definitely not your brother, but I know you told Siena, and I just thought it would be nice for you to have a friendly face around beside your sister that…I don’t know…might make Christmas more fun.”

He knew her. He knew he so well that she almost hated it, but mostly found it so admirable and so damn…cute. He knew that she’d only tell Siena because Siena was the person she was the closest to in the world, and he knew she wouldn’t tell her parents because…well, because they didn’t need to know their daughter got sexually harassed at work. She didn’t know what she was feeling right now. “How do you even know where my parents live?”

That trademark grin came back. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Aberdeen! You didn’t tell me William Nylander was coming for Christmas!” Camden’s voice rang from behind her. She turned around to see her brother with his arms crossed playfully around his chest. “Would have been nice, you know.”

“I guess I forgot,” she said absent-mindedly. She couldn’t believe this was happening right now. She couldn’t believe William was at her house for Christmas; that he was going to be spending Christmas with her family because, well, it wasn’t like she could kick him out onto the street now.

“Did you see I brought a dessert?” William said, his voice upbeat as he looked at Camden. “I picked up some treats from a Swedish bakery in downtown Toronto.”

Camden’s eyes lit up at the words. “Double dessert!” he screamed. “Siena made a trifle! You’ll like it. It’s got strawberries in it.”

“Alright! Everyone to the table!” Orla’s voice boomed throughout the house. “Is the wine on the table? Are there drinks?”

“Does everybody have a spot?” William whispered to Camden.

Camden nodded his head quickly before pushing William to the opposite side of the table. “Mom sits at the head,” he pointed, “Siena sits there, dad sits there, I sit at the other head, and then Aberdeen sits here.”

“So I guess I’m sitting—”

“Right here,” Camden took out the chair for him.

William took his seat. Aberdeen slipped into her seat beside him, still staring at him like he wasn’t real. Siena took her seat, then Mirza. Camden last. Then Orla brought in the roast, smelling absolutely delectable. William’s eyes widened at how good it looked. Everybody brought their plates forward and she put a few slices of the carved meat and gravy onto everyone’s plates – only then did the other dishes get passed around to fill up their plates: the Yorkshire puddings, the roasted potatoes, the Brussel sprouts, and the carrots.

“Are you Catholic, William?” Orla asked as she sat down at her seat.

“No ma’am.”

“Well, Christmas and Easter are the only two days of the year that we pray before our meal,” she informed him. “So, congratulations. Camden, why don’t you say a Hail Mary.” William watched as everybody around the table except Mirza did the sign of the cross, though Mirza did bow his head in respect. William quickly followed with his own sign of the cross. He listened as Camden recited a Hail Mary. When he was done, Orla spoke up again. “Lord, we would like to thank you for bringing us together to celebrate your birth, and we would like to thank you for bringing us William today to celebrate with our family. Amen.”

“Amen,” everyone said.

“Hallelujah!” Camden exclaimed, grabbing his fork. Everyone else did too, while Mirza stood up to start pouring the wine in everyone’s glasses, save for Camden.

“So you mentioned your family is in Sweden, William?” Orla asked, slicing her roast beef in pieces. “Whereabouts?”

“Most of my family is there, right in Stockholm. But I have a brother living in Chicago who also plays hockey. My sister Jacqueline is also in Texas at SMU playing tennis, but she was able to get home for Christmas,” he explained.

“And where’s your brother in Chicago going?”

“He has a teammate and his family. He lives in their basement,” William smiled.

“Orla has a habit of wanting to feed the entire congregation, if you know what I mean,” Mirza smiled from across the table. “Clearly Aberdeen knew, since she invited you.”

Aberdeen wanted to say that she didn’t, that he was hear because he somehow found their address and wanted to make her life a complete circus, but she decided against it. It was Christmas, after all. “Yeah, well when Aberdeen offered, I thought it was so nice, but I didn’t want to intrude,” William said from beside her. She could have killed him right then and there.

“Intruding? What are you intruding on? The more the merrier. And God knows I make enough roast,” Orla commented. “Besides, it’s not the first time Aberdeen’s brought something home and said ‘Surprise!’.”

“We all love Minerva and she is a great cat,” Aberdeen said firmly before anyone else could say anything.

Conversation flowed nicely. William was a natural, Aberdeen thought, and she chalked it all up to his endearing charm – his best quality. Well, at least to Aberdeen. It was what attracted her to him in the first place. That and the fact that he was so persistent. But everybody seemed to take a liking to him, and despite being the only person at the table who knew what had happened between them, Siena was surprisingly calm, warm, and chatty. Camden was an everyday 11 year old, asking William about the Leafs and if he’d met any Raptors and what playing hockey was like. He made them smile. He made them laugh. He made them love him. It was all so sickeningly sweet.

Camden cleared the dishes and Aberdeen cleared the food platters and Orla and Siena fetched the desserts. Mirza stayed to keep William company at the table. Aberdeen watched as Orla scooped all the remaining leftovers into a Tupperware – Aberdeen knew she’d give it to William when he left, and now she was stuck thinking about how William was going to return one of her Tupperwares without anybody on the team or in the offices knowing. It sent her head for a bit of a spin until Camden almost knocked her out with a swinging fridge door. “Camden, get the dessert plates on the counter,” she ordered, and he did as he was told. She got the trifle out of the fridge.

“Show him mine! I was so much cuter!” she heard Camden exclaim from the dining room. What was he on about now?

Aberdeen turned the corner. And then she saw it.

William Nylander. Sitting at the dining room table with her father.

Looking through her baby book.

Her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. “Dad!!!” she exclaimed.

William looked up at her, the biggest, goofiest, most sincere smile on his face. “You were a cute baby, Aberdeen.”

She was mortified. She thought about walking outside and freezing to death because that would be a better option than what was happening in front of her. She set the trifle down on the table loudly, her jaw on the floor. “Dad, come on!” she complained. “I work with William! He doesn’t have to see my baby pictures!”

“Well excuse me for wanting to show off my two darling daughters,” Mirza waved off her complaint. “Besides, I can’t say no when a guest wants to see.”

Aberdeen glared at William, who still had that smile on his face. “Oh, you’re gonna get it when we’re back at the arena.”

“Am I?” he taunted her.

“Look! Look here! Siena at four, Aberdeen at two,” Mirza diffused the situation, pointing to a new picture on the page. “We sent copies of this one to Orla’s parents in Derry. They had it up for years.”

Aberdeen knew exactly which picture Mirza was talking about. She and her sister were photographed by a professional photographer, with Siena wearing a frilly yellow dress and Aberdeen wearing a pink one, equally as frilly. They were both smiling at the camera while sitting on some sort of box, and both wearing small, dainty necklaces. They were adorable, but William didn’t need to know that. “These are evil eyes, right?” he said, pointing to the necklaces they were wearing in the photo, a small smile on his face.

“We say nazar. It protects from the evil eye,” Mirza nodded his head. “They’re very popular in Iran.”

“What made you come to Canada?” William asked.

“The revolution, mostly,” Mirza said. “I was fourteen. My parents didn’t want me to stay so they changed my name and I escaped the country. It wasn’t safe for me anymore. I went to Syria first – to Aleppo – and had all my documents processed there to become a refugee. I came to Canada when I was eighteen in 1984.”

William was quiet and had a solemn look on his face as he listened to Mirza. It was so unlike any other story he’d heard before, in terms of people’s parents at least. He grew up with a lot of “My dad played in the NHL” or “My dad works in hockey” – never “My dad escaped a revolution”. It was very new to him, and he almost felt ashamed at the lack of diverse stories his friends, acquaintances, and all the kids he grew up with had in comparison to this. “And you chose Canada?”

“Canada chose me, I think,” Mirza smiled. “Look at these pictures here,” he said, flipping to the back of the photo album. When he reached the page, he showed William, and Aberdeen already knew what it was: the few pictures he had of himself growing up in Iran with his parents, some photos of him in Aleppo, and the first photos of him in Canada. “That one was the year before I left Iran,” he said, pointing to one, “and this one…the month I arrived in Canada.”

William smiled. He looked up at Aberdeen, who was already expecting his reaction. “Sugo hat outfit,” he said, like it was a code language. “Holy hell. You weren’t kidding, Aberdeen.”

“Told you.”

“Sugo hat outfit?” Mirza asked.

“It’s nothing, dad. William just has an interesting fashion sense. Very European.”

Mirza shrugged, letting it go. “Canada led me to Orla. Led me to have this,” he motioned around at his house, “led me to my job, led me to be a father,” he nodded towards Aberdeen. “Canada has been very nice to Orla and I, because even she had her troubles. Literally.”

“Troubles?”

“Orla grew up in Belfast and Derry during the Troubles in Northern Ireland. There was religious violence all around her growing up. Catholics versus Protestants,” he explained. “She came to Canada to escape it, too, in 1988. And it brought us together. We met in 1993 at our citizenship ceremony, married in 1995, and had Siena in 1996.”

William couldn’t help but smile. Meeting your future spouse at your citizenship ceremony as you swore an oath as a new citizen of Canada? “That’s the most Canadian thing I’ve ever heard,” he giggled.

“I know!” Mirza smiled along with him. “Orla married the mailman – I mean literally married the mailman. You should have heard all the jokes we got from her friends when she got pregnant with Siena. They never ended.”

Dessert and most of the afternoon continued as thus: retelling old family stories and recounting family memories as everyone devoured both desserts, with William explaining each of the Swedish pastries he’d picked from the bakery. They called their grandparents in Derry just as they were finishing, with William politely staying out of view, and then everybody relaxed around the house. William promised Camden he’d teach him some stickhandling tricks with the old sticks they had somewhere in the garage, “once my food baby has passed.” Mirza and Orla sat on the couch, watching the Christmas specials on TV. Camden opened and started to organize the pieces of a Lego set he’d received as a Christmas gift on the dining room table. Siena, Aberdeen, and William went down to the basement to “watch Netflix”. They got through one episode of Brooklyn 9-9 before Siena told them to sneak back upstairs into hers and Aberdeen’s bedroom for some alone time. Aberdeen tried to say no but William was already up. When he winked at Siena as a thank you, Siena immediately understood what attracted Aberdeen to him in the first place.

When he walked inside Aberdeen’s room, he thought that it was everything yet nothing he imagined all at once. A small twin bed, a stylish comforter, a view pictures of her with friends strung along draped string and a corkboard above her headboard. “So this is your room?”

Aberdeen nodded. “Well, used to be just Siena’s room. Then when the little monster was born we moved in together.”

“You didn’t care? Didn’t demand a room in the basement?”

Aberdeen shook her head. “I told you how close Siena and I are. I actually didn’t mind at all.”

He sat down on her bed, looking up at some of the pictures she’d hung. He recognized Kasha in one of them, and what he assumed to be other university friends. There was even a picture of the family together, for what looked like one of Camden’s birthdays. “You have such a nice house…” he started, looking around some more. “A nice, like, home. It’s very homey and just, like, perfect. And your family’s really…warm,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “They remind me a lot of mine. Close knit and stuff. You’ve all got each other’s back.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, sitting down on her bed next to him. “Does it…I mean, does it make you miss your family?”

“Tons,” he replied automatically. “Especially on days like today. But it’s okay. I know this summer when we’re all together it’s gonna be a blast.”

“I know…” Aberdeen began. “Listen, I know you don’t like to talk about your feelings much, but if you ever do want to talk when you’re really missing them…you know I’m here to listen, right?”

William looked at her and smiled. God, he got so lucky. “I know,” he said. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He paused, staring into her eyes before knowing he had to continue. “Listen…I got you something,” he said.

“You what?” Aberdeen was flabbergasted. As if enough didn’t already happen today. He saw her baby photos for God’s sake.

“I couldn’t help myself.”

“I really think you could.”

He sighed and smiled, reaching into a bag Aberdeen hadn’t noticed was there and pulling out a wrapped box, a ribbon tied around it perfectly. She had a hard time believing he wrapped it himself, but then again, he had a lot of siblings. That was his excuse for knowing how to do a bunch of things that he had no other logical explanation as to why he knew how to do it. “Merry Christmas, minskatt,” he said.

“I don’t have anything for you,” she blurted out, immediately regretting it.

“I don’t need anything. It’s fine,” he shook his head, pushing the box onto her lap. “Open it.”

It was small. Too small for her liking. She gave him one last look before sliding the ribbon off and ripping the paper. The box was neutral, which made her even more nervous. She opened the lid.

Inside, she was met with a ring. An evil eye ring made of yellow gold, with the centre of the eye bedazzled with a black diamond, circled by two bands of rich blue diamonds, and finished off with regular diamonds outlining and filling out the rest of the eye shape. Her breath hitched in her throat audibly as she stared at it and took in its beauty. She couldn’t believe William got this for her. She couldn’t believe he…he…

“I hope you like it,” she heard William’s voice say softly. “I know rings are…well, whatever, but…I saw it and I thought of you. It…it went beyond when you told me your dad was Persian. The blue…it sounds stupid, but the blue reminded me of your tattoo. The waves. Like now whenever I see anything blue I think of you and your tattoo and the waves and stuff, and…and—” he was rambling, and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop, “—and I just figured, I don’t know, you always wear nice jewelry, nice rings, and this can be part of it. And it’ll protect you, according to tradition or whatever. And maybe, I don’t know, every time you look down at your hand and see the ring, you’ll be reminded of me.”

Aberdeen took every word to heart. She’d been looking at him the entire time, and her heart was so full by the end of his rambling that she couldn’t think straight; she couldn’t think of what to say, how to say it, how to thank him, how to truly express how much she loved it, so she did the only thing she could think to do. The only thing she couldn’t do.

She kissed him.

It was slow at first, and it took William aback – never in a million years did he think Aberdeen would initiate any kiss, let alone a kiss on her bed while they were alone in her bedroom after he’d crashed her family’s Christmas celebrations – but eventually, and gradually, the kiss deepened and became more passionate, with William’s hand going lightly to her hip, and Aberdeen’s hand resting gently on his thigh. They stayed like that for a while, just kissing on her bed, William absolutely basking in the feeling, as if a thousand lightning bolts were moving through his body all at once, having waited for months – six months – to feel his lips against hers again. It intoxicated him as much now as it did that night in June so long ago; perhaps even more so now, now that he knew what her lips felt like but was denied for so long, only to be given the luxury again. He was drunk on the feeling.

It was only until William couldn’t help himself, when Aberdeen felt a slip of his tongue against her lips, that she was brought back down to earth, only for her to pull away quickly. “Oh God,” she worried. “I wasn’t supposed to do that.”

William half smiled as he bit down on his bottom lip. “It’s not like I’m gonna tell anybody.”

She felt William’s hand on her hip move to hold her hand that was resting on his thigh. He held it so warmly, still looking at her, and rubbed circles onto her hand. His touch was so delicate, so tender. So unlike other touches she’d experienced, other touches she never wanted to experience again. “Will?”

“Hmm?” he licked his lips.

She finally met his eye. “I…I never thanked you for going to Brendan about…you know…” she trailed off.

His face shifted. “Aberdeen—”

“No – please,” she interrupted him, looking down nervously at their fingers that had now entangled with each other’s on his lap. She didn’t know why she couldn’t look him in the eye. She’d just kissed him, for God’s sake. “I never thanked you. Or Pierre for that matter. If you guys hadn’t gone to Brendan, I’d still have to be dealing with him, and…and I just…”

“Aberdeen, you don’t need to thank me for doing the right thing. Anybody would have done the same thing,” William said. “Believe me. Any one of those guys in the locker room would have done the same thing. Pierre and I actually made the decision to wait until after the holidays to tell everyone what happened so they wouldn’t get upset before Christmas.”

Aberdeen furrowed her brows. “Why? They…they’d get upset?”

“Are you kidding me? Of course they’d get upset,” William said. “Jason would have gone insane if he knew. The guy has four girls. Auston, Morgan, Kappy – everyone thinks you’re a bit of nerd or whatever, but they’d all go to bat for you. And everyone’s gonna be really upset when they hear about it. Actually, they’ll probably get mad at me for not telling them so they couldn’t whoop Ethan’s ass themselves.”

Aberdeen never considered that. She knew the guys liked her well enough, but she never considered that they liked her enough that they’d be upset something like that happened to her. She never considered that they’d be protective of her in that way. For all that she was Brendan Shanahan’s executive assistant and on the administrative side of things, she never felt part of the team more than she did in this moment, in her room alone with William Nylander.

“Can you…can you tell me something?” William asked as he watched her think.

“What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me…you know, what Ethan was doing?”

There was the million dollar question. Aberdeen didn’t want to admit why. She didn’t want to admit to William that the reason she didn’t tell him was because she didn’t want him to know, didn’t want him to get involved, didn’t want to endanger his position in any way with the team by him speaking up on her behalf. She didn’t want to tell him it was because she didn’t think it was worth it. But she knew she had too. She took a deep breath and shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t think you cared that much,” she admitted softly. “I didn’t think that it was…you know…worth caring about, even.”

It was William’s turn to furrow his brows. He looked pained, physically pained, at the words that had just escaped her mouth. “You’re always worth caring about, minskatt,” he said firmly, with no space to debate his tone or words. “You’re always…fuck, Aberdeen, you’re always fucking worth it to me.”

She couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth; couldn’t believe how much conviction was in his voice and how much he meant each and every word. Nobody had said those words to her before. Well – no guy had said those words to her before. She remembered Zane and how he refused to acknowledge how she wanted to become a writer. She remembered how, a second after she told him, William said she’d make a great writer even though he’d never read any of her work. To William, she was worth it; in every sense of the word, she was worth it. She was worth late night walks back to her apartment. She was worth sneaking into hotel rooms at night. She was worth calls to Sugo and paying extra to get dinner long after they closed down. She was worth sneaking around to get her phone number, and her parents’ address to show up for Christmas. She was worth spending whatever amount of money on a ring that reminded him of her. She was worth it. She was worth it all.

She moved closer to him again.

Closer.

And closer.

And…

“Aberdeen!” she heard Camden scream her voice down the hallway. So he apparently knew they were in her room. She and William moved at lightning speed not to be so close to each other. She shoved the box into her bedside table. Camden’s loud footsteps echoed down the hallway until they stopped outside her door.

Camden at least had the knowledge to knock. She’d yelled at him one too many times for him to forget. “Come in,” she said, her voice still a bit shaky from what had almost just happened.

He opened the door and stuck his head through. “William promised he’d play some hockey with me in the driveway before he left,” he said.

“William and I are talking right now,” she said quickly, trying to get him to go away.

“About what?”

“About work stuff.”

“What’s happening at work?”

“Camden.”

“Is Mitch Marner okay?”

“Can you give us maybe, like, five or ten minutes to solve this problem?” William asked. “I’ll meet you in the driveway after that. Practice your stickhandling so I can show you what to improve on.”

Camden nodded his head quickly and closed the door behind him as he rushed back down the hallway, yelling at his dad to open the garage and get his hockey stick. William looked at Aberdeen and laughed as she let out a breath in one long sigh, giggling to herself before shaking her head. “God…what am I doing?” she mumbled to herself.

“Realizing you’re worth it,” William said quickly, inching closer to her and kissing her again. It was nice, and it was innocent, and it was beautiful, and it was lovely, but it was also wrong. Aberdeen pulled back quicker than last time, but William didn’t seem to mind. He knew this kiss was gratuitous – an extra gift. “I can’t wait to see you on the plane to New Jersey wearing that ring,” he mumbled, grabbing her hand and holding it in his.

She stiffened for a second. “I can’t wear that to work.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s from you. Everyone’s gonna ask about it.”

“Have any of the guys, including Brendan, ever asked about any piece of jewelry you’ve worn before?” he deadpanned. Okay, so he had a point. “Besides, just tell them it was a Christmas gift from your parents.”

She shook her head. “You underestimate how good of a liar I am.”

“You spent six months lying trying to convince yourself you didn’t like me.”

She blushed. Okay, so he had another point. “Touché, Will.”

He licked his lips, biting down on the bottom one gently. “Why’re you so scared?”

“I’m not scared,” Aberdeen answered. “I’m just aware of how inappropriate this is and how much I’m starting not to care anymore.”

William smiled. And he leaned in again. But before he could kiss her again – helping as best he could to get her to not care anymore – Camden’s voice boomed through the house again. “Aberdeeeeen!”

She practically growled at another moment ruined. “Camden!” she screamed out.

This time, he didn’t bother to knock when he opened the bedroom door. He poked his head through again. “Do you know someone who drives a black Porsche Cayenne?”

Aberdeen furrowed her brows. As if she knew more than one person who drove a car that expensive. “My boss does…” she said.

“Well, it’s in the driveway.”

Aberdeen’s eyes bulged out of her head. She shot up from her seat and grabbed William and dragged him towards her closet. “Is that—” he tried to ask.

“Quiet.”

“Is that Brendan?” he asked as she practically tore her closet door off her hinges to open it. “What’s he doing here?”

“I don’t fucking know!” she exclaimed in one of those loud, frantic whispers. “Do you honestly think if I knew he was coming sometime today I would have let you stay in my house this long? Now shut up.”

“Aber—oooooowwwwww!” he protested as she grabbed the top of his head and pushed him down and into her closet like he was getting into the back of a cop car. He belonged in a cop car, Aberdeen thought, for showing up at her house on Christmas. “Aberdeen!”

“Shut up!” she said hurriedly, putting her hand over his mouth. “If you value your life as well as mine you will stay in here and stay quiet until I come get you,” she warned, closing the closet door in his face.

“Who’s that now?” Orla asked as Aberdeen hurried to the front of the house, where she saw her mother looking out the window. “We don’t know people who drive Porsches.”

“It’s for me. It’s my boss. Brendan Shanahan. The president of the Toronto Maple Leafs,” Aberdeen informed everyone. She saw Siena send a panicked look her way.

“Oh, did you invite him to Christmas too now and he just came late?” Orla joked.

“Is he here to see William?” Camden asked.

Aberdeen took a deep breath. She felt like her heart was going to explode in her chest. “Everybody listen,” she said loudly. “Brendan cannot know William was here…is here.”

“Why can’t Brendan know about W—”

“I’ll lose my job, okay?” she said quickly. Her parents’ eyes widened. “Brendan doesn’t like the players, uh…he doesn’t…just please, please don’t ask me to explain. Just take my word for it. Just don’t mention anything and…please be normal.” She knew Siena already knew. And she knew her parents were good for it – though she’d have to explain to them in more detail later. It was Camden she was worried about. She looked down at him. “You say a word about William being here and I take that Kyle Lowry jersey back and tell everyone at your school that you still sleep with Bubby.”

Bubby was the stuffed giraffe Camden got as a kid. He slept with it religiously when he was small, but he didn’t still sleep with it, though it stayed perched on his shelf. Camden grimaced but understood the ultimatum his sister was giving him – no kid would ever recover from that rumour being spread. “Fine.”

Their doorbell rang. Mirza moved to open the door. He couldn’t even see Brendan’s face – it was obstructed by a giant basket. “Oh my goodness!” he exclaimed, noticing it was teetering a bit. “Let me help, let me help!” he said, taking some of the weight of the basket. “Come in! Come in!” he moved backwards, and the two men balanced the basket on the half-wall that separated the entrance from the front family room.

Aberdeen felt like she was going to faint. Brendan Shanahan was now in her front entrance while William Nylander was stuffed in her bedroom closet. “You must be Mr. Bloom,” Brendan said, extending his hand to shake. “And Mrs. Bloom,” he said once he noticed Orla, shaking her hand too. “I’m Brendan Shanahan – I’m Aberdeen’s boss.”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Brendan,” Orla smiled. “Aberdeen speaks so highly of you.”

He waved and smiled at Aberdeen. Then he noticed Siena and Camden. “You must be Siena,” he smiled at her, “and Camden.” Camden nodded enthusiastically and silently. “I don’t mean to intrude on your Christmas,” Brendan held up his hands slightly. “I just – well, my family and I are on our way to my mother’s house in Mimico. I’m an Etobicoke boy too, you see. And when Aberdeen told me her mother was another Belfast lass, well, I had to see for myself.”

Orla giggled. Mirza had a smile on his face. “Irish too, then? Well, with a name like Shanahan, how could you not be?” Orla quipped.

“I don’t mean to stay long – we’re already late as is – but I just wanted to pass this gift along as a token of my thanks and gratitude,” he said, motioning to the giant wrapped basket. It had an assortment of things in it that Aberdeen couldn’t make out because she was scared William was going to scream out from the closet or walk around the corner any second and then she’d be out of a job. She knew Camden would take it all apart the second Brendan left, anyway.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that, Mr. Shanahan—” Orla said.

“No no, I insist. It’s the least I could do,” he said. “I’m sorry for taking your daughter away from you so much and having her travel to every corner of this continent. I know it must be hard on you as parents.”

“It is,” Mirza said, “but she enjoys her job very much. She’s always letting us know about the cool things she’s doing or the cities she’s going to. She feels very fortunate to be in the position she’s in.”

“We’re very lucky to have her as a member of the Toronto Maple Leafs team,” Brendan smiled warmly. “Anyways, I’m so sorry for taking up your time,” he turned to leave.

“Don’t be sorry at all, Mr. Shanahan. This is a very lovely gift, thank you.”

As he stepped through the threshold of the doorway, he turned back. “If I want to drop by St. Leo and bring some of the boys, am I calling you?” he asked Orla.

“You bet your arse you are, because you’re not going to anyone else’s class but mine.”

Brendan smiled. “I’ll call you to arrange something, then. Have a very Merry Christmas.”

When the door closed, Aberdeen let out a sigh of relief. “Was that harmless enough, Aberdeen? Was it to your liking?” Orla asked sarcastically.

“Don’t.”

“Camden, go fetch mummy a card from the drawer in the kitchen so we can write a thank you note to Mr. Shanahan for this enormous basket full of…full of…” she stopped, eyeing the contents. Suddenly, she jumped up. “Oh Lord! Oh heavens it’s a basket of Irish and British goodies! And sweets! Oh, bless that man! Bless that man!”

Aberdeen didn’t care about sweets. She thought about William in her closet and rushed towards her room. She closed the door to her room behind her and opened the closet door to see him holding up her high school kilt, like he was examining it. “What the fuck are you doing with that?”

He smirked at her. “Can you wear this for me sometime?”

“Get out of there!” she ordered, snatching her kilt away from his hands as he giggled like the schoolgirl she once was. She hung it back up in the back of her closet. “You’re a perv.”

“Only for you,” he continued to giggle.

***

William held on to the Tupperware Orla had given him full of leftovers as he and Aberdeen stood on her front porch. Aberdeen made sure not to get too close; partly because she had a feeling that at least one member of her family was spying through a window, but also, because if she got close to him, she didn’t know what she’d do.

William had charmed her entire family. Her mother invited him back for Easter. Camden thought he was the coolest guy around. Siena understood now why Aberdeen was so drawn to him. And Mirza – well, Mirza just liked him. Thought he was a good kid. And he was a good kid. Despite his upbringing and despite his job being one of the stars of the Leafs, he was just a humble, polite, guy when he came over – just a guy from Sweden who worked with Aberdeen. Aberdeen thought that maybe that’s all he wanted to be when he was around her – just a guy from Sweden. Not William Nylander, hockey star. He certainly showed that he liked and preferred it that way.

“You’re coming to Jersey, right?” he asked. She nodded her head. “What about New Years?”

“I’ll be there,” she nodded again. “Kinda sucks that we won’t get to spend it here, though. I think this is the first New Year’s I’ll spend outside of Toronto.”

“Well it has to be extra special, then,” he smiled.

Aberdeen bit her lip. She didn’t know what that meant. A part of her didn’t want to know while another part of her did. “Will…” she began.

“Minskatt?”

“Why didn’t you ever move on from me?”

William was taken aback by the question. The notion was absurd to him. “Why would I ever want to do that?”

Aberdeen couldn’t believe his answer. Was there really nobody else for him? Nobody in Sweden that summer he could have had fun with? Nobody in Toronto he could call? She didn’t know why he insisted on his life revolving around just her when she’d barely given him anything the past six months, three of which were spent in two separate continents. Was he insane? Was she?

A car pulled up in front of the house, and Aberdeen knew it was his Uber. He glanced at it before taking one last look at her. “Have a good night, Aberdeen. I’ll see you Thursday morning.”

She watched him get into the car, watched it pull out of the driveway and drive down the street. When she opened the door and stepped back into her house, she saw Siena waiting for her. “You’re fucked,” was all she said.

Aberdeen nodded. If other people could see it, then she needed to start accepting it. “I know.”

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rvmmm21 · 3 years

Text

[ V V S her diamonds ]

summary : seungwan is an idiot, joohyun is an idiot. cupid rips his hair out in frustration.

small note : please yell at galaxygerbil for me. for putting justin freaking bieber’s ‘anyone’ in my head on loop for centuries and for the hectic mess that i am when i read their fics. this is an attempt the only genre i have been skirting around because i just cannot read/write angst. if this ages decently, yay.

p.s. characters are from my first wenrene university au (you know who i am?) so it’s identical in regards to characters and the au itself, but a different plot.

tw : slight angst (but it’s all cupid’s), perpetual urge to scream.

[senior!irene x junior!wendy]

. . .

[5:15p.m.] Seungwan rushes past the temptation of bookshops, restaurants and arcades. She silently curses when she very nearly falls flat on her face from an uneven bit of pavement.

. . .

“Seungwan-ah!” Yerim calls out, retracting her debit card from the exasperated cashier and waving Seungwan towards her. “Come, hurry up and order something.”

The blonde shyly weaves through the crowded little arcade cafe, eliciting pointed looks and grunts from hungry patrons. She leaves the ‘I-dare-you-to-challenge-my-best-friend-right-now’ stare to Yerim.

Seungwan reaches the counter with a huff. “What are you guys getting?”

“I got bibimmyeon.” The younger glances over her shoulder at Seulgi who’s scrolling through her phone at the table in the corner. “Uh, i think Seul got pork mandu.”

Seungwan holds up two fingers and a polite smile. “Two bibimmyeon, please.”

The cashier inputs their orders with a click of a button, swiping Yerim’s card through the reader.

The duo shuffle away with a number card on a metal stand, heading for the table under the stairs. A harassed Seulgi barely notices her friends sitting down.

“You’re here?” She clicks her phone off and begins rummaging through her Muji pencil case for a pencil. “What did you get? I think we’re pulling an all-nighter.”

“Bibimmyeon, same as Yerimie.” Seungwan grimaces, more at the possibility of another sleepless night. But such is university life. Plus, she’d much rather her friends keep her accountable than procrastinate alone. Especially on projects that weighed so heavily on her final grade.

Yerim elbows Seungwan, who suddenly notices she’s the last to get her materials out.

Like clockwork, the three get to work, the clicking of their keyboards overtaken by frantic plastic clicking of various 90’s arcade machines.

Thankfully, food is served right as they’re wrapping up chapter three, the worst one of them all. Seungwan, Seulgi and Yerim scarf down their food like girls ten years starved, focused on feeding the demands of their stomachs rather than their assignments.

. . .

The sun retires past the blue-purple horizon, leaving three burnt out students standing outside a closed cafe, clutching laptops and notebooks in the dark. They hastily make plans again for next week’s study date, sweeping the forgotten all-nighter under the rug, all too eager to head home and shut the door in the faces of their due dates and exams.

“Same time next week?” Seungwan asks after a yawn.

Seulgi shakes her head, squinting at her calendar app. “I have dance tryouts then. Can we do Thursday instead? We can meet at the same time then, or even earlier.”

Yerim agrees to everything, seconds away from falling asleep on her feet.

“Alright,” the blonde sighs, plugging the aux cable into her phone and flipping through her Spotify. “See you guys then. Yerimie bring your own highlighter next time.”

Everyone mumbles, turning their own ways.

. . .

“YAH!”

The rude exclamation of a tall, red-faced boy while his smaller friend stands meekly behind him blares attention bells to the furthest corner of their university cafeteria.

Seungwan pauses mid-chew to shush a pouting Yerim, who’s upset that her funny dog story was interrupted right as it was getting good. They face the commotion and Seungwan beholds a pair of steely eyes gazing boredly from underneath the brim of a black Yankee baseball cap.

That signature glare belongs to none other than Bae Joohyun, someone the junior recognises instantly from (truthfully much more than) one of their shared literature electives. And of course, beside her stands her equally as intimidating friends, Park Sooyoung and Kim Jennie.

And the hothead is the only person who’d be stupid enough to challenge a trio like that: fresh campus casanova, Wong Lucas. Seungwan’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, but she isn’t surprised.

Everyone’s attention has been commanded now, but if the boy cared, he didn’t show it.

“Yah, freshman.” Jennie snaps, gripping her mocha latte and stepping to the front while Sooyoung suspiciously eyes him and his friend. “Speak with some respect. What’s wrong with you! We’re your seniors.”

The meek girl behind him looks terrified, curly mousy-brown ponytails shadowing the cold sweat visibly beading on her forehead. She almost moves to say something but Lucas stops her with a firm hand, turning back to continue berating the girl in the cap.

“You couldn’t even let her talk?!” The irony is lost on him, as a frown settles on his arched eyebrows, frustration frosting over his features. “She told me you rejected her before she could finish. Did you have to speak so rudely? Do you know how hard it is to confess?”

A hint of apprehension creeps into Sooyoung’s expression and Jennie fights the urge to splash her drink right in his face. Followed by the cup.

Bae Joohyun simply resists a yawn.

“Can you move? We’re busy.”

It’s the first time she’s spoken since the outburst, and Seungwan feels her palms sweat.

The girl behind Lucas finally speaks. Her eyes are glossy and wide, overflowing with hurt and betrayal. “It’s okay, s-sunbae. B-but I… I was hoping we could still–”

“I’m not interested,” comes the cut and dry reply.

A bystander innocently tries to diffuse the rising tension. He lightly places his hand on the boy’s shoulder, darting his gaze between the two teams. “Alright I think that’s enough.” He turns to Lucas. “No need to be so hostile, be a gentleman and apologise.”

“Whatever.” Lucas irritatedly shrugs him off, piercing stare fixed on the senior who couldn’t look more disinterested. “You deserve it. You think you can just talk however you want just because you’re pretty? Self-centred trash, fix your attitude first.”

Sooyoung’s jaw drops, Jennie goes wide-eyed, and Yerim is fumbling around with the record button as quietly as she can.

Seungwan’s heart quickens in pace.

Joohyun doesn’t even realise she’s lunging forward.

. . .

The cafeteria disperses with hushed whispers and repeated glances over shoulders until it’s just Seungwan, Seulgi and Yerim left. They’re glued to their seats, astounded at the sight of Wong Lucas on the ground, clutching his nose in pain while Song Yuqi stands frozen to the spot, paled in horror at witnessing her crush just sock her older brother square in the face.

It’s so silent save for the moaning and groaning from the floor.

“Did you see that?” Seungwan murmurs back at her friends, unaware that her eyes glint with obvious admiration. “That was kinda cool.”

Seulgi’s lip quirks in disbelief. “It’s definitely broken. Look at her, she’s insane.”

“Right?” Yerim snickers, already posting the video clip to their group chat. “Insanely co-ordinated. Best thing that’s happened all day.”

“I’m gonna offer her a Band-Aid,” Seungwan spontaneously decides, ignorant to the horror plastered on both her friends’ faces.

Yerim makes tiny, urgent neck slice motions while Seulgi quickly yanks an eager Seungwan down hard by the sleeve.

“Ow, Seul!” The blonde mouths, brows furrowing in annoyance.

The dancer takes the opportunity to knock some sense into her. “Seriously, are you crazy?” she whispers harshly, her own nerves flaring at the thought of being overheard. “It’s an insult! She’s going to kill you.”

Both girls try to stop their friend from making the dumbest decision of her life, but Seungwan frees herself from their frantically grasping limbs, slinging her bag over her shoulder and heading to the crime scene.

She reaches just in time to feel Lucas brush angrily past them and out the doors. Yuqi slinks after him, casting Joohyun an apologetic look.

Way to get rejected twice, Seungwan sympathises. Poor kid, with a sibling who’s an idiot Hercules.

It takes all her willpower to wrestle her racing heartbeat and her self-preservation instinct into submission. The junior approaches with care, trying with everything she has to convey that she comes in peace.

Joohyun shifts her focus to her and Seungwan’s legs almost go jelly, but something about Joohyun draws her in like a spell. She hated playing good samaritan in situations like these, but it isn’t as though Seungwan hasn’t been dying to talk to her impossibly attractive senior since the first day of class.

You miss any chance you don’t take, right? Yes, obviously.

“H-hi sunbaes,” Seungwan greets with a cautious bow. This is the closest she’s been to the black velvet trio and it’s certainly leaving an impression. She doesn’t even have to look back to know that her block-head friends are gawping at the scene, wondering how their loser of a friend is so okay with dying at the age of twenty two.

Blinking, Seungwan washes her thoughts of how dazzling Joohyun looks, even when she looks like she’s out for blood. Especially when she looks like she’s out for blood.

Suddenly remembering the other reason she came over here, the small blonde holds out some alcohol wipes and Band-Aids like gifts. “Are you h– are you okay?”

“Of course I am,” Joohyun responds curtly. She surely knows her icy stare crumples Seungwan’s insides like butter paper. Perhaps that’s why she does it. “It’s over.”

“A-are you sure your fist knows?” The junior tries, all too aware the girl in front of her could have her wiped off the face of the earth with the snap of her fingers.

A scowl ghosts across Joohyun’s face before she drops her eyes to where her fist is still clenched and trembling slightly.

Seungwan fills the silence with an awkward chuckle. “Just thought you might want to clean up after the battle.”

Jennie and Sooyoung’s unimpressed looks are replaced with shock when Joohyun actually accepts a wet wipe from the younger’s shaking hands. Her eyes are pinned to the wipe as it glazes over bruised, rosy knuckles.

The shorter girl internally swoons. Her mere offering has been received! – and not just received regularly, but received with a frosty ‘thank you’, to top it all off.

As the three seniors are leaving, Seungwan secretly prays that Yerim used her brains and recorded this moment too.

She flinches out of her thought bubble when Seulgi lands a palm clumsily on her shoulder.

“Wah, daebak,” the Cadbury-haired dancer congratulates her crazy, bodacious friend. “So what was that, like your first date or something?”

Yerim scoffs, hooking her arm around Seulgi’s bicep and dragging her out. “Come on Seul, we might as well start eating bugs and singing ‘Can You Feel The Love Tonight’. Wannie unnie can’t see us anymore.”

Seungwan rushes after her best friends, picking up her pace when they break into a power walk to the bus station.

“Yerm-ah! Did you get that? Please tell me you got that!”

#red velvet #wenrene #wendy #irene #seulgi #yerim #university au #light angst #slow burn #sorry lucas i love you #you are a true casanova #red velvet writing #yuqi you stay faithful to your soyeon okay #jennie has a latte always i swear

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a-solitary-marshmallow · 4 years

Text

Please Don’t See Me - Chapter 5

This chapter is a bit longer than the others, but I didn't want to split it up! It was written in a hurry because I was excited to get it out to y'all, so let me know if I've made any typos or mistakes. As always I adore your comments so feel free to tell me what you think.

______________________________________________________________________

“You should come down to Gravity Falls!”

Ford didn’t quite think about the words before he blurted them. His close (and only) friend from college had mentioned in their weekly phone call that he and his family were thinking about taking a holiday from his would-be small computer business, and Ford had reacted without thought.

He laughed nervously, leaning back against the kitchen counter. Rebus padded through the kitchen with the click-click-click of claws that Ford had become accustomed to over the last month.

Ford cleared his throat. “If you want to, of course. I would love to show you some of the research on anomalies I’ve been doing, and I think Tate and Emma-May would like it here. I have plenty of space in my house.”

“Well sure Stanford, if you don’t mind.” Fiddleford said cheerfully. “I’ve been meanin’ to visit for a while now. Course, I don’t wanna get in the way o’ yer research if you’re busy.”

“Not at all.” From the other room Rebus let out a bark, and Fiddleford squeaked.

“What was that?”

“Oh, just my dog. There are probably some Manotaurs passing by.”

“Ya have a dog? When did that happen?”

“A month or so ago. His name is Rebus.”

Fiddleford huffed out a laugh. “Well, at least ya got yerself some company. That dog sounded mighty fearsome; ya sure he’s safe? I don’t wanna bring Tate around if e’s gonna bite.”

“Oh, Rebus is a sweetheart.” A savage growl issued from the other room. “He’s great with kids. When he accompanies me into town he will often play with the children in the playground.”

Rebus growled again, a growl Ford was reasonably certain was aimed at him for daring to imply that the wolf had a heart. Not that Ford had been lying – the kids in town loved Rebus and he delighted in running around with them while Ford ran errands. He was a veritable gentle giant.

“Tate would love him.” Ford continued, unconcerned with the wannabe threat display. The stubborn wolf reminded him of his brother sometimes, all bark and no bite.

…except when he did bite.

“If yer sure.” There was rustling on the other end of the line. “That sounds like a mighty fine idea, Stanford. I’ll have to check with Emma-May, of course, but I’d love ta see some of these anomalies you’ve told me about. Check that yer not crazy, at least!”

“I assure you, these things are one hundred percent real. You’ll be able to see for yourself.” Ford assured him.

“Does Friday afternoon work fer ya? We figured we’d go on the weekend so Tate doesn’t miss much school.”

“Yes, that’s fine. I’ll prepare the spare room.” Ford said excitedly. “It’s been quite some time since I had company.”

“Ah – Stanford?”

“Yes?”

“Exactly how long has it been since you talked to someone?”

“A few hours.”

“Other than yer dog I mean.”

“Oh, only a week or so.”

There was a pause. “Was that ‘someone’ me?”

“Er…”

“When was the last time you talked to a human being aside from myself?”

Ford laughed nervously. “Ah, it seems the connection is breaking up I’ll call back another time-”

“Stanford-”

“Say hello to Emma-May for me bye!”

He hung up.

Stan heard the car approach first, the approaching rumble of its engine dragging him from a light doze in that ever-illusive pool of light in the hallway. His ears picked up and he let out the beginnings of a warning growl at the intruders.

That was, until he remembered that they were supposed to have visitors. He yawned and stretched, slightly annoyed at having his nap interrupted but more curious to see who it was that Ford had been expecting. Being the local canine, people didn’t usually run names and stuff by him.

All Stan had been able to tell was that whoever was coming Ford was pretty excited to see them, judging by the way he had hustled and bustled to prepare the spare room. It had been pretty nice, these past few days, to just chill and watch Ford buzz around the place. In those years apart he’d missed Ford’s relentless energy; the way he bounced on his heels when excited, and the little flapping, and the excited gleam in his eyes, the way he could never quite hold still. It was pretty hilarious to watch the nerd get all wound up.

God, Stan hoped it wasn’t a family member. If Pa walked through that door…

Maybe it was that guy Ford was always calling, Fiddlesticks or something? Seemed likely. From what Stan could tell, his brother had a maximum of two friends. And one of them was a wolf.

He padded out to watch Ford open the door for… a small family? The man shook Ford’s hand while the woman chatted and held a small child on her hip.

“It’s great to see you again, Stanford. Thank you for letting us stay in your home.”

“Oh, it’s no problem, I have plenty of space.” Ford assured her.

“And Fiddleford said you had a – oh sweet Mother Mary-”

Stan was used to the usual ‘Oh my god is that a wolf?’ song and dance. He stepped forward and wagged his tail helpfully. Scaring kids and dames was only funny when you were trying to scare them. When you weren’t, it got old pretty quick.

The strange man leaned down and hesitantly offered one hand, and Stan allowed himself to be petted. Show of goodwill, and all that. The guy was short and twiggy and he smelled of engine grease and metal and root beer and straw. Stan decided that he liked the guy. The lady, too. Her suspicious gaze had mellowed out and now Stan could see the smile lines around her eyes. The kid, however, seemed… sticky.

Aaaand the kid had fussed to be placed down and was now trying to touch Stan’s tail. He whisked it out of reach but the sticky brat was laughing and already chasing after it.

Oh, hell no. Kid wanted to get its grubby mitts all over his coat? Think again. Stan darted out of its way and weaved past the adults to try and throw it off. Ford didn’t even try to help, the smug bastard.

Alright kid. You think you got stamina? Let’s see about that.

The kid.

Would not.

Stop.

Tate, as it turned out his name was, seemed to have boundless energy. The two kept up their game of cat-and-mouse all afternoon until Stan flopped on the porch, panting for breath. Tate squealed and rushed forward to bury his hands in Stan’s thick fur.

You win this round, pipsqueak.

A part of him wanted to place the kid on a high shelf where he couldn’t get in the way, and leave him there. Another part of him… wanted to lick his face and wag his tail. C’mon, mighty hunter and all that! Stan was supposed to have more dignity than like… a Labrador or whatever.

His traitor tail wagged anyway.

Ford and the dame, Emma-May or something, stepped outside to join them, Ford glancing over his shoulder and biting his lip as he went. Stan wondered idly where his nerd friend was.

“Oh, don’t worry, Fiddles hardly ever electrocutes himself!” Emma-May said cheerfully. “He’ll be done with his tinkering in no time.”

“…I was worried for my toaster.”

Emma-May flapped her hand. “Oh, it’ll be fine. I think he said something about making it like ours.”

“How has Fiddleford improved your toaster?”

“I dunno, but it has a lot of blinky lights and sometimes it smells like burning sugar!”

“…I feel like you’re trying to be reassuring?”

Stan should probably be on the lookout for smoke. He scented the air and got a whiff of something like burning plastic from inside…

…and curdled wrongness.

He wrinkled his nose. The air smelled weird and it was vaguely familiar, like he’d smelled it before, but never this strongly. There was something oily and metallic and… squirrelly?

Stan shook Tate’s clingy hands from his coat and stood to scan the house yard. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. But it just didn’t smell right.

The faintest scrape of claws on wood made him snap around. There – clinging to a house support and evidently trying to climb up to the roof was what might have once been a squirrel. Emphasis on once. Its front limbs were bulkier than the back ones with claws like tiny steak knives buried into the wood grain. Its fur hung off in patches and it was big – more raccoon-sized than squirrel-sized. The extra weight seemed to be giving it grief because it was struggling to make headway.

Fat bastard, Stan thought petulantly.

“Err – Stanford?” Emma-May piped up. “What on god’s good earth is that?”

Stan glanced across to follow her pointing finger. Apparently he wasn’t the only one to notice the thing.

Ford squinted and stepped closer to the rodent, which started hissing around overgrown teeth like a stepped-on snake with a lisp. “It… it appears to be another mutated creature. I’ve been finding them around the place since I got here. My hypothesis is that they’ve been somehow affected by the size-changing crystals in the forest.”

“The what-nows?”

Ford’s eyes brightened. “Oh, in the forest there are natural crystal formations that, when light is shined through them, have the ability to change an object or organism’s shape. The majority of the mutant sightings have been around that area. I’ve been meaning to investigate but a freak blizzard recently ruined my plans. Now, if I can just capture this specimen here…”

“Throw a blanket over it?” Emma-May suggested.

“Perhaps. I have a number of size-appropriate cages in my shed, would you mind keeping watch over the creature while I retrieve one?”

“Sure thing.”

Ford went to walk past but the movement seemed to startle the squirrel, which launched itself wildly into the air and latched onto Ford’s sleeve, scurrying up his arm. He yelped and flailed. Fortunately Emma-May smacked it and sent it flying. Unfortunately it skidded across the ground and took off towards where Tate was playing in the grass.

Fortunately, that was also where Stan was.

He lunged forward and snapped up the rodent in one bite before it could get close to the kid. Its tiny body gave out with a single, pathetic crunch. Weird-tasting blood exploded in his mouth.

Ford coughed. “Well.”

Stan spat out the creature, wrinkling his nose. The thing tasted – wrong. Like its blood was tainted with seawater and oil slick with an added hint of burning rubber. He spluttered and swiped at his tongue to try and get rid of the rancid flavour.

Ugh, were squirrels so corrupted by the weight of their sins that it seeped into their blood?

“Is it dead?” Ford asked curiously. Emma-May walked over to scoop up her child and prod the body with her shoe.

“Depends. Can these mutant things live with a snapped spine?”

“Dead, then. Still! It’s a specimen to study. I’ll get – oh, I suppose I won’t be needing that cage anymore.”

Nothing blew up that weekend. Stan took that as a win.

The McGuckets were… a different sort of folk than he was used to. They smiled so easily. Those two dopes of parents looked at their kid like he was the moon and the sun and everything in between, like they wouldn’t kick him out onto the streets no matter what dumb mistakes he made. Damn. Imagine that.

The Sunday night before they were set to leave Emma-May retired to bed early and Fiddleford and Ford settled onto the couch to talk, with cans of beer in hand and Tate playing happily with his Legos. Stan dropped onto the carpet to keep a watchful eye on the little brat. The fire crackled softly and cast a warm light across the room, its heat pressing against his fur.

A month or so ago he would never have let himself relax like this. He would be watching the window, ears pricked for any sign of…

Huh. He couldn’t remember the name of the man chasing him. When he thought hard there was a flash of scarred hands and packets of white powder and the taste of blood in his mouth. That’s right, the guy Stan had used to run drugs for a few years back, the guy who was now after him. Why couldn’t Stan remember his name?

Ford and Fiddleford’s murmuring rose slightly above the crackle of the fire and the clinking of Legos.

“-ya mean Shermie?”

“No, my… other brother. My twin, Stanley.” Ford said quietly.

It took Stan a moment to remember that that was his name. He rested his chin on his paws and tuned into the conversation.

“Ford, ya never told me ya had a twin.”

“No, I probably didn’t. You see, Stanley and I parted on… unpleasant terms. I haven’t seen him in almost a decade.”

“A decade?” Fiddleford squawked. “Why in the blazes not?”

“It’s complicated. Fiddleford, do you remember when I told you how I was rejected from West Coast Tech?”

“When you were drunk outta yer mind and I had to drag ya back to our dorm? Yes, I do recall.” Fiddleford said dryly.

“Yes, well. It was Stanley who sabotaged my project. He insisted it was an accident, but…” Ford sighed.

“Why do you bring him up?” Fiddleford tipped his head. Ford sighed and pulled off his glasses to polish them on his sleeve.

“I was hoping to get your advice, actually. Recently he’s been coming to mind more and more. I thought that, perhaps, he might have grown up over the last decade, and it might be worth getting in contact and seeing how he’s doing. Do… do you think people can change that much?”

Change. Had Stan changed much? Except for the whole werewolf thing…

It was like trying to think through sludge. Stan hardly remembered what it was like to be human. Or… human-shaped. Jeez, how long had he been Shifted for? Time was slipping away from him in this little bubble of happiness. Stan had never been in wolf form for this long before.

A chill shivered through him. The nerds’ talking continued but it was background noise to the humming of his thoughts. He stood and padded into the hallway, ignoring Tate’s whine. Stan shouldered through the (thankfully unlocked) front door and trotted outside.

He glanced around warily before slipping into the trees. Once a quick scan showed that he was alone, he Shifted.

Or… tried to.

The change that had once been liquid and effortless now felt like trying to shove a square peg through a circular hole. His skin prickled. Stan shook himself and tried again with a small growl.

The Shift swept across him with the popping of joints and the crackle of cartilage; creaky, like a neglected machine that had acquired rust from years of disuse. Stan gritted his newly-flat teeth and waited for the agonizingly slow Shift to pass.

He ended up crouched on the damp earth, breathing hard and squinting through suddenly blurry vision at the dark, hazy world around him. His skin felt itchy and it pinched in all the wrong places, like a suit that didn’t quite fit.

Well, shit. Note to self: don’t stay in wolf form for weeks at a time.

Stan flexed his hands, trying to reacquaint himself with having fingers and opposable thumbs. Being human. Or human-shaped, at least.

Because he was still a person. No matter what he looked like he wasn’t just some – some pet. He had a life to get back to.

Except… he didn’t. Not really.

Stan chewed over that piece of information for moment. Before he could really think about it a voice called his name. With a final stretch he slipped back into an awkward Shift, easier than before, and trotted after his brother’s voice.

#werewolf stan au #werewolf!stan #my writing #gravity falls #chapter 5

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miss-tc-nova · 3 years

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Ursine Ire - Hermod x Fem!Reader

I’ve been dying to do something with Hermod and his temper, so here it is! And I think I’ve finally got my chaos in check for a while, so hopefully I can get another fic or two out before Christmas rolls around. Also, sorry this one feels a little more straightforward than most of my stuff.

~~~~~

I’m late! I’m so late! They’re gonna kill me!

Feet hit the stone path as fast as I can manage without blindly running into innocent bystanders—though there were a few close calls.

Today, my friends and I are off to see a production Vor and Urd have been demanding we all attend—I was supposed to meet them half an hour ago. Now I’m racing like a rabbit from a dog praying I don’t have to face the wrath of the female wielders.

Rounding a corner, my heart, just like my foot, skips when I nearly collide with the crowd I’ve let down.

An outstretched arm intercepts me before I can crash. “Woah! Slow down!”

Hermod, my boyfriend and the reason I have a great group of new friends, pulls me upright. Steadied by my grip on his haori, I heave so hard my lungs might just fall on the concrete.

“And here we thought you’d forgotten,” teases the red-head. When I can’t stop gasping, Bragi tacks on, “Geeze, I thought Eraqus was Tardy Fleetfoot.”

Said ‘Fleetfoot’ leans down. “Are you okay?”

One more breath gives me my voice back. “I’m so sorry I’m late! I was reading a book and I lost track of time! When I looked at the clock, I freaked out and ran all the way here! I’m so sorry!”

Soft chuckling brings my attention to the young man with an arm still around me. “It’s alright. We’ve still got some time,” he chuckles. A dip of his head connects his lips to my forehead, washing over that anxiety with a sweet serenity.

“Cut it out, you two,” Urd insists, clearly not pleased by my tardiness. My boyfriend leans back, still happy but with a tad bit of sheepish mixed in. “That time we have is not enough for you to make out. If we don’t get going, we’ll miss the show.”

“It might already be sold out!” little blond Vor exclaims.

“Then let’s get a move on,” urges the boy in black.

The group agrees and scampers through the streets towards the theater. When we get there, we see the mass of people shuffling into the stadium.

“Okay, Vor and I will get the tickets,” insists the taller girl, holding her hand out expectantly.

The boys rifle through pockets, but when I notice Hermod doing the same, I take his sleeve.

“I’m paying this time,” I say.

“Oh, it’s alright. I don’t mind.”

“I don’t care if you mind. You paid for the last date; it’s my turn.” His mouth opens to argue. “Don’t make me ask nicely.”

As it so happens, my asking Hermod ‘nicely’ is actually giving him the best puppy eyes I can, letting my bottom lip slip forward just a little, and saying please. My poor teddy bear has yet to refine any resistance to this technique. Due to this unfair trump card, I reserve it for dire occasions but sometimes just its mention is enough to tilt things in my favor.

Shoulders slouch. “Fine.”

Victoriously smiling, I place a peck against his cheek and scurry after the girls. As we chat, a peculiar couple comes up behind us. The woman tears into the man about them not showing up on time—I kind of feel sorry for him. Even so, their conflict is so unbearably awkward that it completely silences the light-hearted conversation we’d been having. There’s only a single person in front of us, but they cannot move fast enough to get us away from this disaster. Thankfully, after Urd gets her batch of tickets, the man sends the woman away, leaving the queue in an uncomfortable silence.

Vor grabs hers next and bustles away while I quickly purchase mine. About halfway between the ticket booth and my friends, a hand takes my shoulder: it’s the man.

“Uh…can I help you?” I ask, disquiet quickly simmering in my gut.

“Yeah, actually, you bought the last two tickets. Mind if I take them?” There’s not even a trace of politeness in his words—it’s more like a statement than a request.

Eyes dart to the group gossiping not that far away. I point in their direction. “Actually, I’m here to see the show with my friends. Sorry.”

Anger rivaling the woman’s snaps into place. “So what. They can tell you about it later. Give me those tickets!”

Not exactly a fighter myself, I step back. As I do, he reaches for me.

A flash of green swipes up, swatting the grasping hand away. My boyfriend has come to save me with suspicion written across his face.

“Is there a problem here?”

“It’s none of your business,” growls the man.

Slate eyes turn on me and I tell him, “He wants our tickets.”

“And you paid for them?” I nod. Ever polite, the young man says, “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t have our tickets. Please excuse us.” He turns back to me. “Come on. The show’s starting.”

Relief takes over too soon when a fist appears around my wrist. So tight is the grasp that my hand quavers and I’m certain there will be bruising. This sudden spike of pain draws a yelp from my mouth that the heckler doesn’t acknowledge as he jerks me closer.

In the next instant, I’m free. In the same manner, a hand crushes the thug’s wrist. An existential dread rolls over me and the man seems to realize he’s made a mistake.

I’ve always described my soft Hermod as a bear: he’s the biggest sweetheart, always looking out for me, and as cuddly as one might expect. However, another reason my brain thinks of a bear when concerning my boyfriend is his rage. He has a saintly patience; it takes something truly serious to push him to anger—something like assaulting his girlfriend—and when he reaches that point, he is terrifying. I’ve only ever seen this one other time when he was having a truly miserable day. He apologized afterwards but I will never forget the fury he exhumed, almost as if he were another person. He is the embodiment of a bear, anger and all.

“Hermod!” Vor shouts.

“Hold on there, Brother Bear!” Bragi appears and places a hand on the threatening arm.

“How dare you,” Hermod snarls lowly, ignoring his friends. Barely veiled violence hides in his eyes. “She is under no obligation to give you anything and her refusal to do so gives you no right to put your hands on her.” I see his grip tighten, bringing the assailant to his knees. “Now apologize.”

There’s resistance but a further constricting grip accompanied by bared teeth coerce a response. “S-Sorry!”

Hermod’s hold releases, signaling that his uncertain classmates can relax.

“You’d do well to learn some manners,” growls the irate boy. With that, an arm gently ushers me away from the scene. Every bit of that tense anger can be felt in his shielding arm. Anxiety bubbles in my chest but I follow without fuss.

Only a few steps away and the man shows us he’s learned nothing. A boot to the back of my knee messes up my balance. My elbow scrapes across the ground though I’m far more concerned with the ensuing roar. Peering back reveals a frenzied Hermod swinging his keyblade. The weapon strikes the man hard enough to send him across the clearing into a brick wall where he crumples to the ground. Only three straining boys stop the young man from resuming his rampage.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING COME NEAR HER AGAIN!” My jaw drops—I’ve never heard Hermod utter a single curse word in all our time dating, even on his worst days.

The girls dash for the downed man. Urd exclaims, “He’s out cold!”

“I WILL DESTROY YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME?!”

“He can’t hear anything!” Xehanort shouts.

“You got ‘im!” adds Bragi. “He’s done!”

Their words fall on deaf ears as the fight to get at his foe floods Hermod’s mind. It’s frightening, far worse than the last time I saw him like this. If the others let him go, who knows what he’d do to that man—I can’t even guarantee murder would be off the table.

As I watch the struggle, his name barely escapes my mouth. “Hermod.”

Nothing changes; he’s still fighting—fighting to defend me.

This is for me…

Shoving off the ground, I rush to help the boys. Fists snag handfuls of the haori and push against his chest.

“Hermod, stop! Please!”

It all freezes; only heavy pants from the four boys breaks the silence. Almost afraid of what I might find, I peek up at my boyfriend’s face—it’s blank, like a chalkboard wiped clean. I don’t know if this makes me relieved or worried.

Vor breaks the silence with an announcement. “Guys, he might need a doctor.”

The wary boys release their classmate and Xehanort leans towards Bragi. “We’ll take care of the moron; you get these two someplace they can calm down.”

“Good plan.” A palm to the chest pushes the impassive boy back. “Alright Brother Bear, let’s get outta here. You too, chickadee, come on.”

Bragi steers the two of us down the street away from the mess we left. Silence stirs the distress I’d been boiling throughout the ordeal; I’m unable to stop ruminating on images of that fury.

At the student dorms where the keyblade wielders train, our chaperone branches off. He leaves us in the entrance hall, still stifled in quiet, but returns rather quickly.

“Yo, Hermod.” He shoves a box into the taller boy’s arms. “You might wanna patch up your girlfriend.”

A light finally sparks in his eyes and Hermod turns on me. “Are you okay?”

This is my Hermod and it’s almost alarming how this gentle giant could turn into something so vicious.

“Yeah,” I mumble.

That pain adds to my uncertainty, but it all goes out the window when my feet leave the ground. Too stunned to do anything about it, I let Hermod carry me through the halls of the student dorms; I do, however, flinch when his door flies open and closes with another slam. Hermod’s back hits the wall and he slumps to the floor, still clinging to me.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into my shoulder.

It takes a moment to gather my words. “That…That was pretty scary,” I whisper back.

“I know and you deserve to be mad at me. I was out of line and I wasn’t thinking, but when he…”

I already know why it happened, not that it makes it any better. Still, Hermod’s actions were for my sake; I don’t condone what he did but that man made it clear he wasn’t giving up without a fight. My boyfriend was protecting me.

“Thank you.” Those slate eyes give me a perturbed look. I let the corners of my mouth turn up. “For sticking up for me.”

Gods, I wanted to make him feel better, not add to that misery. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“I know.” I brush the hair from his face. “You’re such a sweetheart. But maybe next time we don’t knock someone unconscious with our keyblade.”

He let’s a guilty sigh escape him, dropping his gaze. “I’m so sorry.”

A finger leads his gaze back to me. “I forgive you. And I’m sorry I put you in that position.”

Again, his face hides against me. “It’s not your fault.” Pushing him back, I take his face in my hands and raise a brow; he gets the hint. “But I forgive you.”

“I love you, Hermod,” I say, running circles across his cheeks with my thumbs.

There’s the smile I’ve been looking for. “I love you too.”

Content with the response, I kiss him. It’s short but oh so sweet—they always are with Hermod. I’d spend hours on end kissing him if there weren’t other matters to attend to.

“Hermod?”

“Hmm?” It’s a dreamy, peaceful sort of hum.

“Who taught you the F word?” My accusations are mostly in jest but the results are perfectly entertaining. My gentle teddy bear bursts into a blush and begins stammering like a fool. “It was Bragi, wasn’t it?”

“I—I—you—wh—”

“I’m only teasing,” I sing, pinching at his cheeks. “Now fix my elbow please.”

This vexed sigh comes with an adoring smile as he reaches for the first aid kit.

#hermod #kh hermod #khdr hermod #hermod x reader #fem!reader

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avengerscompound · 5 years

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The B-List Avenger - 5

The B-List Avenger: A Hawkeye Fanfic

Series Masterlist // PREVIOUS

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing: Clint Barton x F!Reader

Word Count: 2182

Rating: E

Warnings: Action, Injuries, Angst, Pregnancy, Smut (vaginal sex)

Synopsis: After an explosion in your building, it’s up to Hawkeye to get you and your daughter to safety. There might be worst ways to get to know someone.

Chapter 5: Self-Doubt

Natasha smacked Clint over the back of the head. “What did you do, Barton?” The redhead seethed at him.

Clint all but ignored her trying to get himself free from the regenerative ark technology that he was currently strapped into. “Help me get out of this.” He muttered, yanking on wires.

Natasha lunged forward like a cat, grabbing him by the wrists and pinning them to his sides. “What are you going to do, you bolvan? Go after her while you leave half your organs trailing behind you? Use your brain.”

Clint struggled for a moment. He didn’t care about that. He didn’t care about anything except going after you and explaining. He had to make this right. Make you forgive him. When he realized struggling against Natasha was useless, especially given how full of morphine he currently was he let his body sag.

“Did you cheat on her?” Natasha snapped, letting his wrists go.

For a split second, he thought about arguing. How could she possibly even think he would do something like that? Only it wouldn’t be the first relationship he’d tanked by cheating. Not even the second. He sighed and shook his head. “I swear I didn’t.” He said looking up at Natasha, her glare was still icy and accusatory. “I didn’t! I love her. And those other times… I thought we were casual. This is different. It’s us.”

Natasha hit him again. “Then what? Why on God’s green Earth were you missing her doctor’s appointments for?”

Clint covered his head with his arms. “Stop hitting me, Nat. That’s not okay.”

Natasha sat back in her hair and rolled her eyes. “Well?”

“I don’t even know. I’m scared. I’m scared of being bad at this. About being an Avenger and a dad. About her realizing how shit I am. About raising a kid in this fucked up world.” He groaned and ran his hands down his face. “I want the world to be better, and when I saw that weird little blob on the ultrasound machine and heard that woosh-woosh that was going so fast that was its heartbeat, all I could think was I am gonna fuck this up so bad.”

Natasha rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “So you thought you would make a preemptive strike? You have got to be the dumbest dummy in the history of dummies.”

“What am I gonna do, Nat?” Clint pleaded. “I gotta make this right. I can’t lose her. Not now.”

Nat sighed and looked him over. “Alright, listen up, dummy.”

You had gone straight home from the compound, gritting your teeth so you didn’t cry. You made it inside and broke down in your room while your mother held you. When you finally had gotten yourself under control you’d finished packing up all his stuff and put it near the hall, ready for him to take it. You’d put Alexis to bed and Lucky had curled into a ball at the end of the bed. Your heart broke just that little bit more. Not only was Alexis going to be losing Clint, but her dog too. Part of you hoped that maybe Clint would agree to leave Lucky with you, but then the thought of that reminder always being around hurt to think of too.

You cried yourself to sleep that night.

The next morning you woke exhausted. You also felt a little queasy, which was annoying because it had only been in the last month that you’d been able to shake the morning sickness. You got up and hopped in the shower where a sudden wave of sadness it again, but you were too dehydrated to cry actual tears, so instead it was just a dry wracking sob that took over your whole body. You felt like a complete idiot.

You’d managed to get on with your day. You gave Alexis her breakfast. Took her to preschool. Went to work. You’d hope that Clint or someone from the Avengers would come to pick up his stuff while you were working. At the end of the day, you pick Alexis up and go home, only to find Clint sitting on your front steps, head in his hands.

Alexis ran to him, or toddled quickly might be more accurate. “Cwint!” She squealed throwing herself at him.

He wrapped his arms around her and swung her back and forth. “There’s my little slugger.”

It would be a cute sight. Except all you could see was red. How dare he pull this shit. Using Alexis as some kind of human shield so you couldn’t rage at him again. “Clint.” You say tersely.

“Hey, babe. Can we talk?” He asked sheepishly as he got to his feet. He held Alexis on his hip and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“I think you need to be somewhere don’t you?” You answered, rolling your eyes and pushing past him and going inside.

“No. Don’t go, Cwint,” Alexis whined squeezing her arms tighter around his neck.

“Sorry, sweetie. I can’t stay. Avengers stuff.” Clint said soothingly as he followed you inside.

Alexis started to cry and buried her face in his neck. It just made you more angry at him. You turned on him and started signing furiously. ‘Who do you think you are? Using her to try and get back in. Fuck you, Clint. You can now explain to her why you’re not welcome here.’ If there was such a thing as shouting in ASL you had just done it.

“Aww man. Please, can we just talk for a minute? And then I’ll go?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose glaring at him. “Fine.” You huffed, heading into the kitchen.

You let Clint settle down Alexis while you went and fixed her a snack. You left it with her and dragged Clint down to your bedroom. “You have five minutes.” You said keeping your voice low and calm.

Clint whined and bunched a fist into his hair. “I’m an idiot. I was scared. I was scared I’d fuck this up and instead of doing what normal people do and talk about it, I did what I always do. I freaked out and decided I’d try and fix the world.”

“I told you I couldn’t do this alone. And instead, you made me do this alone. Scared isn’t good enough Clint.” You snapped. “You think I’m not scared? The difference is I don’t get a choice and you do and you used it to run.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed and ran his hands through his hair. “I - I don’t have an excuse. I fucked up. I don’t expect you to take me back…”

“That’s good because I’m not going to.” You interrupted.

He looked up at you and sighed. “Can I try and prove I mean it? That this is the mistake. That you aren’t alone. Let me come to appointments and classes. I love you. I’ve never felt like this about anyone. My family is the Avengers and my brother and you and Alexis. Let me show you?”

You sighed. “Okay. You can try and prove it. I’m not promising anything. But you are the dad in this situation, so I guess you have a right to be there.”

“Thank you.” He said reaching out to your hand.

You pulled it away. “One more thing. You,” You paused and took a deep breath trying to calm yourself. “That little girl in there loves you so much. You don’t get to disappear from her life. You have two people here to prove yourself to.”

He smiled. “You tell me what you need to do that and I’ll do it.”

Over the next few months, Clint was good to his word. He started seeing a therapist to actually deal with some of his shit. He showed up for every appointment. He spoke to Steve Rogers and he’d been excused from all but word threatening events. He did complain about paperwork a lot. But he still showed up early for every appointment. He stayed with you after making sure you weren’t alone for any blood tests or other extra things you needed.

When you got too big that driving was awkward he started driving you to and from the appointments. He went and bought nursery furniture and swore a little too much as he put it together. He rubbed your back when it hurt too much. He would periodically check-in and see how you were doing.

With Alexis, he’d do things like go pick her up from pre-school and when you got back from work he’d have bought pizza and he, Alexis and Lucky would be eating it while they watched Brave for the one-millionth time.

Slowly you started to forget why you were mad at him in the first place. Not ready to take him back forgetful, but willing to be his friend. Willing to have him involved in your son’s life.

It was coming up to the tenth month of the pregnancy. You had been suffering from bad sciatic pain and Clint had offered to help you get Alexis to bed. You were just winding down yourself. You were in your pajamas and trying to rub your own lower back.

Clint stuck his head into the living room. “Out like a light. Want me to do anything else before I go? I could stack the dishwasher.”

“I know that was just a lip service question but yes, please. My back is killing me.” You answered.

He came and sat down beside you. “How about I help with that?” He said, starting to rub your back. You let out a deep moan almost as soon as his thumbs pressed against your sore muscles.

“You have magic hands, Barton.” You groaned.

“I use them a lot.” He said simply.

You started laughing and shook your head. “That sounded really dirty. You been partaking in a lot of alone time?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “I meant with the archery. But as a matter of fact, yes.”

“Yeah, me too.” You said with a shrug. “I forgot how goddamned horny you get when you’re at the end of a pregnancy. And before you ask, it’s a lot.”

He pressed on a particularly painful spot on your back and you let out a sound that was half moan of pleasure and half whine. “You know if you’d asked I could have helped with that too.” He said.

You elbowed him. “I don’t think so.”

He took a breath in and let it out slowly before going back to rubbing your back.

“What was that?” You asked.

“I just miss you.” He answered. “And don’t worry. I know. But I do. That’s all.”

You let your head fall forward a little and closed your eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

He looked at you and for a moment you were sure he was going to press the issue. He had this sad hopeful look in his blue eyes. “Hey, do you think we could name him after my brother? I miss him so much.”

You blink at him for a moment. “Barney?” You asked slightly surprised by the question.

“Charles actually. Barney was a nickname. But yeah. Is that okay?” He said.

“Yeah. Yes of course. He can be Charles.” You answered.

Clint smiled sadly. “Thank you. You’re too good to me.” He shook his head again. “I’m so sorry I fucked us up. I wish I wasn’t such a piece of shit.”

You turned on him and took his hands in yours. “Why do you always talk about yourself like that?” You asked. “You aren’t a piece of shit. It’s like you just make yourself one by speaking it into being that way. All your friends, even your exes talk about you like you’re the best guy around who has no faith in himself. Shit, that’s how I feel. I thought we had this.”

He nods. “I did too. I don’t know. I don’t know why I keep doing this. And I thought I had it. I had control over it. I was really happy and I just shot myself in the foot. But worse because I hurt you. And Alexis. And the baby… Charles. I ruined it. I ruined us. Our family.”

You put your hand on Clint’s cheek, tilting his head up to you. “No. You didn’t.”

“What?” He asked looking into your eyes.

“You didn’t.” You repeated and brought your lips to his. He wrapped his arms around you, pulled you closer to him. Your hands roamed up and down his back. You ran your tongue over his top lip and circled his with it. He hummed and put his hand in your hair.

He leaned you back on the couch, putting his knee between your thighs and curving above you.

You felt a small pop and a gush of fluid spilled from you over Clint’s thigh and the couch.

“What the fuck was that?” Clint asked looking down.

You look at him, eyes wide. “My waters just broke.”

// NEXT

#clint barton #clint barton x reader #hawkeye #hawkeye fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #angst #pregnancy #the b-list avenger #self-doubt

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rinusagitora · 5 years

Text

The love, lead, and the undead.

Fandom: Monster Prom

Characters: Vicky Schmidt, Damien LaVey, Brian Yu, Oz, Zoe

Pairings: Brian/Damien/Vicky, Oz/Zoe, platonic Brian/Oz/Zoe

Words: 3.9k

Summary: Canon divergent. Chapter 2/?. WARNINGS— smut, alcoholism, depression, mentions of csa, childhood abuse, medical horror; After Damien and Vicky share a night of passion, trouble brews.

Home was supposed to feel cozy and lived-in.

Vicky vaguely remembered her childhood with her mom and sisters. That was home. She remembered her biweekly visitation with her dad too. His home was cold and smelled like dog urine and beer. His car smelled like cold metal, and then it smelled like a gas fire after he wrapped it around a pole. She remembered the smell of her dad's breath as he screamed at her to buckle up, like putrefaction. She remembered what her blood smelled like when her head collided with the dashboard.

Since the accident, she hadn't felt at home. Gary was the man who reanimated Vicky. His lab was hard and cold. He was never really affectionate towards her. Once Gary died of mercury poisoning, his brother Eugene took her in, and that was never home, not after the things he did to her. Even Vicky’s apartment wasn't home.

She wasn't ready to stay in a place so hollow.

"Can you stay the night?" Vicky asked. Damien walked her home after they loitered on campus several hours after the school day ended.

"Yeah. My dads won't mind."

Vicky guided Damien inside and he kicked off his shoes by the door. "This is cute," he complimented.

"Do you want something to drink?"

"Booze?"

"Wassail?"

"Is… is that booze?"

Vicky forgot he didn't celebrate Christmas. "I'll get you some whiskey."

"Thanks, babe."

Vicky returned with two glasses of single malt whiskey. When she sat next to Damien, he crossed his legs and gazed upon her. "So, bank robbery. What got you into that?"

"I like being independent. It'd hard juggling school and my social life when I need to pay rent. Robbery is a huge payout every couple of weeks, so I can cover my bills and have plenty extra to play around with," she explained. "Vera is a fantastic partner as well. I wouldn't get half as much as I do without her."

"Are you guys, like, friends? Does Vera even have friends?"

"I feel like she’s my friend," she said. "If we’re asking questions, though, why are you going to a public school? You're the motherfucking prince of Hell. I'm sure there are a plethora of academics at your dads’ disposal that could instruct you better than any of our teachers. You’d probably learn stuff that would be more relevant to ruling over Hell.”

"I wanted to go to school up here. It's not that I feel out of place, but it's refreshing not constantly feeling like people are sucking up to me up here for their own benefit. I prefer being sucked up to for being feared."

"I'm sure you'd rather be sucked off."

His face darkened with his blush. "Well, yes, but… God, you are forward."

Vicky was pretty forward. As curious as she was about Damien's other love interest, she hoped to avoid those heavy topics so soon. But she was bored, and she was a whore, so the obvious solution was to fuck.

She set her whiskey aside, and Damien downed the remainder of his. She crawled on top of him. She kissed him, kissed across his jaw, and scraped her teeth against his earlobe. Damien purred. With one hand, he pulled her back to his lips. He licked her lips with his broad tongue. When he slipped inside, he massaged the roof of her mouth. He pulled her shirt up to her shoulders and she pulled away from him to undress and discard her clothing.

"You're gorgeous," he said. He stroked the underside of her breasts. Vicky bit her lip and smiled down at him. "These are amazing. No wonder you're so popular," he told her with a fistful of her breasts in hand.

Vicky pried Damien's hands off her chest and kissed his neck. She kissed down his neck, his collarbone, his chest, his belly. His hips bucked when she licked his erection through his pants.

"Fuck," he groaned. He unbuttoned his pants, and then lifted his hips so Vicky easily slipped his pants off. She held his erection in one hand as she languidly licked up his shaft. She tasted his precum on his head. When she slipped it into her mouth and lapped at the opening, his fingers combed through her hair. She swallowed him down to his base, where she smelled his sweat on his bladder. His breath rattled in his lungs. She only bobbed a handful of times before he grasped her chin and the back of her head, which effectively pinned her in place, and fucked her face. It touched her voice box, she gurgled, and it was delightful. She held his thighs to prevent from touching herself.

His thigh muscles quivered as he pulled out. Saliva and precum dripped onto Vicky’s chin. She smiled up at him. “You’re a freak, babe,” he hoarsed.

“Fuck me,” Vicky mewled. Damien vanished her pants and underwear like a magician. He dropped her legs over his shoulders, and held one of her quads as he positioned himself. Vicky’s moan echoed through her apartment. He was so long, he continuously massaged the nerve endings inside of her, and it made her legs spasm around his neck.

“God,” he groaned, “you’re amazing. I’m gonna fuck you into oblivion.��

“Like a toy?” she whined. Like a pretty doll he took everywhere. She wanted to be wanted by him so badly.

“Like a toy,” he concurred. He grabbed the arm of her sofa and pounded her unmercifully. It was like he hammered heat and bliss into her gut and it crept up to her chest and face. Her chest heaved. She ran her fingers through Damien’s silky hair. He kissed her palm, and when her hand drifted down his jaw, he caught two of her fingers in his mouth. He parted her pointer and middle fingers with his tongue and licked the webbing between them like he did when he wanted to be a crass, nasty bastard. As juvenile and stupid as it was, it pushed Vicky closer to the edge, like all he wanted was to lay between her legs and eat her like a lollipop.

Damien grunted. His thrusts became sloppy. With his eyes glued to her, he pumped her full of his seed. She watched him finish with a patient smile. He was so cute when he climaxed.

“Holy shit,” he breathed as he pulled his flaccid cock out of her. His cum coated him. It oozed onto her thighs. He pulled her lips open and watched it flow. When he looked back up at her, he had that awful, shit-eating grin that always went straight to her groin, and then said, “I’m gonna clean you up, baby.”

Vicky was helpless against his whims. She only whimpered as he scooted down to her pussy like a dream come true.

First, Damien licked up her. She covered her warm face. Already, he was so wonderful, overwhelming, fantastical. Three licks into his prize, a prize because Vicky felt as golden as a trophy, his pointed tongue pressed on. He lapped up his cum like a hungry cat, he even plunged inside and sucked it out. When he finished, he did a slow, torturous victory lap up to her clitoris that made her beg.

She grabbed his horn and pulled him against her crotch as hard as she possibly could have. He seemed to enjoy it. Damien pushed his fingers into her, and then he hooked them against the roof of her canal, and in conjunction with his oral treatment, it made her squirm and press herself against him, unable to conjure the means to tell him to go harder, faster.

“I love you, Damien,” Vicky finally gasped as her fingers ran through his silky hair, “please keep going!”

Damien picked up the pace. Her legs clenched around his impish ears. Vicky was helpless, because Damien was a fucking expert and her own whorishness worked against her. Her chest locked up. It was like she was overcome with a tidal wave of heat and loveliness.

Vicky helplessly laid as her chest heaved. Down and down she went, until she finally rolled her eyes forward to meet Damien's face on her chest. He wiped cum off his chin and then kissed her. "You're pretty metal, babe,” he said, “you held out for awhile."

"I have experience," she said. "Can we go lay down? This isn't the best place for post-coital snuggling."

Damien pulled Vicky to her feet. Inside her bedroom, she fell onto her bed, blissful and sated, secure in Damien's arms. Vera told her time and time that her relationship with men wasn't healthy, and Vicky knew her self-esteem was fueled by whoever her partner happened to be. But Vicky was an addict. She couldn't help herself.

"I love you, Vicky," Damien told her, as his fingertips traced her side.

She smiled. "I love you too, Damien," and all was well with the world.

---

Vicky and Damien went to school together, hand-in-hand, until Vera and Liam caught them together, and whisked her away to gossip.

“Sweet mother of god,” Liam said as they power walked to the back of campus, “did you guys spend the night together?"

“Yes,” Vicky replied.

“Like, in your bed?”

“... yeah. He’s my boyfriend. The loveseat isn’t long enough for him to sleep on to begin with. That’d be like stuffing a banana into a really tiny tupperware container, or a croc in a storm drain.”

“Where the hell do you come up with these comparisons? You know what? Never mind, I don’t want to know,” Liam said. “Let’s rewind. First of all, I wanna know how all this happened. I’ve known Damien for a couple of years now and I don’t think he’s been with anyone who he’s come to school with.”

“Oh boy. I’ve been trying to get this to happen for awhile now, so I’ll give you the condensed version. Apparently, we liked each other, and were just too stubborn to talk about it until Vera made us talk about it yesterday.”

Vera sighed. “You know that’s not it.”

“Well, we did it last night,” Vicky replied.

"Wait, what? Mother of God, you two work fast. Was it any good?"

"It was fantastic," Vicky sighed wistfully. "He lasted forever, first of all. But he was so good. He finished in me, and then he got in there and cleaned it up with his mouth."

"Oh. Oh wow, that's hot," Liam mumbled.

"That… that is actually really hot, but that wasn't what I meant."

“Vera, are you talking about Damien’s polyamory?” Liam asked.

Apparently everyone but Vicky knew about it. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. "When we talked about it yesterday, it really stressed him out."

"Vicky…" Vera sighed, "I understand you don't want to make him uncomfortable, but you need to ask him about this. You deserve to know."

The way Vera talked about it, like Damien was a diseased whore and Vicky needed his bill of health, put her on edge. "We can talk about it when he's ready. I don't mind sharing Damien, and if it's someone likable enough, I might even partake myself. But this is something that really upsets him when he has to talk about it."

Vera stopped in front of Vicky, arms crossed over her chest and a look as stony as her victims. "You're his fucking girlfriend," Vera said. "I don't care if it makes him uncomfortable. You deserve his honesty. He doesn't get to pull the mysterious boyfriend shit like he's the love interest from a young adult novel, you two are partners, and he has to behave as such. No secrets. No beating around the bush."

"You're not being fair to Damien. He's not trying to hide things from Vicky. He's not the brightest, most socially skilled guy, but he's a good friend," Liam said.

"Is it fair to Vicky that she has to wonder who this other guy is?"

"That's enough," Vicky snapped. "I see your point Vera. I'll ask him about who else he's interested in, but I'm not gonna push. I know you're implying he might be keeping other partners a secret. But I trust Damien. He hasn't given me a reason to distrust him in the last year I've known him. He's sweet, he's just more awkward than he likes to let on, like Liam said. But I know you guys are just looking out for me, so I'll keep you guys in the loop. We'll talk about it if there's something that's setting off alarm bells for you."

Vera gritted her teeth. "Fine. Out of respect for you, I'll stand down. Just remember you deserve only the best."

"Thank you," Vicky replied with a grateful smile.

---

Oz’s goo churned. He wondered what made him so nervous. Everything was so peaceful, and Zoe hummed atonally as she scribbled in her notebook.

“Zoe,” Oz whispered, “do you feel like something terrible is going to happen?”

“I don’t feel like much of anything right now,” she replied. “Are you okay? Oz?”

He exhaled. His eyes went dark.

And then Oz was in a lab. Rather, it was like he watched through a fisheye lens from his chest. He folded saran wrap around kilos of cocaine. He didn’t care much for coke, he certainly wanted nowhere near a coke house to begin with.

“Put your fucking hands up!”

His head whipped up. Oz saw the spiral of the rifle’s barrel and then a flash.

He trembled. He tasted cotton candy and he was fucking exhausted.

“Oz!” Zoe bled into his vision like water color. “Oh my god, Oz, are you okay? You started convulsing and speaking in tongues, and as hot as that was---”

“Stop, Zoe,” Oz groaned. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Fuck, my head hurts.”

“Oz, what the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know,” he said as he massaged between his eyes. “I was… I was in this lab wrapping drugs, and then I think I was shot point blank.”

“Oh my god, that’s horrible,” Zoe said. “That’s so vivid…. I thought you were just having a seizure because of my awesome fic. I think you had a premonition, though. At least that's how my premonitions have been happening since I've inhabited this form. Our friends could be in danger, we have to investigate this.”

Oz held his head. Zoe was right, but he was scared. What if they were too late? As old as Oz was, he wasn’t omnipotent.

---

For hours, Vicky pondered Vera’s argument. Vera, of course, was right. She didn’t know much about Damien’s love life to begin with. The more Vicky thought about it, the more it seemed like something that they should have discussed from the get-go.

Still, she was nervous. She picked at her dinner. Damien had already gone through three servings and the only thing Vicky had done with her food is turned it into a weird, macerated pile of pasta and beef.

"Are you gonna eat that?" he asked.

Vicky pushed her plate towards Damien. "No. You're welcome to it."

"This stroganoff is fucking awesome. Why don't you bring your own lunch? Fuck, I'd stab a dozen of our classmates for this shit. This is almost as good as my dad's cooking."

"Really?" she said. Damien nodded as he shovelled more pasta down the hatch. "Y'know, I'd like some help with the dishes."

"Sure thing."

They stood next to each other, and Damien happily whistled an army cadence. "You know," Damien began, "I never really thought I'd like this domestic shit. I know my dads defrag at home, where everything is simpler than impending war. I just didn't think I'd be like them."

"I assume you're a lot like your dads. You got your sweetness from somewhere," Vicky said.

"Same goes for my violent streak." They wrapped up. Damien flicked his wet fingers into the sink. "Y'know, I've been wondering how you died for awhile now. You're so… I don't know, homely, I guess? But you're stitched to shit. It's like someone popped your head into another body."

"That's pretty much exactly how that happened. My dad drank heavily. He got into a car accident and I wasn't wearing a seatbelt. I don't remember much after that until my dad's great uncle, who was a… geneticist, I think, reanimated me."

"How come we've never met him? Actually, why do you even live alone? You're only in high school."

"Gary, the man who reanimated me, died six years ago."

"So you've been living on your own for six years?"

"No." Vicky's talons sunk into her wash cloth. "Gary's brother Eugene took me in. I moved out two years ago."

Two years too little. Eugene still felt close by. She still felt his hands on her shoulders and his cum on her clothes. Her backside stung. She wanted to throw up.

"Vicky?" Damien's voice sounded distant. She rocked in place, the entire world oscillated. She wobbled over to the couch and laid down.

Vicky was still dead in a lot of ways. She had a home, and was still homeless. She had friends, yet she had no family. Vicky was happy, on the outside. On the inside was a violent maelstrom of taint and cum and self-loathing that violently pummeled her.

"Vera, I don't know what to do. Vicky and I were talking about this Eugene guy and she completely checked out. I-I don't think she can even hear me right now…. Yeah, I'll pass you over. I just need a second."

Damien clasped Vicky's shoulder. "Babe?" he said, "Vera wants to talk to you."

Vicky gingerly held his phone against her ear. "Hello?"

"Hi, sweetie. Are you safe?"

"No."

"Who hurt you?"

"Eugene is still here," Vicky said. "He never left. He recycles everything in my dreams. I wish I had died that day."

"Where is Eugene now? Is he still at your place?"

"I don't think so."

"Did Damien help him hurt you?"

"I don't know who Damien is."

"He's a friend, okay? You can trust him. I need your help, though. Can you breathe with me for a minute?"

"Okay."

"I'm going to count to seven. Inhale for me." Vera counted. Vicky breathed in. "Hold it… now exhale until I count to seven." Vicky exhaled. "Now, rub your arms, Vicky. Rub the couch. What does the couch feel like?"

"It's kinda coarse. But not in an itchy way."

"Okay. What color are Damien's eyes?"

Vicky's eyes met with Damien's. They were gold, in a sad way. He looked worried. "They're yellow," she said.

"What else is yellow there?"

"The throw pillow. The one that's got braids on it. The kitchen has a yellow ladle. Well, the handle is yellow, the bowl is stained since I didn't rinse it off when I had tomato soup a couple months ago."

"Gross," Vera laughed. "Okay. One more thing. What do you hear?"

"I think my ears are ringing. No, that's an ambulance. Did you call an ambulance?"

"No. They're just passing by. How do you feel?"

Vicky sat up. "Present," she said.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?"

She looked into Damien's eyes. He seemed reserved. Vicky got the feeling he was conflicted. She hadn't had an episode like that in months, and Damien deserved an explanation.

"I do, but I'll fill you in later," Vicky said.

"Okay. I'll talk to you later."

Vicky returned Damien's phone. "What the fuck was that?" Damien asked.

"Look… I have issues left over from the accident. Sometimes, I think back to it and I completely implode."

"Implode is about right. Is all that really from your accident?"

Vicky frowned. Why did her issues have to be so apparent that she had to bare her soul to everyone? All Vicky wanted was peace. But no, Damien had to pick and pry and fucking prod.

"It's in the past. I don't have to talk about it."

"You don't--- fuck, it's clearly not in the motherfucking past if you're still freaking out about it!"

"Fine!" Vicky snapped, "you want to know the truth? My dad beat the living shit out of me. I got three broken ribs, a broken finger, and a concussion before they divorced. Despite all this evidence, my dad managed to bail himself out and get weekend visitations un-fucking-supervised. He drank like a fucking racoon, and when he got drunk, he got madder! He unbuckled me and threw me against the dash when I was giving him lip. When I struggling to get away, he swerved into a fucking pole and I went through the windshield!"

"And of course, his damn uncle is a freak and had to bring me back for his precious research. I was tied to a table for years before he died. I was gonna starve on that table. But then Eugene saved me. But everything comes at a motherfucking price. I had to make sure his house was clean and he was jerked off. Day after day, and nobody helped me! No, you all just think this is an amazing survival story. I'm dying inside, and you all get to sit down and forget about it the second you leave my company. So I don't want to fucking talk about it anymore."

Vicky was so mad, her vision blurred. Her hair stood on end, and she shook like she clung to the ceiling of a steep fall. Damien was taken aback. He was probably mad. Vicky just wanted him gone, though. He was like everyone else. He picked at her wounds.

"Vicky," he whispered.

"Leave!" she boomed. "You're like everyone else. You don't care about me."

"Don't you ever say that!" he screamed. "I love you so much, it hurts, and it hurts even more knowing the pain you've been through." He grabbed her by her shoulders and threw her into his embrace. "I would kill hundreds of people if it made you happy," he said.

Vicky tried to shove him off her. "Let go of me," she barked, "get the hell out of my house!"

"No. I'm staying here."

Vicky hit his kidney. Damien's hold loosened as he crumpled to the floor. "No! You don't get to pick at my wounds and keep your own damn secrets. Get out of my house, you edgy, self-absorbed bastard!"

"Fuck!" Damien cursed. "It's Brian, okay? But that doesn't fucking matter to me right now. You're hurting and it's at least partially my fault. You're fucking right. I'm not the most sensitive guy, but I love you so much, I would do anything for you, absolutely anything. I'm going to fix what I did wrong. I'm going to stay with you, even after you move past this."

Vicky was at a loss for words. She began to cry. She joined Damien on the floor, and then she lifted his shirt to look where she hit him. There was a fist-sized bruise there, the color of blueberries. "I'm sorry," she wept. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Damien sighed. "I'm okay." Damien sat up a grunt, exhaled harshly, and then hugged her like she was tiny and fragile. "It's okay. We're okay, baby."

She held him so tightly. He was slender. He was sturdy. "It's not okay. I said terrible things. I hit you."

"It's fine. It gave me wood, so we're even."

Vicky laughed. "Okay." She wiped her eyes. "I love you. I was just scared. And it hurts. It always hurts."

"I want to make your hurt go away. I know that I can't though. I'm here to comfort you, though. I'll always protect you."

Damien held the back of her neck. It seemed like forever that she stared into his eyes. Time was weird for Vicky. But she didn't particularly care, because Damien kissed her like she was sweet and fragile and priceless.

#monster prom #vicky schmidt #damien lavey #brian yu #oz monster prom #zoe monster prom #brian/damien/vicky #oz/zoe #platonic brian/oz/zoe #this is twice now I've posted this fic to the wrong blog

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luckyspike · 5 years

Text

Adventures in America, Ch. 11 - The Ribs are Probably Symbolic, or Maybe Just Delicious

In which Adam and Lucky have a serious Discussion about The Past

it’s a lot of emotions and talking, and also a low key ode to barbecue ribs

Start with chapter 1 here

Refresh on chapter 10 here

or check out my fic tag for all kinds of stuff

---

Adam waited for the waiter to drop off two sodas and leave with their food orders before he dropped the opener. “I’m the Antichrist.”

It didn’t get the reaction he’d been afraid of. In fact, it hardly garnered any reaction at all. Lucky watched him for a long minute, then slowly reached across the table, picked up his soda, and sipped through the straw. He looked pensive. After a while, he swallowed, and said, “Go on.”

“Any questions about that?”

“Yes, but I want to hear you out first. I think …” He looked around. Leaned forward, wove his fingers through his hair, and stared fixedly at the table. “I think this is going to answer a lot of weird questions I’ve had about my life.”

Adam frowned. “So you don’t think I’m crazy?” It wasn’t a question of validation, for Adam, but for confirmation. Lucky nodded. “You don’t want me to like … prove it, or anything?”

“The haunted doll was plenty, but I mean, if you want to get us a free meal and no one has to die or anything …”

Adam shook his head firmly and said, “No, no messing around. I don’t do that. I try not to do any of it, anymore. Not unless I really have to. And … and you know, the longer I go without using the powers …”

Lucky nodded. “You don’t use it, you lose it. Heard that all my life.” He nodded to Adam. “So … explain stuff. Please.”

Adam sighed, folded his hands. “I didn’t know ‘til I was eleven. An’ then it kind of just … happened overnight. My Dog showed up - he’s a hellhound, or he used to be, I dunno if he still is - an’ I thought he was just a regular stray dog. But then I started hearing these voices, tellin’ me to change things an’ take over the world an’ I kind of … lost it? For a little while, anyway.” He stopped to gauge Lucky’s expression, but the other boy just nodded again, encouragingly, urging him on. “An’ then, uh, this is gonna sound crazy, but I guess, um. Well, me an’ my friends met the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse an’ like, defeated them or something, an’ my godfathers were there, plus some other people, Anathema and Madam Tracy and Newt and Mister Shadwell, and I thought I did it? Like told ‘em to stuff the whole Armageddon thing.”

“Uh-huh.” Lucky was wide-eyed, and he took a long sip of soda as Adam continued to talk.

“But I didn’t.” He swallowed. “‘Cause then this angel and this demon showed up - not Aziraphale and Crowley, two other ones - to try to convince me to re-start it, but I didn’t. I told ‘em off, and they left and said they’d tell … um. You know.”

“Lucifer? And, wait … Francis and Nanny are an angel and a demon?”

“I guess,” Adam said wretchedly. He groaned. “Anyway, then he got angry and was gonna come and tell me off for not starting Armageddon, but Crowley stopped time for a minute -”

Lucky held up a hand. “Which one is Crowley? Demon or angel?”

“Your Nanny. I’m pretty sure. But definitely a demon.”

Lucky grinned. “Oh, kick ass.”

“Yeah, it was. Anyway, that gave me time to think about what to do, ‘cause at that moment I had literally all the power in the world, ‘an so we came back to the present and I told the devil to piss off because he wasn’t my dad. An’ then my dad showed up,” he finished, a little lamely. Lucky’s mouth was open.

“You told Satan to fuck off? Piss off,” he amended. “Actually those words? And you were eleven?”

“Not exactly those words.” Adam sighed. “I actually yelled ‘you’re not my dad’ at him like ten times and then he like dissolved into a cloud.”

“Dude that’s still awesome.” Lucky sat back. “Holy shit. Fuck. I … I dunno what to say. Then what?”

“What? What do you mean, then what?” He shrugged. “I dunno? The world didn’t end?”

“I mean clearly. But like, you gave up that evil stuff and whatever, and then you just … went home? Went back to school?”

Adam considered it. He’d never really focused much on the afterwards part. “I got grounded. For being on a restricted military air base and uh, being out when I was supposed to be in bed.”

“You rebel,” said Lucky, faintly. “But you still know - Crowley? Nanny? Shit, I still call her - him, ugh, what …” He rested his forehead on his hand. “She’s still Nanny.”

“I always knew him as Crowley.” Adam shrugged. Cautiously, he took a drink, taking a minute to glance around the restaurant. Nobody seemed to be paying them any attention, and he didn’t see anyone he recognized. “Yeah, after the whole thing I found a paper with his number on it in my jacket pocket. For if I had questions, it said. So I called him up one day and I guess he had handed in his retirement papers to Hell or whatever, I never really found out, but after that we just … we started meeting like once every month to talk about stuff, and I think he wanted to keep an eye on me, but then like, him an’ Aziraphale - I’m 99% sure that’s Brother Francis - just sort of kept hanging around even when I didn’t have that many questions left an’, you know how it is.” He shrugged again. “I dunno. They’re cool. An’ I learned at church that back in the day your godparents were supposed to be the ones to teach you about religion so I figured godfathers worked as well as any name for them.”

“I’d say so, yeah.” Lucky blinked. “Wow. Okay. That explains … like in some ways that explains nothing, but then in other ways that explains literally everything, so I don’t know how to take it.”

Adam sipped his own soda. “Well, you haven’t called the cops to have me committed to a mental hospital yet, so I’d say you’re doing better than I expected.” That got a laugh. “Right, so that’s me. Tell me your side. Because uh, I think that’s gonna answer a lot of questions for me, too.”

Lucky shrugged. “It’s not as dramatic. But basically, growing up until I was seven I always had Brother Francis and Nanny. And they were always like ‘do good unconditionally’ - that was Francis - or ‘crush your enemies to bloody pulp beneath your shoes when you assume your throne’.”

“Nanny.” Adam nodded knowingly. “Which is really funny, actually, if you get to know Crowley, ‘cause - sorry, never mind. Go on.”

“Well no, you’re right, because she was mostly all talk. She was actually a super good Nanny. And, like, she was always encouraging me to get into mischief but like I think the worst thing we ever did was vandalize museum plaques and cut down literally all the hedges on the property because she said they were pathetic excuses for plants. The rest of the stuff was like, just kind of goofy pranks.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s definitely Crowley.”

“But she left! Her and Francis.” He looked sad then, and as a basket of dinner rolls arrived he seized one and started ripping it in half, scowling at it the whole time. “When I was seven. Said I was too old to have a Nanny anymore and I’d have tutors or whatever. But I thought I might still see her since she and Francis were always together, but he handed in his resignation the same day.” He sighed and jammed half of the roll into his mouth. “Pfufthed.”

“Uh …”

Lucky swallowed. “It sucked,” he clarified. “Sorry. But she did leave me her email address. So I started writing her then and I’ve pretty much written her twice a week ever since.” His eyes widened. “Wait a minute, I have her phone number! She just told me never to just call, because she doesn’t have good reception, but I can text her and if we want to talk we set up a time. She always calls on my birthday.” He held out a hand. “Lemme see your phone.”

Adam had already seen where this was headed, and he had his phone on the table in a blink. He pulled up Crowley’s contact information, and Lucky pulled up Nanny’s. They checked the numbers once, twice, and three more times, and then Lucky swore. “It really is her!”

“And I’m sure Francis is really Aziraphale.” He crossed his arms and considered the phones. “Wonder if I can convince ‘em to video chat later. I want to ask them about the doll, anyway.”

“Oh, good idea.” He consumed the second half of the dinner roll, and went on. “Anyway, so I never actually saw them after that, just talked and wrote and stuff, but then when I was eleven, the other weird thing that happened was the whole trip to Israel.” He shook his head. “So my dad gets this memo from the White House, right, that we’re expected right away in Tel Megido, Israel, for some kind of diplomatic meeting with a field researcher. Or something. Anyway, we all three go - me and my parents, plus all the bodyguards - and we meet this professor guy there that looked super weird. And he stank. Like, literally, smelled like a dirty public toilet. But he kept asking me about the voices in my head, and the dog, and all this stuff I didn’t understand but he freaked me out so I was trying to play along. But then when I didn’t like, know the answers because I wasn’t you, I guess, he straight up bit his finger off and ran into the avocado grove and then it exploded.” He shrugged. “Honestly I thought he died.”

“He was probably a demon or something.” Adam swallowed. “Did he have a name?”

Lucky thought about it, brow furrowed and then, unexpectedly, he laughed. “Yeah, actually! He said is name was Dr. Hastur La Vista.”

“Oh God.” Adam winced. “Hastur.”

“You know him?”

“Never met him, thank you very much, no. But Crowley’s told me about him. He’s a Duke of Hell. I think … I think you got really lucky, Lucky.”

The other boy, under his mop of dark hair and his increasingly-shaggy beard, paled. “Duke … of Hell.”

“Yeah.”

“So what confuses me -” he stopped short, because the waiter arrived with two plates of ribs, which were each deposited in front of the boys. They said their thank yous, smiled politely, and then Lucky lunged forward, stuffing a french fry into his mouth, deadly serious. “How did they think I was you?”

Adam looked down at his food, and started pulling the ribs apart. “All I know,” he said slowly, “was there was a mistake. The only person supposed to be giving birth that night was your mum, but my mum went into labor early. So they both must have given birth at the same hospital, with the Satanic Nuns.” He leaned in, lowered his voice. “Crowley delivered me in a basket, and they were supposed to switch me with whichever baby your mom had. But with three babies I guess things got mixed up, and I ended up with my parents.”

Lucky blinked and, slowly, set down the french fry he had been holding. “Are you … are you saying my parents aren’t really my parents?” He looked lost, suddenly, eyes wide and shiny. “But … but I look so much like my mom …”

“I don’t know,” Adam replied hurriedly. “I’m sorry. Sorry. I don’t know. Everything got so mixed-up, I guess, and Crowley assumed they’d got it right and put me with your parents so when they took you home they thought …” he trailed off. Lucky wasn’t talking, wasn’t even looking at him. He was staring at his food, hands limply resting on either side of the plate. “Your parents might be -”

“They’re not,” he snapped, before Adam had a chance to finish. “They might have fucked up but they wouldn’t have fucked up that bad. They would have swapped me and the baby my mom actually had.” His eyes watered. “Shit. Oh, shit.” And then he was crying, all at once, tears and snot and all. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Adam said softly, because he was. “I wish it hadn’t happened.” He let the other boy cry, for as long as he needed. No one noticed, Adam made sure, because he felt like he owed it to the other guy to keep him from becoming a barbecue restaurant spectacle in the middle of a total breakdown. He picked at his food - suddenly, he was not very hungry at all - and waited, while around them the diners came and went, their own food got cold, and Lucky kept crying.

He petered out eventually. “I bet your parents are my actual parents,” he said, voice shaking and hitching as he spoke. “That’s what happened. Bet you anything.”

Adam shifted uncomfortably. “Probably.”

“What happened to my mom’s baby?”

“I don’t know. He’s … he’s okay,” Adam finished, because he knew that was true, somehow. He’d felt it in his soul back at the airfield, although he hadn’t known what it was at the time, and he felt it now, too. In a way, it was a relief to finally be able to label that feeling of ‘okay’. “I just know. I don’t know how, but I know.”

Lucky took a shaky breath. “My parents … the people that raised me … fuck, even that’s not right, that was always Nanny and Brother Francis.” He sobbed again. “God damn it. My dad - Thaddeus - always thought I was weird, my mom - Harriet - never wanted anything to do with me if I wasn’t interested in exactly what she wanted to do.” He sniffled. “This whole trip … they don’t give a shit. Oh, they acted like they were worried or whatever, but they haven’t called. Haven’t texted. I think when I’m not home they forget I exist.” He sobbed. “And you talked to your parents. They’re good parents.”

Adam didn’t deny it. He was surprised to find that he too had tears running down his cheeks. “Yeah. I’m so sorry, Lucky, I’m really sorry, but I … I don’t know what to say.” He sagged, swiped his sleeve across his face. “I can’t fix it anymore.”

Lucky bit back another sob, and took a deep breath. Swallowed. “Can I meet them?”

“Absolutely,” he replied without hesitation. “Whenever you want, any time you want. Any time.”

“Thanks.” He didn’t cry again, at least not audibly. Tears ran down his face for a little while longer. He prodded at his fries. “God, and it was Nanny’s fault … I thought she loved me.”

“I bet she does.” Adam was surprised with the conviction with which he said it. “You know if Crowley likes you. If Crowley likes you, he … like, okay, he has literally run into a burning building at least twice to save someone he likes.”

Lucky laughed wetly at that. “Doesn’t sound like she’s a very good demon.”

“No, terrible demon. That’s why he retired. Aziraphale’s kind of a shit angel too, to be honest. I think if he had his way he’d be a hermit and live in a hollowed-out mountain full of books. He retired too,” he added. And then, because he felt he had to defend Crowley a little bit, “I don’t think there was much of a choice. I don’t think any of us - definitely not you or me or our parents, or Aziraphale, and I don’t think even Crowley - had much choice.”

“He could have not dropped you off at all,” Lucky challenged. “Just taken you somewhere else and …” he swallowed.

Adam didn’t need to hear him finish the sentence. “He doesn’t kill kids,” he replied. “It’s kind of one of his things.”

“Wow, he really is a shitty demon.”

“Totally.” He sighed. “I’m so sorry, man. Maybe … I probably should have kept all that to myself, huh?”

The answer didn’t come right away. It didn’t come after a minute, after Lucky sipped his soda full of melted ice and thought it over. “No,” he said finally. “No, I’m … I’m gonna be glad you did, eventually. I kind of hate you right now, but you were a baby when everything went down initially, and you didn’t know, and then when you did know you told the actual devil to fuck off and stopped the Apocalypse, so I guess that counts for a lot.”

“All sounds pretty fair,” Adam agreed.

“I think we should find the other guy. The third baby.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do too. But he is okay.”

Lucky looked at Adam warily. “Yeah. Yeah, I … believe you. And maybe we don’t tell him. But I just want to make sure.”

“I’m in. It’s a deal.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Bet he’s in England.”

“Probably.”

“We can find him.”

“We have to.” He took a deep breath, and then, as if realizing his mostly-untouched food was still there, blinked down at it. “Ugh … I was really looking forward to those.”

“I can warm them up.”

Lucky glanced at him slightly askance. “You’re not gonna like … start breathing fire or something, are you?”

“No, I can just …” he waved a hand and made a vague noise he’d probably picked up from Crowley at some point. “I can just make them warm again. It’s just a little thing, I can still do those.”

“... Alright. But only ‘cause I’m curious.”

Adam shrugged. “Okay. There you go. Warm and fresh.” And indeed, when Lucky held his hand cautiously over the ribs, they were as warm as they’d been when they first came out of the kitchen, the red ochre-colored sauce glistening and sweet-smelling.

“Jesus.”

“No I’m like … the exact opposite of him.”

Lucky stared at him and then laughed again. “Yeah. Yeah, you are, dude.” He tore a rib from the rack and bit into it. “Ugh, these are good. You didn’t do that too, did you?”

“Literally just reheated them. Like an infernal microwave oven.” That did it. Oftentimes, when someone has received terrible news, and they’ve cried over it, or begun to mourn, or even just compartmentalized the whole thing away for the time being, the first even vaguely-funny thing that is said afterwards is like a piece of flotsam big enough to grab during a shipwreck. And like a sailor stranded in a sea of confusing history and misunderstandings, Lucky clutched onto Adam’s bad joke and started to giggle. And then to laugh, hard, leaning forward with his forehead resting on the back of his hand, his hair dropping into his barbecue-sauce-coated fingers. Adam laughed too, mostly at how hard Lucky was laughing, and before they realized it the two of them were cackling like hyenas over a plate of ribs and a newly-discovered bond that had tied them together their whole lives, whether they’d known it or not.

“God, that wasn’t even that funny.” Lucky wiped his eyes. “Oh, man. Oh … God.” He looked up, no longer laughing, but definitely curious. “You don’t think … do you think it was a coincidence, us meeting up like this?”

“It’s ineffable.”

“Definitely un-fuckable, you have that right.”

Adam laughed again, and shook his head. “No, no, ineffable. Aziraphale’s always saying that. “Oh, it’s ineffable, God’s plan. Means it can’t be discerned, known, or understood.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Don’t think about it too much,” Adam advised, with all the experience of someone who had been thinking about it off-and-on for the past seven years. “You think about it too much and you get a headache and a panic attack. My conclusion is always: I dunno, but here I am and so what am I gonna do about it?”

Lucky gnawed at another rib. “Yeah,” he said, around the bone. “Yeah, you’re right. Man, I’m sorry for falling apart like that, but it was kind of a lot.”

“Do not apologize for that.” Adam shook his head vehemently. “Absolutely not. And if you want to be cross with me or upset or whatever, do it. You deserve to. It sucks, what happened.”

“Well, yeah, but I mean look at you.” His face softened a little. “Do you know who -”

“Nope.” Another firm head shake. “Here I am and so what am I gonna do about it,” he repeated like a mantra.

“Yeah.” He stared at the rubs. “What are we gonna do about it?”

Adam sucked on one of the ribs, savored the sauce, and then shrugged. “I think step one: figure out what the doll was about.”

“Cool, yeah, agreed.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and streaked sauce across his cheek. Adam elected not to say anything.

“Step two: uh … chase more tornadoes? I mean, it’s what we came here for, right?”

Lucky looked a little less certain about that. “Yeah. Yeah, it was but now I … I dunno. It feels weird to keep doing whatever I was doing. Like. My whole life …” He frowned. “Should my life be different?”

Adam finished the rib he was working on, partially because it was really good, but also partially because he wanted to be sure that he said the thing he wanted to say next right. “Okay.” He set the bone down, and looked at the other boy very seriously. “Don’t take this the wrong way. Because I’m not tryin’ to minimize anything we talked about here. But … this whole new information, right. Is it gonna change your day-to-day?”

Lucky bristled. “Maybe. I mean, it’s sure as fuck gonna affect my relationship with my parents.”

“Not what I meant.” Adam shook his head. “You’re right, it absolutely will. An’ that’s gonna take a lot of time, believe me. I’m still …” he sighed. “It’s still weird, even though I’ve known for a long time. It gets less weird, though.” He squared up his shoulders. “But no, what I’m talking about is, does it change the stuff you like to do? Are you gonna like the weather less, is what I’m saying,” he finished lamely, while Lucky stared at him. “‘Cause if the answer is yes, then I think your step two is gonna be different from mine. I’m gonna keep chasing tornadoes for the next three weeks.”

“I … argh.” Lucky took a bite of his rib with a little more feral energy than was strictly necessary. “This is heavy shit, man. I dunno.” He swallowed the meat. “How are you so chill about all this? Just had a ton of time to deal with it?”

“Partially.” He shrugged. “Also I’ve had like an on-call angel and demon for the past seven years who’ve always been available to talk to me during a personal crisis.” He sighed. “They’re actually super helpful to talk to when you don’t know what to do, because at this point I’m pretty sure they’ve literally seen it all.”

“You’re gonna call them tonight, right?” Lucky looked worried again, a little pale. “About the doll, at least?”

“Yeah. And, uh.” Adam thought it over. “I think you should talk to them too. If you want to. I think it’d be good.”

The answer came fast, and Adam suspected Lucky had just been waiting for the offer. “I want to. I really want to.”

“Alright. So amended plan.” He pushed one of the rib bones off to the side of the others as he spoke. “One: call Aziraphale and Crowley and figure out what the doll was about. Two: figure out what we want to do for step two.” He raised his eyebrows. “Sound better?”

“Can I add something before step one?”

“Sure.”

“Step pre-one: finish these ribs because holy shit, man.” He had another, and then said, “Life’s fucked up right now, but at least these are really good.”

Now with chapter 12!

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #adam young #warlock dowling #the one where they go to america #i wish i didn't enjoy fanfiction so much

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babybluebanshee · 5 years

Text

Seared With Scars - Chapter 8 (Mystery Nerds AU)

“A company of believers is like a prison full of criminals; their intimacy and solidarity is based on what they can least justify about themselves.” John Updike

--- The ropes biting into Stan’s wrists brought back a slew of unwanted and unpleasant memories - the stifling heat of the trunk of a car left in the desert. The tight handcuffs slapped on him as he was ushered into a tiny, dirty prison cell with two guys who were bigger and much tougher-looking than him. The vice-like grip of an angry, uncaring nurse who warned him what happened to patients that stepped out of line.

All these memories flashed in his mind, churned up like chunks of a shipwreck in a frothing sea, each one a new exercise in fear.

But he couldn’t let that fear overcome him. He had to think. Every time he brought his gaze back to his brother’s prone figure, gasping on the ground under Matthews’ foot, he reminded himself what was at stake.

Those broken ribs could puncture lungs.

Those blows to the head meant traumatic brain injuries that needed attention.

The leg that was now a disgustingly twisted mess could, at best, not heal right, and, at worst, cause a whole host of infections that could-

No, he wasn’t going to think about that. He’d just gotten his brother back after ten years. He sure as hell wasn’t going to lose him again, especially not to the snot that stood before him and his friends, trying his damnedest to look tall and imposing, and called himself Blind Ivan.

Stan would have laughed at this young man, barely even an adult, trying to convince the world he was not to be trifled with if it hadn’t been for the way he looked at them.

His eyes passed over each of them lazily, like their presence before him was the most mundane thing in the world, something he dealt with every day, a simple chore that needed tending to. And yet, there was...something wrong in his face. Stan couldn’t quite put his finger on what. Maybe it was how, no matter which direction he turned, his eyes never seemed to catch the light. Maybe it was his skin, so ashen and pallid it made him look like a creature of the undead. Maybe it was his bony hand clutching Fiddleford’s knapsack, knowing exactly what was in it and why it was so dangerous that Ivan had it now.

It stirred a primal repulsion in Stan’s gut, that set all his instincts into overdrive to find a way out of this.

A quick glance at his immediate left showed him Fiddleford looked exactly the same as Stan felt. Guilt mixed ever so subtly with the apprehension as Stan recalled how he’d slung the little nerd around earlier, throwing all kinds of insults and threats at him. Now Fiddleford’s face looked like his entire world had just been shattered, and in a way, Stan supposed that it had.

Ivan, this person Fiddleford obviously thought that he could trust, was staring down at him like he was a fly to be swatted. Stan didn’t blame him for looking afraid.

“Get your hands off me, you bathrobe-wearing freaks!”

Helen, however, did not seem in the least bit intimidated by Ivan or any of the other cultists currently trying to restrain her. If anything, it all made her struggle harder, and most of that struggle was focused on her desire to break free and throttle Matthews.

“You absolute bastard,” Helen shrieked at him, lunging forward so hard that the cultist trying to tighten the rope around her wrists was nearly jerked off balance. Stan had never seen her so angry, not even after she’d gotten her first glimpse at the portal a few hours before. That had at least been brought on by the culmination of all the crazy shit she’d been forced to endure up to that point. Now, there was nothing in her eyes but cold, hard fury. “I believed you!” she yelled. “I gave you a second goddamn chance!”

“What can I say, Helen,” Matthews replied, flatly. “Thanks.”

Helen let out a low growl, reminiscent of a rabid dog. One of the robed figures tried to grip her by her arm, in an attempt to wrangle her back to a more prone position, but she merely shot her elbow back and up, managing to clock them square in the jaw.

The figure stumbled backwards, their hood falling back, but before Helen could take advantage of it, another cultist grabbed a clump of her hair and pulled hard. With a pained shouted, she was forced back into a kneeling position on the floor. The figure she’d struck slowly straightened up, the doughy face of Sheriff Leory Muggins glaring icily back down at her.

“Sure wish you hadn’t done that, Mrs. Stillwell,” Muggins said, massage his jaw where he’d been struck.

Helen stopped moving and her eyes went wide. “Muggins?” she breathed.

“That’s right,” the figure clutching Helen’s hair said, voice snide and mocking. Reaching up their free hand, they pulled back their own hood, revealing the grandmotherly face of the secretary from the hospital, her lips pulled back in a sneer through a jagged cross-hatching of scars.

She had seen them with Fiddleford when they first entered the hospital. That’s why she thought he’d be in Helen’s house. That’s why she’d been there, waiting to attack them.

She’d played them.

“Louise? Y-you…” Helen began. Stan could almost see the fight dripping out of her. “You were the one...the one in my house?”

“Sure was,” Louise replied, her tone sickeningly sweet. “And speaking of what happened at your house…”

In a blur of motion, Louise shot out her fist and punched Helen directly in her eye. Helen’s head snapped to the side as she let out a surprised cry of pain. Stan heard her glasses crunch under the force of the blow, then watched as they went flying from her face, shattering completely as they made contact with the floor.

Helen lowered her head, panting heavily. Stan watched blood drip from her nose and spatter on her pant leg. She didn’t look back up.

Any fear that Stan felt dried up in that instant, and he growled, “You’re gonna regret that, you hag!”

Finally, Ivan spoke up. “There you go, Stanley, making threats you couldn’t possibly hope to carry out,” he said, his deep, smooth voice cutting through the mayhem unfolding before him like a surgeon’s scalpel. “It would seem you and your brother share the idiotic tendency of trying to get out of problems you created by playing the brave hero.” Ivan’s smug grin widened. Stan wanted to claw it off his face.

“A pity,” Ivan continued, “that you’re not the only ones its gotten into trouble.”

Stan growled again, and barked, “I’ll show you trouble when I get out of this, you bald son of a bitch.” He then turned his attention to Matthews, and spat, “And once I’m done with him, I’ll be sure and fuck you up, nice and slow, you fucking traitor.”

Matthews didn’t respond. He just stared almost sleepily at Stan, right before digging his heel directly in his brother’s back. Ford practically spasmed beneath him, and let out a weak whimper of pain.

Stan forced himself to be still, even though the boiling heat of his rage still simmered inside him.

He needed to think.

Ford’s struggles were lessening. They were running out of time.

“You need not waste so much of your energy being angry with Dr. Matthews, Stanley,” Ivan said, taking a step closer to him. “He was only acting on my orders to finally bring our leader back to us. And then, of course, it dawned on me that this would be the perfect opportunity to reel in and dispose of not just one problematic interloper, but three, all in one fell swoop. All we needed was the proper lure.” He nodded his head in Ford’s direction. “And your brother more than proved effective for that.”

Ivan turned his attention over to Darryl, who’d been so quiet that Stan had almost forgotten he was there, and said, “But the person I really owe the most thanks to is you, Private Little.”

Darryl didn’t say a word in response. His expression didn’t even change. Despite the ugly bloody lip he’d received from the other cultists, payment for throwing his lot in with their enemies, his spine remained rigid, his eyes focused intently on the air in front of him. He gave no indication to Ivan that he’d even heard what he’d said.

“Had it not been for your bleeding heart and wavering faith, I would never have had the idea to...extend the olive branch, as it were,” Ivan continued, stooping low into Darryl’s field of vision, seemingly intent on getting some kind of reaction from him. He came within inches of Darryl’s face. “So, thank you, Private Little, for making all this possible.”

Darryl remained stonily silent, but Stan didn’t miss the flicker of shame in his eyes.

Ivan’s smile melted away, so quickly and so fluidly that it seemed almost inhuman, like the removal of a mask. “It does sadden me though, Private Little, that I simply must punish you for your transgressions against us.” There was not a hint of sadness at all in Ivan’s voice as he reached out a hand, his fingers ghosting dangerously close to Darryl’s neck.

“Leave him alone, Ivan!” Fiddleford called out.

Ivan’s hand froze in the air. Everyone in the room turned to look at Fiddleford.

It was like looking at a completely different man. Gone was the quivering, jumpy beanpole from before, trying to make himself small, avoid confrontation, appease rather than fight.

The man before them now had fire in his eyes; not an angry fire, but a righteous one, intent on stopping the cruel sideshow of horrors unfolding before him. His jaw was set in a determined line. He was straining to pull his arms free from the two cultists attempting to hold him down. Stan wondered where this side of this man had come from, so suddenly.

Then again, as he thought of the skinny nerd’s convictions at their kitchen table, the way he’d thrown back as good as Stan had given him when they argued, the finality of his proclamation that he was willing to stop Ivan by any means necessary...maybe it was safe to say this had always been a part of who Fiddleford McGucket was. And now he had reason to unleash it.

Ivan seemed to regard Fiddleford’s outburst more with annoyance than anything else, straightening up and turning that eerie gaze directly to this angry man on the floor. Fiddleford didn’t seem at all bothered by that look, and instead said, his voice as stern as if he were talking to an unruly child, “You got what you wanted, Ivan. You won. Your plan is over.”

Stan noticed that the room had gone completely still and silent. All heads - even Helen’s, despite her missing glasses and swollen eye - were turned towards Fiddleford, watching, waiting for whatever was going to happen.

Ivan blinked at him, then straightened himself back up to his full height. Although that meant that his hand was no longer anywhere near Darryl’s throat, he now began taking slow, deliberate steps towards Fiddleford. Stan’s stomach gave a lurch as he watched Ivan reach down into the knapsack and pull out the memory gun from inside it.

Fiddleford saw it too, but rather than showing any sign of fear, he kept talking. “Ya see?” he said. “You’ve got me, you’ve got the gun. You have everything you set out to get. No one else needs to get hurt tonight.”

Ivan closed the distance between them in a few steps, never once taking his piercing gaze off Fiddleford. It was the predatory gaze of a wolf that had just found an injured fawn in the forest, lean and hungry and ready to give itself up to whatever feral impulse came first.

Still, Fiddleford did not back down. “Stanford needs help, Ivan. If he doesn’t get to a hospital, he could die. I promise - I’ll stay here, things can go back to the way they were. I won’t fight you. I’ll do whatever you want. But you have to let Stanford and the others go.”

Ivan raised the gun until it was level with Fiddleford’s forehead.

Fiddleford kept his hard gaze trained on Ivan, but Stan saw the faint flash of his throat as he gulped, betraying his terror.

“I don’t want things to be the way they were,” Ivan said in a harsh, low whisper. “And I don’t want your pathetic, malfunctioning toy.”

With that, Ivan hurled the memory gun to the ground. It slammed into the stone, the sound of breaking glass and buzzing wires filling the space for the briefest of moments, before settling into a smoking pile of debris.

Ivan reached out and grabbed Fiddleford’s face, digging his fingers hard into the other man’s flesh, pulling him close. “You don’t understand anything,” he hissed. “You with your arbitrary rules, your moral pontificating about trauma and endurance and how resilient humans could be.” Ivan’s tone dipped into a high-pitched parody of Fiddleford’s voice, complete with exaggerated accent. “‘Humans were meant to deal with the trauma of the every day, and overcoming it makes you stronger.’”

He barked out a harsh, humorless laugh and said, “Trauma doesn’t make people stronger. It just breaks them, a little more every day. It never gets easier and it never gets better. You were content to let these good people suffer because of your self-righteous nonsense. I offered them real help. The only reason I wanted you to be returned to us is so you could fix the flaw of the gun and we could be done with you. We are better off without you.”

Ivan flung Fiddleford’s face away, and flounced to the center of the room. A pedestal holding an ornate wooden box stood next to a chair with straps on the arms. It wasn’t hard for Stan to put together that this must be where the Society conducted their freaky little rituals.

He was quickly proven right when Ivan reached inside the box and pulled out another memory gun. It was bigger than the one he’d destroyed, almost ridiculously oversized, but he realized this must be the original. He remembered Fiddleford explaining how this gun could hold any amount of memory, no matter how long or how long ago they happened.

They were fucked.

“What I want is to help the Society reach its full potential,” Ivan said, studying the gun in his hand as if it were a beautiful and rare flower. “We will help heal this town, make every scar it’s ever been seared with seem like nothing more than a bad dream. You and these interfering fools you call your friends are the one thing standing in our way. But I intent to change that.”

Ivan began to twist the dial. “None of you will be telling anyone else about what you’ve learned here,” he said as he reached Matthews’ side. He knelt down and, almost tenderly, reach out and lifted Ford’s head in his hand, by his chin. For the first time since the cultists had jumped them, Stan managed to get a good look at his twin’s eyes. They were glassy and distant, eyelids drooping down heavily, creeping ever closer towards unconsciousness. Without Ivan supporting him, Stan was sure Ford’s head would flop right back against the concrete.

“I believe we will begin with you, Dr. Pines,” he said. His mood seemed to have shifted again, and he almost sounded kind, compassionate, even as that evil grin split his features once more. “Perhaps, once I’ve wiped your friends’ memories, they won’t even remember why you need to go to the hospital.” Ivan chuckled darkly. “I can think of a few people here tonight who would love to watch you slowly die.”

Rage burned in Stan’s gut. He strained his wrists pathetically against his ropes. They wouldn’t give.

He was going to be forced to watch his brother die, and he wouldn’t even remember why.

Ivan pressed the bulb of the gun against Ford’s forehead, and began to ease the trigger.

“Do me first!”

Helen’s voice rang out like a church bell in the deathly silent chamber.

What the fuck?

Stan snapped his head in Helen’s direction, and saw her looking wildly at Ivan, tears streaming down her face. “Please,” she said, her voice now tiny and broken. “I want to join you.”

What the actual fuck?

Fiddleford looked about as stunned as Stan felt, staring incredulously at Helen, his mouth hanging open, probably burning to question what the hell she thought she was doing.

Then Stan remembered their conversation on the porch.

Every morning I wake up and it’s still there.

Oh god...she wouldn’t…

Would she?

Ivan certainly seemed very interested in the possibility. He turned his head every so slightly to look in Helen’s direction, carrion eyes narrowed and inquisitive. After a moment, he lowered the gun from Ford’s head, and once again stood to his full height. In a few long strides, he’d come face to face with Helen.

“This is a trick,” he said simply.

“No,” Helen said, sounding so very, very small. “No tricks, I promise. I just...I can’t do this anymore. It’s too much. You’re right. It doesn’t get easier or better. It never will.” Helen exhaled shakily, and bowed her head. Two fresh streams of tears fell from her eyes.

“Helen, what are you doing?!” Fiddleford cried. He looked like his world was crashing down around him.

“Trying to get some goddamn peace,” Helen yelled back, turning her burning, tear-filled gaze to him. “Ivan is right. You don’t care about how much people have suffered. How much I suffered. You’re nothing but a cowardly idiot who won’t do what’s necessary! I just...I want my mind to be clear…”

Dear god, he was so sorry he’d ever dragged Helen into this. What had he done?

Suddenly, Stan felt something poke him in the arm.

Tearing his eyes from Helen, he looked down, and saw a folded pocket knife. Darryl was jabbing it into his arm. Stan looked back up at the other man, and saw his eyes frantically jump from the knife to Stan’s face.

Stan stole a glance at Darryl’s wrists. The ropes had been cut.

He wanted Stan to do the same to his own restraints.

Stan looked back over to where Ivan was still scrutinizing Helen. It almost seemed like Ivan was specifically focusing his red, filmy eye over her, as if it held some power to see into her soul, strip her bare, and expose any falsehoods. Helen sniffed heavily, trembling under his gaze, anguish plainly written on her bruised face.

His heart ached at the sight of it. If it was the last thing he ever did, he’d get them out of here and make it up to her.

Darryl slid the knife into Stan’s waiting palm. He flicked it open, and with a flick of his wrist, turned up the blade and started sawing through the ropes.

Never once removing that piercing gaze from Helen’s face, Ivan said, “What is it that you have seen? Speak honestly, or you will live to regret it.”

Helen gulped heavily, and then replied, voice trembling, “My baby...I...I lost my baby.”

“When?”

“Two years ago.”

“How?”

A beat of silence as Helen drew a deep breath, and let it out shakily. Then she said, voice thick, “I miscarried. Seven months in. They couldn’t tell me why. It just happened. My little boy...my Richie…” Stan stopped sawing as Helen’s words were swallowed up by a sob.

Little boy? Helen told him she was going to have a girl. Christina...

Realization hit him like a rock to the face, and he frantically began sawing again.

“You have to help me,” Helen said, her voice raw. “You’ve helped all these people. You understand. I can’t live this way.” She lifted her head, and Stan saw those dark green eyes of her, usually so full of warmth and maternal love, now desperate and full of pain. “These...these horrible men...all they’ve done is make it worse. Dragged me into their deranged world. I realize now that nothing good can come from them. I can’t trust them. But I trust you.”

Ivan’s face softened, ever so slightly, and he turned to Louise, who stood dumbfounded behind Helen. “Untie her,” he said. “She is no threat to us.”

Louise didn’t move for a moment, a symphony of conflicting emotions playing out at rapid speed on her face. She managed to open her mouth a bit, as if to protest, but Ivan snapped, “Have you gone deaf? I said untie her. She has clearly seen the light. She will make an excellent addition to the Society.”

Louise quickly moved to obey, and undid Helen’s restraints. Helen didn’t move as her ropes coiled to the ground limply. Ivan reached out, offering his hand to help her up.

After a moment, Helen, her hand shaking like a leaf in an unforgiving winter wind, accepted it.

“There, there,” Ivan said, the way one might soothe a frightened child. “Soon this will all be over.”

Stan could feel the ropes under the knife start to give. Just a little more...

Helen’s face fell in pure relief. She reached up her other hand, and breathed, “Thank you. Oh god, thank you so much. I knew I could count on you.”

Then, with a furious shriek that echoed off the walls, Helen slammed her forehead into the center of Ivan’s face.

Ivan roared in pained anger and stumbled back, shooting out the arm that held the memory gun, obviously hoping to strike Helen with it. Instead, she caught his arm and began to wrench tightly, gritting her teeth as she applied more force. Stan got a good look at her eyes, and saw the furious hellcat from before, heard it in the angry yell she unleashed as she gave a final tug, and Ivan’s hand opened involuntarily.

The memory gun fell from his hand, and Helen caught it before it hit the floor. Before Ivan could recover from her attack, she’d thrust the gun in his face, finger itching on the trigger. Her hands no longer shook. Her tears had quickly dried. The desperate pain in her eyes was gone, replaced now with white hot fury.

“I would never want to forget my baby, you arrogant piece of shit,” she growled.

Stan felt another of the ropes snap as the knife sliced through it. Come on, he was almost there…

“This is how it’s gonna go, Ivan,” Helen snarled. “You’re going to untie my friends. You’re going to tell Ed to back the fuck off and let us take Ford out of here. And before we go, we’re going to make sure none of you ever threaten or hurt anyone ever again. Understand?”

Gurgling was the only answer she received. Stan turned his attention toward the sound, and felt his heart stop for a moment. Matthews, his eyes still far away and glassy, had moved his foot from Ford’s back to his neck. Then he started to press.

“Put the gun down, Helen,” he said firmly.

“Ed, if you don’t get the hell away from him right now, I swear to god I’ll make it so this bastard forgets how to fucking breathe!”

“Stanford will be dead before you can pull the trigger!” Matthews shouted back. “Now put. It. Down.”

Stan could see the indecision play across Helen’s face. The gun shook minutely in her hand.

“Face it, Helen,” Ivan said, his tone superior even as he was held at gunpoint and his nose gushed blood. “You can’t possibly hope to defeat us all.”

The last rope finally gave.

“Maybe not,” Stan said. “But I sure as shit can.” In one fluid motion, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his knuckle dusters, slipping them on like a worn, comfortable pair of gloves.

He launched himself at Matthews. In the blink of an eye it took to close the distance between them, he got a good look at Ford, still under Matthews’ heel. This close, he could see the evidence of the brutal assaults his brother had been subjected to - his face was a mess of black and blue, mixed with blood and tears. His glasses were cracked. The leg Matthews had smashed was twisted in a horrifying way, a way that made Stan want to vomit and weep all at the same time. And then there was that goddamn shoe, pressing into his twin’s throat.

There was no two ways about it. He was going to kill Matthews for this.

With a furious roar, he slammed himself bodily into the old bastard, then raised his fist. The brass knuckle made a deliciously satisfying crunch as it made contact with Matthews’ face, and sent him stumbling backwards, into a stone pillar. He wheezed as air was forced from his lungs when his back made sudden and forceful contact with it.

Beneath him, Ford coughed a few times, no doubt sucking in as much air as he could now that his airway was free.

Stan forced himself to look away from his battered brother and focus on the cultists now moving in to surround him.

He threw out his arms, welcoming them to give it their best fucking shot.

“Anyone else want a piece?!”

The chamber exploded in noise.

Muggins was the first one to move toward him, his face drawn tight in animalistic rage. Stan shot out a left hook, catching him in the temple. It disoriented the pig, making him sway dangerously. Stan finished him off with a good one-two to the side, then an uppercut under his chin. Muggins fell like a sack of potatoes.

Another cultist tried to come in on his right and blindside him. Stan whipped around to face them, and shot out his left arm in a cross, catching the hooded freak in the cheek. When they bent down, a natural response to nursing an injured face, Stan gave a small jump that morphed into an overhand, landing squarely on the back of the cultist’s head, and they crumpled.

The next idiot who came wide at him received a right hook directly to the teeth.

It was all coming back to him now.

A heavy weight was suddenly thrown on his back, and Stan was thrown off balance. Someone was shrieking angrily in his ear, attempting to get sharp fingernails close to his eyes. He tried to shake them off, but they held on as tightly as they could, and suddenly a fist was flying in his face, sloppily, but doing enough to distract him and throw off his rhythm. One of the fingernails caught, and he grunted in discomfort as they dug into his skin, dangerously close to the stitches on the side of his head.

Then there was a loud crack, like the snapping of a twig, and the weight slipped from his shoulders. Whipping around, he saw Louise laying there, her fingernails stained slightly with the blood she’d drawn from his head.

Standing over her was Fiddleford McGucket, brandishing a baseball bat. He looked quite proud of himself.

The disbelief Stan felt must have been evident on his face, because Fiddleford shrugged and said, “Fight like a hillbilly.”

Behind Fiddleford, Stan saw Darryl, grabbing a cultist behind the neck and jamming a knee right into their midsection. The cultist fell to their knees, and Darryl quickly slammed his elbow into the back of their neck, splaying them out on the cold stone.

Helen, Stan saw, had abandoned Ivan and rushed to Ford’s side, saying something to him Stan couldn’t hear. All the while, she frantically twisted the dial on the memory gun.

One of the hooded figures started sprinting towards her, clearly seeing her and Ford as easy targets. Helen saw them, then simply leveled the gun at them and fired.

A brilliant column of blue light shot from the bulb, the force of it actually succeeding in knocking Helen back a bit. It smashed directly into the cultist’s face, and they gave a cry of surprised pain. Then they stopped, as still and lifeless as a statue. Even after the blue light faded, the cultist didn’t move, simply standing there, swaying slightly.

Helen had wiped their memory.

Made perfect sense. If these guys wanted to forget so bad, Stan had no problem helping them.

Fiddleford came up behind the mind-wiped cultist and brought the bat down hard on their head, bringing them down like a felled oak.

“We need to start wiping as many of their memories as we can,” Fiddleford cried. “Helen, as soon as we bring them down, hit them with the gun, got it?”

Helen gave him a stiff nod, then turned the gun to Matthews’ limp body behind her. She barely had a moment to put a flicker of pressure on the trigger before a shot of red slammed into her side, knocking her away from Ford and Matthews.

As the tangled ball of limbs rolled to a stop, Stan made out Ivan as he pinned Helen to the floor, teeth bared and eyes wide in animalistic fury. He snatched at the memory gun she still clung to and held just barely out of his reach.

“Give it back!” he roared.

Helen didn’t reply, simply reared back her foot and slammed it into Ivan’s midsection. He fell back with a pained grunt, and Helen rolled away from him until she was on her side.

She lifted her head, and saw Fiddleford, currently bashing the bat into the side of a cultist whose hands were dangerously close to his throat. She called out, “Fidds! Catch!” Fiddleford turned just as she tossed the gun.

The world seemed to suddenly descend into slow motion as the gun arched through the air towards him. Fiddleford turned sharply and reached up.

Then Stan saw Ivan getting to his feet, and spring across the room. Stan could only yell out Fiddleford’s name before Ivan’s fist suddenly connected with the other man’s face.

As Fiddleford stumbled back, the gun sailed directly into Ivan’s hand, and he began sprinting. Within moments, he’d vanished behind the curtain that lead to the stairs back up to the museum. Stan didn’t even stop to think about it. He ran after him. He couldn’t let him escape with that gun. They could take down every one of these loons, but if Ivan got out of here and still had that memory gun, then all of this would be for nothing.

He threw open the curtain and bounded up the stairs, two at a time. His heart pounded away, like it was about to burst out of his chest. He never let his sights waver from Ivan, keeping them trained on that red robe swirling around that bony, colorless frame.

As they reached the upper level, into the room with the secret passage, Stan found himself wondering what Ivan had to gain from all this. It was an odd thing to wonder now, after everything that had just happened, but it still wiggled its way to the front of his thoughts.

Ivan claimed that all this - the violence, the threats, the attempts on their lives, even the Society as a whole - was all in the name of protecting Gravity Falls. But as he’d pointed out to Fiddleford, this town wasn’t as fragile and unsuspecting as Ivan seemed to believe. The town wouldn’t even be there if the people weren’t tough enough to deal with whatever was here and endure it. Gravity Falls didn’t need anyone to protect it. It’d done a pretty good job of that all on his own.

So what did Ivan have to gain? Power? Control? Pure sadism? They were indeed pretty powerful motivators, as Stan had learned from years of dealing with criminals. But Ivan had proven himself so different from the run of the mill criminal scum that Stan had dealings with in the past.

Ivan didn’t seem to take any pleasure from having the control the Society afforded him. If anything, he seemed to view it as a burden, a hard, thankless task that only he could perform, now that he’d deemed Fiddleford inadequate. And while he did seem to relish in swiftly dealing out retaliation to any and all who opposed him, he clearly had managed to get away with the secret of the Society for some time without ever having to resort to it. He didn’t need to, as what he was offering seemed to be enough to keep members coming.

So the question still remained: at the end of the day, when everything was said and done, what did Ivan get out of all this?

Stan didn’t have time to ponder it any further, as Ivan neared an emergency exit. He must have been running on pure adrenaline, as there was a sign next to it that plainly stated that an alarm would sound if the door was opened, which Stan knew would also immediately alert the police to their location. As little love as he had gained for law enforcement over the course of his life, Stan knew that right now, authority figures were exactly what was needed, because they generally had ambulances in tow. But the only reason he could find for Ivan to do something so monumentally risky to himself was sheer desperation.

And Ivan being desperate just made Stan’s job a whole lot easier.

He slammed himself through the emergency exit and followed Ivan out into the darkness. ---

As Fiddleford brought the bat down on the head of the last charging cultist, Helen heard the distant clanging of an alarm bell, so faint and far away that for a moment she thought her ears were ringing. It wouldn’t have been the first time, as she gingerly touched the cheek where Louise had socked her. Who would have thought that this roly-poly grandmother had such a powerful punch?

It gave Helen a bit of sick satisfaction as Fiddleford went over to help drag Louise’s limp body over to the ever-growing pile of unconscious cultists they’d started in the center of the room. She was, quite frankly, tired of the gut-punch feeling that came with every one of these crazed yahoos dramatically flinging back their hood to reveal themselves as someone Helen worked with and even considered to be her friends. It made one feel rather indignant.

She ached all over and her face felt like one big bruise. The world was a blurry mess, thanks to the fact her glasses now lay twisted on the floor, shattered beyond all hope of repair. Somehow, the fact that meant she’d have to schedule an eye exam and get a new pair just rankled her all the more, to the point where she had to fight the urge to go over and plant her foot directly into Louise’s gut.

Her exhaustion was overruling her desire for retribution, however. They still had to drag all these idiots back upstairs, after all. It was going to be difficult enough to explain this all to the cops. They didn’t need to throw in a hidden chamber hidden under the history museum, at least not right now.

She’d honestly rather just curl up next to Ford and go to sleep for the next ten years or so.

As if on cue, she heard Ford groan quietly from his current position in her lap. She absentmindedly ran her hand through his blood-crusted hair, trying hard not to catch any tangles and hurt him any further than he was. He’d already been unsettlingly still since Ed had brought him down with a swift, merciless kick to the leg, which was now most likely broken. Even after spending nine years practicing medicine, seeing people mangled by car crashes and attacked by wildlife, looking at her poor young friend in obvious, exhausted agony made her stomach turn violently.

“Shhh, Ford,” she found herself muttering. “It’s okay. Everything's gonna be okay now.”

A dark chuckle echoed through the chamber. Helen turned her head and saw Ed, cheek swelling where Stan had struck him, but very much awake, as he lazily swung his head up like a rickety theme park animatronic to meet her gaze. His eyes were still glassy and vacant. That same distance from before, that stare that made him seem so very far away, was there again, but was now saturated with sadness. There was something broken in those eyes.

Ed’s eyes were the eyes of a man ready for death.

It sent a shiver up dread down Helen’s spine.

“They’re pretty words, Helen,” he said. “But we both know that, without that gun, all this struggle has been for nothing.” The truth of those words taunted her, but there was nothing taunting in how Ed spoke. His voice sounded like it was being carried away by the wind, raspy and soft. He sounded as tired as Helen felt.

“Shut up, Ed,” was all she could muster. She wanted to look away, away from that horrible look in his eyes that filled her with an apprehension she didn’t fully understand. But she couldn’t. It was like a car crash; the morbidity of it was almost fascinating.

Fortunately, Darryl spoke up, breaking whatever hold the gaze had on her. “That’s about enough out of you,” he muttered. He entered Helen’s field of vision, a coil of rope in his bloodied hands, moving behind Ed to lash his wrists together. Helen briefly wondered why he or Fiddleford didn’t just knock Ed out the way they had all the others, but then Fiddleford came to her side, at just the right angle to see his face, drawn and serious and above all tired, probably more tired than any of them. His entire world had pretty much imploded on him in a less than twenty-four hours.

“You can do whatever you like,” Ed muttered. “But you know I’m right. I guarantee you that Ivan won’t give up that gun without a fight. And I also guarantee that oafish friend of yours won’t be coming back with it, if he comes back at all. Not when he goes up against Ivan.”

“Stan can take him,” Helen replied, ignoring another jolt of dread that tripped down her back.

“He’s nothing but a dumber, sweatier version of that freak down there,” Ed shot back, nodding in Ford’s direction. “And he won’t stand a chance against Ivan when he’s angry.”

Ford let out another groan from Helen’s lap, and when she looked down to console him, she realized that he’d shakily brought up his head just enough so he could look Ed in the eye. Helen could feel him trembling against her, and put a gentle hand on his shoulder, trying to get him to relax and save his energy. He ignored her, and ground out, “Y-you...don’t know shit about my brother.”

Helen couldn’t help but smile.

Ed simply sighed and fell back against the pillar as Darryl finished binding his wrists.

“At least we can trust Stan,” Fiddleford said, every word heavy and accusatory. He sounded like a father whose child had just committed a terrible crime, and had left him wondering where he’d gone wrong. “Which is certainly more than I can say for you. All that pretty talk about wanting to help us, about wanting to help Helen...and the entire time you were just lying to our faces.” He turned his steely gaze to Ed. “And you had the gall to tell me that I was lowering myself to Ivan’s level. If anyone here is no better than him, it’s you.”

Ed’s eyes flicked up to meet Fiddleford, and once again, Helen was unnerved by the utterly inhuman way it made him look. Like a rusted robot, going through the motions of its ancient programming, just waiting to break down completely.

“McGucket, believe me,” Matthews finally said, sounding exhausted. “I never wanted Helen to get mixed up in all this. I meant it when I said all I wanted was to help her. I understand the kind of pain losing the baby caused her-”

“You don’t understand dick, Ed,” Helen spat, fury bubbling in her belly. “You’re the one who joined this freakshow because of some lake monster.”

Ed let out a harsh bark of a laugh, and said, “If you really bought that I’d go through all this just because I saw some monster in the lake, then maybe you’re the one who doesn’t understand anything.”

“What are you talking about?” Darryl asked, looking up from tying Ed’s wrists, a quizzical look on his face.

“I didn’t erase memories of a lake monster. I erased Andrea.”

“Andrea?” Helen felt her heart sink. “You erased your memories of Andrea?”

He shook his head, and said, “No. Not of her. Of her death.”

Oh dear god…

“Everyone believed me when I said that she was already dead when I came back from my rounds,” he continued. His voice quivered ever so slightly, the broken robot mask slipping further and further the longer he spoke. “But she was still hanging on. Not for more than five minutes, not long enough for me to actually be able to do anything. She was struggling to breath and I could tell she was scared and trying to claw her way back to life.” He gulped heavily. “And then, she looked at me. Those beautiful brown eyes locked on me and they were begging me to help and I couldn’t do anything but stand there and watch her die!”

Ed’s shrill cry echoed through the chamber. Helen saw tears pricking at his eyes as she stared at him in disbelief.

He took a few shaky breaths, and then said, “It kept me awake for weeks before I found out about the Society. This group is the only reason I didn’t just fall apart after Andrea died. That gun was what kept me sane. She was my whole world, Helen, and in the end, I couldn’t save her. I thought you, of all people, know what it’s like to be able to do nothing as someone you love painfully slips away from you. I thought you’d understand.”

For a moment, no one said anything, and the only sound was Ed’s raw, pained gulps of air, desperately trying to hold himself together.

Helen pitied him, much as she was loathe to admit it.

She thought back to the details of that horrible night.

Richard was at a late dinner meeting, so it was just her and the kids. They were at the dining room table, struggling through algebra, notes on the Industrial Revolution, the next chapter of The Great Gilly Hopkins, and she was filling the dishwasher. Her back had been hurting a lot that evening, but she also had been forced to sleep on it for the last week or so, since Christina really didn’t like it when Mom tried to lay on her side. Maybe she’d just leave the rest of the dishes for Richard and lay down for a while.

She’d just started to turn when the pain blossomed through her, like someone driving a hot knife into her kidneys, and a pained yell was ripped from her. She felt something hot and sticky trail down her leg through the haze of pain. She heard chairs frantically scraping at the hardwood floors and then Daisy was standing in the archway to the kitchen, staring down at her mother in abject terror, making her look about ten years younger than she was. Helen wanted to comfort her, say anything to ease her daughter’s fear. But nothing came out expect another pained gasp.

It was only when Scott and Amanda started trying to get past Daisy to see what was going on that she moved. Daisy began ushering them out, telling them in an authoritative voice Helen didn’t recognize coming from her that they were not to look, to go wait in the living room.

Daisy dashed to the kitchen phone, nearly pulling it off the wall as she frantically punched three numbers. Helen heard her speak four words that, to this day, made her insides clench and her brain send her into a mess of panic - “My mom needs help.”

She gave her head a hard shake, and looked back over at Ed. He looked much more human now than when this conversation had started. But Helen knew what he needed to hear.

“You’re right, Ed,” she said quietly. “I do know what that’s like.” Flicking her gaze down, she found that her hand had found its way to her abdomen. She didn’t remember putting it there.

Ed’s face flashed briefly in a look of relief. No, she wasn’t going to let him think he’d gotten to her.

“But you know what else I know?” she asked, her voice firmer, clearer. “I know that my pain doesn’t give me an excuse to hurt anyone else. Look at what this society has gotten you to do, Ed.” Helen gave Ford’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Look at what you’ve done to a man who never did anything to you. You never even met Ford until this morning. And you’ve broken every oath you had to take as a doctor, all because the man who made it so you didn’t have to face reality told you to.”

Ed said nothing. He merely looked away.

“That gun, this group,” Helen continued, “they’re not helping anyone. All it does is make it hurt worse. Every time the memories come flooding back to you, it’s like living through it again. No one can live that way, let alone heal. Even if you had offered me a chance to forget Ed, I wouldn’t have taken it. It wouldn’t have fixed anything.” She sighed. “These things can’t just go away, Ed. But they do get easier. Get some real help.”

The silence that followed was deafening, and for a moment, no one moved. It was as if time had stopped, just to focus in on this moment of pure human misery, simmering between this group of people with scars invisible to the naked eye.

Finally, Darryl cleared his throat and stood up, brushing the dust from the floor off his pants. Then, he pulled his robe up and over his head, revealing a white t-shirt and black jeans underneath, the average street clothes he’d been wearing at Helen’s house hours ago. A pair of dog tags clinked together, on a chain around his neck. He tossed his robe off to the side, in the dark surrounding them. He didn’t watch to see where it landed. He merely reached down and grabbed Ed’s bound wrists, and pulled him to his feet.

“We need to head back upstairs,” he said. “That ringing sounded like the fire alarm. Gotta get all these guys back up before the cavalry arrives.”

“Can’t wait to see how you explain an unconscious group of bystanders,” Ed muttered. “With injuries made by an illegal set of brass knuckles, no less.”

Helen shot him a scathing glance, but he had a point. There was no way they’d ever be able to explain this to the authorities without coming off like a bunch of deranged psychopaths. Three of these people were practically pensioners. There was no way the police would believe that they were the ones who’d caused any of their injuries.

“I think I have a solution to that,” Fiddleford said, wandering over to the wall. He felt along the surface for a bit, before his hand hit a stone that gave under his fingertips. The wall pulled back with a rumbling groan, and revealed half a dozen more memory guns, all the same size as the one Ivan had destroyed.

Ed scoffed and said, “Those things? They can barely hold an hour’s worth of memory. How are they supposed to help you?”

Fiddleford ignored him. “Darryl, would you check and see if Muggins has his police radio on under his robe?” He pulled open the panel on the side of the small gun and began fishing about in the wires. Darryl bent over Muggins, and pulled up his robe until it was around his midsection. Sure enough, attached to his belt loop, was his radio.

“Well, what do you know,” Darryl muttered. “Muggins may be an idiot, but at least he’s a reliable idiot.”

“Give it here,” Fiddleford said, pulling a long red wire out from the gun, curling it about in his fist. When Darryl placed the radio in his hand, Fiddleford pried off the battery compartment, and dug his thumb into the guts of receiver, pulling out another, shorter wire from within it. As quickly as one might tie their shoe, he connected them, and the receiver crackled to life. He twisted the dial a few times, then set the device on the ground, in the middle of the small group.

The screen attached to the gun said “SOCIETY OF THE BLIND EYE”.

It began to whine.

Then he reached down and grabbed the hem of Ed’s robe. Ed only had time to give off a small, indignant sound as Fiddleford began tearing off a long strip, then tore that into two smaller strips. “Helen,” he said, handing the bits of cloth to her, “use these to plug up Ford’s ears. Then you and Darryl need to cover yours.”

She did as he said, but that didn’t stop her from asking, “What did you do?”

“I amplified its frequency,” he replied matter-of-factly. “It’s still not as powerful as the original, but it should have a wider range now. Enough to store bigger memories from at least everyone in this room.” He punctuated that last sentence with a mischievous smirk at Ed.

Ed’s eyes went wide as the implications hit him.

The gerry-rigged memory gun whined louder.

“Say good night, Sally,” Fiddleford said, putting his hands over his ears.

Helen and Darryl did the same, right before a brilliant blue light flooded the chamber. ---

Twigs snapped under his feet as Stan sprinted through the forest, keeping his eyes trained on the billowing red cloak roughly a hundred feet in front of him. He beat branches away from his face as he moved deeper and deeper into the dense trees, ignoring them when he didn’t push them hard enough and they came back to slap him in the face. He tried to block out the feeling of the frigid night air constricting around him, leaching through his jacket and clothes like he’d been submerged in a cold bath.

He wasn’t going to let this bastard get away from him, not with that gun. He’d chase him to the ends of the earth if that’s what it took, but he was not going to let all the pain they’d gone through - Helen’s heartache, Fiddleford’s mental anguish, Ford’s torture - go to waste because of Blind Ivan.

The branches suddenly parted as he stampeded into a clearing, hazy moonlight peaking through the clouds to illuminate patches of mud and dead grass beneath his feet. He whipped around, looking for that shock of red. It was nowhere to be seen.

No, no, he couldn’t have lost him.

“Come out here and face me like a man!” Stan shouted, his voice echoing in the inky darkness. “You can’t hide from me forever, you bony coward!”

A mirthless laugh answered him, though from what direction it came from, he could scarcely begin to guess.

Ivan was toying with him. Despite the fact he could have used this opportunity to escape, he still stuck around to taunt Stan, lord over him how much smarter he was than him for escaping him so deftly. And arrogance like that could be exploited.

“What the fuck is so funny?” Stan shouted into the night.

“The fact that you think you’re somehow in control of this situation,” Ivan answered. Stan still couldn’t pinpoint exactly where his voice was coming from, but that hardly mattered. All he had to do was keep him talking, and Ivan would do the rest himself.

“Your kind always think that they can solve their problems with their might,” Ivan continued. “Yes, I know your kind quite well.”

“You don’t know shit about me!”

Another chuckle. “Perhaps not as much as the others, but you present yourself so plainly, it’s easy to draw my own conclusions. And what I find is this - you’re young, but you bear the scars of an old man. Scars that only come through unimaginable hardship. They’re not from any singular source, but every one is as painful as the last. And the worst part is that no one seems to care. After all, your suffering has made you who you are. Toughened you up. Made you a man. Isn’t that right?”

Stan flinched at the familiar words of his father being flung at him, but he couldn’t let that or the thought of how Ivan knew about them distract him. He simply had to make Ivan think he was getting to him. “Shut up!” he screeched at the trees.

“You keep trying to reach out to someone, to help you deal with these scars, but they brush you off. They sympathize, but they never try to change anything, and you’re left all alone to deal with it.”

Stan shouted back, “At least I’ve got people in my life because they want to be there. All you’ve got is a gaggle of robed weirdos who stick around because they’re afraid of you. If I had to make a bet, I’d say you’ve never had anyone around you that you actually gave a damn about. You wouldn’t know caring for another human being if it bit you in the ass.”

Silence was his only answer. He feared that perhaps Ivan had finally grown tired of his game and retreated.

Then something heavy slammed into his back.

His face struck the dirt hard and bounced, and for a moment, stars danced in front of his eyes. But then he felt the cold bulb of the memory gun press into the back of his head, and he rallied all his strength to push himself upward, flinging Ivan up and away from him, close to another cluster of trees.

As Ivan scrambled back to his feet, Stan saw his eyes flash in the moonlight, the first time he’d ever seen them catch any sort of light. And what he saw there was nothing but fury. This wasn’t just anger or gloating or frustration.

Ivan’s eyes burned with murderous hate.

Stan didn’t let him get any further than a low crouch before he sprang at Ivan and slammed him into the underbrush. They rolled over each other, both clawing and grasping, Ivan trying to shove the gun into Stan’s face and fire, and Stan trying to wrench it out of his grasp.

Then something solid and sharp slammed into Stan’s temple, right where he’d been stitched up, and his vision was flooded with white. He felt himself being slammed onto his back, and Ivan’s weight being pressed into his chest. As his vision cleared, he saw that Ivan wasn’t holding just the memory gun anymore. High above Stan’s head was a large, blood-stained rock. It must have been what Stan hit. And now Ivan was going to use it to smash his head in.

Acting on pure instinct, Stan shot out a fist, managing a hook right into Ivan’s right eye. The brass-aided punched forced Ivan from his position on Stan’s chest, and caused him to lose his grip on both the rock and the gun, and he fell to the ground with a thud.

Stan rolled just as the rock came down. The sound of rending metal and shattering glass caught his attention, and he looked up. The memory gun had landed directly on the rock, and lay broken in pieces. Ivan seemed to forget all about the pain from his injured eye. He simply gaped at the destroyed memory gun laying before him, occasionally sparking uselessly. “No,” he said quietly. “No...nononononoNO.” Suddenly his bellows filled the entire forest, and that burning gaze was back on Stan. “What have you done?!”

Stan took a moment to take in a few deep breaths and get his bearings. They’d managed to roll into another clearing. He faintly heard water rushing, and realized that behind Ivan was a cliff. Below it must have been the river that fed into the falls.

“It’s over, Ivan,” Stan said. “You’ve got nowhere left to run. You lost.”

The gaping devastation on Ivan’s face melted away like wax from a spent candle. From his throat bubbled up laughter, deep and unhinged. Stan felt the hairs go up on the back of his arms and neck, and he raised his fists in case this was the prelude to another attack.

But Ivan didn’t move, outside of his shoulders bobbing with his insane laughter. He raised his head to look at Stan, almost like he expected him to be in on whatever joke had played out in his head, like this was all some rollicking fun they’d partaken in together.

“You really think you’ve beaten me?” Ivan asked, his laughter now dying down into chortling hiccups.

“Look around, Ivan,” Stan replied. “You’ve got nothing left to throw at us.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Stanley,” Ivan said. Swaying slightly, he got back to his feet, not seeming to notice Stan readying himself to start throwing his fists again. “If you think that one night of your interference can stop what I have planned, you’re an even bigger fool than I imagined.”

Ivan stumbled back slightly, steadying himself a bit as he added, “I have plans, you see. Plans that I have worked too hard for too long to see stopped by the likes of you. You can’t possibly grasp the magnitude of what’s coming, Stanley Pines. Not like I can…”

Ivan took another step back. He was less than two feet away from the edge of the cliff. A gust of wind whipped around him dangerously, making him teeter closer to the edge. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to fall. Stan actually found himself taking a step forward, ready to lunge for him if started going over, not out of any sense of wanting to help. He just didn’t want an accidental fall to keep this twerp from getting the punishment he deserved.

But then Ivan turned his gaze back up towards Stan, and he stopped dead.

Ivan’s eyes were sharp and clear.

Ivan wasn’t in danger of accidentally falling.

He was backing towards the edge of the cliff on purpose.

“What the hell are you doing?” Stan called out, not even trying to hide how panicked his voice was.

“What I’ve always done,” Ivan said simply. “What is necessary.”

He took one more step backwards. Then he was over the cliff.

Stan rushed forward, though he wasn’t sure what he thought he’d be able to do. By the time he closed the distance between them, Ivan had vanished from sight.

He heard the splash as Ivan’s body hit the raging river below. Stan finally reached the cliff’s edge, and looked over. All he could see was swirling foam as the water settled back into its current. Ivan was nowhere to be seen.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. He couldn’t think of anything else to say or do.

He heard the wail of sirens drifting over the trees. He needed to get back, make sure that Ford was okay. Be there for him, the way he’d wanted to be there for him throughout this entire thing. He gave himself a shake it get out of the stupor that shrouded him.

He took a step forward, and stepped on something smooth and hard. He raised his foot and saw a tube, laying in the grass. It was white, with two brass nodes at each end. Ivan must have dropped it when they’d rolled into the clearing.

He bent down and picked it up. The moon offered just enough light to see words, scribbled shakily in dark ink on the side of the tube.

Preston Northwest’s Memories.

Who the hell was Preston Northwest?

Why did Ivan have his memories?

And why were they so important that Ivan would carry them with him, even as he jumped to his doom?

He glanced over his shoulder, to the cliff’s edge.

The raging current below offered him no answers. ---

Ford knew he was safe as soon as he opened his eyes.

Not just because his surroundings were a clean, bleached white, clearly not that awful, dank chamber under the history museum. Not just because the pain that had permeated his existence for the last several hours had faded to barely a dull throb.

It was because as soon as he opened his eyes, he was greeted by Stan’s tired smile. Blurred though it may have been because of his missing glasses, he’d recognize it anywhere.

Still, he wanted to hear it, out loud.

“Stan?” he said, his voice a pathetic, dried-out whisper. The single word seared his throat, but he didn’t care. He needed to hear it.

“I’m here, Ford,” was the reply. That wonderful, caring, supportive voice that sounded like a fork in a garbage disposal. It was music to Ford’s ears. He felt his hand being squeezed warmly, and it made him want to cry out of sheer relief.

“Here,” Stan said, reaching over to grab something from the night table. He leaned close, and slid Ford’s glasses back on his face. The world became clear again, despite the glaring crack in the left lens, and he could finally make out his surroundings. He was in a hospital bed, and a glance down revealed that his leg, the same leg Matthews had kicked in, was now entombed in a huge plaster cast, a foam wedge tucked underneath it to keep it elevated. An IV was at his bedside, no doubt responsible for the fact he wasn’t moaning in agony right now. The lights had been dimmed and the dark curtains drawn, although Ford could still see the pale gray of dawn peeking through.

But that wasn’t what Ford eventually focused on. No, what he focused on was the angry red gash at his twin’s temple. A line of neat stitches ran down the length of it, but it had clearly been a bad wound when it was received. Despite all his limbs feeling heavier than lead, Ford reached up and put his hand on the scar, and lightly traced his thumb down the length of it.

“Hey, don’t you start apologizing for that,” Stan said, reaching up to move Ford’s hand away, giving it another reassuring squeeze. “This had nothing to do with you.”

“I know,” Ford replied. “I still don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“How do you think I feel?” Stan asked, a smile creeping into his voice. “I’ve only been staring at your busted-up mug for two hours. Believe me, you’re no oil painting.”

Ford chuckled a little, forever grateful for whatever painkiller was being pumped into him by the IV by the side of his hospital bed.

“So, how are you feeling?” Stan asked.

“Like I got beat up by cultists,” Ford replied. “But the drugs help. And speaking of cultists...”

“Taken care of,” Stan replied quickly. “By the time the ambulance got there, none of them could even remember why they were in the museum to begin with.”

“Should we examine the moral implications of us stopping a group of violent memory-wiping fanatics by forcing them to violently have their memories wiped?”

“Who are we, the Justice League?” Stan scoffed. “Those nuts were gonna do a lot worse to us than just wipe our memories. You’re, ironically enough, living testimony to that.”

“Irony hurts like a bitch.”

“You’re telling me.”

A beat of silence passed between them, the question Ford wanted to ask and simultaneously never hear the answer to hanging between them. Finally, he took a deep breath, and asked, “What about Ivan?”

Stan bit his lip, obviously struggling with how he was going to answer. Ford’s stomach roiled a bit. Ivan had to have escaped. That’s all there was to it. Stan wouldn’t have been this hesitant if that wasn’t the case. If those words left Stan’s mouth, he wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to not vomit, out of sheer panic more than anything else.

“He jumped off a cliff.”

Ford blinked. That certainly was not what he expected Stan to say.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Stan replied with a halfhearted shrug. “I chased him to a cliff near the river. He tried to fight me. He lost. The gun got smashed up, so I guess he panicked. Took the coward’s way out.”

“Then it’s really over,” Ford said. He wasn’t even embarrassed by how meek his voice sounded to his own ears.

“Yeah, it is.” Stan gave his hands another squeeze. Ford hadn’t realized until then that they were shaking.

Another beat of silence passed between them, this one less oppressive than the last. For that moment, Ford just let the relief that his tormentor was gone wash over him. It was better than the drugs.

Then, he asked, “Is everyone else okay?”

Stan nodded off to the other side of the room, and with a bit of effort, Ford turned his head enough to see Helen and Fiddleford, set up in a couple chairs against the wall, passed out on each other. Both of them were covered in bruises and cuts, evidence of their struggle against the Society.

“They pretty much passed out as soon as we got the word from the paramedics you were gonna be okay,” Stan said. “Can’t say I blame them. We really put them through the ringer for this. Helen, especially...”

Stan trailed off, for a brief moment, as if he were thinking hard about something. Then he quickly added, “Ford, she knows about the portal.”

Ford felt his stomach fall to his feet. He gulped a bit, even though it made his throat stick, and asked, “How did she take that?”

“‘Bout as well as expected.”

“She freaked out?”

“Big time.”

“Oh boy.”

“To be fair to her, she found out about it directly after the whole thing with the crazy old lady attacking us in her house, so...maybe she’ll be a little more open-minded about it when she wakes up?”

“I know intense physical abuse always helps me process any bombshell secrets my friends drop on me.”

“You’re lucky your face is already one giant bruise, smart-ass, or I’d knock that sarcasm right out of you.”

Ford gave a weak chuckle, but he couldn’t fight the shame that bubbled up in his chest. He’d hoped no one else would ever find out about that damnable portable, that gargantuan testament to his shame, let alone someone he trusted and respected like Helen.

“We never should have dragged her into this,” he muttered.

His inner turmoil must have shown on his face, because Stan reached out an put a reassuring hand on Ford’s cheek, tilting his head so that his twin was looking him in the eye. Stan’s gaze was alight with compassion and love. It made the shame twisting in a Ford’s stomach seem like nothing.

“Hey,” Stan said gently, “Knowing her, she would have found a way to get involved. She’ll come around to this. And I’m sure she’s going to be much happier about the fact you’re alive to help her understand it.”

As if on cue, Helen let out a sleepy sigh. Ford turned to look at her just as her eyes fluttered open. She shifted slightly in her seat, which roused Fiddleford. Both of them looked around the room blearily before realizing what was happening in the bed in front of them.

“Oh, Ford,” Helen breathed, on her feet and at the bed in the time it took Ford to blink. She sat on the edge of his bed and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close, and planted a soft kiss directly on his forehead. He leaned into it greedily.

“Don’t get too cozy, you little shit,” Helen mumbled into his hair. He could hear her voice getting thick. “I’m still mad at you for stealing my car.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled back. “I’ll get you some cash for the gas.”

She only responded by holding him tighter.

Ford turned his head slightly, and saw Fiddleford looking back at him, near the end of the bed. His face was a strange mix of exhaustion, confusion, and relief. Ford couldn’t help but think back to that morning - or rather, yesterday, he supposed - when he’d seen Fiddleford’s face for the first time in four months. The haggard, gaunt, lost little man in the alley seemed to have vanished over the course of a day. Every time Ford looked at Fiddleford, he saw a bit more of his dear friend creeping back to the surface, out from under the smothering electricity of that horrible device he’d created.

Ford wanted to say so much to him. He wanted to apologize, but Fiddleford had told him not to, that he didn’t blame him, not anymore.

He wanted to promise to be better, but the smile Fiddleford wore, that smile that always made him feel like he somewhere safe and warm, seemed to advertise plainly that Fiddleford always believed in Ford’s ability to improve, that there’d never been a doubt in his mind.

He just wanted to talk, and listen to that soft, kind voice - the one that knew and could sing every John Denver song ever written and talked endlessly about James Baldwin and theoretical physics - answer him for the rest of his life.

Instead, all he said was, “I’m glad you’re okay, Fiddleford.”

“You too, Ford,” Fiddleford replied.

Before Ford could think of anything else to say, Fiddleford had come up to his side. Helen, almost intuitively, had moved to the side to let him through. And then Fiddleford’s arms were around his neck again, his head buried in his shoulder. His hair brushed against Ford’s cheek like thistledown. Ford could feel that smile stretch wider against his neck, and he knew that Fiddleford was exactly where he wanted to be. Ford brought an arm up and draped it over Fiddleford’s back, holding his friend as close as his worn out muscles would let him. He wished he had the strength to hug him forever.

Too soon, Fiddleford pulled away, looked up into Ford’s face. Ford saw tears welling in his eyes as he said, “I said some terrible things to you, and I’m so sorry.” He sighed shakily, and added, “I’m responsible for how I reacted to what happened to me. And now I’m responsible for fixing the damage I caused.”

Ford reached up and put a hand on Fiddleford’s. “Maybe we could try fixing things together,” he replied.

Fiddleford nodded, smile as bright as a hundred watt bulb, and said, “Sounds perfect.”

“I’ve got a portal of doom in my basement that needs dismantling,” Ford said. “If you’re up for that, I mean. I’m a little...indisposed at the moment.” To illustrate his point, he gave his plastered-up leg a small wiggle.

Fiddleford chuckled, and said, “I think I can handle that. I imagine it’ll feel pretty good reducing that thing to scrap.”

“Well, you might wanna put the kibosh on portal talk for a while,” Stan interjected, “and start thinking about how you’re gonna be getting around the house with a pair of crutches. I’ve walked around on crutches enough to know that going up and down stairs constantly with them eventually makes your armpits go numb.”

“I’m not even going to bother asking why you’ve been on crutches so many times,” Helen said, voice flat.

“That’s for the best,” Stan replied.

“Well, I suppose I could move down to the couch for a few weeks,” Ford said. “Especially since we are gonna have a house guest for a while.”

Fiddleford looked at Ford like he’d just said he’d give him his kidney as opposed to his bedroom. “Oh no,” he said, a bit of color flushing to his cheeks. “I can’t ask a man with broken ribs to sleep on a lumpy couch.”

“You’re not asking,” Ford said playfully. “I’m telling you that’s what I’m doing.”

“And I’m siding with Fidds on this one,” Stan said. “I’ll take the couch. Since I’m on the bottom floor, you can take my bed, and Fidds can have yours.”

“That’s an excellent idea, Stan,” Fiddleford said, giving him a cheery smile.

Ford looked between them in confusion. Where had this chummy camaraderie come from? A few hours ago, Stan was regarding Fiddleford like a forest creature that had wandered into their house and wouldn’t leave. Now, he was returning the smile, with a kind of conspiratorial smugness, like he and Fiddleford were in on some kind of joke together.

“Who are you two, and what have you done with Stan and Fiddleford?” Ford asked, only partly joking.

“Hey, someone’s got to keep you from falling apart completely,” Helen chuckled. “And between the three of us, I think we can manage it.”

Ford laughed a bit himself, just as the door opened slowly. He saw Darryl peek in, and, seeing everyone was awake and talking and even looking rather upbeat, open the door to come in. “Glad to see you guys looking better,” he said with a toothy smile, a blue jacket slung over his shoulders. “How’re you feeling, Dr. Pi-I mean, Ford?”

“They tell me I’ll live,” Ford replied. He found it so odd how the light tone rolled so naturally off his tongue. Here before him stood a man who’d risked his own safety, just to help this group of people he barely knew, and had really no reason to trust. “Listen, Darryl,” he said, “I wanted to thank you. For everything. I can’t even begin to tell you how grateful I am for everything you did for me.” “None of us can,” Stan added. “You were amazing back there.”

Darryl reached up to rub his hand down his neck bashfully, obviously trying to hide the faint glow that had suddenly risen to his cheeks. “There’s no need for that,” Darryl said. “I was just doing what was right.”

“So how’s everything going out there?” Helen asked.

“‘Bout as chaotic as you’d expect,” Darryl replied. “I don’t think anyone was ready for a bunch of injured amnesiacs to turn up in the history museum in the wee hours of the morning, let alone small-town cops.”

“Not even factoring in that the sheriff was one of those amnesiacs,” Helen muttered darkly.

“You got it,” Darryl replied. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small sucker. As he pulled the wrapper off and popped it in his mouth, he said, “Damn, my wife picked a bad time to convince me to give up smoking.”

Ford saw Helen and Stan exchange a glance over the bed. “You got two more of those?” Stan asked as he turned his attention back to Darryl.

Darryl didn’t reply, just pulled two more suckers out of the jacket pocket and tossed them to Stan.

Stan caught them, took one, and offered the other to Helen. She accepted it without a word.

It seemed to Ford that everyone had these little secrets together tonight.

Stan pulled the wrapper off his and asked, “So, what are we telling the cops, exactly? We need to make sure we keep our stories straight.”

“Officially, Ivan’s the main mastermind behind everything,” Darryl replied. “As far as everyone else from the Society is concerned, they were victims of a terrorist with a weird gun.”

“Not far from the truth, if we’re being honest,” Stan said.

Darryl smiled wryly and continued, “I even managed to convince them that you all were brave heroes who couldn’t stand by and let innocent people be tortured by some madman, so you gallantly stormed the place and beat the shit out of him.”

“And those were your exact words?” Fiddleford asked, clearly biting back a laugh.

“Well, the rookie cops may have started embellishing things a bit,” Darryl said with a shrug of his shoulders. “You know how things travel in a small town. Also, Ford, if someone asks you how you managed to wrestle Ivan’s trained attack deer with your bare hands, just know that I did not come up with that part.”

That finally drew a laugh out of the whole group. It was a marvelous sound, after all they’d endured. Honestly, it was all rather difficult for Ford to believe. All the secrets that had been spilled, all the conspiracies that had been blown wide open, all the wounds they’d been dealt, physical or otherwise - that had all happened over the course of one day. It felt like they’d been at it for years. Ford felt Helen lean up against him a little more, and he got a look at her face. Even once you got past the deep blue bruising, she looked utterly exhausted, absently swirling her sucker around in her mouth. Ford saw that she’d draped an arm over her abdomen. As much as he didn’t want to, he thought back to that dark chamber, heard Helen’s broken plea ringing in his ears.

Before he had a chance to stop himself, he said, “Helen?”

“Hmm?” She flicked her eyes down at him, sucker stilled for a moment.

He almost took it back. For a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to ask what he wanted to know. If it was true, he didn’t want to be the one responsible for upsetting her again. It wasn’t his place to ask that question.

But his mouth had other plans, and he said, “That...thing. About the baby? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but...was what you told Ivan true?”

Helen didn’t respond right away.

He’d fucked up. Oh man, he’d fucked up.

He averted his eyes from her and quickly added, “I’m sorry! Like I said, you don’t have to tell me. If you think it’s none of my business, just say so. I don’t -”

Suddenly a finger was pressed to his lips. He looked back up at Helen. She was giving him a lopsided smile. “Yes, Ford, it’s true,” she said. She gave the other three men a quick glance. “It’s not like everyone else in this room doesn’t already know.”

Ford wanted to say something, but then he looked again into Helen’s eyes. They were sad, as anyone’s would be when they had just admitted to something so heartbreaking, but there was something else too. To Ford, it looked remarkably like peace.

Stan sighed, and muttered, “We’re all just a bunch of sad idiots, aren’t we?”

Ford and the others gave grunts of agreement, but he saw that Fiddleford’s eyebrows were scrunched up in thought.

After a moment, he said, “I suppose it could always be worse.”

“Ugh, booo,” Stan groaned, rolling his eyes so far back in his head they might have been in danger of popping out.

“Man, you did not just say that,” Darryl said with a wry laugh.

Fiddleford gave them bother a withering glance, and said, “If you two would let me finish, I was gonna say it could be worse, because we could all be alone.”

No one interrupted him this time.

“I mean, we’ve all been through some kind of hell that no one else can really understand,” Fiddleford continued. “We don’t even understand each other’s trauma all that well. But we can at least be there for each other, when things get tough. We’re lucky in ways a lot of other people aren’t.”

Ford felt Stan’s hand tighten around his. Helen’s arm was back around his shoulder. Even Darryl had closed the distance between himself and the bed, and leaned against the edge.

Each of them had a pain unique to them.

They could drown out that pain together.

In that moment, Ford did indeed feel like one of the luckiest men on the planet.

---

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#gravity falls #mystery nerds au #seared with scars #stanley pines #stan pines #stanford pines #ford pines #fiddleford mcgucket #helen bergstrum #blind ivan #the society of the blind eye #tw violence #tw suicide #tw miscarrige #tw ptsd

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dibs4ever · 6 years

Text

They’ll be Best Friends (Final Part)

"Wally remind me again why I lied to my son and told him he could have the night off?" Dick asked while Wally remained crouched down on a building scanning the streets below

"To see if Melanie has a secret boyfriend. She told Artemis she was going to the movies tonight." He said not taking his eyes off the street

Dick rolled his eyes and sat down next to him "Wally don't you think you're taking this to a little bit of an extreme? Your invading her privacy"

Wally pulled the binoculars from his face for a second and looked at Dick "Leah is going to be dating in a few years."

Dick’s eyes widened in realization. He fished around in his utility belt and pulled out another set of binoculars "What movie is she going to see" he asked

"The 8:00 showing, it's 7:55 now," Wally said looking back down at the street "Oh, look there she is!" Wally jumped seeing his daughter come into view

"Wow she looks a lot like Arty in green" Dick smiled Melanie turned her head and they got a view of her face "But then again she looks a lot like you too"

They watched for a few more seconds and saw someone else approach her.

"I told you there was nothing to worry about Wally, she and Nate are going to the movie since they both had the night off since you had to spy on her" Dick said standing up "I can't believe I gave Robin the night off" he shook his head

Wally sprung up "Relax there Nightwing, you're almost harder on Robin then Batman was on you"

Dick rolled his eyes "Yeah but only because I know what he's capable of. He has so much potential in his genetics. Not only is he a natural acrobat he's also a genius like Babs. Leah is the same way"

Wally nodded "I get that even though the twins are a little bit of a different situation since Mel has my speedster abilities and Mark has Artemis' perfect aim. Mark is easy going yet a quick thinker like I and Mel is feisty yet sweet when she wants to be like her mother"

Dick smiled at his longtime friend, just as he thought they were going to call it night Wally spoke up "I still think there's something up though like we just said our kids are a lot like us! She probably figured out I was going to spy on her so she asked Nathan to come and throw me off. She probably wants me to think that she is just going to the movies with him so I'd leave now. Her secret boyfriend is probably already waiting for her in the theater" Wally said throwing his arms up

Dick rose an eyebrow "So what do you suppose we do?"

"We are going to continue spying on my daughter by going into that theater!" Wally said pulling Dicks shirt sleeve

Melanie and Nathan made their way into the theater and found two seats in the middle row

Once the previews began Nathan leaned into Melanie's ear "I'm going to go get us some snack and drinks, I'll be right back" he whispered Melanie nodded

"Would you look at all those girls checking my boy out as he walks by!" Dick whispered proudly from the back-corner row of the theater that he and Wally were hiding in

Wally rolled his eyes "You take such pride in trying to turn that boy into your mini-me, don't you?"

Dick grinned "One can hope, I tried to with Dami but he was so stubborn"

Wally smiled "Well if it helps at all I think I saw a small hickey on his neck the other day"

Dick tilted his head "Huh I didn't know he had a girlfriend"

Wally shook his head "Well he is your son you former dog" he nudged Dick teasingly

Dick smiled at his old nickname, they watched as Nathan returned with 2 sodas and a large popcorn

Nathan handed Melanie her soda and sat in his seat. He went to put an arm around her shoulders but she stopped him.

"Something wrong Mels?" Nate asked questionably

She sunk down in the seats and he followed her action "I feel like we're being watched" she whispered

Nathan shook his head "Mel your just nervous cause this is our first time really getting to act like a couple in public, just relax beautiful" he reached up tucking a stray hair behind her ear

She shook her head and grabbed his hand "Nathan I need you to turn off the sweet stuff and turn on your Robin mode, tell me if we are being watched" she ordered

Nathan nodded in defeat and concentrated after a second he spoke "You might be right. I guess to be 100% safe we better not do anything couple like" he said as they sat straight up again. Acting casual as the movie began

2 and a half hours later Wally and Dick found themselves in a tree looking down at the two teens as they sat at an outdoor ice cream shop

"Come on Wally, it's just been our kids hanging out. If she has a secret boyfriend she's not seeing him tonight" Dick pleaded as Wally continued to watch

Wally sighed "I guess you're right, give me 5 more minutes and we will leave"

Melanie and Nathan sat across from each other as they dug into their Sunday's "So whatcha think of the movie?" Nathan asked

Melanie nodded "I liked it anything with Tom Hanks in it is usually good though" she pointed

Nathan nodded agreeing with her

Melanie smiled at him noticing the bit of vanilla ice cream on his bottom lip. Without warning, she lunged forward and kissed him

"You had a little something on your lip," she said biting her lip when they pulled apart

Nathan chuckled "Oh is that all?"

She smiled "And I've been wanting to kiss you all night " she admitted

Nathan grinned "Good cause so have I" he leaned forward and kissed her lips again leaving their bowls of ice cream forgotten on the table in front of them

"Oh...My...God" Dick said slowly in shock at the scene that had just unfolded

He looked over at Wally who had a blank expression on his face and was holding the binoculars loosely in his hand

"Wally...you okay?" Dick asked

Wally shook his head slowly “Let's go..." he said blankly

Dick nodded "Okay but I'm going with you," he said pulling out his phone and calling Barbara

When Melanie and Nathan walked through the front door of the West house they were surprised to see both their parents and Mark already home

"Nice going you broke dad." Mark teased

They looked over to see Wally sitting on the couch his head thrown back

Nathan let out a chuckle "What's up with him?" He asked

Wally's head shot up and he made eye contact with Nathan "You!" He pointed

"Me?" Nathan placed a hand on his chest

"There they are!" Barbara smiled walking into the living room

Artemis smiled "We were just looking at pictures of you guys when you were little"

Melanie rose an eyebrow "Why are you two so happy?" She looked over at Dick who sat on the couch looking almost but not nearly as blank-faced as her father "What is wrong with you guys?" Melanie took a step back

Nathan's eyes widened "Oh no... they KNOW" he glanced at Melanie

"They KNOW" Melanie stepped forward "Did you tell them!" She started raising her voice toward her brother

Mark held his hands up in defense "I swear I'd didn't say anything. Dad called mom freaking out so we called off patrol early. Uncle Dick must have done the same cause Aunt Barb showed up soon after"

Barbara walked over and sat next to Dick "Are you alright? I mean it's surprising that Nate has been secretly dating Mel but I don't think you'd be upset about it."

Dick shook his head "It's not that I love Mel as if she were one of my own and I'll get used to the idea of her dating our son. It's just he somehow hid it from me for who knows how long"

Barbara smiled "What does that mean?"

"Babs, he is Robin but I am Nightwing, I've been in the game twice as long as he has and he somehow hid this from me. How did I not figure it out? Am I losing my touch?"

Barbara rolled her eyes and kissed his cheek "I assure you, you're not losing your touch. Our son learned from the best, he knew how you thought and used it against you. If anything, you should be proud" she pointed

Dick looked over at his wife and tilted his head to the side "You know what your right" he leaned forward and pecked her lips "I knew there was a reason I married you"

Artemis looked at Wally "Wally snap out of it Nate's a good kid" she said putting her hands on her hips

"Our daughter is dating a Bat, I thought I had it all planned out. Friends from birth, they'll see each other as siblings and I will never have to worry about the possibility of my daughter dating a flirty lady killer Dick Grayson 2.0" Wally mumbled

#Dickbabs #spitfire #dick grayson #nightwing #barbara gordon #batgirl #oracle #artemis crock #Artemis #Wally West #Kid Flash #batfam au #batfamily headcanons #batfamily #batfamily fanfiction #Young Justice AU #young justice fanfiction

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404botnotfound · 5 years

Text

Deliverance [1]

Careful when you’re swimming in the holy water.

SERIES: Far Cry 5 WORD COUNT: 4,931 SHIP: Quinn/John Seed CHARACTERS: quinn leonis, john seed

She hates Hope County.

Quinn Decides on it firmly, right then and there, that she hates Hope County. If someone asked her why, they’d probably think her answer should be something along the lines of, “well, it’s controlled by a bunch of fanatical psychopaths,” or, “the resident superstars in the local cult are kind of assholes,” or even, “ow, let the fuck go of my arm, you prick,” but it wasn’t.

No, the final nail in the coffin for Quinn’s patience with Hope County wasn’t the doomsday cult, nor the family that ran it who all had nasty reputations for freaking the shit out of the sane half of the population, or the current state of her physical health.

It was the fucking weather.

It was mid-September, for fuck’s sake. Northern Montana had no business being this fucking hot in mid-September.

Or was it late September? Fuck, she didn’t know at this point—she’d lost too many Goddamn days with the eldest Seed to even know how much time had passed since this whole clusterfuck had started--and there was no way in hell she planned on asking the owner of the hand clamped tight on her upper arm whether or not the thunderstorm that had rolled through last night was typical for the area at this time of year.

Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a filthy mouth, kitten?

She snorts out a humorless laugh as Jacob’s voice filters through her tangled knot of frustrated thoughts, wishing she could point him to her current situation and stare at him, infuriated, like: See this? This is why I swear so fucking much, asshole.

But that’d require her either returning to him or him coming to her and neither thought was very comforting in the slightest, sending shivers up her spine. She’d escaped from the Whitetails mostly unscathed, far weaker and wearier than she had been when she’d initially set foot on the County’s soil but whole and alive, and she didn’t want to risk whatever obvious mind fuckery he was toying with sinking its claws further into her. It was bad enough that even as she shivered at the thought of Jacob, a whisper of come home hissed through the back of her mind.

Only three weeks and she didn’t have to struggle to see how fucked it was that there was a piece of her being pulled back in the direction she’d fled from a little over two days ago.

The hand around her arm tightens with enough sting to rip her out of her thoughts and she’s shoved forward, forced to twist her body quickly as she falls forward to keep herself from biting it in front of half a dozen captured civilians and resistance members, a dozen cultists, and God himself since her hands were bound behind her.

And now her shoulder aches. Great. Awesome.

“Boy, you guys sure know how to treat a lady.” She snaps, lamenting that her current state--exhausted, hungry, and in pain—left her without a whole lot of verbal bite to work with. As she’s struggling to wiggle her way up and out of the mud the same hand clamps around her arm again and yanks her upright, then slams her back against a really jagged, really uncomfortable stone surface. Add a migraine to her list of grievances with the Seed family. “Son of a bitch.”

“Shut your mouth, sinner!” The cultist—what had Jess called them? Peggies?--barks back at her, throwing a stern point at her like she was a particularly misbehaved child. God fucking damn but she was well on her way to thoroughly despising religion and the pompous assholes it churned out like clockwork.

Jacob hadn’t seemed particularly religious, nor had he struck her as very arrogant; the arrogance seemed more like a smokescreen, with him. She might’ve just been pissing in the wind, though, since he’d kept her dehydrated and starved and subjected to training sessions that mainly pissed her off and gave her headaches; she hadn’t exactly been in top form, and her observational skills were more than likely impaired.

She still was. It had been three days since the ambush that had seen her and Jess separated and put them both on the run in opposite directions, Jess being driven somewhere up north and Quinn forced south.

She’d thought it strange that the hunters that had been dogging her steps relentlessly in that timeframe, keeping her from sleeping more than a few hours at a time if she was lucky or giving her hardly any time to inhale whatever poor excuses for meals she could scrounge up or find, had suddenly stopped their pursuit.

It made a bit more sense now that she knew she had bounced dividing lines right into John Seed’s territory. Apparently the brothers’ followers didn’t play well with each other.

She spares a few seconds with closed eyes trying to will back the budding migraine behind them and wondering whether that contention extended to the siblings themselves or if it was just limited to their cronies, thoughts interrupted by a car door slamming nearby. The two men bound on either side of her both jump at the sound; one of them begins to shake and quietly plead for it to not be him, no, why him, why him.

Now her thoughts drift onto whether or not the brothers got off on this little power trip of theirs or if they really were just that off their rockers, putting these people through so much shit that they were terrified at just the sight of one of them.

Between the screen of Peggies standing along the line of captives she couldn’t even see who had exited the vehicle, but it was hard not to guess. C’mon, she thinks to herself, make it two for two. Lady Luck hadn’t exactly been kind to her since they’d first landed that helicopter in Joseph Seed’s compound and proceeded to rip hell loose all over the County, so she might as well send her from the clutches of one of the Siblings right into another’s.

Ugh, whatever. “Hey,” she says, shifting forward and struggling to ignore the pounding that had settled firmly within her skull, trying to get the attention of the cultist that had thrown her down, “hey, dipshit!”

The man next to her hisses for her to shut the fuck up. She ignores him, attention only wavering when the waning sun briefly peeks through the overcast clouds and shines off something sitting atop someone’s head over by the car.

“D’you want a fuckin’ bullet?” The cultist demands, stomping towards her as though it might threaten her into silence.

She was too fucking done with all this shit to be threatened—it was making her reckless, and she files away this fact for later self-pity when her current plan inevitably gets her shot, beaten, or otherwise harmed. “Actually, I was gonna ask for the time. Y’see, I’ve got an appointment to keep and I--”

He backhands her. Her head snaps to the side with the blow and with her head already a jumbled, aching mess her vision swims from it.

“Ow.” Jaw working and eyes blinking the blurriness from her vision she has to fight to keep her voice as neutral and unaffected as possible. It has the desired effect—the guy looks even more pissed off at the lack of fright and subservience he’d probably expected her to fall into after receiving such abuse. “Listen, I’ve got something I need to tell you. To pass on to your boss.”

He stares at her and doesn’t move.

“It’s important. You know, Resistance secrets and whatnot.” She tries, ignoring the sudden affronted balking of the men next to her.

Finally, the man slings his rifle over his back and crouches down in front of her, staring at her expectantly. She sits up just a bit taller, but he’s still…

“Little bit closer?”

He looks irritated, but he shifts forward just enough for her to—

The cultist rears back with a howl of pain when her forehead slams into his nose with a satisfying crack, stumbling and very nearly losing his footing in the slick mud underneath; it made her migraine that much worse, but she grins wickedly at the flood of red that immediately streams from his now broken nose.

She’s lost her Goddamned mind from the stress and abuse and exhaustion, must have. Whether it was from some Molotov cocktail of those issues or the terrifying absurdity of the tangle she’s unwittingly gotten herself stuck in or even the overpowering rage at the bullshit these monsters were putting people through, she was snapping.

“You little bitch—" He lunges for her and all she can do is laugh wildly at the stuffy, undignified way his words leave his mouth.

Someone jumps between her and the aggrieved man. “Woah, woah, woah! Hey, easy. Easy.” The voice of the one that intervened is aristocratic and smooth and amused as hell. Score one for Quinn. She didn’t have a lot of ticks in her win column, so she’ll take what she can get.

The cultist doesn’t by any means calm down, stopped only by the hand on his chest and two of his fellows holding him back by the arms; Quinn resists the urge to childishly stick her tongue out at the bastard.

Then her—gag—savior turns slowly to face her sideways, one hand still planted on the cultist’s chest and the other lifted at his side, elbow bent and fingers curled just shy of a point in her direction. Slicked back, dark hair, a full beard, aviators perched atop his head. She definitely recognized him from the Church, and since she’d already met Jacob and knew for a fact this wasn’t Joseph, she’s now confident that she’s face-to-face with John Seed.

He’s missing the long duster he’d been wearing the night the proverbial shit had hit the fan, and she decides with absolutely nothing upon which to base it that he must’ve been wearing it that night to keep from stealing his brother’s ridiculously shirtless thunder, ‘cause the blue silk shirt, waistcoat, and dark-wash jeans he was currently wearing cut one hell of a figure.

Yep, definitely losing her mind.

Unfortunately with the way her vision kept doubling on her from the splitting pain in her head, she can’t really linger on appreciating the sight. Probably a good thing in hindsight because ogling one of the men causing mass amounts of grief in the County wasn’t terribly kosher.

Blinking, she lifts her eyes to meet his and finds herself frustrated to note that they were really pretty. A bright, striking blue, even from a handful of feet away.

He’s smiling at her like he knows where her mind had wandered, and she narrows her eyes in response, telling herself it has nothing to do with the fact his form keeps multiplying into indistinct blurs in between blinks. He looks at the cultist she’d attacked, gives the man a few pats on the chest, then steps away from him as he’s gently steered away by his fellows.

“ ‘But I say to you people who are listening to me, love your enemies.’ “ He says, striding toward her with assured, languid steps. “ ‘Do good to those who hate you.’ “

His eyes wander over the other people bound as she as he speaks, but she gets the distinct feeling that his recitation was meant exclusively for her; she was, after all, the only one who’d dared to attack one of their captors. Understandably. She can’t blame them.

She lets out an exaggerated groan, closing her eyes not only because the pounding in her head seems to intensify with every step he takes towards her. Indicative of whatever future relationship they were about to begin, probably. “You mind bringing the guy with the gun back? The bullet sounds a hell of a lot better than being preached to.”

“For the time being I’ll ignore your blatant disrespect for the word of God and the Father,” he says to her, crouching down before her like the cultist had before. Difference being that he knew better than to get close enough for her to strike out. Even with her legs. Damn. “This is a pleasant surprise, Agent Leonis. I’d dare to say the only other person in this County more desirable than you right now is your friend, the Deputy.”

He put some kind of emphasis on that word—desirable—and she knows in her gut it’s for a reason other than the obvious, but her head hurts too much for her to think on it for long. She lets out a snort of a laugh “Interesting word choice considering all your people seem pretty intent on riddling us with bullet holes on first sight, unless you desire us dead.” He had used her title, so she doesn’t have to guess that Jacob had already shared whatever intel he’d gotten from Burke with John and she doesn’t ask.

“Dead? Of course not. We want to show you the way through the gates of Eden. We want to save you.” John replies, and in her current state Quinn is finding that in spite of the handsome face that fond little smile on it is quickly getting on her nerves.

“Sorry, preacher man, but I’m not interested.” She’s beginning to regret using her head to attack that cultist; it’s getting harder to keep her words from slurring from the dizziness clouding her thoughts. Was it the migraine or was it the weeks of constant strain and abuse? It was probably some fucked up mix of all the above.

“That’s a shame.” He says, not sounding like he cared overmuch about her opinion on the subject. His tone was thick with a kind of faux compassion that she’s heard far too many times in her life from people that thought her bad mouth and physicality and headstrong attitude were traits that any self-respecting woman should have muted by her age.

Fingers suddenly brush across her cheek, pushing strands of muddied hair away from her face, and she flinches back. A sharp glare of warning settles on John, telling him to back the fuck off, and it’s a warning that he fails to heed.

“We all need to be saved from our sins. We need to accept them and allow ourselves to atone for them. To atone for the ones we will commit. Sin is pervasive, and none of us are ever truly free of it—consequence of being human.” He says.

“Fuck’s sake—the only sin I’m gonna commit in the near future is planting my foot up your ass if you don’t knock the choirboy shit off.”

He lets out a huff of air that’s too soft and quiet to be a laugh; it was pitying, almost. He was sad for her, and she feels a bud of petulant anger rise within her just as it had when Jacob had insisted he would teach her to behave. His fingers snap over his shoulder and he gestures around her at the other hostages. “Get them loaded up.” He says, watching as the bound men and women were led into a pair of waiting, nondescript vans at gunpoint.

She doesn’t like the look in his eyes when his focus returns to her. It’s open and accepting and could almost be mistaken for kind, but there’s an intense undercurrent to it that she can’t identify, something she feels rippling over her skin like she was standing next to an open flame rather than sees outright. “My brother did warn me of your Pride, my dear. Don’t worry, we’ll absolve you of it in due time. It may take some...coaxing given how sharp that tongue of yours is, but you’ll see the truth. One way or another.”

One of the Peggies finally reaches out to grab her and drag her up from the ground, and she grimaces at the twinge of pain from an already forming bruise. “Joy.” She says, sounding anything but cheery about it.

As she’s loaded into the van along with the other captives, she wonders if she should’ve stayed back up in the mountains with Jacob.

The sun has fully set by the time the van stops at its destination and as though to spite her the temperature quickly drops even within the confines of the van; she was beginning to sorely regret abandoning the jacket she’d nicked from a ransacked store up in the mountains due to the heat earlier. Her open-sided tank top was doing little to ward off the rising chill, and as she sits in the unmoving van waiting for something to happen she sits forward to keep her back and shoulders off the cooling sides of the vehicle.

She can hear voices outside and footsteps, but no one comes to open the back of the van and snatch her and the other captives out of it. Her eyes narrow at the doors.

“How the fuck are you so calm right now?” One of the men across from her asks. She spares him a glance, notes the dirtied, pale skin on his face and scruffy hair tucked under a ball cap and barely concealed fear in his words.

If he was looking for a way to keep from freaking out, he was gonna be disappointed. “Lots of practice and a hereditary predisposition,” she answers before turning her full attention to him. “Why? I get that the Cult’s scary and all, but there’s bound to be a chance we can cut and run. They’re not military.”

Well—maybe not. Her brow furrows as she thinks back on her time in the Whitetails. How far did Jacob’s brainwashing psycho-bullshit go, as far as discipline went? And had he applied that ‘training’ to everyone in the Cult, or just those in his own region?

“Seriously? You haven’t heard the kind of shit John does?” Is his response, and she frowns.

She’d seen the video Stevie had looked over while on the flight over, and she was well aware of the bastardized ‘baptizing’ the man performed, but aside from cold murder she can’t claim to have any knowledge of his methods.

The outright fear of the others in the van was pretty telling, however.

A woman a few seats down the line on her side of the van leans into the conversation. “She’s the FBI Agent that was with the Deputy, Sheriff, and Marshal that night. She hasn’t been around long enough.”

“And she’s here with us? Shit.”

Any dry comment she could have said is halted by the doors of the van finally opening, allowing a fresh chill from the outside in. Eager to not be manhandled again, Quinn ignores the gun that’s immediately pushed into her face and without prompting leaves the van, hopping to the ground and standing straight to stare the man with the rifle in her face dead in the eye.

I’m not afraid of you, her eyes say, and whether or not he got that message she could see his fingers flexing around the gun. As their staring contest continues she feels another Cultist unbind her, but before she can think to attempt an attack or escape her wrists are instead pulled to her front and rebound.

Her gaze lingers, icy, as a motion in her periphery directs her forward and she moves before someone else can grab and drag her away.

They’ve been brought to the foothills of the mountains at the edge of a lake or a river, the path she was being led down well-traveled by vehicles if the grooves in the dirt were anything to go by. There are banners strung up in the trees around, pure white and gently flowing in the night breeze. Stacks of green barrels sit off to the side and she can smell the Bliss on the air even before the tell-tale sparkles begin to tint the edges of her vision.

Ahead of her the rest of the captives from the other van were being led into the water as John spouted off some kind of sermon from the book held open in his hands, and she watches as they’re all dunked under the water. They come up blinking and gasping, eyes wide and dazed; she gets the distinct feeling that it has nothing to do with simply being held underwater.

The Cultists stop her before she reaches the water, but the rest of the captives she’d traveled with continue on—all coming out of this fucked up baptism compliant and quiet.

Only when the rest of them are finished, led quietly back to the vans past her, is she brought forward. John snaps his book shut and hands it off to a waiting Peggie, looking at her with an easy smile and reaching his hands out for her.

She’s not fond of the thought that she’s being handed off, here, nor is she happy with the one that follows: why was she special enough to warrant John himself performing the rite?

“The Atonement is a process, Agent, and this is your first step towards it,” he says, either still under the impression that she was happy to be here or not caring. When they stand waist-deep in the water—with her fighting back shivers—he stops and turns her to face him. “Here you will be cleansed of the filth and the dirt the world has been heaping on you from birth, and only then will you be ready to bare your sins and free yourself from them.”

She blinks slowly at him, unimpressed.

“Are you ready?” He asks her, sounding slightly less upbeat than before.

“Sure, if it’ll make you happy,” she replies.

His eyes flash at the irreverent response, his hands moving from her shoulders to fist in the front of her shirt; she sucks in a breath and then holds it as she’s tipped backwards. Water rushes over her and stings her eyes.

By the time he finally pulls her back up she’s left blinking and gasping for air, staring up at the night sky above. It was clear of the clouds that had overcast the land earlier in the day, leaving it open and bright with a near-full moon and millions upon millions of stars.

Quinn’s not sure she’s ever seen so many stars in her life, in fact.

There are a lot of them. A lot. Way more than the light pollution back east had ever allowed to show; it was an amazing, awe-inspiring sight, all of them blinking and twinkling through Earth’s atmosphere like diamonds that she wonders if she can reach out and touch.

She’d try if her hands weren’t bound. Still, it was brilliant. Almost enough to make someone reconsider a disbelief in the presence of God.

No, wait—she blinks again, finally seeing the shimmering behind her eyes that told her she’d figured out where, exactly she’d been smelling the Bliss from.

Inhaling sharply as awareness of her surroundings returns to her and the shock of chilly night air hits her now thoroughly soaked clothes and skin, she feels herself begin to shiver violently, no longer able to fight them back.

John’s hands are on her shoulders again, holding her upright as she swayed on suddenly unsteady legs. His touch was firm but gentle, and warm. She decides she likes it even as she chastises herself for it.

“Ah, there it is. The wide-eyed wonder of clarity,” His voice, smooth like honey and so, so nice to her Bliss-addled senses, speaks to her from somewhere in her periphery. Should she look at him? She decides not to—the stars were nicer. “Are you ready to confess? To say yes and atone?”

Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth and it takes her a moment of struggling to string some unfortunately unintelligent words together. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I’m just stoned off my ass.”

There’s a single laugh disguised behind a cough from a handful of feet away, but otherwise silence surrounds her after the semi-lucid response. She counts out one heartbeat. Two. Three—

Her world tilts abruptly, dizzyingly, as he shoves her down with more force than the first time; she barely has enough time and reaction speed to cut off her breathing before she inhales any of the water and makes her whole being Blissed out situation even worse.

Not that it does much. It’s becoming apparent that even physical proximity to the drug was enough to screw with your head.

Black begins to creep around the edges of her sight before he hauls her upright again, and once more she’s left gasping and blinking the water and blurriness from her eyes. She looks at him this time, breathing heavily, taking in the sight of his barely restrained frustration and wondering what had happened to the kind, gentle demeanor he’d projected only moments before. She’ll think about it when she’s not drugged to high hell.

Jesus, his eyes were blue. “Your eyes are pretty.” She says breathlessly before her brain can catch up with her mouth.

The stark observation actually catches him off guard, his expression wiped clean of anything but startled bafflement, and she lets out a short, airy laugh at the sight. She’s not sure why it’s so funny, but it is.

When a smile breaks across his face she finds herself mimicking it, thinking to herself: This is my enemy. This is a man that was kidnapping and torturing the residents of Hope County. She should not be smiling at him. “The Cleansing is meant to wash away your sins, Agent, not give you the opportunity to feed mine.”

“I dunno about sins,” she coos in response, a voice in the back of her incredibly foggy head that sounded suspiciously like her perpetually vexed father telling her to shut up and stop poking the bear, “but d’you mind dipping me one more time? I haven’t danced in ages and I’m starting to feel like I’m back at my high school prom.”

He stares at her.

Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up. “Just with a shittier dance partner that’s also kind of a prick.”

That same edge appears in his eyes, sharper and deadlier and ooh but it actually sends a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold air down her spine. It looks like he’s actually considering it, and she thinks that whether or not he’d actually bring her back up again was a complete toss-up.

His jaw clenches.

Too much poking. She’d spent weeks prodding at the eldest Seed brother while in his caring hands and she hadn’t had any success in provoking something useful for her to latch onto and pry open, but John was proving to be far more mercurial even within the short span she’s known him.

She was beginning to wonder if the natural analytical chops she’s prided herself on were enough to even start unpacking this guy—and she had been confident enough in those skills to have been gunning for the BAU.

Suddenly he leans closer, the intensity of whatever roiling fire underneath his skin that much more visible with his face only inches from hers. She sucks in a startled breath, her wide eyes blinking and transfixed by his.

One of his hands settles along her jaw, thumb brushing the underside of her throat in a caress that’s both intimate and threatening. “You hide your sin behind your wit, and as amusing as I’m sure you find it, I promise you: I will pull that curtain aside and you will confess to me every sin that blackens your spirit.”

A shaky breath leaves her at the feeling of his fingers on the sensitive skin of her neck, unable to come up with some kind of dry quip in response to his words and for once thankful for it. She’s sure by this point that she’s already pushing her luck, and the thought is occurring to her that Jacob wasn’t, in fact, the most dangerous member of the Seed family.

He’s pacified by her silence, leaning away and moving around to her side. His hand on her shoulder slips around her back to the other shoulder, guiding her forward on shaky legs out of the chilly river water; the one that had been on her jaw drifts down to settle flat along the hollow of her throat instead and the warmth that radiates over her cold skin from his touch gives her another phantom shiver.

“God brought you to us for a reason,” He says as he leads her towards one of the vans flanked by two of the cultists, open doors revealing the other captives sitting inside, all soaking wet like her, “and I’m taking it upon myself to help you realize that purpose.”

Isn’t presuming to know the intent of God a sin, pretty boy?

She says nothing as she’s loaded into the van, fighting against the haze of Bliss to fume at the fact that two of four Seed siblings had now deigned to patronize to her like a wayward lamb. She was no lamb, damnit, and her last name proved that. Leonis. Lion.

She would have to save her roaring for later, because between the Bliss and the acute exhaustion she was feeling she finds herself asleep quickly, somewhere on the way to wherever they were all being taken.

#v: far cry 5 #c: quinn leonis #ch: john seed #sh: say yes #f: deliverance

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