#chain link fence Massachusetts

[newgenfencing]

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[preciouslandmermaid]

and i'll break all my rules for you (joel x gn!reader)

note: Reader is only 4 years younger than Joel. GN!Reader & they/them pronouns used where needed, but otherwise no other terms are used. Takes place prior to the video game & tv-show (pre-canon). 

(Not beta read, no use of Y/N). 💛 Feedback/reblogs always appreciated 💛

summary: You are paired with Joel for a smuggling run to the Massachusetts General Hospital outside of Boston. Despite Joel’s initial stoicism and penchant for antisocial behavior–you find yourself breaking all your own rules for him. 

warnings: canon-typical violence, mature language, mild hurt/comfort, mentions of drug use/addiction, a sprinkle of quiet yearning 

🍄🍄   READ ON AO3    🍄🍄

“They’re a doctor, Joel.” Tess says, “a real one.”

“Non-military?” He asks dubiously. 

You settle your hands on your hips, “I’m not a narc if that’s what you’re asking.”

Joel scoffs, “thought most of you were snatched up by FEDRA. How’d you get out?” His tone is sharp-edged and suspicious. Maybe even accusatory if you listen close. 

You bristle. This smuggler has no right prying into your past. Rule #1 of staying alive: you don’t let people get close (and most people in the QZ know how to follow that one). 

“I got lucky.”

“Joel.” Tess folds her arms across her chest, “we need them.” She gives him a weighted look. There are a thousand words in that single look. It speaks to their trust, their history, and you instinctively look away. You let Joel and Tess silently discuss your ability to run this job. 

Eventually, he bends against the category-five force of nature that is Theresa "Tess" Servopoulos and says a gruff; “Alright.”

Joel isn’t a talker. And that suits you just fine. You don’t need words to complete this job unless those words are “Look out, someone’s gonna shoot you in the face.” Although, you rather like to think you’d be quick on the trigger if someone did try and shoot your face. (Getting shot would break Rule #2 on your guide to survival). 

You make your way through the tunnels with your heart in your throat. Your sweat pools in the middle of your back. Your shirt sticks to your spine and beneath the straps of your backpack. It’s been minutes, you think, but it feels like hours. 

You’ve never been outside of the QZ.

You open your mouth to ask Joel what to expect and then snap your jaw shut. He’s not a talker and you’ll see for yourself soon enough. You remember the world before it ended. You remember movie theaters, bad karaoke, and smoke-filled restaurants. You remember brightly lit grocery stores, loud playgrounds, and quiet libraries. You thought it would never end. You thought there would always be cars, concrete, and pop music.

So much for that. You bite the inside of your check. Now we’ve got FEDRA and ration cards and a fungal infection that desires full-scale invasion. 

Joel says, “watch your head.” 

He holds a rotted plank up and you crouch beneath it. When you pass him, your nostrils twitch with the scent of his body odor, but it doesn’t smell gross. Which is surprising considering showers are a rarity and you’ve stood in line for jobs with your nose and mouth plugged to block the stench. 

The thought is quickly forgotten when you step outside for the first time in twenty years. 

You exhale, “Holy shit.” 

The world is a jungle. A cacophony of concrete and lush, vibrant wilderness. There is decay, there is destruction, you can see the iron gridwork of collapsed buildings like they’re its ribcage. But there is also beauty. The sky has never felt more open. It’s bluer, you think, than you’ve ever remembered. A shade of blue reserved for summer afternoons when you were small. The overgrowth of plant life sprawls like tiny capillaries over walls and chain link fences and through gaps in the rubble. The sunlight cuts through open rooftops and reflects rainbows off the broken windows. 

You glance sidelong at Joel. He rubs his mouth with his hand. And although he’s looking at the horizon, you doubt the view has any effect on him. You suspect he’s mentally planning your next steps.

As if to prove you right, Joel points to a narrow alleyway, “we’ll take this route.”

You shift the weight of your backpack and nod.

~~~~~~~~~~

You shimmy through narrow alleyways and climb across wooden planks. It takes several minutes before it finally hits you. You’re surrounded by silence. The QZ always contains some level of background noise whether it’s FEDRA and their trucks, or people talking, or crackling fires. You hear every step you and Joel take, every rustle of the breeze through the buildings, every shift of your clothing, every beat of your heart. You stare at the back of his head. His hair is thick and streaked thinly with silver strands. 

“Is it always like this?” You ask.

“Is it like what?”

“Like this.” You fall into step beside him and wave your arm, “this quiet.”

He glances at you. The furrowed line between his eyebrows deepens. “Could be quieter.” It’s a pointed yet passive aggressive statement. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. It’s quiet enough, you figure, to ask the question that’s been gnawing at your stomach since yesterday morning. 

You ask, “what is your problem with me?”

Joel shifts his shoulders in an almost-stretch. “I don’t have a problem with you, doc. I just…” He glances sidelong at you, then away, his scowl etches into the lined grooves of his face. “It’s odd, alright? It’s odd that a doctor doesn’t work for FEDRA.”

He sniffs. “I don’t trust it.”

I don’t trust you. That’s what he means to say, and you’re not even surprised by it. You don’t trust him either. You trust him to complete this job. You trust him to survive (with or without you). You don’t bother trying to give him explanations as to how you’ve avoided FEDRA’s grasp. Truly, it was pure, dumb luck. You fell through the cracks. An authoritative regime liked to shoot first and ask questions later and their bureaucracy was shit. FEDRA wasn’t asking folks for their resume, and it was easy enough to lie once you were in the QZ. You’d rather be a coward and survive, then a hero and get yourself killed. 

That’s why you had rule #3: Always run if shit goes sideways. 

You shrug, “There are other medical professionals hiding out in the QZ. Not everyone jumped at the chance to be a FEDRA dog.”

Joel doesn’t reply. 

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

Joel explains quietly that you’ve got to cut through the library to reach the hospital. You’re not thrilled about the enclosed space, but what can you do?

The air is rich with gray dust motes and dead fungal cells. You and Joel step quietly (so silently a librarian would be proud!) through the dilapidated shelves and collapsed aisles. The magazines on the front desk are rotted into pulp. It smells of decay and damp mold and soggy newspapers. Many of the tables and chairs are snapped in half, chewed by termites, or broken by passing survivors for kindling or weapons.

The large hole in the ceiling has allowed every element of weather to permeate the library into a tomb of dead literature. If you close your eyes, you can imagine the ink running rivers through the aisles, around fallen rubble, and spilling down the stone steps. The children’s section of the library is muted in color. All the bright stuffed animals are chewed, stuffing crawls out of their eye sockets, and vibrant plastic toys are covered in grime.

You touch a shelf in passing, letting your fingertips graze the water-logged spine, and imagine the pages crumbling within. Your heart squeezes like a vice.

Mechanical textbooks, poetry, and biographies, and books on tape and DVDs–gone. As if they never existed. And now children are taught in FEDRA schools, taught to shoot, and taught the FEDRA-version of history. 

Something snags in your chest, and you instinctively turn your face away from Joel’s so he can’t see. Your eyes prick with tears. You’ve seen bodies piled to burn, you’ve seen civilians shot down in the street, you’ve seen horrors upon horrors and lost everyone you’ve ever loved. You shouldn’t be crying over dead, lost books.

But it feels like a piece of humanity that is irrevocably lost.

The future opens like a black void, like a pit, like the mouth of hell beneath your feet. What’s the point in completing this job? You ought to just take the meager supplies you have and keep walking into the abyss. Maybe you’ll find something better or maybe you’ll be eaten–consumed–by the infected. Maybe that would be better than this. This pretense of a life worth living. It wasn’t even life. It was purely survival. Your breath stutters and you clear your throat despite the sharp, cold glass lodged inside of it. 

“Hey,” Joel’s tone mirrors that of a cowboy trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Where’d you go?” He steps in front of you, snapping his fingers and it breaks your zoned-out focus on the books. You shake your head.

“‘M fine.” Your words string together like a children’s beaded bracelet. 

“Keep your head on straight, doc.” He admonishes. “We’re almost there.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~

Hell breaks loose in the sound of a scream. 

It doesn’t make sense that raiders should be here so close to the QZ. But, they are. Joel grabs your arm and jerks you sideways into one of the cavernous divots formed by two bookshelves that fell into one another. You crouch-walk through the make-shift tunnel with cold, stagnant water dripping onto your head and shoulders from the shelves. 

The raiders run through the library while hollering profanities at one another. Their faces are covered by gas masks or simple cloth face-masks and ski goggles. You count the footsteps and watch the elongated shadows cross over the mossy walls. It’s a small group. Hopefully they just run through and keep going. 

Joel’s breath is warm on your cheek, “there’s three,” he whispers. 

You nod minutely to signal that you’ve heard him, but you don’t trust your voice to speak. He cranes his neck to peer around the shelf and you watch the tendons shift on his dusky throat. He glances over his shoulder toward you and lifts his index finger to his lips. His dark eyes are pensive, hard, and focused. Like two chips of dark amber, like pieces of obsidian. 

You wait, listening, your body crouched and muscles stiffening. The raiders have moved to the south section of the library. You can hear them rifling through things–furniture is moved, either smashed or kicked over, and book pages flap wetly as they are tossed aside.

Joel leans close in again. So close you feel his body heat radiating from him. You smell his sweat again. Your heart threatens to break free from your ribs. 

He whispers into your ear, “this place is already picked clean which means they’re probably looking for an old stash. If we take the second floor we can sneak past ‘em.”

You carefully follow Joel’s steps. He’s drawn his revolver, but you keep your own piece holstered at your hip. Your palms are slick, and you don’t trust yourself to hold a gun properly. If these raiders see you–you’re going to run. No question about it.

Joel grimaces, his face taught in concentration, as his shoulder slowly pushes open a rusted, stairwell doorway. Every sound he makes feels like a gunshot, like a noose tightening around your throat. You glance around, paranoid and cautious, before Joel makes a quiet sound in his throat. 

You meet his eyes. He flicks them into the created narrow space of the doorway. He wants you to go first. You angle your body to the side, your chest brushes against Joel’s as you pass, and side-step through the door. The touch doesn’t even register until after you’re in the clear and even then–your mind cannot process anything beyond the potential for death, the threat of the raiders. 

Your sticky palm holds the door handle and Joel follows you into the stairwell. You muffle your relieved sigh behind your fist. You climb the stairwell like mice trying to avoid an angry housecat. The stairwell is metal and rusted, but it holds your weight and doesn’t creak too much. Joel takes the lead. 

His eyes are constantly checking you. They are brief, passing glances. You’re not sure who is more paranoid at this point–you or him. Although, it’s probably you.

You keep checking over your shoulder as if the raiders will appear like ghosts behind you. What will you do if they find you? Where can you run to in this cramped, tinnitus-dangerous stairwell? 

Your foot slips as the rusted step gives way. Just your luck, right? You swallow your gasp of alarm, your shout of terror, and your arms windmill to regain your balance.

Joel’s hand shoots out and catches you effortlessly by the wrist. He pulls you forward with surprising, wiry strength and onto the step he’s standing upon. Your cheeks burn. He releases your wrist, nods, and you keep moving.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun has almost fully set by the time you manage to escape the library. The sounds of the raiders on the floor below echoes in your eardrums. Joel led you through the destroyed second floor (which was arguably worse for wear than the first floor). He guided you over wooden planks, and through bookshelves, until you finally climbed out through a broken window and onto the roof.

The warm air tastes so, so sweet.

You plant your hands on your knees, breathing heavily, your sweat drips down your face and over your spine in sticky, moist rivers.

Joel taps your shoulder and signals with a tilt of his head that you need to keep going. At this rate, you’ll reach the hospital by nightfall. Not an ideal situation, but what choice do you have? You have a job to do. You can’t turn away and run back to the QZ with your tail between your legs. The job runs bigger than just you and Joel, and you steal a moment to wonder if Tess told him the details. You push the thought from your mind. There is no use in speculating about Joel and Tess’s relationship. Once the job was done you’d never work together again unless fate played its tricky hand. 

Your flashlights cut sharp, white lines through the deserted and overgrown streets. The hospital is derelict and dark. It poses like a forgotten specter over the street. Alongside the destroyed cars and police vehicle, there is an overturned and torched ambulance near the ER entrance. If you were to shine your flashlight into those cars, or the doorway, you have no doubt in your mind that you would find corpses. A chill shivers across your damp skin. You hope there are no infected inside, but it’s a risk you’ll have to take. 

You lead Joel around the side of the building and shine your flashlight up toward a broken window. Wordlessly, he situates himself near the brick wall and laces his fingers to hold your foot. You grunt in unison as Joel boosts you into the window. You awkwardly grip the window ledge, avoiding a large piece of glass, and shimmy your torso up and over. 

You land and grumble, “fuck.” Your boots crunch on scattered, broken glass. 

A quick cursory glance around the room reveals two skeletons sitting upright in their beds. Their clothes and blankets have rotted and are pocketed with moth-eaten holes. Their eye-sockets bloom with dead and ashen fungus that spreads like spidery roots across the wall behind them and stretches toward the ceiling. Their wrists and ankles are secured to the beds with thick, leather clasps. You shine your flashlight over their bodies and golden, empty bullet casings glitter on the floor. Shot dead. There’s no telling when they died–were they shot on day zero? Or did some scavenger pass through and shoot them out of fear or pity? 

You take off your coat, bundle it into your arms, and sweep away some of the glass. You pull a rope from your backpack, tying it on a metal bedpost, before you drop it to Joel. The hewn rope cuts into your palms and fingers like woven splinters as you hold it steady.

You release a silent sigh of relief when Joel crests over the window and joins you. Something akin to relief uncoils in your stomach when you see him. It’s not like you expected him to bail or anything. Joel doesn’t strike you as that kind of guy. However, being alone in the hospital, even for a few seconds…is unnerving. You are safer with him beside you. It’s not sentiment or tender, warm feelings creating that thought. It’s pure, survival-based logic.

“The stash is just across the hall.” You whisper.

Joel nods gruffly.

You pull your pistol from its holster and force your arms not to shake as you walk toward the door. It creaks. The hinges are flecked with rust. A constellation of acrid, gray dust plumes and swirls in front of your face. Your flashlight beam bounces over fallen IV poles, and wheelchairs, and gurneys. And corpses. Dozens of corpses. You listen, and breathe, and push the door infinitesimally wider. The hospital yawns and stretches and rises like an old alley cat to meet you. A hundred memories tug at your shirtsleeve and beg for your attention. You tell yourself you cannot indulge in reflection. You must focus on the task at hand. You have to survive this. 

You tentatively step across the hallway with your heart lodged in your throat. The ten or so steps it takes to cross the hall feel like a hundred. You are only aware that Joel is following because you can hear his breath. You intentionally mirror him - his inhale and exhale - and a semblance of calm radiates across your worried nerves. 

The closet winces open.

The handle of a mop barrels toward you. You inhale sharply through your nostrils. 

You catch it before it hits the floor. 

Your eyes lift to Joel’s, and he gives you a look that seems to say– “Nice one.” You cannot decide if his look is sarcastic or not. You weasel yourself into the janitor closet and push your fingers behind the plastic bottles of glass-cleaner. You bite the inside of your cheek. What if it’s gone? You don’t know what you’ll do. You don’t know what you’ll say to Tess. 

After some blind searching, your fingertips finally touch a plastic bag taped to the underside of the shelf. 

Thank fuck. 

You tuck the bag of mixed pills into your backpack. You quietly slip from the closet and dip your chin toward Joel. 

He raises both eyebrows then whispers, “is it all there?”

“I think so.”

You and Joel return to the first room. Together, you brace the door with whatever spare furniture you can find. Two chairs meant for visitors. An IV pole. Two cheap, wooden nightstands. You hate how flimsy it looks. How vulnerable. An infected could easily break through that. 

“That's all we got.” Joel says. “I ain’t risking moving the beds.”

You massage your hand over your neck, “yeah, no shit.”

“We’ll move at first light.”

“Fine.” You remove a ration from your bag. A sense of unease and doubt gnaws at your empty stomach. “Joel…?”

“Hm?” 

He looks over at you with an inquisitive, yet chagrined expression. He hears the question in your tone, maybe even wants to answer, but likely hates all this talking. Realistically, you think you and Joel have said less than 50 words to each other. You tear a corner of the ration off with your teeth. It’s chewy and gritty and too salty. 

“We’re good here, right?” You ask slowly, your voice sounding far too small for your liking, “I can’t shake the feeling that the raiders followed us.”

Joel shifts his weight. He is silent for a few seconds, his face closed off, his gaze on the fungal skeletons eternally resting in their deathbeds. 

Finally, he says; “I’ll keep watch.” He glances at you, “get some rest.”

You doubt you’ll manage anything more than a few fretful minutes, but it’s better than nothing. You don’t want to be jumpy and anxious from a lack of sleep. At this sudden thought, you try to catch Joel’s eyes again.

“What about you?”

He shrugs one shoulder, “I’ll be fine.”

His answer annoys you. You’ve spent the entire day climbing through rubble and avoiding raiders. You brought him to the hospital. You got the stash. You followed through on your end of the bargain and yet…

“You really don’t trust me huh?”

Joel snorts, “not really, no.”

Offended, you cross your arms, “have I done something specifically or is that just your general asshole attitude to everyone?” You ask, snappish. 

You know it’s hypocritical. You know it is. You can’t help it. Whether it’s adrenaline wearing off, or hunger, or tiredness that is the cause for your tone doesn’t really matter. Your skin itches with restlessness. Hasn’t Joel been paying attention? You’re not a smuggler like him. You’ve never been outside the walls! You risked your life for this job. 

Joel cuts you with his dark gaze. “It’s my attitude toward everyone, yeah.” He replies coldly. “But especially to so-called doctors who somehow aren’t dead or with FEDRA.”

You roll your eyes.

“Oh sorry!” You pat your pockets dramatically, “I don’t have my credentials on me.”

He sighs. The weight on his shoulders deepens. He pinches his brow. Your harsh flashlight illuminates his torso and face in blue-white. His flashlight emits a halo of light. The dark, spidery-fungus frames Joel like two membranous wings. For a passing moment, he appears like a martyr, a patron saint of little patience and years of quiet agony. 

“I trust Tess.” He says, “she said we needed you because you knew where this stash was…but you wouldn’t say how you knew…and you wouldn’t tell her where it was or why you needed to go. So, I’m standing here, and I’m thinking that I could’ve done this job with Tess. And if I did then we’d be back in the QZ by now.”

He continues, “you’re inexperienced, you’re jumpy, and it’s a miracle you haven’t stepped on a network yet.”

You flinch. 

“So, yeah, doc. I’m having trouble trusting you considering you haven’t done a damn thing to earn it.”

You turn away from him. You’re too old to be sulking, but dammit (and damn him!) you are. Did watching his back not count for anything? Your success in moving stealthily? The fact that you didn’t lose your fucking cool at any point?! Your nostrils flare. You won’t jump over hoops and climb mountains to earn his trust. And why should you?! He’s kept you alive at this point but the same could be said for you. You don’t expect his whole trust, not even half of it, but you expected something. A shred of trust. A scrap. 

You settle against your backpack as a pillow and zip up your coat all the way to your chin. The minutes unhurriedly pass in awkward, tense silence. 

You realize, bitterly, that you trust him. It’s not fair that he doesn’t trust you in return. A second realization crawls into your mind. And it’s somehow worse than the first. 

The fact that you trust Joel (just a little bit!) means that you’ve let him in. You care what happens to him. You want him to survive. Hell, he’s not even a friend! Yet, you don’t see him as baggage or a liability. You don’t see him as a simple asset to your own survival. And yet….and yet…he’s earned a tiny, tiny piece of your trust.

You’ve broken rule number one: don’t let people get close. You always assumed that rule functioned in a primarily receptive way. As in, other people getting close to you and not the other way around. Your eyebrows draw together in annoyance and frustration. Silence stubbornly stretches onward while Joel watches the door and you watch him.

Quietly, you admit, “I used to work here. Not during the outbreak, though. Like, years earlier.” You stubbornly close your eyes to hide Joel’s face from your view, “an ex-resident told me about the pills. She wasn’t able to…obtain…them before they fired her.”

You flick your tongue across your dry lips.

“We were friends.”

You wonder what happened to her. You wonder if she’s alive in some other QZ. You wonder if she’s clean, or if she’s happy. Finally, you wonder if she’s dead. You try to remember the color of her eyes and are met with a void. An empty lot where a memory lived and then was evicted by your mind to make room for something else.

“She asked me to get them for her…but I never did.” You clear your throat, “we stopped being friends after that.” 

Rule number one is officially and monumentally fucking broken. 

Joel is so goddamn quiet that you suddenly fear he hasn’t been listening. Your eyes snap open. Joel is looking at you–his brow furrowed, his lips gently parted. You’ve seen this expression on his face before. He’s pensive and calm. Usually, this look is reserved for when he’s planning routes of escape.  

He asks softly, “you thought she’d come back for it?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, “she was technically banned from the hospital, but she could’ve had someone else do it or…” Your eyes trail upward to the spore-marked ceiling, “gone herself wearing a disguise or something? I don’t know.” You say while laughing weakly.

“And that’s why you wanted to come.” He guesses. 

You nod. “I knew there was a chance that I could be wrong. I didn’t want to risk anyone else for that.”

Joel’s mouth thins, “just me.”

“Yeah,” you smile, “just you.”

You sense the fragile truce between Joel and yourself. Satisfied, you close your eyes again and try to settle into a semblance of rest.  

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

Joel shakes your shoulder. Hard. Your mouth instinctively opens to groan or wince and Joel’s hand snaps over your mouth. You groggily blink at him, tugging at his coat sleeve, glaring, but Joel’s expression is pleading. His eyes are big, and sorrowful, and deep, dark brown like roasted coffee. His index finger presses to his lips. You tilt your head and try to speak against his hand. His fingers press a little harder into the meat of your cheek.

A clicking noise echoes down the hallway.

A sour taste of fear floods your senses. Your grip on Joel’s forearm tightens and your eyes widen as if they could somehow absorb all visual stimuli and discover a way out of this new mess. Joel slowly pulls his hand away from your mouth. His eyes side-glance to the window. You’re lucky you had the foresight to clean up some of the glass after your first entry.

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You establish a new knot onto the hospital bed leg and toss the rope out of the window.

Joel jerks his chin to the blossoming, rosy dawn that spills like silk into the room. You peel your jacket from your shoulders and drape it over the broken glass on the windowsill. You’d rather not accidentally slice open an artery while there’s a clicker loose in the building. You squeeze the rope in your hands. Rule #3: Always run if shit goes sideways. You throw your leg over the ledge.

The rope pulls taunt against the bedpost. The metal scrapes against the linoleum. You and Joel share an identical ‘Oh, fuck!’ expression. 

The clicker runs through the hallways and knocks over who-knows-what along the way. Always run, always run…You freeze on the ledge. Joel moves toward you. Unthinking, unbidden, your hand drops the rope and grabs Joel by the arm. 

You pull him. The world tilts sideways. A sense of vertigo rushes through your body before the ground hits you. All air is forced from your lungs in a painful, tense wheeze. A field of twinkling white stars dance in front of your eyes. Your ribs ache. You suspect more than one of them is bruised from Joel’s weight falling onto yours. 

Did it count as breaking rule number three? You ran, but you ensured Joel’s safety as well as your own. Joel lifts you to your feet. His grip is steady and sure.

“C’mon.” He whispers urgently before pulling you with him. 

Who are you kidding? Rule number three is definitely broken. 

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

You have the shittiest luck in all of Boston. You and Joel make it nearly halfway to the library (which you are planning to go around) before a raider literally runs into you. His body collides with yours, but he’s faster on the draw with his weapon.

His heavy automatic gun swivels and points to you and Joel. 

“Hold it!” There’s a tremor of terror in his voice. You glance around. He’s alone. That’s weird. The raider is wearing a FEDRA issue body vest, camouflage pants, boots, and a visorless motorcycle helmet. His ammunition is strapped over his chest like he’s in a bad 80s action movie.

His watery brown eyes notice the backpacks, “Drop your bags! And any weapons!”

“Easy.” You say, your arms raised, “we’re just passing through. This doesn’t have to get violent.”

“You’re right!” He snaps, “it doesn’t! So, drop the fucking bags and whatever else you have!”

You’re not sure what exactly clues you into the raiders’ next move. Maybe his eyes flick to Joel for a nanosecond. Maybe, you think, he sees Joel as a bigger threat (which is rather misogynistic of him but whatever). 

Your feet move before your brain has time to catch up. 

The bullet bites into the meat of your leg and you eat a face-full of dirt and gravel. The tiny, jagged rocks burn as they scrape across your skin and rip your palms and chin. You try to pinpoint the pain radiating through your body and roll painfully onto your back. Your lungs are wheezing for air. You prod your jeans with your fingertips to find the bullet entry point. Thank God. The femoral artery and vein isn’t punctured. You’d be dead otherwise.

Your wet bloodied fingers crawl along your thigh and finally find the hole. The relief is minor compared to the pain you’re in. You dig your finger and press against the bullet hole in an agonizing, guttural cry. It feels like a clean shot, but you can’t be sure. Your rule number two (don’t get fucking shot!) has been officially broken. And you did it to save Joel. Your world goes blurry with pain and tears. The muted gray scenery takes a moment to re-focus. 

And when it does–you see Joel on top of the raider. His knuckles bloom carnation red. His chest heaves with labored, deep breaths.

“Good.” You murmur, “my risky move paid off.”

“Your risky move nearly got you killed.” He snaps before crouching beside you.

“That’s a weird way to say thank you.” You apply firm pressure to your bullet wound, “he was gonna shoot you.” Weirdly, the thought makes you want to laugh. You bite down on the hysterics bubbling inside your chest. It’s adrenaline. Your body is in shock. You tell this information to yourself like a meteorologist explaining the weather. It helps a little. 

Joel scowls. “I had it handled, doc.” His hands shake as he digs through his bag. You decide not to draw attention to it. 

Your eyebrow ticks upward toward your hairline, “were you going to glower him to death?”

“Enough.” He holds a rolled bandage in his hand, “let me see.”

“I can walk.” You start to protest and flinch when he reaches for you. “We gotta move out of here.”

“You need your hands.” Goddamn, you think, Joel is a stubborn sonofabitch. You reluctantly pull your hand away from your thigh.

“Clean through?” He asks while wrapping your thigh in gauze.

You wince. The pressure is necessary to halt the bleeding, but it still fucking hurts. “I think so. Yeah. Yeah, hopefully. ” A clean shot without any gun shrapnel or broken bones will be a miracle. 

He says, “we’ll get a better look at it later.” You look away from your wrapped leg and meet Joel’s dark gaze. He holds your stare for a beat longer than you expected. You’ve never had much time to look at him–really look at him–and you realize he’s got a handsome, weathered, and tired face. Something inside your chest flutters. 

You look away before he does. “Yeah, alright.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Wincing and breathing heavily, you manage to limp your way through the streets and caved-in buildings. You cling to Joel for support when needed until he finds a safe spot to rest. You help him push an old refrigerator in front of a doorway and black spots dance in front of your vision. The pain radiates through your leg like fire. Your face glistens with sweat.

But before you can topple over, Joel catches your shoulder in his familiar, steady grip. One moment he was standing on the opposite side of the fridge and the next moment he was next to you.

He murmurs, “easy now.” And guides you to sit down and extend your leg. You breathe harshly through your nostrils and squeeze your eyes shut.

“We have to stop the bleeding.”

You hear Joel’s bag unzipping, “I know.”

“There’s a kit in my bag.”

“Okay.” You hear your bag being unzipped. “I see it.” He says.

“Apply pressure and…”  You realize distantly that you’re slurring your words, “sterilize the needle…”

 “I know.”  

You feel his hands on your thigh. His palms and fingers encircle the painful space. You can feel the heat of him, the heat of his touch, his bodily warmth. Your eyelashes flutter open. Joel is so close…his head is bowed, his expression grim and focused, and a little sheen of sweat dappled his wrinkled forehead. Joel pours disinfectant onto his hands and briskly rubs them together. Your blood-soaked bandage is pulled away. 

He shines a flashlight into the pulsing, wet wound. Some of your blood has clotted around the entry point in thick, dark red clumps. Your fingers twitch. You want to clean and care for it yourself. You want to stitch it up. But, that would risk too much infection. Your hands aren’t clean. You have to trust Joel and trust that the injury won’t kill you.

“Here, bite down on this.” He says while handing you a faded, colorless cloth bandana. You shove the fabric into your mouth and bite down at the first sharp sting of the needle poking through your skin. 

You reach out and clutch Joel’s shoulder for support. Your fingertips dig into his muscles. Your arm trembles as you squeeze him. Your vision goes soft and blurry with tears. The needle bites and bites and bites until your skin is pulled together again. Your sense of time is completely distorted as you walk between worlds on the verge of passing out while crying out in pain. 

Joel mutters quietly, “don’t worry. I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you here. You’re gonna be alright.”

You think you mumble, “I know.” but you can’t be sure. 

When Joel is finished, and the wound is wrapped, the strangest thing suddenly happens. Neither of you move. Your hand remains on his tense shoulder. His hands are applying unnecessary additional pressure to your thigh. Your ragged breath syncs to his. Your eyes burn with tears and sweat that’s dripped from your brow. 

Something magnetic draws your gaze to his. He watches you with intensity and something else–something hot and sharp and dark.  

“Are you mad at me?” You ask breathlessly. 

“You did a stupid thing.” He deadpans. 

“He was going to shoot you.” You enunciate every word.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do!” You rush out, your eyes bright from exertion, “I saw it in his face. He was going to shoot you and then me because it would’ve been easier to rob us.”

Joel replies, “he was a scared kid.”

“Fine!” You spit out, “maybe he wasn’t going to shoot us. Maybe he was just going to alert his buddies and then they’d rob us, or kill us, or capture us for their sick amusement. Either way, I don’t regret it Joel, and neither should you!”

The skin under Joel’s collar flushes red, “You got shot!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not dead!” 

Joel jerks away from you as if you’ve slapped him. His hands leave your leg, and he pulls the pocket of pills and tiny, injection vials from your bag. You scowl at his coldness, his distance. He scowls at the plastic baggie.

“I recognize some of these…”

You sigh and lean your head against the wall, “not everything in there is for pain.”

“What else is there?” He says while holding a tiny vial of morphine close to his face, “besides this I mean.”

“Antibiotics.” You say, “my friend would sell them…y’know…to people who couldn’t afford it ‘cause of the scam known as the American healthcare system.”

He nods absentmindedly while procuring some pills for you. And he passes his water bottle to you as well. You take both pills (after visually confirming that one was a low-dosage pain medication, and the other was a general antibiotic). You sit in silence while watching the tense rise and fall of Joel’s shoulder out of the corner of your eye.

You say, “I’m not sorry, Joel.”

Joel chuckles under his breath, “yeah, I know.”

He shifts his body and settles next to you with a loud, heavy sigh. His hands are smeared with your blood, the color bright like red poppies or dark like fresh cherries, depending on the angle of the light.

“We have to wait till nightfall to re-enter QZ…” He says and although there’s gruffness to his tone you think you hear warmth in it too (or its the drugs). “In the meantime, you ought to rest.”

“Mhm, yeah, alright.” 

Your head lolls sideways and your temple lands on Joel’s warm, solid shoulder. To your surprise and secret delight–he doesn’t push you away. He doesn’t relax or lean into you either. Instead, he’s more like a warm statue. But you don’t mind. You broke all your goddamn rules for him, and you can afford to be a little self-indulgent after the past two days. It won’t kill you. 

You’re going to have to establish some new rules once you return to the QZ. (And yes, rule number two should probably remain the same).

Your thoughts drift and carry you into a dreamless, gray void.

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

Joel folds his arms across his chest, unsmiling, and watching you. Turns out–you are a doctor. (Or at least, you were before the known world ended). You crouch beside a sick kid–obviously the kid is not infected, but sick with something that looks like pneumonia based on how hard the kid is trying to breathe. Their skin is glassy with sweat and every few seconds they cough like they’re going to lose a lung. 

Tess gravitates to his side. Her hands slide into the back pockets of her jeans.

She says, “I didn’t even think to consider they were getting the drugs to help other people. I figured it was just more opioids.”

Joel sniffs, “yeah.”

“Did they tell you anything?”

He frowns and shakes his head, “not much.”

“Well, they’re honest. They gave me our agreed upon cut and then some extra.” She glances sidelong at Joel, “would you work with them again?”

He watches you as you talk quietly with someone’s mother. Your expression is smooth and there’s a practiced and comfortable ease in the way you move, the way you talk. Outside the QZ, he considered you a goddamn liability. A nuisance. But, then you took a bullet for him. You dragged him out of a window to flee from a clicker. You risked your life to help these civilians (who probably don’t deserve it). You lean against your cane and walk toward him and Tess.

Joel rubs his jaw and his stubble is scratchy and rough beneath the pads of his fingers. He recalls the weight of your head on his shoulder. He recalls your eyes bright with strain, wide with fear, sparkling with amusement, and narrowed in annoyance. He wants to answer Tess’ question before you reach him. 

“Yeah,” answers Joel, “I would.”

[krcfencecompany]

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[moonacys]

[featurecreep]

Destroyed gate photo by the Massachusetts Department of Environmental Protection, taken in 1990. Posted to Flickr under a creative commons license.

[viewingstreets]

49 Pleasant St, Lawrence, MA 01841, USA

[newgenfencing]

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[davelawler]

Fenced Out by Dave Lawler Via Flickr: Friday already?

[ashestoashesjc]

Bad Witches (0.3)

Some towns sleep more than they’d care to admit. They claim to be the town that never does, but they sleep. They bustle until the wee hours when even the traffic lights must catch shut eye. (This is the leading cause of late night car accidents, in fact). But not in Riverwake. No matter the hour, Riverwake is alive and in motion. At the peak of dawn, the rumble of mechanized street cleaners is something of an alarm: A new day is here. The only challenge is survival. The road is now adequately shiny.

On a day this beautiful, a person would be mad to waste even a second of it inside. This is why when the coven meets at their favorite restaurant, Giorgio's, for cocktails and gossip, they ask for outdoor seating, beneath a veil of dark gray umbrellas.

After the waiter brings around the first tray of flutes, Bev flags him down and whispers in his ear. When he returns, he has a pitcher filled to the brim with a hazy, dim yellow. He places it at the center of the table and walks off to attend to other diners.

Shrugging, Bev says, "Save him some trips."

During a third round of mimosas, Kate off-handedly mentions her father-in-law and his rocky relationship with his son, but that he thinks gifting Dan membership to their familial country club is effective enough as tension relief. Dan's typically too busy to take advantage of it, she says.

"But you still want to," says Bev, drinking from her orange-tinted glass.

"I didn't say that," says Kate.

"You didn't have to," Bev says, swatting at the air, "Does anyone else hear that buzzing? What is that? Do you think a WASP snuck in?" The other witches attempt to stifle their giggles.

Turning bright red, Kate leans back into her seat, clutching at her glass and bringing it closer to her face so as to slightly cloud the next words she mutters, "I can invite guests, by the by."

The witches' ears perk up.

"You know, I don't think I've ever been to a country club," Matt says, "The wealthy have historically neglected basic hand-washing techniques. Seems like a petri dish, but in a higher tax bracket.”

"I'm from the country. And I've been to a club. Does that count?" Haley asks, still nursing her first mimosa.

"What should we wear?" Bev asks.

Kate sets her glass down to refill it from the orange pitcher, "Dress for spring."

So, they do. The next morning, they are all casual shorts and solid-colored polos and white visors. Only, it's a month away from the dead of winter and it's the middle of Massachusetts. Bev, Matt, and Haley stand outside of the given address and, with their miserable shaking, resemble a group of very posh street urchins.

Kate arrives in a cozy-looking fur-lined parka and upon seeing the other witches' bewildered expressions, snuggles affectionately into the mink hood, "Teach you to mock me."

The other witches follow Kate into the almost intimidatingly large, red-bricked building. What are presumably wings stretch nearly a kilometer in each direction.

"One of you couldn't have ch-checked the weather before leaving the house?" Bev admonishes, one shiver away from legally qualifying as an icicle.

"T-throwing a lot of stones in that g-glass igloo, aren't you?" Haley asks.

The combination of central circulated heating and at least two fireplaces (one in the den closest to the club's entrance; one in the more formal of the two dining areas) nearly melts the witches as they linger with Kate at the front desk.

"Okay, we're approved," Kate says, shaking hands with the attendant behind the desk, "Just don't touch anything."

"Damn. There goes my Grand Theft Itinerary," says Bev.

Looking at her sternly, Kate says, "Don't even joke about that. They will absolutely kick us out."

The witches huddle at the end of the entrance hall, dissecting the list of offered activities. Bev is interested in exactly none of them, but does wish to examine their stock of spirits. Matt begins spraying himself with hand sanitizer the moment he notices how many of the items have a "Group Activity" label.

A woman in a calf-length Houndstooth coat walks past the group but stops to gaze at Kate's jacket, fawning over its charm and subtle glamour. She asks if Kate also bought her coat from Nordstrom. She then asks if Kate plans to play in a tennis match later.

Kate happily confirms that, yes, she will be playing. They chat for a little longer and Kate is still smiling when the woman bids her farewell and walks further into the club's interior.

"How are you going to play?" Matt asks, pointing to the tennis poster pinned to the cork bulletin board at the lobby entrance, "It's Doubles and three of us will likely solidify if we venture outside."

"Oh, we're still playing tennis. Do you know how much I had to bribe the babysitter to come on such short notice?" asks Kate, "They have a heated indoor court," she says, taking off her coat to reveal a sensible, pale beige skirt and thin, rust red pullover.

"Oh, they're fancy fancy," says Haley.

Kate finds the sports center in the left wing, guided by the rambunctious sound of middle aged aerobics. It is a vast gymnasium filled with varied exercise equipment and a bounty of helpful regimens: elliptical trainers, stair masters, Homeless Person Avoidance Training, medicine balls, etc. There's even a rock climbing wall mounted in the back. There are no cables attached to it for fear that people may actually wish to use it, but it has its scenic benefits. She then sees the tennis court, a green square girded with a chain link fence. She spies the sign-up sheet on a plastic folding table at the entrance and begins scrawling her name.

As she flourishes the Barston-ending 'n' and admires her penmanship, an unexpected voice takes her by surprise.

"You're in the way," says the voice and Kate notices that it belongs to the robust, older gentleman looming behind her. He is accompanied by a smaller, leaner fellow and together they look like a before and after advert for malnutrition.

Kate nearly leaps out of the man's direction when she notices her folly. "Sorry! I wasn't paying attention."

"Never seen you here before," says the shorter, wheat blond man.

"Yes, I'm a new--" begins Kate, holding out her hand in anticipation of a handshake.

"Who's your husband?" interrupts the other man, a gray halo of hair situated on the perimeter of his scalp.

"I'm not sure how--" starts Kate, slowly lowering her hand.

"That's how you got in, right?" he asks as he bends down to add his own name to the roster, "Bring the 'Girls' for a 'Fun Weekend' at the country club and then fuck off to whichever Wellness Spa you crawled out of?"

"That's--" Kate tries to interject.

"We promise not to beat you too badly later, okay?" the blond interrupts as he saunters off, followed shortly by his friend.

She is left standing alone at the front of the sports center, not entirely sure she has correctly interpreted the preceding events. In her mind, she loops through their meeting again and again, wondering what she did wrong. When she does realize that she, in fact, ‘Just Got Dunked On’, grim is not the right word to describe the aura she emanates. It's pretty close, though.

Kate staggers into the common area and, seeing the rest of her coven lying haphazardly across an island of recliners, plops into one of the vacant chairs. Her entire demeanor is a haggard sigh.

Trading concerned looks, the witches aren't sure who should handle this. They play "Rock, Paper, Sigils" while Kate slumps further into the padded leather. The agreed upon worst candidate for helping someone through distress is also apparently really bad at games of chance because when she loses, Bev swears under her breath.

Bev very tepidly strokes Kate's back and whispers, "Now, now. Emotions are..." she gulps, "Perfectly normal. I have them all the time." She retches.

Taking Kate's hand, Matt asks, "What happened?"

A full body sigh later and Kate appears to have summoned the drive to retell the tale. By the time she's through, the witches bear the expressions of those personally wronged. How dare anyone make fun of Kate? And not even behind her back like a decent person. WASPS have feelings, too.

"You should've led with that," says Bev, cracking her knuckles, "I'll kill them."

Matt nods, "I don't know about getting someone else's blood on me, but yes, murder seems in order."

Haley can't believe what she just heard. She really can't. She stopped listening halfway through to stare at someone she thought might be her Little League coach. But why would they be here, ten states away in this country club common area? It just doesn't make sen-- Oh, no, that's someone else, nevermind. Oh, god, now everyone's looking at her. Make something up, make something up.

"Like a flock of crows in V-formation," says Haley. Nailed it.

"You guys... you have no idea how much this means to me," says Kate, a welling in her eyes, "I know with you by my side, Bev, we can--"

"Oh, yeah, no, I don't want to play," Bev corrects.

Clearly disappointed, Kate's face sobers a little, but she looks to Matt with hope.

"Sorry, me either. I didn't mean to mislead you," says Matt, sincerely apologetic.

Kate feels as though the dinghy she just acquired footing in has capsized beneath her.

Haley smiles.

Kate looks to her nervously, but the smile only widens. "Have... you ever actually played tennis?" Kate asks.

"Sure, I played a little at home," Haley says. Kate sighs.

"Of course, we had wooden rackets and the strings were made from goat guts, but how different could it be?" Haley asks. Kate sighs again and internally resigns to her fate, but still intends on having a very fun, very non-competitive time.

On the court, shortly before their starting match, Haley tests the weight of the carbon fiber racket. She tosses it from hand to hand and gives a few practice swats. Once, she sends the racket flying, leaving her to run to the middle of the court and retrieve it.

Their first few matches - one with a couple from Denver and the other with the woman they encountered in the lobby and her "chiropractor" who is definitely only half her age because it helps to be young and limber in his profession. Definitely - are nothing to write home about. Haley's home, in particular, is where you should not be writing to. Because they would not be very impressed with her performance. But after getting used to how light this inferior plastic racket is, the aerodynamics of its slender frame, the whistle of its whip through the air, she feels a touch more comfortable.

This comfort is promptly squished like a windshield mosquito when their next opponents enter the fence. Kate's heart falls when she recognizes the sheen of one man's head and the smarm on the other's lips, but her face is unflinching steel.

"Didn't think you'd still be here," the blond says, his eyes a sneer.

The walking comb over assumes his place across the court and, beginning to stretch, says, "They wanted to lose to real men. I don't blame 'em."

Haley exhales. The match begins.

For the first set, the court is a frenzy of movement. Rhythmic thwacking echoes across the gymnasium. The squeaking of sneakers, the breathy grunts upon each impact, the flicked beads of sweat as they dart to strike the racket. All four are giving it their all.

But Kate and Haley are just too accurate. Too fast. Too relentless in their fury.

Nearing the end of their third set, Kate and Haley have dominated the game, easily leading over their opponents' hefty score of one. What was only meant to be a playful diversion sees the girls one favoring play away from taking the whole kit 'n' caboodle. Reigning victorious. But, like, in a fun, non-competitive way.

This is what it all comes down to.

"They would be good at this," huffs the gray-haired man to his partner, "Chicks and tennis." He serves the ball, and Haley, in her distraction, swings and misses. A green blur zips by her head.

The gray-haired man chuckles, "I think that's our point."

"One of them even looks like Serena," his blond partner wheezes hoarsely. They burst into ill-concealed snickers.

"One more round?" Kate asks, bouncing a tennis ball.

"One more round," Haley concurs.

They trade the tennis ball back and forth with their opponents, the net flapping with every pass. For a few tosses, they are very light swings, measured and contained. But in one of her connections with the ball, Kate applies a considerable amount more force to the racket. The tennis ball responds with equal vigor, shooting from her racket's wired face and careening toward the other side of the court.

But it never hits either of the men's rackets. Or makes contact with the ground. It simply floats and whirls at a standstill just past the net.

No one moves a muscle.

The silent stillness of the moment is broken when the blond man appears to muster the confidence to approach the green rotation. He seems to have descended from glaciers with the time it takes him to close the gap. Mere inches away, he stares up at the tennis ball in the exact way that you're not supposed to stare at the sun.

He lifts his hand and reaches slowly upward with an extended finger.

The ball, still in a rapid spin, yet frozen in mid-air, comes undone and pelts the blond directly between the eyes. He goes to the ground and rolls onto his back, his scream slightly muffled by the hands now covering his face.

Exclaiming his name, the gray-haired man runs over to kneel and assist his partner.

Focused on tending to his friend, he is blissfully unaware when, under Haley's intense stare, his shoestrings loosen and then intertwine, lacing together.

"I think that's our point," says Haley.

The man clambers to a stand and starts off toward her with a warning, huffy "Why, you little..." before tripping and spilling to the ground like a freshly slingshotted Goliath.

The blond, a red burn at the center of his face, goes to help him, but his shorts sink quickly to his feet and he falls in a tangle to the green mat.

"That's set," says Kate.

"And match," says Haley.

They grasp hands in a high five and make their way to the fenced door.

As they exit the court, Haley shouts back to the groaning men, "And I would love to look like Serena! She's a goddamn Amazon!" Even after they've exited, Haley can still be heard shouting, "An Amazon!"

They've made it halfway into the main house when they run into Matt just outside of the kitchen, wearing a black apron, stamped with the country club's logo.

"Why are you--?" Haley begins before Matt raises a hand and cuts her off with a sharp breath.

"I went to the restaurant to sample their Chateaubriand," he says, pulling the apron strings over his head, "But someone mistook me for a waiter and one thing led to another, and I report for duty at 9 am."

Slinking down the hall to join them, Bev says, "That's really going to confuse your students."

"Where have you been?" Kate asks.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you guys about," she says.

Occasionally looking over her shoulder to ensure she's not being followed by any of the club's staff, Bev leads the coven to the rear section of the expansive building. Despite the recently watered ficuses, it doesn't appear as though this area of the club receives much visitation.

Taking another cursory look, Bev waves the witches into a room and closes the door behind her. Once she flicks the light on, an old ballroom comes into focus. The dusty, white grand piano, tucked in the room's corner, has uneven keys. The floor is cedar coated in a thoroughly scuffed varnish.

At the center of the room is a freshly painted and ornamented circle, surrounded in thick, off-white candles.

"You've been busy," Kate says.

"Since we got here, I've sensed a mass of souls, trapped just beneath the floorboards," says Bev.

"I felt it, too," says Matt, "I suspected it was just the unease that comes with being in a country club."

"There's that, too," Bev says.

Bev stomps on the floor and a chorus of weak groans ekes up, "That's at least 30? Maybe 40 unhappy ghosts." She locks eyes with Kate, hesitates for a moment, and says, "We have to do something." 

Kate, all out of sighs for the day, brings her hands together and lets them go with a deep breath. "Okay," she says, "What do we do?"

There's no boom box available to blast "Wannabe" while they work, so their preparation lacks a distinct Spice, but they each have their jobs and they each complete them with an expected diminished enthusiasm.

Once Kate's finished lighting the candles, Haley flips the light switch and they take their positions.

Because it was her idea, Bev heads the ritual, and thus initiates the throaty, guttural chanting. As she nears the end, like a musical round, another witch starts from the beginning. And the cycle continues until, thrumming like a locust swarm, the coven is in overlapping cacophony.

As their chanting increases in volume and an impossible wind whips their hair to and fro, the candle flames grow into angry blazes. And in an instant, they extinguish.

And the room goes dark.

Then, suddenly, light returns as a host of faint, blue-white specters encircle the witches. As a few seconds pass and they regain more human forms, a great variety of age among them, the "Leader" of the group, a weathered man in an eagle feather-adorned headdress, nods to the coven. One by one, their forms dissipate. Soon, they've all faded, leaving one little girl, clutching a small toy bunny. She waves at the witches and too disappears.

The candles flicker back to life.

"So good of you to release them," Kate says, laying her hand on Bev's shoulder, "The afterlife will be kind to them."

"Right. Release," Bev says, tapping Kate's hand.

From outside of the ballroom there comes a scream. Looking a smirking Bev in the eyes, Kate pulls her hand away and makes for the door.

The chaos encapsulating the country club can be heard in its full intensity the moment Kate cracks the door open.

It's difficult to decipher exactly what is transpiring: a typhoon of well-clothed, well-fed patrons bounds in every direction. They wail and beg and stumble over each other, flown after by a roaring cavalcade of translucent figures.

The witches watch as the little girl who thanked them earlier flies through the bottom of a couple's table and into their roasted duck, chasing them with scornful, flailing drumettes as they scream for mercy.

Kate's face gets in the way of her palm.

"You know, I saw a hand sanitizer dispenser in the bathroom," says Matt, "Maybe this place isn't so bad after all."

[lokisgame]

A Generous Donation [17]

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7] [part 8] [part 9] [part 10] [part 11] [part 12][part 13] [part 14] [part 15] [part 16]

Mulder found Scully in her office, staring at slides pinned to the light box. She turned and upon seeing him, smiled wide. "What are those?" "I stole them from a guy with a broken leg down the hall," he said conspiratorially, handing her a dozen roses, "he won't be able to catch me." "Then maybe I should give them back," she teased and buried her nose in red petals, breathed in, her eyes falling shut for a second. "Don't you dare," Mulder smiled and leaned in for a kiss. "Hello, Doc." "Hi," she kissed him back. "What's the occasion?" "I'm taking you out." "Out? Where?" "To dinner," he said, doubling back for her coat. "It's been a while." "But I'm not dressed right, and I'm supposed to visit Will." "You look perfect and I already spoke to Will, he's fine, he loves you and he hopes we'll have fun." "So it's dinner and fun?" "Sort of fun." 

"Just so you know, I don't do ice skating." "Oh dear, no," he laughed and held out the coat, "can we go? Or do you want to finish something here first? I can wait." "No, we can go," she said turning, and glancing at the roses again, "I'm just worried about these." She slipped her arms inside the sleeves, juggling the bouquet as she did. "If they die, which is unlikely," he said, pulling her into his arms, "I'll get you two dozen more." "You spoil me rotten." "It's about time, ‘cause you're worth it." "Alright, you old smoothie," she laughed, freeing herself and linking their arms, "now feed me, I'm famished."

Scully took in the long counter, tall bar stools, fogged up windows and the cooking that was happening right before the patrons. Long strings of noodles sprang out from steaming pots to the rhythm of chopping the vegetables. The place smelled delicious, still, she felt like teasing him a little. "So this your idea of fancy, ramen?" "I didn't say it's going to be fancy," he grinned stirring his soup. "You said you were hungry, eat up." "All the roses, the surprise, I just thought." She shook her head, amused, picking a piece of grilled chicken from the broth. Mulder looked up, doubt creeping into his eyes. "You don't like it?" He asked, but she already tasted the food and smiling, went for more. "Oh, okay," he said and went back to his food as well. "I picked this place because it's the closest to where we're heading next." "Which is?" Scully asked and Mulder grinned around a mouthful of beef, so she answered for him. "Another surprise." He shrugged and nodded. "If this is some monster hunt, I swear." He swallowed fast, put his arms around her and kissed her cheek. "It's not, stop worrying." "So stop being so cryptic." Mulder laughed, squeezing a kiss between her shoulder and neck just to make her laugh. "Now where's the fun in that." He took a sip of his beer and picked up his chopsticks again. "So, how was your day?" So between slurping and laughing, she told him.

"You still haven't explained the car," she said, pulling on her leather gloves before leaving the restaurant. "What happened to the Ford?" Mulder opened the door for her. "Nothing, but we need something bigger for tonight so I borrowed the bus from a friend." "Your friend is a fan of classic cars?" "Classic, Frohike would kiss you for that," he laughed following her out, "not that I'd let him." "Where to next?" She asked, talking his hand. "You don't recognize these parts?" She looked around as they crossed the street. The wind changed, carrying voices and the scent of cinnamon and pine. Scully laughed. "No! How did you know?" Mulder grinned and put his arm around her. "Charlie suggested it." They followed the chain link fence towards the twinkling lights and music, to buy their first Christmas tree.

Scully sipped mulled wine from a plastic cup following Mulder until he stopped by a spruce, almost a foot taller than him. "Okay, what do you think about this one?" "I'm not sure it will fit into my living room," she said grinning. "How about mine?" "I thought you didn't do Christmas." "I feel exceptionally festive this year." He took a step back to examine the tree from afar and Scully leaned into his side, putting one arm around his waist. "If it's for me, you don't have to do this." "Isn't the tree a vital part of the Christmas spirit?" "No, it's about sharing love and spreading kindness and generosity." She looked up and smiled even brighter, "Come to think of it, you could be my Christmas tree." Mulder laughed, kissing the cold tip of her nose. "As long as you don't try to wrap me in Christmas lights." "Do you even have Christmas lights?" "Nope, I was counting on you to help me with that." "In that case, we've got some serious Christmas shopping to do, mister." "Okay, but what about the tree?" "It's nice, but we can do better." "So we're picking two?"   "No," she pushed her hand under his arm and pulled him along, "we'll only need one."

Once they wrestled the tree inside Mulder's front door and decided on the spot, a little to the side from the fireplace with a nice view from the couch, Scully went about making hot chocolate, leaving Mulder in the living room, looking at the tree. "You think there are spiders in it?" "Don't tell me you're afraid of spiders." "It's not that I'm afraid, I'm just not a huge fan of bugs." He said and went to join her. "What could an itty-bitty spider do to a big guy like you?" "You know about venomous spiders, right?" "In Massachusetts?" "Isn't there anything you're scared of?" "Once you have a kid, everything scares you," she said over a little pot sitting on the smallest burner, "stairs, power sockets, knives, scissors left lying around. Either you learn to live with that fear or suffocate your kid trying to protect him from anything and everything." Mulder wrapped his arms around her waist, chin resting on the top of her head. "You did a good job, raising our kid to be brave." "I think he hides a lot of his fears behind humor." "Better that than violence," he sighed and began nibbling kisses over the side of her neck, "another point for you. Anyone ever told you you're awesome?" "You?" She giggled, tilting her chin and leaning into his lips, but her next words came wistful. "I wish you could have been there with me." "I'm here now," he murmured against her earlobe, "and we've got all the time in the world." He kissed her cheek, before catching her lips, then reached into the cupboard and took out a bottle of Jameson. Mulder liked his hot chocolate Irish.

They got two strings of rainbow colored lights and two boxes of ornaments. Scully ripped the packaging, unwound couple of feet from the knot and handed the loose end to Mulder keeping the rest to herself. "We'll start from the top and work our way down around the tree," she instructed. Mulder nodded and set his mug on the mantle. He took the cord, reached up and paused by the highest branch, looking over his shoulder. "Here?" "Perfect." She smiled and followed around the tree, untangling the wire for him. "This always was Will's favorite part," she said, "even when he barely reached the lowest branches, he would hold the lights trying to help. Then as he grew, we arranged the lights together, and now it's usually him doing the hanging and me holding the wires." "And who did it for you, when both of you were too small to reach the top?" Scully poked his side and he chuckled. "I scaled down the tree to my size," she said and moved the cord he just hung, one level down. "How do you know it should go there?" Scully shrugged and handed him another yard. "Practice?" "At home we never really celebrated anything between Thanksgiving and New Years," Mulder said taking the second set of lights and starting again, at the top. "Not Hanukkah, not Christmas, obviously. My father was too busy, and mom, instead of making an effort for us, waited. Like his word was the law and she waited for his say-so. And then Samantha went missing and even the pretense went out the window. No more fireworks in July, no more thanksgiving. Zip." "I'm sorry." "It's okay, I guess it would be worse if we tried to force it. You can't miss what you don't know. Then I went to college and stayed at Oxford for Christmas break." "I'm almost afraid to ask." "We drank and partied and don't ask me what else, because I don't really remember. It felt good to let go for a bit." "You don't remember your first Christmas?" "We went to London, then Paris, it snowed like crazy that year." "White Christmas, nice." They made one last round around the tree and Mulder went to kill the lights, while Scully did small adjustments to the arrangement. For a moment the room was illuminated by nothing but the fire in the fireplace and then Mulder came back, knelt on the floor and plugged the lights in. She forgot how to exhale for a second or three, until he was standing behind her, arms wrapped around her waist. Leaning against his chest and feeling his chin resting on top of her head. Barefoot, she fit perfectly, head to toe, into his embrace. "Oh wow," she sighed. "Yeah, my thoughts exactly." Mulder said and leaned into her, drawing her closer to his lips on the side of her neck. "Wait till we hang all the ornaments," she murmured, but his hands were already sneaking under the edge of her sweater, working buttons on her shirt. "Ornaments can wait," he breathed and nipped at the skin just above the collar. "I can't." "It's just two boxes," she sighed, doing nothing to stop his fingers from finding the tab on the zipper of her slacks. "Wanna know a secret?" "You discovered a Christmas tree fetish?" He didn't say, but fingertips on bare skin made her jump when a caress turned into a tickle, making her squirm in his arms. Mulder pulled her tighter to himself, his hand slipping under the lace trimmed waistband of her panties. She covered his hand through the fabric and ground her hips into his touch. "Shame, because I think," he pushed two fingers inside her making her voice hitch, "I think I did." Throaty laughter filled her ear and he tugged on her earlobe, a bite soothed with a kiss. Light fractured on her eyelashes and she gave herself over to the sensations of his confident touch and erection trapped against the small of her back. Mulder held her up, one hand kneading the breast, deliciously pinching the nipple, the other pumping in and out, fingers slipping over her clitoris with each pass. It was an exquisite torture. She longed for his warmth not the heat off her clothes, the touch of his skin instead of just his hands and lips. "I want to feel you," she moaned and he pushed deep inside her almost lifting her off her feet. But it wasn't the touch that sent a new shiver up her spine, it was his word. "No," he growled flicking her nipple and pushing a third finger inside her, curling them. That one spot which usually turned her all aglow set her on fire. "Come for me first." It wasn't a plea or a promise, it was an order, one she had no choice but to obey. With his tongue and teeth on her neck, she rocked her hips into his palm and the pleasure that was building exploded from her core, pushing the breath out of her lungs in a moan and knocking her knees out from under her. If it wasn't for his arms around her, she'd collapse. Instead, Mulder lowered her to the floor by the fireplace, tugging on her pants and panties. "Breathe, Scully." He said and she breathed, watching him take off his sweater and t-shirt, the flex of muscles and arch of his back as he knelt between her thighs. Light played on his skin, the fire behind him, the Christmas lights above her and his smile when he let his hands glide up her thighs and over hips, to the edge of her sweater and blouse. He pulled and she arched her back, but when the clothes passed her head, he paused leaving her hands trapped inside the sleeves. Scully tried to free herself, but he caught her wrists, pinning them over her head. "Leave it," he said, catching her lips in a light kiss. Nibbling on her parted mouth he traced his fingers down the inside of her arms. He grazed the delicate skin, fingernails turning tickles into shivers, past the sensitive crooks of her elbows, upper arms and armpits. His lips followed over her throat, the hollow at the base and down her sternum, until they met his hands, cupping both breasts and squeezing through the soft lace and he buried his face between them. She gasped and arched into his touch. Never had she surrendered herself so freely, following without a word his soft-spoken commands. Was it because she trusted him? Was it because he had given her so much already? Or was it because she felt that him finally wanting something from her and taking it instead of asking for it, made her feel needed. He finally claimed her. Finally, they were equals. She wrapped her thighs around him and resting her feet on his hips brought him back. He unhooked her bra and latched onto her breast, sucking at her right nipple while he pinched the left. "Not yet," he murmured between kisses, on his way from the right to the left, "patience." And she didn't fight him, letting him kiss his fill. She moved beneath him, panting the lower he kissed, not holding back the moans he elicited when he draped her thighs over his shoulders and opened her up again with his tongue and fingers. Licking inside and outside, he teased her mercilessly, bringing her to the edge, watching her pull on the makeshift restraints, with her back arched off the floor and her breath coming in gasps, just to stop and start all over again. She was lost in sensation when she finally felt him shift, the back of her thighs against his chest, sudden kisses on her calves beckoning her back. She was almost bent in half beneath him, trapped between his thighs and arms as he hovered over her. Mulder waited till her eyes focused on him, until she felt the tip of his cock poised at the entrance of her body, and when he had her full attention he pushed inside her. Slowly, deliberately, never freeing her gaze, he started to thrust, rocking into her, his speed building as she grew wetter with each pass. Deeper and faster, as her walls gripped him tighter. Mulder shifted his balance, changed the angle and freed one hand to stroke around her clit. Sweat glistened in the light of the fire and the tree, and he gave everything he had to her expecting nothing of her but to surrender and take it and he took pleasure in her body. She came hard and didn't even try to hide it, pulling him with her over the edge, his heat filing her to the brim, and drowning out thought. Minutes or eons later, she found Mulder pulling out and rolling off her. With one hand he pried open her fingers, still clutching on the fabric of the sweater. "Say something," he whispered, pulling her arms down and massaging the life back into her fingers. "You've been holding out on me." Mulder chuckled but kept working on her hands. "Did you like it?" Scully purred and rolled onto her side, straight into his arms. "It's like Christmas came early this year, like, three times." She murmured kissing his warm skin and the chuckle turned into a laugh. "I've got nothing," he sighed and brought her hand to his lips, biting the knuckles lightly, "you blow my mind." "There's something else I'd rather blow," she said, licking her lips. "What about the tree?" "What tree?" "The Christmas tree behind you," he laughed, "the one with the spiders in it!" Scully gasped and scrambled up, scooting as far away as she could until she hit the couch with her back. Mulder stayed where he was, his body shaking with laughter and she realized he wasn't serious. On all fours she crawled back, swatting at his side as hard as she could, getting nothing more than more laugh for her trouble. She straddled his stomach and leaning in, pushed his shoulders into the hardwood floor beneath. "Not funny!" "A little funny." Digging her fingernails into his skin, she dragged them over his chest, not enough to draw blood, just to leave a bright red trace. Mulder hissed, but it was a good hiss, he grabbed her thighs and held on.   "Hello," she smiled and moved lower, "you like this?" "What?" Stretching out on his chest, she scored him again, all the way up, until her fingers twined in his hair, turning pain into bliss. "This." "Yeah, this." With her tongue in his mouth and his fingernails on her back, they made love again in the light of the fire and the Christmas lights.

The next morning Mulder found Scully on his couch, with a mug of coffee in hand and her feet propped up on the coffee table. He leaned over her and kissed the top of her head. "Morning," she said, leaning her head back for another one, on her lips. The day didn't start until he got at least three. "You hung the ornaments." "We should get you some fun ones." "UFO's?" He teased, brushing her smile the third time, the charm. "Handcuffs." "Warn me, before I open my gifts in front of your mother." "I'm thinking neckties and scarves." "Try leather belts and gloves." "Gloves?" He climbed over the back of the couch, picked up the mug she had ready for him and pulled her under his arm. "I like to keep my hands warm." "What are we doing today?" "Visiting Will." "Other than that, obviously." "Oh, I don't know, watch tv, hang out, order in." "Tie you up and stay in bed until Monday?" "Tie me up?" His eyebrow went up on the 'me'. "Okay, we can take turns." Mulder set the mug on the floor and pulled her legs over his lap. A hand climbed up her thigh, pushing her back into the couch cushions. He pushed past the lace, whispering against her lips. "Will you always keep me guessing?" "As long as you keep unfolding like a flower." "I wish I've met you when I was still in my twenties." "You did," she grinned, glancing down, "at least part of you did." "Okay," grabbing her hips he pulled her down, "you've asked for it." Mulder yanked at the sash and the bathrobe and her thighs fell open. They didn't make it for lunch with Will. He didn't mind.

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[the-blind-assassin-12]

Made Man

Part One: Cosa Nostra 

A/N: Here we go folks! The official kick off of this one starts six months before the events of the intro, and immediately follows the end of the movie...with one major change, of course (as my quest to rescue all of Ben’s characters from their untimely film and screen deaths continues)

Warnings: language, depictions and descriptions of death and violence 

Word Count: 3,718 

6 months before:

 The steel gray storm clouds fell into the bus’ rear view, with all of Beantown melting away behind him. Good fuckin’ riddance, Nick thought to himself, vowing never to return to Boston. As the bus left the city limits, his eyes fell upon a tourism billboard looming above Route 28. Faded, scrolling lettering on the badly peeling sign read “Boston: It’s All Here”. There were images of schooners and brigantines, cobbled streets, trees exploding in scarlet and gold foliage. The bottom of the billboard was lined with logos from the Red Sox, Patriots, Bruins and Celtics. The south side of the city was completely absent from the advertisement. No chain link fences, no yards with hungry pitbulls, or bars with blinking, buzzing neons. No indication whatsoever that Boston, Massachussetes was anything but a picture perfect postcard. It’s all here, he read the words one last time. No, nothin’s here. Ain’t nothin’ here for me anymore. Forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window pane and a toothpick clamped firmly between his teeth, he gripped the black bag in his lap and let out a long breath. Nick Tortano had a lot to think about, a lot to consider; a lot to plan, a lot to work on, and a fuck of a lot to forget.

 He shifted in the hard seat of the old Greyhound, one long leg extended under the row in front of him, the other bent, knee swaying with the motion of the bus. Flashes of what he hoped to forget tore through his mind.

 The way his father looked at him as he drew his last breath, eyes the size of chestnuts, hand reaching towards his son’s face but falling short- the way he screamed his throat bloody in the street as the life slipped from the man’s body.

 That sudden drop in his gut just before the soft whizzing sound of two bullets cutting through the air, muffled by the silencer on the end of Jerry’s gun. Jerry who he thought he could trust, who he had to leave in a pool of blood on Ali’s bedroom floor.

 The stillness of her chest, the two bright red blossoming blood stains spreading across her white shirt, lips slightly parted and limp fingers dangling from the mattress. The way she took all the air in the room with her as he knelt by her side feeling the warmth leave those fingers.

 That corrosive regret that ate away at his heart and set his veins on fire- regret over not killing George in that warehouse, over letting him call the shots with Tony. Nick had gotten him, eventually, but the regret… the what if...what if he’d done him in then...could he have saved her? The fact that this was what he’d been made to feel, to think about...to do to his friend...his best fucking friend…

 The lost look on Vito’s face, how he looked even younger than he was as Nick shoved a bag of cash into his arms and made him promise to leave town; to get out of Boston and not to look for him, not to try to contact him.

 “But you’re my brother, Nicky,” he’d tried to argue, all obstinance and uncertainty and fear.

 The way he’d had to harden his eyes and deepen his voice. “Yeah, well I can’t be your fuckin’ brother right now, Vito. Now do what the fuck I’m tellin’ ya and get the fuck outta town. And keep your fuckin’ phone on you.” How he’d walked away then, turning his back on the one person in the world that he had left. His father had stopped believing in him months ago. George had proven himself a toxic presence in Nick’s life. Ali had been innocent, and he’d miss what they could have become, what they were on their way to becoming; he’d forever feel the guilt of dragging her into his disaster. But walking away from Vito was the biggest loss he’d felt.

 Nick’s nostrils flared as his top lip twitched. Sal. The one part of all of this that he didn’t mind remembering, was finishing it once and for all. Emptying his lead into that old bastard, standing over him and watching him become nothing but trash for the clean up crew that had been sent for Nick; watching as thick and slow, Sal’s blood mixed with motor oil and rainwater and dripped down into the sewer. The end you deserved, you piece of shit.

 “Niccolo, I tried to tell ya. You cannot have it all,” Sal had said, hands in his pockets, right one gripping the .38 that Nick knew Sal always carried. Nick kept his gun trained on Sal’s chest as he continued. “You shoulda been happy, kid. Shoulda realized you had all you needed right here. This thing of ours, Nick, remember?” He pulled his left hand out of his pocket and waved it around vaguely. “You were the one hadta hold onto your family, to your friends...to that girl a yours.” He paused dramatically, clicking his tongue and feigning a sympathetic frown that made Nick’s eyes flash in the dark alleyway. “Shame, Nick. You threw away a great career with the mob for what? Whatcha got now Nicky? Nothin’. Nothin’ here for ya anymore, kid. You’re nothin’.”

 As he finished delivering his monologue, he attempted to shoot through his right pocket, raising his still concealed revolver as he spoke. But Nick was quicker, and as soon as he saw  Sal’s arm move, he squeezed the trigger and sneered as Sal stumbled backwards, open mouth gaping like a goddamn fish. He advanced on his former boss, firing two more shots before the man crumpled to the pavement and Nick’s boots were on either side of Sal’s body. He was already dead, but that didn’t stop Nick from pulling the trigger over and over until it clicked uselessly beneath his pointer finger.

 The anger and adrenaline, the loss and suffering, the feeling of vengeance were all still pulsing venomously through every inch of his body a full eight hours later as he sat on the bus leaving Boston and his business there behind. He knew he had to get out of the city as quickly as he could, get somewhere far enough were the guys Sal worked for couldn’t find him- he wasn’t the top of the food chain, afterall. Sal had just been some Capo. He had a boss, and his boss had a boss, and Nick knew that they wouldn’t take kindly to some street soldier taking out an entire branch of their outfit, their Thing. Fuck your thing. I fuckin’ destroyed your thing. Cosa Nostra. What a crock of shit.  

 A crock of shit that he so willingly committed himself to, despite all of the people that he trusted the most telling him that he was making a mistake. His father, George, Jerry, Ali… but he hadn’t listened to any of them, and it had cost him all of them. For what? For a burning piece of paper clamped between his palms, scorching lies and false vows into his skin while he spoke words in Italian that he couldn’t begin to translate on his own. For a few days worth of walking around the city and feeling like a hot shot, like a real genuine made man; a real genuine lie. For money he could send to Vito, to pay for his college education- what money now, Nick? You got nothin’. Nothin’ for your brother, nothin’ for yourself ‘cept a bounty on your damn head. He might not have anything left, but he wasn’t ready to just sit and wait for some goon to come take him out either. He might not have anything to give Vito, but he was going to make sure that once this was finished for good, once the heat was off of him, that he’d find him and they’d at least have each other again. Build my own damn thing. My own damn family.

 He’d concocted a plan, though he wasn’t sure how solid it was, having had only a few hours and a heart and mind crystalized with icy grief to work with, but it was all he had so it would have to do. He’d heard Sal and Jerry and a few others chattering about how the Boston family was struggling; about how its grip on the East Coast was slipping daily as outfits a few states south gained strength and cornered markets previously held by Boston. Illegal arms dealing, drug smuggling, hired killers… even black market technology deals with China, something previously handled exclusively by the Boston mob, was starting to fall to the New York/ New Jersey crews. The last time Sal sent some guys down to Jersey to negotiate and try to get back some ground they’d lost, only one of them came back, prompting Sal to throw a heavy quartz paperweight through the window of his office, curses flying from his mouth for Steve Bonafiglio, his counterpart down there. Even then, before shit had gone bad, Nick knew enough to pay attention to anyone or anything that made his boss’ blood pressure rise like that, so the name Steve Bonafiglio and his cover up cafe The Dockside were etched into his memory, saved for later use.

 Later was now, and as the hours ticked by and the pavement passed beneath the rolling rubber tires, he repeated the name of the establishment over and over. The Dockside, Atlantic Highlands. The Dockside, Atlantic Highlands. Simon Lake Drive, next to the bait shop. The Dockside, Atlantic Highlands. The bus he was on would take him into New York- a city that it was in his DNA to despise- where he’d catch the Seastreak Ferry to cross over into the Garden State. Steve’s place was right at the end of the dock where the Ferry tied off, just past the bows and sails of the charter boats and sailboats and skiffs that populated the small harbor. Convenient location, just outside the city, a restaurant so no one would blink at large trucks making large drop offs of large containers, equipped with large ovens and large freezers, and perched right on the edge of the largest body of water and easiest disposal service there was: the Atlantic Ocean. Steve Bonafiglio sounded like a smart man. Much smarter than Sal, which is why he was alive and well and not rotting in some landfill off the coast of Massachusetts, and why Nick was hoping that he’d take him up on what he was about to offer.

 Nick was about to turn rat, ready to break the rule that every errand boy and cashbox girl, every street soldier and capo and underboss, all the bag boys and gophers, the clean up guys, the scouts and drivers all knew and lived by: never talk. When you work for or with or in and around the mafia, it’s best that you don’t know nothin’ about nothin’. The less you know, the less you might let slip, and the less you’d be a dead man for if the wrong person caught wind of that slip. Well the wrong people were the people Nick was about to slip on. He was ready to offer Steve names and addresses of the remaining big players up in Boston. He was ready to do what no man had ever done, and certainly no Bostoner had ever dreamed possible. He was ready to help another family take down the Boston Mob, one pitiful old fuck at a time. He just hoped that Steve wouldn’t hold his willingness to turn against him, hoped he’d be willing to hear him out and realize that Nick was looking for two things: revenge, for all the things he felt that the family had taken from him, but also freedom- freedom from being under someone’s boot heel at all times, from having to check every corner for the barrel of a gun, from not being able to hold close the few that he cared about...from not being able to care about anyone for fear that that care would dig them a six foot hole or pour them a pair of concrete sneakers. Steve was either going to welcome him and his offer with open arms, asking him for a few months of service in taking down Boston before he’d be sent off under his protection to start living the life he’d had to put on hold, or he’d be capped right there on the tiled floor of the Dockside’s kitchen, industrial cleaning supplies used to wipe away all traces of him as fish feasted on bits of his body at the bottom of the cold, pewter water. His other option was to wait for the two remaining branches of the Boston mob to find him and kill him and let the same thing happen in a different town. At least with Steve he had a 50/50 shot...maybe even 60/40...of living long enough to see his brother again.

 Leaning over the railing on the ferry, half-smoked cigarette dangling loosely from his lips and his black bag wedged firmly between his feet, he watched the choppy water slap against the side of the boat. The cold November air whipped across the surface and bit at the skin of his cheeks and nose, at the exposed area of his neck, the black lines of his rosary tattoo sharp against wind whipped pink flesh. But it had stopped raining, and it was nowhere near as cold as he was used to back home, the temperature barely registering at all through his black jacket and thick black sweater. The ferry docked at the end of a long wooden gangway that stuck out into the water, and he let commuters and tourists stream out and off of the boat before he slung the bag on one shoulder and disembarked. Here goes nothin’.

 The sounds that greeted him as he made his way toward the blue and white building ahead were deceptively cheerful: fishermen shouting to one another while they maneuvered their large vessels into small slips, seagulls crying out as they soared above the harbor, looking for fallen french fries or other delicacies that they could snack on, laughter from the kids toting balloons from their adventures in the Central Park Zoo or the Statue of Liberty, snippets of conversations as business men and women hurried home and told their families that they’d be there in twenty minutes, and that they should start heating up the pasta from last night. Accents slightly different from his own hitting his ear to remind him that he was an outsider and that here in Jersey, people pronounced their “Rs”.

The wooden planks gave way to a large paved area full of picnic tables and benches, and he guessed that in the summer time they overflowed with people eating lunch from one of the few visible bars and cafes, or teenagers on dates with wandering hands that would be frowned upon at home, or artists sketching the sunset as the boats sailed in and out. But now, the gray sky full of white clouds, and a dullness to the color of everything that always fell upon the world in Autumn and Winter made the area seem sleepy. He walked up to the striped awning of The Dockside, passing stacked plastic chairs and tables that were bundled together and tied up against the building on the patio, and pulled open the side door of the establishment, crossing the threshold and sealing his fate one way or another.

 .  . .  .  .  .  . .  .

 It was just another Tuesday afternoon, dragging on slowly through the quiet hours between breakfast and happy hour, and you leaned against the bar staring out at the boats, daydreaming about summer and sunshine and all the tip money you’d make when the weather was warm and people came out of hibernation. The countertops had been wiped so many times you could see your face in them. You’d stocked the beer coolers and filled the ice bins, stirred the hot wells full of soup- the constant, Pasta Fagioli, and Tuesday’s soup of the day, Split Pea and Ham- and dusted off all of the racks of glassware. There was nothing else to do until the hit-or-miss rush did or didn’t happen in roughly an hour, so you gazed out at the gently rocking boats and dreamed of where you’d go if one of them were yours.

 Ralph had been in earlier, dropping off a few envelopes for you to hold in the register for someone who would pick them up later. Ralph was always flirting, always hoping that someday you’d fall for one of his lines, and you were as sure as he was hopeful that it would never happen. He was nice enough, had taught you a lot when you’d first come under the wing of Steve’s little cover up operation. He’d taught you things like how to spot an undercover cop, and how to know if someone was carrying a weapon, what certain tattoos meant and keywords that you should be aware of. You were thankful for all of those lessons, knowing that while your job description of bartender wasn’t in and of itself dangerous, your secret duties as cashbox girl weren’t completely on the up and up and therefore came with considerable danger. Ralph was thick and always sweaty. His jet black hair always had the appearance of being soaked through- whether from a lack of shower or an excess of product you weren’t sure, but it either way it was a repellant that you just knew that you’d never get passed- that and several other of his features: his “my shit don’t stink” attitude, the way he trashed anyone even half a step below him on the boss’ ladder, the way he looked at you like he was hoping he’d gained x-ray vision since last he’d seen you. Ralph was fine enough to deal with for work. But that’s where your dealings with him began and ended. You were glad that he wasn’t sticking around, glad to be by yourself with the boats and your daydreams.

 Until the door swung open something straight out of one of those dreams walked through the door and strode right up to the bar counter that you were leaning on. Oh, shit. Long legs encased in dark denim, black coat over what you could tell were decently muscled arms, glossy hair that shined all on its own and not because it was dripping with grease or gel. Eyes so dark they rivaled the night sky, but with a softness reflected there that told you that he was more than his attractive exterior. Well, I wanted something to occupy my time. Got something.

 He set his bag down and climbed up onto one of the circular seats, keeping his eyes on you as you greeted him, setting a small square napkin down in front of him. “Hey, welcome to The Dockside,” you gestured with one hand at your surroundings before telling him your name and letting your hand fall to your chest as if to indicate that your name belonged to you and not to anyone else in the room...even though there was no one else in the room. “What can I get ya to drink?”

 “Hey, thanks, I’m not really thirsty, just came here to see Steve. He around?” His accent was undeniably from Boston, though you could tell that he was making an effort to speak slower, trying not to drop his “Rs”.

 You grabbed a glass and filled it with ice despite his non-order. “Yeah, Steve’s around. But he only makes time for customers. So what can I get ya?” You tilted your head to the side and caught the makings of a smile lifting one side of his mouth, beard twitching slightly.

 “Uh...whiskey sour I guess...please, I mean,” he answered, squeezing and flexing one hand in a fist.

 “Sure thing,” you quickly filled the glass with well whiskey and topped it with the lime green colored sour mix you’d whipped up that morning- nothing but sugar and heartburn, and you wondered how much of that description your patron shared with his drink of choice. He looks dangerous. Like he knows things and like he’s easy to know. Gotta be careful with this one. You dropped an orange wheel and a bright red maraschino cherry into his short glass before setting it on the napkin in front of him. “Eight bucks,” you announced.

 “Eight? Yikes.” his eyebrows flew up and made his face look younger than you originally would have pegged him for. You nodded, arms crossed. “Hope its the best whisky sour I ever had, then” he smirked as he forked over a ten and a five and told you to keep the change.

 “Well, if it’s not, order a call liquor next time. Only so much covering up that sour mix and garnishes can do to shitty alcohol.” You shrugged and offered a smile as he took a swig of his drink, letting an ice cube drop between his teeth, crunching it before setting his glass back down on the napkin.

 “Nah, best I ever had, right here,” he lied sarcastically. Gotta be very careful with this one.

 “So you’re lookin’ for Steve, huh?” you asked, pouring yourself a glass of water. He nodded, running his fingers up and down the outside of his glass, wiping at the condensation that was pooling on the napkin. “Never seen you around before. You either caused trouble, or you’re lookin’ for it.” You squinted at him. “Not sure which one yet. But sit tight, I’ll let him know you’re here.” You started heading towards the glorified broom closet that Steve called an office, then spun back. “Who should I say is lookin’ for him, by the way?”

 “Nick. Nick Tortano. Tell him...tell him I used to be one a Sal’s guys up North...he’ll know what that means.”

You nodded, heart rate picking up. One of Sal’s guys up North. That could only mean one thing- the Boston Mob was here in Jersey. There goes that boring Tuesday.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @benbarnestongue @agent-bossypants @lexxierave @songtoyou @poindexted @thesumofmychoices 

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Shadows through chain link fence

Somerville, Massachusetts - 11/13/15

[cordytriestowrite]

When I'm Miserable

Loki x Reader

Chapter One - All Other Chapters

Summary: Loki abandons his attempt to rebuild his relationship with Thor after realizing his brother will never fully trust or understand him. He finds himself drawn to a girl, now guardian of her little sister after their mother's sudden death, and tries to teach her the lessons of love, forgiveness, and acceptance before their differences tear them apart.

Salem, Indiana. When you first moved away from the small city and its six thousand residents you hated telling people where you were from.

"Oh, Massachusetts." They would say.

"No, Indiana." You would correct.

"I didnt know there was a Salem in Indiana." They would finish with a confused look on their face before going back to their more interesting California lives.

Now you were back and those conversations ceased to be a staple of introduction, but so many things had also ceased to be discussed. Food, art, culture, current events, all subjects thrown aside in the face of everyone's new favorite topic: what are you going to do?

"How are you going to handle raising your little sister?" They would ask.

"Did your mom leave you anything?" Inquired the snoopers.

"Are you okay?"

And were you okay? What a dumb question. Who would be okay being torn from the beginnings of a life they were building for themselves and coming back to a home without a mother? Who would be ready and to accept guardianship over their little sister and step into a parenting role no one had ever prepared them for?

You took a large sip of your beer, letting the carbonation tickle the roof of your mouth before swallowing around the bitter lump in your throat. It was 4pm on a Monday and you were on your second drink. Your bleary eyes glanced around the room, practically empty save for two older men further down the bar.

You hadn't been old enough to even enter a bar when you last lived in Salem. It felt odd to sit on the rickety wooden stool and think back to a time you desired this, the ability to legally drink in the O'Haimes Tavern and enjoy a Friday night with friends while listing to the live band. Had you been able to tell your teenage self you would end up here on a Monday afternoon to drown your sorrows all alone...

"Thanks for covering for me Rach." A frazzled looking women strolled quickly to your side of the bar, from the back room still trying up her long blonde hair. The other bartender, Rachel, you assumed, nodded sympathetically as she poured a set of double whiskeys for the men down the bar.

"No problem, I know how hard it is to adjust to Jason going back to school."

Your glass had only been a few centimeters off the bar top, which was lucky for you as your grip loosened and it wobbled dangerously before settling in its upright position. The noise brought the two bartenders' attention to you but you couldn't be bothered to care. You fumbled through your buzzed, sluggish movements into the purse thrown haphazardly into the seat next to you. You grasped your phone tightly and brought it to your face, throat seizing up fully as your sedated mind took in the unread texts and missed phone calls.

Where are you?

Did you forget about me?

Are you okay?!

You tried to keep an air of calm about you as you paid your bill and exited O'Haimes but you could tell by your slight imbalance that you probably didn't fool anyone. You hurried along the sidewalk as fast as your wobbly ankles would carry you, the edge of Salem High School's property revealing itself a few blocks later. You couldn't help but mumble to yourself as you made your way around the wide chain-link fence to the school entrance.

"Please be there. Please be there. Please be there."

And there she was, looking put out and pouty sitting on the blue bench just to the left of the front doors. She was on her phone and hadn't yet noticed you so you slowed down and straightened your spine. The walk had sobered you enough to put on that mask of calm you couldn't conjure at the bar.

As you got closer she still didnt notice you, too absorbed in her phone to look up. You shook your head and smiled. Her generation was so lucky to have cell phones to entertain them while they wait, all you had was-

Your thoughts stuttered to a stop as a tall man appeared from around the corner and sat next to your sister. He was close to her, his head bent towards her, and she looked up at him and smiled. He smiled back and you could feel a wave of protective instinct wash over you like a cold shower. Your pace quickened until you were in a full on sprint.

"Amanda." You said so loudly and forcefully you practically barked your sister's name like an order. Both your sister and the man next to her looked up in surprise. You raced up the steps, your once unreliable equilibrium steadied by an alert, on-edge version of soberness.

"Finally!" She exhaled dramatically, like your tardiness was exhausting. She tucked her phone into her back pocket as she rose from the bench.

The man next to her stood as well. He looked impossibly tall next to your little sister, all short and fragile looking. You took a step closer to the man and squared your shoulders. While you still had to tilt your chin to look him in the eye you were not at the same height disadvantage as your sister.

"Hello there-" he began before you cut him off with a solid, clear tone.

"Stay away from her."

"I beg your pardon?" He asked. His accent startled you for a moment, so unlike all the midwestern accents wriggling in your ears since coming home last month. You blinked twice to regain your focus and your resolve.

"Stay away from my sister. She's under age. Did you know that, pervert?"

"I'm well aware-" he started, adjusting his glasses, but this time his words were interrupted by Amanda's profuse apologies, her hand on your arm pulling you back down the stairs and away from the well dressed, bespectacled threat before you. You maintained eye contact, harsh and defiant, until you reached the first step down and were forced to turn or risk falling down the four concrete steps and make a fool of yourself.

"What were you thinking?!" Amanda shrieked as she continued to pull you by the arm. You turned back to catch a glimpse of the man as you turned the corner but he was gone.

"A grown man should not be hanging around a high school preying on teenage girls." You stumbled slightly but caught your footing. Looking back you found the block of sidewalk slightly raised. It had snagged the tip of your shoe as you took a step. You sent your glare down, ready to take a larger step upon arrival of the next uneven slab.

"He's the librarian. Hanging around the school is kind of his job. You would have known that if you weren't drunk."

You stumbled despite the level ground beneath you at your sister's words. She slowed down and finally let go of your arm, only to fold hers across her chest and glare at you with a disgusting amount of judgement.

"Is that why you were late? You were drinking in the middle of the day again?" She wasn't expecting an answer because she already knew what she was saying was true. You knew what would come next as well, it was the same argument as last time and the time before that.

"You're going to die on me too if you don't cut it out. You'll get in an accident or drown in your own vomit or destroy your liver and-"

"I know Amanda," you sigh heavily and pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes closed so you didn't have to see her face. "I know."

"And now you're ruining my life. Mr Loki is really nice and now he's going to look at me like everyone else does." While her voice began loudly and passionately it trailed off into quiet uncertainty. Your ears pricked up and your vision sharpened, a different kind of safeguard mindset than the one you had earlier against this Mr Loki. You had to protect her from herself now, those thought of self doubt that consume and devour from the inside.

"How does everyone look at you?"

"They look at me like my mom just died. Like I'm helpless. They all pity me." A sob bubbled out like a punctuation at end her statement. You reached for your sister, so young and fragile and in no way undeserving of the looks and the glances she must be catching, and pulled her into a tight hug. You rocked her back and forth so severely her feet had to lift and fall in time to your swings to keep you both from toppling to the ground.

"I'm sorry." You murmured into her hair, "I'm sorry for a lot of things."

She said nothing but held on to the back of your shirt like her life depended on it. You pulled her back by her shoulders so she could see your face with its reassuring smile and kind eyes.

"Tomorrow I will come pick you up on time and apologize to Mr Loki."

"Sober?"

"As sober as a judge." You promised. She reached her fist between your chests and extended her pinky. You wrapped your own around it and kissed your thumb. She did the same. Your journey home continued after that, side by side you strode leisurely and your mind wandered back to the front steps of Salem High School and its librarian.

"Amanda?" You started. She hummed in response to show she was listening.

"What kind of name is Mr Loki?"

She laughed loudly and it reminded you of your mom's laugh when she found something surprisingly amusing. Your stomach flipped at the similarity and at the fact that you would never hear them laugh at the same time like that ever again.

"Apparently he was named after some Norse god or something. It's a weird name right?"

You both giggled and ducked your heads against a gust of wind then walked the rest of the way home in companionable silence.

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