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smartkookiee · 10 months ago

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Wounds We Never Show // Prologue: Before It All —jjk.

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❥pairing: Jungkook x Reader (she/her, afab) ❥genre/rating: 18 + explicit content, enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers, these two really do hate each other ❥chapter warnings: Fighting (verbal), swearing, mutual hate ❥word-count: 2.4k ❥Series Masterlist ❥ || Next Chapter ❥ Playlist fic is cross posted to ao3 send an ask or comment on post to be added to the tag list

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Your final together was tomorrow, after a month of painfully hard work it would finally be over. Except you hadn’t heard from Jungkook this week at all. From what you can tell he seemed to finish all of his portion of the work. You on the other hand, due to some finals, were a little behind but you had no doubts that you would be able to catch up.

Not hearing from Jungkook did have you somewhat concerned.

You both were normal last week but this week radio silence. You had texted him just keeping him updated on the progress of your work. You choked it up to him probably being swamped with his own work, and his own projects for other classes. So you tried not too worry.

You sent one more text, anxiety rising with each passing minute.

:hey sorry to text you again. I’m just checking in! I should be able to finish in the next hour or two, so don’t worry.

:we are going to kill this presentation in the morning.

May have been a touch late to texting someone, it was 1:30 in the morning. You didn’t care though, he had texted you at like two in the morning before. So, you figured he’d forgive you.

But the second you sent the text.

The lights and your laptop had switched off. You sat in completely darkness. Suddenly the emergency lights shown by your door. You turned on your flashlight. Your laptop was old so your power being out means that you don’t have a laptop to work on. You made your way to the hall where some others had gathered. Asking what had happened.

Your RA eventually came up to your floor and told everyone not to worry, they were going to have the power on soon and to stay in our rooms for now. That we would get some text updates. You decided to not panic yet, soon after you did get a text saying that their was a an on campus outage and the problem would be resolved soon.

“Seriously?” you muttered, going back into your room. You texted Jungkook again.

:hey sorry I swear this is the last one, power in my dorm is out.

:and you know how my laptop is, so I have to wait until the power comes back.

:still going to kill it tomorrow!

Forty-five agonizing minutes later, the power finally returned. You rushed back to your laptop, praying everything was still there. But when you opened your document, it was blank. Completely empty.

“No,” you whispered, frantically searching for any backup.

Your entire month of work was gone. You tried finding a previous version, but there was nothing. Not on your hard drive, not in your email, not even a single backup copy. Every word, every citation, every carefully crafted paragraph—vanished. Except... Jungkook might have a copy.

You grabbed your phone and called him, your fingers trembling. Voicemail. You called again, and it rang once before going straight to voicemail again.

“Jungkook, pick up. Something happened. I need you to call me back.”

Panic set in as you scoured every corner of your computer. Desperate, you even checked old drafts and random notes on your phone, but there was nothing. Your heart sank. You called Jungkook two more times, but there was still no answer.

You were going to have to start over.

You knew the material—you’d been working on it every day for a month—but rewriting it from memory was going to be a nightmare. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself, and started typing. Every minute felt like an hour, but you pushed through. Tiredness clawed at you, and your eyes stung from the screen’s glare, but there was no other option.

Five hours later, you finally finished. The paper was nowhere near perfect, but it was something. A B, maybe a C at best, but it was better than nothing. Exhaustion overtook you the second you hit save, and you collapsed into bed.

It felt like only a second had passed when your eyes snapped open. You scrambled for your phone, the panic setting in again.

10:05 AM.

Ten missed texts and three missed calls from Jungkook.

“No!” You leapt out of bed, pulling on the first clothes you found, emailing the paper to yourself while sprinting out the door. You raced across campus, nearly tripping as you weaved through students, your breath burning in your lungs. By the time you reached the classroom, the hallway was filled with students leaving.

You pushed through the door, your hair a mess, sweat dripping down your forehead.

“Shit, no, no, please.” You spotted your professor leaving and tried to push your way forward, only to be blocked by Jungkook.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” he sneered as you stumbled in, breathless and disheveled.

“Jungkook--” you began, but he cut you off.

“Where the hell have you been? Why weren’t you here?” His voice was icy, and he took a menacing step toward you, making you step back.

“I—I fell asleep!” You stammered, tears welling up. Your exhaustion was really hitting you, and you couldn’t hold them in, “Did you see my texts? My calls? My voicemails?”

“Texts and calls don’t mean shit if you’re not here!” he snapped. “You’re acting like you care, but you clearly don’t. You’ve been flaky this entire time.”

“Jungkook, that’s not fair—”

“Not fair?” he cut in, voice rising. “Maybe you did this on purpose! Maybe you’ve been plotting to screw me over!”

The accusation hit hard. “Are you seriously accusing me of sabotaging you? I’ve worked my ass off for this project!”

Jungkook’s eyes were cold. “And where were you when it mattered? You think your excuses are enough? Friends don’t disappear.”

The recent reconciliation between the both of you now dissolving on the ground between the both of you. You both had taken huge strides to become friends despite your resistance.

“Friends don’t accuse each other of being petty schemers!” you shot back, the anger surging. “I’ve been working all night to fix this, and you’re just throwing all my effort back in my face!”

“Maybe I’m tired of your games,” Jungkook retorted, his voice dripping with contempt. “Maybe David was right about you. Maybe he was right that this is something you do.”

David, your ex-boyfriend. Who had manipulated so many people into believing that you were crazy, when he had cheated on you multiple times. What hurt worse? Jungkook knew all of this, knew that David was an asshole. Knew that David was an awful person who lied every time he spoke.

Now he was throwing it in your face, what the hell was wrong with him?

The sting of his words was unbearable. “How dare you! I trusted you to be reasonable. You said you believed me when it came to what David said about me. How dare you throw that in my face! I came here ready to explain, ready to make things right. But you’re too busy being a jackass to listen.”

“I may be a jackass but at least I can be relied upon.” he said quietly, almost dismissively.

The words cut deeper than any knife. “You know what? I don’t need to defend myself to someone who’s already made up their mind. You’re not worth the effort, since you are so quick to blame others. You’re just like David after all.”

You turned away, feeling tears spill down your face. You walked away, not looking back. You had to save your grades, even if it meant cutting ties with Jungkook for good. Didn’t really matter, you two didn’t know each other that well anyways.

You found your professor, explained everything through your tears, and showed him the evidence. He listened, though his sympathy couldn’t override the rules. He allowed you to submit your rewritten paper but couldn’t let you do the presentation. He promised to grade fairly but couldn’t guarantee a good mark.

You received a D. It was lower than you hoped but enough to pass. Jungkook, however, failed, delaying his graduation.

You felt a grim satisfaction, but the bitterness lingered. The loss of the friendship gnawed at you, even if you hated him. You’d never see him again, and you were more than okay with that.

That was five years ago now.

The memory lingered as fresh and raw as ever. You had moved on, grown, and carved out a space where Jungkook’s existence didn’t matter. That was until you became friends with Melanie, who in every sense of the word was your best friend. Though, because fate is a funny thing, she fell in love with Namjoon. Namjoon’s closest friend was none other than Jungkook.

That relationship kept you and Jungkook in each other's lives for longer than either of you had cared for.

Forcing the two of you back into each other’s orbit. That also meant facing Jungkook repeatedly, each time resulting in fights so venomous you wondered how Melanie and Namjoon put up with it. So many clashes over so many years, so many attempts by mutual friends proved futile in bringing the both of you together. Eventually, everyone gave up and just made sure to never have the two of you in a room together.

Now with Namjoon and Melanie’s engagement, a wedding loomed around the corner.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, mind still reeling from the past. The fallout from that final class had changed everything. Every time you saw Jungkook since then, it was an instant—words turned to daggers, and every conversation became a battlefield. Neither of you ever backed down; pride kept you both locked in a bitter stalemate.

“Just a heads-up,” Melanie said, breaking you out of your thoughts. She hesitated, eyes flicking away as if bracing for impact. “I know how you two feel about each other, but he’s Namjoon’s best friend.”

You knew what was coming, but you still grimaced. “Don’t tell me.”

Melanie sighed. “Jungkook is his best man.”

You clenched your jaw, the anger bubbling up instantly. You had known this was inevitable, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear. “Of course, he is.”

Melanie’s living room felt unusually tense, the soft glow of the evening sun doing little to warm the atmosphere. Melanie had always been the bridge between you and Jungkook—constantly trying to keep the peace, but it was becoming increasingly clear that this time was different. You couldn’t just show up, exchange a few biting remarks with Jungkook, and call it a day. This was her wedding. This was the culmination of everything she’d dreamed of, and she deserved your best effort.

Melanie took a deep breath, her stern expression softening just slightly. “I know it’s a big ask, and I wouldn’t push it if I didn’t have to. But Namjoon and Jungkook—they’ve been through so much together. He’s not just a friend to Namjoon; he’s like a brother. And I need you both to make this work.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of her words. Melanie was trying to keep the peace, but the sadness in her eyes was unmistakable. She had seen you and Jungkook tear each other down time and again. Seeing the tears you shed over the times he would hit the nail on the head, and say something that went too far. Held you back from starting a physical altercation with him.

Each encounter was more bitter than the last, and every argument chipped away at the thin veneer of civility you both clung to.

“I promise,” you said, your voice steady despite the resentment simmering underneath. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Melanie’s lips twitched into a small smile, but her eyes remained cautious. “Thank you. And I mean it, no half-hearted attempts. I need rainbows and kindness coming out of both of your asses.”

You laughed despite yourself, appreciating the way Melanie could still inject humor into even the most awkward of situations. “Got it. Rainbows and kindness. I’ll bring a whole damn unicorn if that’s what it takes.”

“Good, I don’t know what I would do if we had another new years situation.” Although it was years ago, that was probably the worst fight you and Jungkook had. The things that were said and the drink you dumped on him are very present in your mind. Made you laugh to yourself even but it definitely caused a bot of an issues in your group.

You shook your head, feeling a familiar pang of bitterness. “Yeah that was a really low moment for me. I think because of that things between us will never change. He’s still that same arrogant jerk who can’t own up to his mistakes. And I’m done pretending I care enough to fix anything.”

“People change,” she said softly, it was something she tried to convince you of many times. “But I get it. You don’t have to be friends—you just have to coexist.”

“That, I can do,” you said firmly. “I’m not going to let him ruin this for you.”

“Thank you,” Melanie said, squeezing your hand. “I’m so happy you accepted the role. I couldn’t imagine my wedding without you there.”

“For you? Anything,” you replied, your resolve hardening. You would hold onto your promise to Melanie, no matter how much Jungkook got under your skin. This wedding was about Namjoon and Melanie, not you and whatever animosity you harbored toward Jungkook.

The room lapsed into a comfortable silence, but your mind was racing, already plotting ways to avoid Jungkook’s inevitable provocations. You pictured the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony, the reception—any scenario where the two of you would be forced to interact. You would keep your distance, smile politely, and not engage. If Jungkook’s presence was like a storm cloud threatening to ruin the day, you would be calm. You owed Melanie that much.

“When the wedding rolls around, I’ll keep up appearances and be civil and kind,” you said, trying to reassure not just Melanie, but yourself. “Jungkook might be the spawn of Satan, but as long as I don’t speak to him directly, everything will go perfectly.”

No amount of promises could erase the deep-seated anger you felt every time you saw his face. This time, though, you would have to bury it, if only for a weekend. You would smile through gritted teeth, hold your tongue when he inevitably said something infuriating, and pretend you were above it all.

You had months to prep yourself though. Plenty of time to make sure that nothing Jungkook could do could piss you off.

Nothing that weekend will surprise you.

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❥ || Next Chapter

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iiseult · 1 year ago

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𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝐹𝑜𝓊𝓇: 𝑀𝓎 𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝐿𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒲𝒾𝒻𝑒

CWs → BALDWIN OILS HIMSELF UP, angst, love letters, themes of war and death, historical inaccuracies, slow burn, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, eventual smut (once reader and baldwin are both over 18), leprosy, time-period accurate sexism

Wordcount: 3.3k

Note: This might be my favorite chapter. Please let me know your thoughts, and pay special attention to the cross necklace. You'll see what I mean. <3

It was not so dramatic, the way his illness progressed, but progress it did. The Holy Disease was inevitable, and he’d always known that. Six months and he was losing sight in his left eye, his peripheral vision effectively ceasing to exist. Twelve months and the eye was becoming clouded and sapped of its color, like something bleached by the sun, only a baby blue now when it used to be so much deeper. Eighteen months and everything through the eye was covered in an indispersable layer of silver mist. And then there was his little finger, the poor little finger on his left hand which he could no longer feel, and when he commanded it to move, it was as if a phantom were possessing it. If it weren’t for the fact that he could see it moving, wiggling back and forth, he likely wouldn’t have any idea whether or not it was really happening. Often he frowned at it in concentration, exercising his will over it and forcing it to move, desperately trying to feel something. Every time he was forced to give up, frustrated. However, the majority of his skin and all of his features were still perfectly intact, and for that he was grateful.

That September he fell ill with fever. Forty-two days and nights he laid in bed, watching drowsily as the sun made its daily voyage across the heavens, warming his too-warm skin and blinding his aching eyes. In periods of occasional lucidity his thoughts lingered only on you. He would see a flash; then the fullness of your lips, the sweet curve of your neck, the shape of your back, and were you wearing your sapphire today? He could picture it clearly, lying against the firm softness of your full bosom, gleaming like a winking eye. Ah, sick mind. Shameful thoughts. He redirected them. What of the kingdom, his kingdom? What of his sister Sybilla, and her son, his baby nephew Baldwin V? They did not come to visit because Sybilla claimed she couldn’t bear the sight of her beloved brother in so much pain. And then his mother was dead, a few months buried. Nobody left to come visit.

He continued to read during this time. He was brought books on war and strategy, classic and ancient tales of love and romance, history, and Greek literature, of which he had always been very fond. Perhaps it was these such books that gave him his next brilliant idea.

He sent for ink and parchment, lots of parchment, and when he felt well enough he sat up in bed and took up his supplies and got to work. Pages upon pages he produced, many times rambling and repetitive in nature because of his fever-addled mind, but always strikingly sincere. From his very heart he wrote, hours each day, and he didn’t share his work with anyone. When Raymond visited he would conceal everything under the covers, or else slide them under the bed.

It was a woman, always the same woman, that he wrote about or wrote to or described in as much detail as he could. Each time he painted a picture of her with his words, a new facet of her beauty was revealed, a new angle, a new reason to love her. And he knew that he did love her. Completely enchanted. Utterly enraptured. Such tender feelings, such longing! He found himself writing cliches while trying to adequately express the extent of his feelings. And each one of these pieces of writing was addressed to you.

“By chance, I met you in the library. I was playing chess. Raymond likes to cheat when I look away from the chessboard because he says the battlefield is just like a game of chess, and in a real battle you must never look away because your opponent does not always play fair. But I would forfeit all my knights and rooks for you, so I looked away from him and towards you instead.

“And when you looked at me, my heart leapt in my chest and a feeling like warm water cascading down my shoulders overtook me and I could not speak. I held my hand out to you and did your bidding, and then I could stand it no longer so I went away. The warmth was becoming unbearable. I was overcome. As if I were a cauldron of boiling water, I burned and then softened and turned pink as something bubbled up inside me. I know all this happened for you. And when ever I thought of you and your exquisite beauty for the rest of the day the same feeling came, tingling in all my nerves. I thought then that it was not unlike having a fever.

“But now I know better, and now that I know with refreshed memory what fever is like, I can say that it’s nothing like you. This fever is harsh and unrelenting. This fever is painful, not pleasurable. There is a heat threatening to overtake me so that I never cool down. But what is this feeling that comes when ever I see you? Dearest Lady, I suspect that this must be love.”

But those were the good days. Those days he could think clearly and articulate properly. So many more of his days were spent too sick to stay awake, drifting in and out of this mortal plane, tangled up in a haze of confusion and stale bedsheets, having long since sweated through them.

His birthday passed. Sixteen, finally, but he didn’t know it until days later, when came his next period of lucidity. His sister sent a gift– fresh, new robes made of silk to soothe his raw skin, embroidered in rich, gold thread. Raymond brought him a quill made from a peacock feather, blue and green and shimmering. It made him laugh when he saw it. Raymond was referencing a joke between the two of them, where the peacocks in the garden often interrupted their conversations with their awful, hideous squawking (for such magnificent looking creatures, their calls were surprisingly grating). And from you, lying on the bedside table, was a parcel of brown parchment tied with a thick white ribbon. He knew that ribbon, for he had seen you wear it in your hair once.

He pulled it loose and placed it aside, intending on keeping it on his person at all times so he might always carry a piece of you wherever may go. He peeled back the paper, sliding it off to reveal a mahogany box. It was unremarkable, but his heart was beating wildly in his throat as he flipped up the delixate metal latch and opened the sleek lid. Resting against the silk-lined interior were two things; a large glass jar full of an amber-colored liquid, sealed with a cork; and a delicate chain with a plain gold cross hanging from it. And then, under the jar, he saw something else– the corner of a folded piece of parchment. A note! He snatched it up and unfolded it hungrily. It was written in your pretty feminine hand, which sent a fiery gust of heat blasting through his veins.

“Your Majesty, happy sixteenth birthday. I know this is but a meager gift for a king, but I fear I cannot match your wealth or creativity. The necklace is one of the only things I brought from home. I wore it round my own neck every day then, and I do believe it has served me quite well, given my current position as queen. I am giving it to you in hopes that, God willing, your condition might improve. The oil is what I use after my baths to soothe dry skin, especially in these coming winter months. Perhaps it will help you in a more practical sense. Many birthday wishes, and prayers for a speedy recovery. Sincerely, your wife, Y/N.”

He pressed the letter to his chest, almost as if he were trying to become one with it. Then he took the delicate gold chain between his fingers and unclasped it, draping it across his neck and securing it again. It fell against his collarbones and glistened handsomely, feeling very cold against his feverish skin, and yet his heart warmed when he thought of you wearing this very chain, day in and day out. What had touched your skin was now touching his. The very notion was enough to make him shiver.

He did not take the necklace off again, not even for his bath that evening, or after it when he retired to his chambers for the remainder of the night.

Baldwin shrugged off his bathrobe and layed, completely nude, on his silk sheets, where the jar of oil from you was waiting. He savored the feeling of its cool glass against his hands, still rife with fever, and then pressed his cheek to its surface, deeply inhaling the rich scent of the night air which drifted through the open window. To know that your hands had touched that very jar made him pulse with excitement. That you had thought of him with some amount of tenderness, that you had thought of him at all, touched him.

Carefully he pulled the cork from the mouth of the jar with a gentle “pop,” and set it aside. He brought the jar up to his nose. It smelled sweet and flowery, very fresh. Clean. Comforting. Smelled like you. He sucked in another deep breath through his nose, letting the gentle fragrance wash over him and sink into his pores. Then he dipped two fingers into the jar and spread the thick liquid along his forearm, coating the skin there thoroughly. It was silky and cool and left a gloss in its wake. His dry, parched skin drank it up greedily, plumping up almost immediately. It was delicious.

He poured a dollop of the stuff into his hands and rubbed them together, relishing the feeling of his slick palms sliding against each other. Languidly he massaged it into his chest, his arms, and his robust shoulders. He threw back his head and slowly worked the pads of his fingers into his delicate neck, feeling the tendons there roll beneach his touch. A small sound escaped his throat. Then he moved his hands lower, not neglecting a single inch of flesh. He splayed his fingers out over the white planes of his thighs, well-toned as they were, and then slid lower, past his knees and to his ankles. It was pure bliss.

Once he was satisfied, he popped the cork back in the jar and leaned over, placing it on the side table, then blew out the candle, laying down finally with a sigh. His body sunk into the cloud of his mattress, his aching limbs met with instant relief. Beneath his pillow was your letter and ribbon. He slid his hand under it to feel for them, just to make sure they were still there, and once he was convinced, he slipped right under into a dreamless sleep.

The very next morning, he woke to find that his fever had miraculously relented, leaving his forehead cool and dry. Amelia immediately informed you of his recovery, and though you were relieved, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from your shoulders, you couldn’t help but wonder how he had recovered literally overnight. It seemed nobody knew the answer, not even the physicians that came to examine him throughout the rest of the day. But perhaps it was better not to question it.

Baldwin had but a few days to enjoy his renewed health before he thrust himself urgently back into work. During his prolonged illness, the ever-fickle political state of Jerusalem had become alarmingly unstable. The Saracens were threatening to wage war, led by the wise and formidable Saladin and his army, rumored to be made up of some 20,000 men. So Baldwin was faced with a harrowing decision, with thousands of lives hanging in the balance. Should he send his men to battle despite their meager numbers, where they would inevitably be met with death and destruction? Most of his knights had already been laid to waste, leaving behind largely unskilled fighters, and only 4,000 of them at that. And could he fulfill his kingly duty to fight alongside them, or would his frail body betray him? Such questions made him wonder if he was even worthy of his title.

Self-loathing ate at him over the coming week until finally, he was forced to take action. Reynald de Châtillon had been pressuring him incessantly to fight, no matter the risk, arguing that it is God’s will and therefore Jerusalem could never fall. Baldwin wasn’t so sure. But deep in his heart, he knew he had no more time left to waste.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The morning was fair and the early sunlight mild, falling through the trees in pale yellow streaks. The trees had been turning all shades of red and orange for the past month, and now they were withering brown, falling, falling. The smell of smoke and chill was perpetual, and very pleasant. The month of November. Autumn in its prime. You woke up that morning not to the melodic calling of birds, which you had become accustomed to, nor the gentle rustling of leaves stirred by the wind, but the muffled cries of Amelia as she came to rouse you from your slumber. Though she had stuffed a handkerchief against her mouth to dampen the sounds, it was no use, and she could not stop it. You had woken up before she even made it to your bedside.

“Oh Amelia, whatever is the matter?” you asked, sitting up in bed with alarm and looking at her, concern heavy in your gaze. You’d seen her upset before, and it wasn’t an uncommon thing to see, but never had she been so outwardly aggrieved in your presence. The poor girl’s shoulders shook with every breath she took. As gently as you could, you got out of bed and guided her to sit on the edge of your mattress, where she promptly collapsed.

“Oh, Your Majesty,” she wailed, looking up at you through tear-filled eyes, “the most awful, terrible thing has happened!”

Her bottom lip trembled, and her cheeks seemed to be flushing darker by the second. In fact, she seemed on the verge of hyperventilating, sensitive soul that she was.

“What? What’s happened, dear girl?” you urged, wiping a runaway tear from her chin. An anticipatory panic had begun to build up inside you. All you could think was that somebody must be dead. Suddenly you were very worried for Matilda, whose frail, brittle bones would likely not survive an accident, which was a very real possibility. In her line of work, what with all the manual labor, you often feared for her health, though she always insisted on being fine. But those thoughts were soon completely dashed from your mind.

“The Saracens…they’ve come! They’re here to take Jerusalem!”

You were stunned into speechlessness. You did not quite know the full gravity of such a thing, of how dire this could be for your whole way of life, and that of your mother before you and of her mother before her. How much would change, were the crusaders to fall! But Amelia’s next words gave you a relative idea.

“They say they’ve brought 20,000 men to Montisgard, to match our army of 4,000. Oh, Your Majesty, we are lost, lost!” she wailed, burying her tear-stained face in your shoulder. For a moment after that she continued talking, uttering those same words over and over again, “lost, lost,” as if trying to understand the meaning of them. But to you the message had been clear enough, and your heart dropped all the way down to your bowels and all you could think was; Baldwin.

Baldwin, the sweet fair-haired boy who’d kissed your hand like it was a holy relic on your wedding day; the one who’d known you well enough from a scant few glimpses here and there to know which gifts to buy for your birthday– and, for the record, they had been the most thoughtful gifts you’d ever received; the one who, unbeknownst to you, prayed for you every night and every morning; the one who had loved you since the beginning. That one, going to fight in a war he was doomed to lose.

And then you were crying too. Great, fat, burning tears glided down your cheeks and into your mouth and onto yours and Amelia’s dresses as you clutched her to you. Your breath could come only in heaving gasps, ripping through your chest painfully. So great was your pain! You could not see that boy die. Then came an image of his broken body lying alone on the muddy battlefield, indistinguishable from all the others in death. Snot dripped down your nose. You cared not.

Matilda opened the door and came in quietly. Your eyes pleaded with her not to deliver to you any more bad news. Her face, drawn into a solid, impassible mask, revealed nothing, except that it looked wan and much older. In her hands was a towering stack of parchment, so tall that it obscured her entire chest from your view.

“Your Majesty,” she called demurely, much softer than usual, “before his departure this morning the King instructed me to bring these for you.”

Rather violently, you wiped the tears from your eyes and wordlessly took the stack into your own hands, taking great care not to drop any. Everything was blurry but you flipped through the pages nonetheless, sinking further and further into a state of hysteria as you did so, realizing with a pang of horror that each and every sheet was a letter from Baldwin, addressed to you. There must have been a thousand of them, enough for one every day since your marriage.

Three years worth of love letters.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, trying in vain to abate the new volley of tears welling up inside you. Never had you known such love and devotion from another human being, and you couldn’t even say thank you.

Or goodbye.

As you flipped through the pages, you became grave and still.

“My Dear Little Wife, you were beautiful today. I could smell your rose-scented oil from down the corridor. How I love that good smell…”

“My Dear Little Wife, would that I could take you out to the city on my horse, that your beloved arms could wrap tightly around me as we gallop across the orange earth…”

“My Dear Little Wife, as the imminence of war falls upon me, I know that my time may soon come to an end. If I could wish for one thing in all the world, it would not be to cure myself of this accursed affliction, but to have more days to spend living in bliss under the same roof as you. To know you is to love you, my dear. I am sorry if we lose this battle and you are stripped of your queenly title. I am sorry for all that might happen then. Understand that I fight for you, ma cherie. With all the love and tenderness one man can hold in his heart, I bid you goodnight, as your faithful husband, Baldwin IV.”

Yes, that was it, the last letter in the stack, dated only yesterday, and presumably at night. You promised to yourself, and whatever else was listening, that in the event that he did not return, you would read and cherish each and every letter. But you could not dwell on that thought. He would come back. He must. Because you needed him.

“Heavenly father, if you would bring him back to me, I swear I will spend every last day by his darling side.”

//taglist: @lzsia @eatmeandbirthmeagain @likeanecho344 @lunargraveyard @yoursoulisinyourkeepingalone @stickparrot

if anyone else would like to be added, please comment to let me know!

#baldwin iv #kingdom of heaven #king baldwin iv #baldwin iv x reader #king baldwin iv x reader #baldwin iv one shot #baldwin of jerusalem #baldwin iv fic #kingdom of heaven fandom #kingdom of heaven fluff #iiseult #koh

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venactricisfics · 3 months ago

Text

Bucking Tradition: A Yellowstone Fanfic

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter List

Adult fun time and some story progression if you're into that kind of thing. 18+

It was still dark out when Ryan’s hand slipped under my nightgown. His fingers brushed against my ribs and then grazed the underside of my breast. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips but I kept my eyes closed. My hips pressed back against his feeling his need pressing against me.

“Now I know you’re awake, baby,” his lips danced over my neck.

“I guess tomorrow night, I’ll just sleep naked,” I turned back to look at him, “so you don’t have to wake me up to get started.”

Ryan chuckled, his breath warm against my skin. “That so?” His hand slid lower, fingertips tracing a lazy path over my stomach. “You saying I should take that as an invitation?”

I smirked, still half-drowsy but very much awake now. “I’m saying I wouldn’t complain.”

His grip on my hip tightened, pulling me closer. “That’s dangerous, baby. You know I don’t have much self-control when it comes to you.”

I turned in his arms, pressing my body flush against his. “Good thing I don’t want you to have any.”

“You really are the perfect wife,” he muttered as he pressed his lips against mine. I rolled to face him. My nightgown gathered up higher around my waist. I broke the kiss, just long enough to toss it on the floor of our tent.

Ryan’s eyes darkened as they raked over me, his hand skimming up my bare thigh. “You’re trying to kill me, baby,” he murmured, his lips trailing down my throat.

I grinned, running my fingers through his hair. “I’m just making up for lost time.”

His hand slid up my side, fingers splaying over my ribs before he cupped my breast, his thumb brushing over my already sensitive skin. “Then we better make the most of it,” he said, his voice low and rough.

I gasped as he rolled me beneath him, his weight pressing me into the mattress. The fabric creaked beneath us, but out here, with nothing but open land around us, there was no need for restraint. No need for silence.

Just us, tangled together in the quiet of the early morning, taking our time before the sun rose on another long, hard day. His hands roamed my body, igniting a fire that had been smoldering all night, and my skin responded, a canvas of goosebumps beneath his touch. The cool air kissed our bare flesh, a stark contrast to the heat building between us.

My hands explored the plains of his back, pushing down his boxers. Wanting to feel him all of him.

Ryan groaned as my fingers skimmed lower, his body tensing before he kicked off the last barrier between us. His breath was hot against my neck, his hands firm on my hips as he settled between my thighs.

“You are so impatient,” he muttered, his lips moving along the sensitive spot on my neck.

“Me?” I groaned arching into him, “You’re the one who woke me up. Now you have to deal with the consequences. I was having a lovely dream about getting fucked by this sexy cowboy.”

His chuckle was low and deep, his teeth grazing the soft skin beneath my ear. “I’ll make sure it’s better than any dream, baby.”

And with that, he pushed into me, slow and sure, filling me completely. I gasped, my nails digging into his back as my eyes rolled back.

Ryan groaned, his grip tightening on my hips as he sank deeper, his body pressing flush against mine. “Damn, baby,” he muttered against my skin, his breath hot and ragged, “you feel so damn good.”

My legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer, needing more. The slow, torturous drag of his body against mine sent shivers racing up my spine, every movement deliberate, every touch igniting something primal deep inside me.

“Ryan,” I gasped, my head tilting back as pleasure coiled tight in my belly.

His lips found mine, his kiss searing, possessive, as his pace quickened, the intensity between us mounting. My fingers tangled in his hair, my body arching to meet every thrust, chasing the heat, the tension, the overwhelming need to fall apart in his arms.

His hand slid down my thigh, gripping tight as he drove into me harder, deeper, sending me spiraling over the edge. My body clenched around him, a cry slipping past my lips as the pleasure crashed through me like wildfire.

Ryan followed with a guttural groan, his body tensing before he buried himself deep, his breath ragged against my neck. We stayed tangled together, hearts pounding, bodies slick with sweat, the world outside the tent fading away.

He pressed a soft kiss to my shoulder, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along my hip. “Told you I’d make it better than a dream,” he murmured, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

I laughed, breathless, still floating in the afterglow. “Cocky bastard.”

His chest rumbled with laughter as he pulled me closer, wrapping me in his warmth. “You love it,” he whispered, and damn it, he was right.

“Are y’all done fucking yet?” Teeter’s voice called from outside the tent.

I buried my face in Ryan’s chest to keep myself from laughing.

“Almost,” Ryan called back, “I gotta make her cum at least two more times before I’m officially done.”

“Jesus Christ,” Teeter groaned. “Y’all are worse than a couple of fuckin’ rabbits.”

Ryan chuckled, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “You hear that, baby? She thinks we got stamina.”

I bit my lip, shaking my head as I whispered, “You really trying to prove her right?”

He grinned down at me, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

“For fuck’s sake, hurry up!” Teeter shouted. “Some of us gotta actually work today, and I ain’t tryin’ to listen to y’all go at it all morning.”

I sighed dramatically, stretching beneath Ryan. “Guess we better get up before she bursts in here.”

Ryan smirked, but he finally relented, rolling onto his back and running a hand through his messy hair. “Fine, fine. But you owe me those two more later.”

I stood up and rummaged through my bag to pull out a pair of clean underwear and jeans. “Oh, don’t worry, cowboy. I’m looking forward to you giving me more than two.”

I buttoned up my shirt and slipped into my boots.

Ryan groaned, watching me with a heated look as I slipped out of the tent. “Oh, I will, baby. You can bet your ass on that.”

The sun had barely broached the horizon when we settled by the chuckwagon for breakfast. Cattle were still in the pasture doing what cattle do.

“I heard y’all had a good morning already,” Walker chuckled as Ryan and I settled in a camp chair, plates in hand.

“Don’t be jealous,” I told him, “Laramie will be happy to see you when she comes down next weekend.”

“Maybe,” he replied, “but I don’t think she’ll want to come back here so we can go at it every morning.”

"Then you ain't doing it right," Ryan smirked, spearing a forkful of eggs.

Walker shook his head with a laugh. "Not all of us got a wife who's ready to run off to the tent in the middle of the day."

I nudged Ryan with my elbow. "Well, some of us just have better incentives."

Teeter plopped down on an overturned bucket, shoving a piece of bacon in her mouth. "Damn right. Ain't nothin' wrong with a little incentive. Keeps a relationship spicy."

Jake snorted. "Or keeps y'all from gettin' any actual work done."

"Oh, shut up, Jake," I said, taking a sip of my coffee. "You're just mad 'cause you ain't got nobody to sneak off with."

“Oh he has his left hand to keep him company,” Walker chuckled, “at least until that hooker Beth promised shows up.”

“Why y’all picking on me now?” Jake grumbled.

“You’re just an easy target, sweetheart,” I told him as I stood. “I’m gonna go take a look at Rip’s horse. Make sure his leg is doing ok. I might need to take him to the Sixes’ vet to make sure it’s healing like it should.”

Ryan stood up with me, stretching before tossing the rest of his coffee onto the dirt. "I'll come with you. Might as well check on the others while we're at it."

Jake smirked. "Look at that—just married, and he's already following you around like a lost puppy."

Ryan shot her a look. "Ain't nothin' wrong with lookin' after my wife."

Jake just shrugged. "I'm just sayin', you two disappear, and next thing we know, Teeter's gonna be askin' if y'all are done fucking again."

Teeter snorted, nearly choking on her bacon. "He ain't wrong."

I rolled my eyes and grabbed Ryan’s hand, dragging him toward the horses before they could get any worse. "Y'all are impossible."

"You love us!" Teeter called after me.

Ryan squeezed my hand as we walked, his voice low and teasing. "You know, we could always sneak off for real this time."

I shot him a look. "We just did."

"Yeah, but now you've got me thinkin' about it again." He grinned, completely unapologetic.

I shook my head, laughing. "Come on, cowboy. Let’s go check on the damn horse before you get us in trouble."

“I can’t help it, baby,” he said. I felt his eyes linger as I bent down to examine the horse’s leg.

“I think it’s ok,” I said, “But I still think we should take him to the vet to be sure.”

Ryan crouched down beside me, running his hand along the horse’s leg. “Yeah, better safe than sorry. Last thing we need is him goin’ lame ‘cause we didn’t get it checked out.”

I nodded, running my fingers gently over the muscle. “I’ll call ahead to the Sixes and let ‘em know we’re coming.”

Ryan smirked. “You mean I’ll drive while you take a nap in the truck.”

I glanced at him, feigning innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He chuckled, standing up and offering me a hand. “Sure you don’t.”

I took it, letting him pull me up. “If I do fall asleep, just wake me up when we get there.”

Ryan slid an arm around my waist, tugging me close. “Or I could just carry you in like the spoiled little princess you are.”

I swatted his chest, laughing. “You are so full of it.”

He grinned, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “And you love it.”

“If Rip and Beth come back before we get back,” I told the group. “Let them know where we went.”

“I guess this makes me wagon boss now,” Jake said.

“Walker’s in charge while we’re gone,” Ryan chuckled. I led Rip’s horse into the trailer and climbed into the passenger seat.

“That ain’t fucking fair,” Jake snorted.

“Well, I suppose we could take Walker and Teeter with us,” I told him, “then you could be in charge.”

Jake hesitated, looking between me and the others like he was weighing his options. Finally, he grumbled, “Nah, I’m good.”

Walker smirked, slapping Jake on the back. “Smart choice, sweetheart.”

I buckled in as Ryan slid behind the wheel. “Ready, baby?”

“Yep,” I said, glancing back at the trailer to check on the horse one last time. “Let’s hit the road.”

Ryan started the truck, and as we pulled away from camp, I couldn’t help but smile. A quiet drive with him, just the two of us, felt like a rare kind of peace in the middle of all this chaos.

I reached over, lacing my fingers with his. “You’re not mad I didn’t tell you about the money?”

“I was shocked but not mad,” he said glancing over at me, “It’s never been about that with us. I always knew you were well off baby, but I just thought it was all your dad’s money.”

I squeezed his hand, watching the road ahead as the morning light spilled over the horizon. "It was never about the money for me either," I admitted. "I just wanted something that was mine, something I earned. Rodeo gave me that."

Ryan nodded, his thumb brushing against my skin. "And you earned every damn penny of it." He smirked. "Still, forty-five million, baby? That’s a hell of a nest egg."

I laughed. "Guess we don’t have to worry about retirement."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, but I ain’t planning on retiring anytime soon. Besides, I like working for what we got. Feels different when you build something with your own hands."

"That’s why I love you," I murmured, leaning my head against the seat. "You see me for me, not for the money, not for my last name. Just me."

Ryan brought my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles. "Always, baby."

We pulled to a stop at the Sixes back barn. Their vet, Emily, walked out to meet us. I shook my head wondering how in the hell Jimmy had landed a woman like her.

“So is Jimmy packing a lot down there?” I asked. “Cause I don’t understand how that happened.”

“Why are you asking me?” he quirked a brow.

“Y’all lived together and have communal showers in the bunkhouse,” I looked over at him, “thought maybe you caught a peak at it.”

Ryan laughed, shaking his head. "You’re something else, you know that?" He glanced over at Emily, who had just finished greeting us with a smile, and then back to me. "I don’t know what Jimmy’s packing, but if he’s got something impressive, that’s news to me."

Emily chuckled as she approached, clearly amused by our conversation. "Well, I can’t say I’ve ever had any complaints," she said with a sly smile, making it clear she wasn’t shy about teasing back. "But if you’re really curious, you’ll have to ask Jimmy yourself."

"Guess I’ll have to get the details from him next time," I grinned, swinging my leg out of the truck as I climbed down to meet her. "But let's get to Rip’s horse—he seems to think it’s fine, but I want to make sure."

“Of course,” Emily said, gesturing for me to follow her. “Let’s take a look and make sure there’s no further damage.”

As we walked towards the barn, I shot one last look over my shoulder at Ryan, who was still trying to hide his smile, knowing full well I was just teasing. But it was nice to have a little fun with it, especially with Emily’s easygoing vibe. She’d been with Jimmy since he left the Yellowstone, and it was clear they had a good thing going.

Emily led the horse to be examined. “Right rear?”

“Yeah, he hasn’t been putting a lot of weight on it. The bite didn’t look deep,” I told her, “I know Rip’s probably right, he’ll be fine. I just don’t want him,” I ran my hand down the horse’s neck, “to be in pain if we can prevent it.”

Emily nodded, her hands expertly inspecting the horse’s leg. "I get it, you’re looking out for him. It’s good to be cautious, especially with a horse this valuable."

She gently pressed her fingers along the injured area, making the horse shift slightly under her touch. "The bite’s healing, but there’s some swelling around the joint, which means it might’ve been a little deeper than it looked. But nothing that screams major damage. I’ll go ahead and run some tests just to be sure, though. We don’t want it getting worse."

I watched her work, impressed by her calm efficiency. "Appreciate you seeing him so quick. Rip doesn’t like anyone poking around too much when it comes to his animals, but he trusts you."

Emily gave a small smile, clearly flattered by the compliment. "I’ll make sure he’s taken care of. I know how much these horses mean to both of you."

After a few more minutes of examining the leg, she straightened up and looked at me. "It’s not bad, but I do recommend giving him a couple of days off, maybe a little extra rest to avoid putting too much weight on that leg. I’ll get a wrap on it to keep it stable for now, and then we can monitor the swelling."

I nodded in agreement, feeling a bit relieved. "Sounds good. Let’s do that."

As Emily moved to gather the supplies, I looked over at Ryan, who was leaning against the barn, watching the exchange. "What’s the verdict, doc?" he called out with a grin.

"Just a little TLC," I said, walking back toward him. "He’ll be fine, but we’re keeping him here for a couple of days just to be sure."

Ryan nodded, and with a smile, he added, "At least he’s in good hands."

“Hey, Alex,” Emily called as I started to climb into the truck, “if you’re really interested in hearing about Jimmy’s pecker y’all should come by and join us for supper later this week.”

“We’ll have to do that,” I called back with a laugh.

“So why do you think Jimmy has a big dick?” Ryan asked as we drove back to camp.

“Well, he’s not very bright, doesn’t have any money, but still somehow he managed to land a successful attractive woman like that,” I told him.

Ryan chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement as he glanced over at me. "Ah, so you think it's all about the size of his... personality?"

I shot him a look, suppressing a smile. "I mean, it’s either that or he’s got some kind of secret charm. I’m just saying, it doesn’t add up. Emily’s way out of his league, so there’s gotta be something going on down there."

"So is that what won you over to me?" he smirked, leaning in a little closer, his eyes gleaming with playful mischief.

I couldn’t help but laugh, glancing up at him with a teasing look. "Baby, you’re the whole package," I said, letting my gaze linger on him. "Ruggedly handsome, that killer smile that makes me weak every time, and, of course, you’ve got a big dick."

His smirk widened, and he raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. "Oh, so that’s it? My impeccable sense of humor and charm didn’t do it for you? I guess I’ve just been a good-looking accessory all this time."

I chuckled, nudging him with my shoulder. "Well, you’ve definitely got the charm, but it didn’t hurt that you’re built like a god, either." I leaned in close, lowering my voice with a grin. "But let’s be honest, it’s not all about the looks. You’ve got this way about you, that confidence and that intensity. That’s what sealed the deal."

He let out a soft chuckle, his fingers brushing lightly against my arm. "I’m glad to hear it. I guess I’m more than just a pretty face after all." He pulled me in closer, his lips just inches from mine. "But I’ve always known I was exactly what you needed."

“See you’re smart too,” I leaned in closer, closing the gap between us, my lips pressing against his.

He kissed me back with a slow, deliberate intensity, his hands moving to the small of my back, pulling me even closer. I could feel his heartbeat matching mine, steady and strong.

"You sure know how to keep me on my toes," he murmured, his lips brushing against mine as he pulled away just enough to look into my eyes, the warmth between us still palpable.

I smiled, tracing his jaw with my finger, enjoying the way his eyes softened when they met mine. "It’s the only way I know how to be," I teased, my voice low and teasing.

His grin widened, and he brushed a stray strand of hair away from my face. "I’m starting to think that’s exactly why I can’t stay away."

I chuckled softly, leaning in again, this time savoring the moment. "Lucky for you, I don’t plan on going anywhere."

Teeter’s voice came from the other side of the window, laced with disbelief. “Do y’all ever stop?”

Ryan chuckled, his hand resting on my lower back.

“They’re newlyweds, Teeter. Eventually, they’ll get tired of each other,” Walker responded.

I leaned in closer, brushing my lips against Ryan’s ear. “I don’t see that ever happening,” I murmured, my voice teasing.

Ryan pressed a kiss to my forehead before slipping out of the truck, he gave me a look as I reached for the handle. I held my hands up in surrender letting him open the door for me.

“You know this isn’t a date right?” I climbed down from the truck. “We’re about to go riding in the middle of a hot as fuck pasture with cows.”

“Sounds like a perfect date to me,” Ryan responded.

“Y’all are fucking unbearable,” Teeter said.

Ryan grinned at Teeter’s comment, clearly enjoying the teasing. “Maybe, but you love us for it,” he said, winking at her before turning back to me.

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips. “Well, when you put it that way,” I teased, “I guess it’s the perfect date. Who wouldn’t want to spend their evening in a hot pasture with cows?”

Ryan leaned in, his voice dropping to a soft, playful tone. “You forget, baby, I’m just here for the ride.” He glanced down at me, catching my eye. “And it’s always worth it when I’m with you.”

Teeter rolled her eyes, “You’re bordering on intolerable.”

I laughed, then grabbed my hat off the passenger seat, sliding it onto my head. “You should be used to us by now.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one who’s getting their back broke by some cowboy,” Teeter shot back, rolling her eyes.

Ryan gave a dramatic sigh. “You’ll get your chance, Teeter. Colby’s coming to see you next week.”

Jake, never one to miss a chance to stir the pot, leaned in with a sly grin. “You outta batteries already?” he asked, his voice dripping with amusement.

Teeter’s eyes narrowed in mock annoyance. “Fuck you, man,” she shot back, swatting him on the arm as she stomped off ahead of us, clearly not amused by Jake’s comment.

Ryan and I mounted our horses and rode them out to the pasture leaving the others behind us. I paused a moment staring out at the herd ahead of us as the sun started to dip in the horizon.

I smiled, feeling the familiar thrill of the ride run through me. The evening air was cool against my skin, and the sound of hooves on the earth was the only thing breaking the quiet. We guided the horses toward the herd, working in perfect sync like we’d done so many times before.

Ryan's hand brushed mine as we rode side by side, and I felt his presence like a quiet strength beside me. “This is where we belong,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

He gave a small chuckle, his gaze focused ahead. “You and me? Always.”

—-

“You coming with me to pick Rip up in Amarillo?” Ryan asked as he tucked his shirt in.

“Yeah, Beth wants to run a few numbers before she heads back to Montana,” I told him. “We have to have everything lined up before she presents this to our father. Somehow, we’ve got to convince our father that the way Yellowstone has been selling cattle for the last 130-odd years needs to change.”

“Well, if anyone can convince John Dutton to do anything,” he responded, “It’s the two of you. I’m just glad to see you two working together on this instead of butting heads.”

“I think we’ve both decided as long as we don’t talk about Jamie,” I said, “we won’t have anything to fight about.”

Ryan grinned, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Smart. Jamie’s a touchy subject with her. You two might be able to take on anything else, but I don’t think anyone’s ready to tackle that one yet.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Nope. We’ve agreed to leave that conversation for another day. Right now, the focus is making sure this cattle plan works, and that’s where the real challenge lies.”

Ryan gave me a knowing look as he adjusted his hat. “You think Beth’s got everything figured out, or are we walking into another firestorm?”

“I think she’s got the numbers, but getting Dad on board…” I sighed. “That’s the part that scares me.”

Ryan's smile softened as he stepped closer, his hand gently resting on my shoulder. “You’ve always been able to handle him. Don’t let him rattle you.”

“I won’t,” I replied, meeting his gaze. “But convincing him this is the right move? That’s a whole different beast.”

He nodded, understanding the weight of what we were about to face. “Well, you’ve got me and Rip backing you up. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out.”

I offered him a tight smile. “Thanks, babe. Let’s just hope it’s enough.”

With that, we headed toward the truck, ready to face whatever the day would throw at us.

I sat at the table in Beth’s hotel suite, looking at the numbers. She’d gotten figures from processing and slaughterhouses, packing, and setting up a website.

“How long does it take to get them to the right weight to start this?” she asked.

“Since we’re feeding the ones here mostly grass,” I told her, “About two years. We can start the cattle back in Montana on special grain that will help bulk them up and we can get started on them at 18 months give or take. So we can start selling beef as soon as the spring.”

“We can make that work,” she said, “it will work.” “I talked to Kayce and he’s in,” I said, “he’ll work with Lloyd and the cowboys who stayed behind to get those cattle to the right weight.”

Beth nodded, tapping her fingers on the table as she absorbed the information. “Good. Kayce’s solid, and having Lloyd on board will make a huge difference. We can’t afford any mistakes, especially with Dad’s track record when it comes to change.”

I could feel the tension in the room, the weight of what we were about to ask our father looming over us. “I’m hoping that with the right presentation, we can get him to see this as a long-term win for the ranch, not just another change to manage.”

Beth leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “We’ll make it work. We’ll show him the numbers, the growth potential. But it’s going to take some serious convincing.”

“I know,” I sighed. “But we don’t have a choice anymore. The old ways just aren’t sustainable. If we don’t adapt, we risk losing everything.”

“Exactly,” she said, her voice growing more determined. “We can’t let the Duttons fall behind. We’re going to turn this around, one step at a time.”

I smiled slightly, appreciating her confidence. “Alright, let’s get to work then. We’ll hit him with the full pitch—numbers, market trends, the whole package.”

Beth stood and moved toward the desk, pulling up the full spreadsheet on her laptop. “Let’s make sure we have everything in order before I go back to Montana. We’ve got one shot at this, and I’m not about to let it slip through our fingers.”

“Agreed,” I said, feeling the adrenaline kick in. “Let’s do this.”

“Here,” Beth handed me a mobile hotspot device, “I know I won’t be able to drag you away from the cows. We’ll set up a video call and we’ll talk to Dad. It’ll take me, you, and Kayce to convince him that this is the right move.”

I wanted to ask where Jamie stood in all of this but thought better of it. Jamie’s input, whether he was for or against it would turn Dad off of the entire venture. He is and will always be my brother, but he’s hurt our father in ways I couldn’t begin to understand.

Beth must’ve seen the hesitation on my face because she cut me a look. “Don’t even ask about Jamie. You and I both know the second his name gets brought into this, Dad will shut down.”

I exhaled through my nose, nodding. “Yeah. I know.” As much as I wanted to believe Jamie still had a place in this family, I wasn’t naïve. His involvement would do more harm than good.

Beth crossed her arms. “This has to be airtight. No room for doubt. Dad’s old-school, and change makes his blood pressure spike. But if we hit him with facts, real numbers—make it make sense in his language—we’ve got a shot.”

I flipped through the papers again, my fingers brushing over the projections we’d worked on for weeks. “Kayce’s already got the guys back in Montana handling the cattle, Lloyd’s on board, and we’ve got the resources to get the first round of beef ready by spring. We just need Dad to greenlight the infrastructure.”

Beth smirked. “Then let’s make sure he doesn’t have a reason to say no.”

I looked at the mobile hotspot in my hand, knowing full well this was the best chance we had. “Alright,” I said, sliding it into my pocket. “Let’s get to work.”

—---

It was dark, the rest of the crew had turned into their tents for the night. Ryan had drifted off. But I wanted to look over the business plan again. I needed to make sure all the numbers aligned. Not that numbers and money was my thing. It was definitely Beth’s thing but I wanted to be able to contribute to the conversion more than just “Daddy, please?”

I’m not sure where my siblings got the idea that Dad always gave me my way. Dad never had an issue telling me no.

Maybe it was because I never pushed as hard as Beth or tried to outmaneuver him like Jamie. Maybe because, when Dad told me no, I listened. Well, most of the time. Rodeo was the only thing I fought him on and eventually, I won. Not because Dad was convinced, but because I did it anyway. I didn’t need his permission. It was my thing.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair as I scanned the numbers again, willing them to make sense. Beth was the business mind, but I needed to know enough to stand my ground when the time came. I wasn’t just some ranch kid anymore—I was a Dutton. And this was our future.

I glanced over at Ryan, his steady breathing a quiet reminder that, at least for now, I wasn’t alone in this. He’d back me, no matter what.

I just had to make sure Dad did too.

I grabbed my laptop and the hot spot and walked outside, not wanting to wake up Ryan while I worked. The Texas night air was a little cooler than the heat of the day. Only a little.

I put down the tailgate and turned on my laptop again. Losing myself in it all again, like looking at each intricate detail would seal it in place.

The quiet of the night wrapped around me, broken only by the distant lowing of cattle and the occasional rustle of the wind through the dry grass. I flexed my fingers before placing them back on the keyboard, my screen glowing against the darkness.

Beth had done the heavy lifting with the numbers, but I needed to understand them inside and out. This wasn’t just about convincing Dad—it was about making damn sure this worked. We were talking about changing over a hundred years of how Yellowstone did things. If we screwed this up, it wouldn’t just be a failed business venture; it’d be a failure with our family’s legacy on the line.

I exhaled slowly, scrolling through the spreadsheets, cross-referencing costs, and potential profit margins. Beth was right—it could work. But it’d take every one of us pulling our weight. Kayce was already on board, Rip would do whatever Dad asked, and Beth had the business side locked in. That just left me.

I wasn’t sure what role I played yet—Beth was the fire, Jamie was the strategist (when he wasn’t pissing everyone off), and Kayce was the steady hand. But I had a stake in this. And I’d be damned if I let anyone think otherwise.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Ryan’s voice cut through the quiet, pulling me sharply from the spreadsheets that had consumed me for hours.

I blinked, my eyes struggling to adjust as I looked up at him. The glow of my laptop screen had been my only light, and now it was gone, replaced by the shadowy figure of Ryan standing over me, his arms crossed and that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I do now,” I muttered, glancing at the clock in the corner of my darkened screen. 3:07 a.m. “I didn’t realize how late it was already.”

He closed my laptop with a soft click and set it aside, his hands landing on my thighs with a weight that sent a shiver through me. “There are better ways to work off your energy.”

I arched a brow, amusement flickering through me despite the exhaustion creeping into my bones. “Oh yeah?” I teased, my hands instinctively settling on his forearms. “And what exactly do you have in mind, cowboy?”

Ryan leaned in, his smirk widening as his fingers traced slow, lazy circles on my thighs. “Well,” he murmured, his voice low and full of promise, “you’ve been working that pretty little brain of yours all night. Thought maybe I’d help you unwind a little.”

I huffed a soft laugh, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re running yourself ragged,” he countered, his thumb brushing over my knee. “C’mon, baby. Just for a little while. Then you can get back to saving the ranch, I promise.”

I sighed, but a smile tugged at my lips. Maybe he had a point. I’d been staring at numbers for hours, and all I’d really accomplished was giving myself a headache.

“Fine,” I relented, letting him pull me toward him. “But only because I know you won’t shut up until I do.”

Ryan grinned. “Smart girl.”

The Texas night air was still warm, even at this hour, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from Ryan as he stepped closer, his body crowding mine. I could feel the calluses on his hands as they slid up my arms, rough and familiar, and the scent of leather and something uniquely him filled my senses.

Ryan’s hands moved to my waist, pulling me off the tailgate and against him. I could feel the hard planes of his chest against mine, the way his breath hitched when my hips brushed his. “You’re thinking too hard again,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear.

“Hard not to,” I admitted, my fingers threading through his hair. “There’s a lot riding on this.”

“I know,” he said, his lips trailing down my neck. “But you’ve done enough for one night. Let me take care of you.”

His words sent a shiver down my spine, and I tilted my head to give him better access. His lips were warm against my skin, his stubble scratching in the most delicious way. His hands slid under my shirt, rough and sure, and I gasped as they found my bare skin.

“Ryan,” I breathed, my fingers tightening in his hair.

“Yeah, baby?” he growled, his teeth grazing my collarbone.

“You’re not playing fair.”

He chuckled, the sound low and dark, and I felt it rumble through his chest. “Never said I would.”

His hands moved higher, pushing my shirt up, and I let him pull it over my head. The cool night air kissed my skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his mouth as it found my breast, his tongue swirling around my nipple before he took it into his mouth.

I moaned, arching into him, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He groaned in response, his hands tightening on my hips as he pushed me back against the truck.

“Ryan,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and full of hunger. “What do you need, baby?”

I didn’t have to think about it. “You.”

His smirk returned, and he leaned in, his lips brushing against mine. “You got me.”

His kiss was searing, hot and demanding, and I melted into it, my hands roaming over his chest, his shoulders, his back. He fumbled with the button on my jeans, and I helped him, kicking them off along with my boots.

Ryan’s hands were everywhere, touching me, claiming me, and I was drowning in him. He lifted me onto the tailgate, spreading my legs with his knees, and I gasped as his fingers found me, slick and ready.

He pulled back just enough to yank his shirt up over his head, and then he was on me again, his mouth on mine, his body pressed against me. I could feel him—hard and eager—and I moaned into his kiss.

“Ryan, please,” I begged, my hips rocking against his hand.

He didn’t make me wait. He freed himself with one quick movement, and then he was pushing into me, slow and deep, his eyes locked on mine.

He started to move, his rhythm steady and sure, and I clung to him, my nails digging into his skin. The world outside the truck ceased to exist—there was only Ryan, only this.

His hands moved to my ass, lifting me higher, and I cried out as he hit a spot inside me that made my vision blur. “Ryan, oh God—”

Ryan's movements grew more urgent, his hands gripping me tighter, his mouth capturing every moan that spilled from my lips. I felt myself shatter around him, my body tightening, trembling, and he followed moments later, a deep, guttural sound tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep inside me one last time.

For a moment, neither of us moved, our breaths mingling, our hearts racing in tandem. Then Ryan let out a low chuckle, pressing a kiss to my damp skin.

"Pretty sure the whole damn camp heard us," he murmured.

I smirked, still breathless, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back. "Let 'em."

“Are you feeling better now?” he asked, that smile of his tugging at his lips.

I laughed breathlessly, my hands resting on his chest. “A little.”

“A little?” he teased, his fingers skimming lazily over my waist. “Guess I’ll just have to try harder next time.”

I smirked, tilting my head as I traced the lines of his collarbone with my fingertips. “Next time, huh? You planning on keeping me up all night?”

Ryan chuckled, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to my lips. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

I let out a contented sigh, resting my forehead against his. The night air wrapped around us, thick and warm, but it was nothing compared to the heat still buzzing between us.

“We should probably get some sleep,” I murmured, though I made no move to pull away.

Ryan hummed, nipping playfully at my bottom lip. “Yeah… or we could just stay out here a little longer.”

I laughed, shaking my head as I wrapped my arms around his neck. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he shot back, grinning.

I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong.

“Mother fucking shit,” I heard Teeter’s voice too close for the state of dress or rather undress I was in.

“Fuck,” I muttered scrambling to find my discarded clothes, “Why is it every time we’re almost caught you’re always fully covered and I’m fully exposed?” I tugged my shirt over my head, not bothering to check if it was the right way round.

Ryan had the audacity to smirk as he pulled his shirt back on, perfectly put together while I was still half-dressed and scrambling. “Just lucky, I guess,” he drawled, watching me struggle with obvious amusement.

“Yeah, real lucky,” I shot back, yanking my jeans on and nearly toppling over in the process.

Teeter, standing a few feet away with her hands on her hips, let out a loud snort. “Y’all are a goddamn menace. I swear, I’m gonna start carryin’ a damn bell or somethin’ so I don’t keep walkin’ in on this shit.”

Ryan chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe knock next time?”

Teeter scoffed. “Knock on what? The night air? Y’all are out in the open.”

I groaned, buttoning my jeans and finally looking up at her. “What do you want, Teeter?”

She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Gator just finished making breakfast.”

I let out a breath, grateful for the distraction. “Thanks.”

Teeter shook her head as she turned to leave. “Next time, take it indoors. Ain’t nobody tryin’ to see Ryan’s ass under the stars.”

Ryan grinned, throwing an arm around my shoulders as we followed her. “Can’t say the same about yours, baby.”

I shot him a look, but even I couldn’t fight the smirk tugging at my lips.

#yellowstone fanfiction #ryan yellowstone #ryan x oc yellowstone #yellowstone #yellowstone tv #yellowstone smut

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baleriontheblackkitten · 9 months ago

Text

A Game of Thrones - Eddard I

And so the king's court comes to Winterfell.

Ned knew many of the riders. There came Ser Jaime Lannister with hair as bright as beaten gold, and there Sandor Clegane with his terrible burned face. The tall boy beside him could only be the crown prince, and that stunted little man behind them was surely the Imp, Tyrion Lannister.

It's kind of funny re-reading this passage, but it makes sense that most Starks and Lannisters hardly know each other at all at this point. It's the first time visiting the North for many of these people. You really feel the sense of how distant Winterfell is from everywhere else - no one ever goes there from the South, and the Starks hardly leave it either. Ned and Robert haven't seen each other since Balon's rebellion.

Something's off about the timeline. In Cat's first chapter, Ned says, "It will be good to see the children. The youngest was still sucking at the Lannister woman’s teat the last time I saw him," and Cat states Tommen is seven years old. Now Ned muses that it's been nine years since he last saw Robert, at Balon's rebellion. Why would Ned see Cersei and baby Tommen without Robert? Considering the queen and the kids have been traveling on a giant wheelhouse that doesn't even fit the castle gate, trained by forty horses - I doubt Cersei is the kind of person who would travel much with an infant. Unless she'd be going to Casterly Rock to have baby Tommen meet his grandfather, but why would Ned go there?

I mean, it's doesn't matter. We're just in the exposition stage. The funniest in-story explanation is that Ned and Cat were just mixing up babies in their memories and it wasn't baby Tommen they saw but baby Myrcella, in that case the timeline would work since Myrcella would be of breastfeeding age nine years ago. I'll just accept that.

Anyway. Ned is taken aback by how much Robert has changed, no longer built like a warrior, but a fat man that smells of perfume instead of blood.

So many of Ned's memories are tied to the smell of blood. He remembers Robert as smelling of leather and blood, he remembers the room Lyanna died in as smelling of roses and blood. He's a man whose past is filled with the scent of blood, that he can still smell with his memory. It's easy to point the finger at Ned's mistakes, but this is a man traumatized to the seven hells and back who uses defensive mechanisms (like the rose-tinted glasses he looks at Robert through) that progressively crumble leaving him undefended.

(It's also interesting how wolves are often described as smelling blood, and the Starks who warg into wolves, Bran and Arya, often mention the smell of blood in their noses. Something about a circle of violence, blood spilled that calls for more blood and whose scent fills the nostrils of the younger generation.)

Speaking of Lyanna.

No sooner had those formalities of greeting been completed than the king had said to his host, “Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects.” Ned loved him for that, for remembering her still after all these years. He called for a lantern. No other words were needed. The queen had begun to protest. They had been riding since dawn, everyone was tired and cold, surely they should refresh themselves first. The dead would wait. She had said no more than that; Robert had looked at her, and her twin brother Jaime had taken her quietly by the arm, and she had said no more.

The dead wolf girl will always matter more to Robert than his living wife, and it seems Cersei still minds that even after all these years. Jaime diffuses a potential nasty situation, which is a microcosm for Jaime's role in Robert and Cersei's marriage - keeping Cersei placated enough that the friction between her and Robert is reduced to a minimum. And yet it's not enough. (And pretty ironic, since Jaime's role in that marriage is both solving problems and creating bigger ones.)

"This king Ned scarcely recognized" Ned thinks of Robert, and that's the point, isn't it? Robert has changed physically, but he's still the same man he's always been. It's Ned that remembers him different - a better man than Robert has ever been - and will struggle with the realization.

“I was starting to think we would never reach Winterfell,” Robert complained as they descended. “In the south, the way they talk about my Seven Kingdoms, a man forgets that your part is as big as the other six combined.” “I trust you enjoyed the journey, Your Grace?” Robert snorted. “Bogs and forests and fields, and scarcely a decent inn north of the Neck. I’ve never seen such a vast emptiness. Where are all your people?” “Likely they were too shy to come out,” Ned jested. He could feel the chill coming up the stairs, a cold breath from deep within the earth. “Kings are a rare sight in the north.” Robert snorted. “More likely they were hiding under the snow. Snow, Ned!” The king put one hand on the wall to steady himself as they descended. “Late summer snows are common enough,” Ned said. “I hope they did not trouble you. They are usually mild.” “The Others take your mild snows,” Robert swore. “What will this place be like in winter? I shudder to think.” “The winters are hard,” Ned admitted. “But the Starks will endure. We always have.”

A very effective picture of the North in just a few lines! Although there's more to the North than the hard parts.

Robert's description of the South in summer is pretty poetic, I mean, if you ignore the misogyny in his description of women. Okay, it partly speaks of Robert's privilege as he can enjoy all the pleasures his land can offer. But I also think he's not that far from the truth when he says that everyone is "fat and drunk and rich". Obviously that's not true true, since peasants are still peasants and not rich, but the kingdom is enjoying a long period of peace and prosperity. They've been having a long summer. The only war since the Rebellion was fought in the Iron Islands, leaving the rest of the kingdom untouched. So Robert is, like, getting the right answer while using the wrong formula. Most people are not as weathy as he is, but there's good crops, food in abundance for everyone, and the economy of the kingdom is flourishing. Which makes it ever more heartbreaking when war breaks out and everything goes to hell. Winter is coming for the kingdom in horrific ways they don't realize yet.

It was always cold down here. Their footsteps rang off the stones and echoed in the vault overhead as they walked among the dead of House Stark. The Lords of Winterfell watched them pass. Their likenesses were carved into the stones that sealed the tombs. In long rows they sat, blind eyes staring out into eternal darkness, while great stone direwolves curled round their feet. The shifting shadows made the stone figures seem to stir as the living passed by. By ancient custom an iron longsword had been laid across the lap of each who had been Lord of Winterfell, to keep the vengeful spirits in their crypts. The oldest had long ago rusted away to nothing, leaving only a few red stains where the metal had rested on stone. Ned wondered if that meant those ghosts were free to roam the castle now. He hoped not. The first Lords of Winterfell had been men hard as the land they ruled. In the centuries before the Dragonlords came over the sea, they had sworn allegiance to no man, styling themselves the Kings in the North.

Actually, Ned, I think it's going to be a good thing that the ancient Kings of Winter are around. Just in case something passes by that the ancient Kings of Winter would be used to deal with. Just saying. I do wonder what will be the role of the dead in the crypts of Winterfell, but of one thing I'm sure: they won't be used as puppets by the Others. The ancient people of the North knew better than to leave their dead undefended. Like the Wall is inbued with defensive magic, I'm sure these tombs have a heavy dose of magic against the enemy. Maybe those swords were never supposed to protect the living from the dead in the crypts, but were supposed to be wielded by the "good" dead to protect the living from the "bad" dead, and in time that knowledge was lost.

Anyway, they are so very going to play a part, these ancient Starks whose eyes follow Ned and Robert as they pass. It's always meaningful when something that should not be sentient feels like it's watching. It usually means there is, in fact, something sentient watching. Maybe this is also [going to be] Bran, maybe not.

The crypt continued on into darkness ahead of them, but beyond this point the tombs were empty and unsealed; black holes waiting for their dead, waiting for him and his children. Ned did not like to think on that.

Something that seems creepy while they're alive - the tombs meant for them - turns out to be something desirable once they're dead. Ned's bones being prevented from reaching their supposed resting place, Robb's body defiled and desacrated, Cat's body (she might not be a Stark, but she becomes one during the war) being given a sacrilegious mockery of a Tully funeral - none of them can rest, they all haunt the kingdom and the narrative, in Cat's case she literally comes back to life as a revived corpse, but Ned and Robb also haunt the South. And of course, the absence of them in their place in Winterfell also creates a spiritual imbalance in Winterfell itself.

(Also, honestly, I find there's something sweet and comforting in the empty space in the marble of the family grave where my picture and name and the pictures and names of my loved ones will eventually be placed. It's inevitable that each of us will die, after all, and it's nice to know we'll be in the same place to rest together.)

The dead of House Stark will need to be put to rest before the end of the story. The fact that Ned's first chapter is set in the crypts... I see what you did there, George. Ned's journey will find its conclusion here.

There were three tombs, side by side. Lord Rickard Stark, Ned’s father, had a long, stern face. The stonemason had known him well. He sat with quiet dignity, stone fingers holding tight to the sword across his lap, but in life all swords had failed him. In two smaller sepulchres on either side were his children. Brandon had been twenty when he died, strangled by order of the Mad King Aerys Targaryen only a few short days before he was to wed Catelyn Tully of Riverrun. His father had been forced to watch him die. He was the true heir, the eldest, born to rule. Lyanna had only been sixteen, a child-woman of surpassing loveliness. Ned had loved her with all his heart. Robert had loved her even more. She was to have been his bride.

Both Ned and Robert had their lives uprooted by the deaths of the two Stark siblings. Ned took Brandon's place as Lord of Winterfell and as Catelyn's husband. Robert, well. Ironically he takes the place that was supposed to be Rhaegar's and marries the woman Rhaegar was supposed to marry originally. But Ned embraces his unexpected role and quickly grows to love his wife, Robert just despises the responsibilities of the throne and Cersei.

The fact that Ned was not supposed to rule Winterfell... It makes you wonder if this is ultimately the reason Ned is so unequipped to deal with the court and eventually loses the game of thrones. He was not raised to be Lord of Winterfell, he was raised to run some holdfast for his older brother (like he tells Bran he'll do for Robb - I see what you did there, George). Catelyn, on the other hand, was raised almost like a firstborn son for years since her father was afraid he'd never get a son. And it's Catelyn that almost makes it - she insist they hurry to eat under the Frey's roof, so that the rules of hospitality will keep them safe. She plays the game well... it's just that the other side breaks the rules of the game. You can't blame her for that.

Anyway, let's not get too ahead of ourselves. If "by ancient custom an iron longsword had been laid across the lap of each who had been Lord of Winterfell, to keep the vengeful spirits in their crypts" then it means that Brandon and Lyanna don't have one. Maybe Brandon was given one anyway, since he was meant to be Lord of Winterfell. But Lyanna surely hasn't been given a sword. I don't know if that means anything metaphysically, but metaphorically her ghost is haunting the two men visiting her grave for sure.

I love how Robert dislikes her resting place arrangement, unable to understand what it means to a Stark. Robert never understood anything about Lyanna, and I am convinced that it was her choice to go with Rhaegar instead of marrying Robert, that she purposely did it to avoid marrying Robert.

Speaking of Rhaegar... in the previous chapter, Dany thinks of Rhaegar's death as something Rhaegar did "for the woman he loved". Now Robert and Ned obviously think of Rhaegar's death as punishment for harming Lyanna... The truth is probably in the middle, alright. Rhaegar was not the perfect man Viserys has described him to Dany, but he was not the man Robert thinks of him.

Rhaegar is still a mystery we're given clues to here and there in the books. Personally I think his tragedy was the weight of prophecy on him - at some point he must have realized that the "ice and fire" part of "the song of ice and fire" did not refer to "our side (fire) and the enemy (ice)" but "Stark and Targaryen" (as in the "Pact of Ice and Fire" established during the Dance of the Dragons), which must have made him think of his marriage to ~more fire~ (a Martell i.e. the sun) the wrong choice, because the prince who was promised could not be fire+fire but fire+ice. And then he possibly met a Stark girl who was very determined to create her own path instead of marrying the man her father had promised her to... and the rest is history.

“In my dreams, I kill him every night,” Robert admitted. “A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves.” There was nothing Ned could say to that.

Ned is fucking thinking about keeping a certain boy as far away from Robert's eyes as possible for the entirety of Robert's visit.

They start talking about Jon Arryn's death, which happened so fast and unexpectedly, not suspicious at all.

“Catelyn fears for her sister. How does Lysa bear her grief?” Robert’s mouth gave a bitter twist. “Not well, in truth,” he admitted. “I think losing Jon has driven the woman mad, Ned. She has taken the boy back to the Eyrie. Against my wishes. I had hoped to foster him with Tywin Lannister at Casterly Rock. Jon had no brothers, no other sons. Was I supposed to leave him to be raised by women?” Ned would sooner entrust a child to a pit viper than to Lord Tywin, but he left his doubts unspoken.

Ned is so funny.

(Also, Robert is so misogynistic, seven hells, why do you think the girl ran off with some other guy, Robert?)

“The boy is my namesake, did you know that? Robert Arryn. I am sworn to protect him. How can I do that if his mother steals him away?”

I have some thoughts about namesakes. Ned named his eldest ~sons~ after Robert and Jon Arryn, and only the youngest sons after his brother and father. His daughters are also given Stark names. That leads me to believe that Jon actually has been given a name by Lyanna, that Jon is just a cover Ned finds to make the baby believable as his son. Because the boy named after Robert dies, and the boy named after Jon Arryn... also dies. It seems only fitting that Jon is eventually reborn with a different name. The Stark children who have been given non-Stark names cannot survive, only the ones carrying Stark names can survive.

"But Marghe, Rickon has a Stark name and there's no way he survives the story," you might say. Okay, maybe it's not a universal truth for all Stark children and more of a "you doomed those two boys by naming him after your Rebellion companions" thing. Or maybe Rickon survives after all. Fingers crossed.

“I have more concern for my nephew’s welfare than I do for Lannister pride,” Ned declared. “That is because you do not sleep with a Lannister.” Robert laughed, the sound rattling among the tombs and bouncing from the vaulted ceiling.

Here it is, the crux of the troubles soon to happen. Robert's priority is preventing his wife from ~nagging at him, and that's going to get Sansa's direwolf dead, Sansa's trust in Ned broken, and everything that follows.

And then Robert gets to the reason he went to visit Ned in person. Gods, he is so selfish. He hates being king because it's annoying and tedious to him. He says he hates being surrounded by liars and flatterers and he wants someone who's gonna tell him the truth to his face - but he won't listen to Ned anyway, so. (Makes you really appreciate Stannis actually listening to Davos, uh. Damn it Robert, Stannis should have been your new Hand, you just didn't pick him because you find him annoying!) He knows that Ned will hate the job, but he wants him to do it regardless.

Robert groaned with good-humored impatience. “If I wanted to honor you, I’d let you retire. I am planning to make you run the kingdom and fight the wars while I eat and drink and wench myself into an early grave.” He slapped his gut and grinned. “You know the saying, about the king and his Hand?” Ned knew the saying. “What the king dreams,” he said, “the Hand builds.” “I bedded a fishmaid once who told me the lowborn have a choicer way to put it. The king eats, they say, and the Hand takes the shit.” He threw back his head and roared his laughter. The echoes rang through the darkness, and all around them the dead of Winterfell seemed to watch with cold and disapproving eyes.

Robert also complains Ned is too serious, to which Ned responds with his own brand of humor:

“They say it grows so cold up here in winter that a man’s laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death,” Ned said evenly. “Perhaps that is why the Starks have so little humor.”

Re-reading the chapter, Ned keeps joking, but it's a kind of deadpan humor Robert doesn't really get.

Now comes a bit that makes me go mmm.

“You helped me win this damnable throne, now help me hold it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done.”

Did he really love Lyanna, or was he in love with the idea of becoming ~brothers~ with Ned? Did Ned possibly encourage their father to betroth Lyanna to Robert, blinded by the enthusiasm of becoming brothers with Robert, not realizing that Lyanna would not be happy with him at all, and inadvertantly sending everything to hell?

There's also another layer to this - Robert wanted to "rule together" with Ned. He basically wanted Ned to be his queen. Making him Hand of the King basically makes him his queen. (See also Davos as Stannis' truest queen.)

I think that Robert and Ned's affection (obsession? inability to see each other as they truly are but seeing a fictional version of each other instead?) for each other destroyed Lyanna first, and Sansa later.

For a moment Eddard Stark was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. This was his place, here in the north. He looked at the stone figures all around them, breathed deep in the chill silence of the crypt. He could feel the eyes of the dead. They were all listening, he knew. And winter was coming.

So tragic when the characters themselves see the foreshadowing but cannot but walk to their doom anyway...

#marghe re reads asoiaf #my asoiaf thoughts #asoiaf meta #agot #agot - eddard i #asoiaf

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bluejaysandblackbats · 4 months ago

Text

Keepsafes

Fandom: Batman, DC Comics

Summary: AU where Martha and Thomas survive, and they adopt the batkids.

Chapters: 43/?

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Thomas Wayne, Martha Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Harvey Dent, Dick Grayson, Cassandra Cain, David Cain, Talia al Ghul, Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Tim Drake

Relationships: Thomas Wayne/Martha Wayne/Alfred Pennyworth, BruHarvey, BruTalia

Additional Tags: Canon Divergent AU, Hurt/Comfort, Bruce Wayne is Not Batman, Angst, Alfred Pennyworth Knows All, Bruce Wayne Only Has One Child, Bruce Wayne is Not An Only Child, Bi Bruce Wayne

Chapter Forty-Three: Unspoken

With Bruce gone on his sailing trip, Dick at summer camp, the house carried a strange echo to it. The first two weeks without them took a toll on Thomas, but he tried his best to conceal his anxiety. Martha threw herself into the plans for her gala at the end of the summer and took over Cassandra’s speech therapy completely. And Alfred carried on during the day as if everything was normal. Thomas found a little piece of his childhood, though, when he took Cassandra to her first ballet lesson. He sat off to the side and watched as each of the girls shed off their outer layer of sweatpants and sweatshirts, cramming them in their duffel bags. He was glad he heeded the instructor’s warning about the studio being cold because he nearly went without a sweater because of the summer heat outside. “Dr. Wayne, it’s fancy meeting you here. Is she your daughter?” a woman asked. Thomas pushed his glasses up and corrected his posture.

“Oh, yes… Sorry, I’m a little bit nervous. It’s her first class,” Thomas replied. Cassandra looked around before turning to Thomas, and he waved at her. She waved back and turned to their instructor. “Don’t worry. She’ll be fine. My daughter’s been taking lessons since she could walk. This instructor is so sweet,” she whispered, “I’m Tawny.”

“Nice to meet you, Tawny. You can call me Thomas or Tom,” Thomas replied, “It was difficult finding a class where I could sit in. She had a few setbacks in speech, so I just want to make sure her needs are met in class.”

“Oh… She’s in speech classes. Is it some sort of stutter or—?”

“She doesn’t speak. Not yet. It’s um—. It’s complicated, but she’s so eager about everything she does. I’m so proud of her,” Thomas whispered.

As the class progressed, Tawny watched in amazement as Cassandra replicated the instructor’s advanced movements. “Her older brother’s in gymnastics,” Thomas tried to explain, but Tawny almost seemed disgusted with him as if he’d lied to humiliate her. Thomas turned away from her and watched the instructor close out the class, and Cassandra returned to him. He picked her up and tapped her nose before sending her to get her dance bag. She brought it to him, and he held her sweats out as she grabbed her sweatshirt and put it on over her leotard.

She made eye contact with him and grabbed his face. “I think you were fantastic, sweetpea. You worked so hard today,” Thomas commended her before kissing her forehead. She put her sweatpants on before taking her water bottle out of her bag. Thomas stood up and offered to take her bag, but she held her water bottle up to his face. After taking a sip, Thomas took the bottle and held her hand. “Would you do this again?”

Cassandra nodded enthusiastically. “Okay. Okay. Your next class is Wednesday afternoon,” Thomas replied, “Now let’s go home… Daddy’s getting a little headache.”

Thomas sat in his office with Cassandra as he watched the news. Cassandra sat with her back turned to the TV while she worked on her spelling. “Try spelling your big brothers’ names,” Thomas whispered. Cassandra looked up at him and nodded.

Meanwhile, something interrupted the regularly scheduled news, diverting Thomas’ attention back to the screen. He’d been fighting what felt like a migraine all day, but suddenly he felt ill beyond words. There wasn’t any time to make it to the bathroom, so he dropped to the ground and grabbed the wastebasket.

Cassandra stood up and looked at Thomas. She’d seen sickness before, but Thomas didn’t move like himself. Something was off. She hadn’t seen his face, but she ran off, frantically searching for an adult. She grabbed Alfred’s arm in the living room and dragged him to Thomas’ office. “Miss Cassandra!” Alfred chastised her for her impatience.

Cassandra pointed toward Thomas’ desk with tears streaming down her face. She kept pointing and pointing, but Alfred wasn’t looking at her or the desk. She wondered why he wasn’t looking, but he shouted for Martha. He shouted her name over and over, and Cassandra kept tugging his sleeve. Desperation set in, and Cassandra pinched him. He flinched and shook his head at her. “Absolutely not, Miss Cassandra. It might not be Master Bruce’s—.”

She was in tears, hyperventilating as she shoved Alfred and returned to Thomas’ side. Thomas made a noise in an attempt to speak. He tried to write, but his right arm wouldn’t work. Cassandra banged on the desk, making noise until Martha and Alfred came to calm her. Martha noticed the vomit in the wastebasket, and she heard Thomas’ voice struggling for words. “Thomas!” Martha shouted. She called 9-1-1, and Cassandra held his left hand, keeping him calm while they waited for an ambulance.

Harvey’s jaw tightened while a client’s boyfriend talked over her. “All due respect, I’m talking to her. I’m not speaking to you,” Harvey stated.

“Listen, you—.”

“No. You listen or you can leave. I’m speaking to Miss Aiello because she’s on trial. She must speak for herself. You will not be allowed to speak on her behalf. She’s got a lot on the line here, and I don’t think you’re helping her case by speaking over her and guiding her testimony,” Harvey interrupted. He opened his notebook and looked at Miss Aiello.

Her boyfriend slammed his hand on the desk and left the room, while Miss Aiello sat with her head bowed and shoulders raised. Harvey took a deep breath and placed his hands down on the desk. “Miss Aiello? I have to ask because it’s going to help your case. Why are you lying about where you were? I can make a hell of an argument for you either way, but we have got to trust each other. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to fuck you over. I don’t trust that your boyfriend has your best interests in mind and quite frankly I think he’s a pimp. But back to my question, Miss Aiello… Why are you lying to me?” Harvey whispered. He had a migraine. He’d been having migraines a lot lately, but he attributed it to his current position.

It was on the opposite side of the law in his mind, and his first big case was this woman, who was doing everything to hinder her own case despite being innocent. Harvey knew she was innocent, but she was so afraid of her boyfriend that she couldn’t focus on anything but keeping him calm. Her life was on the line, but she couldn’t tell him the truth, and he wanted to know why.

She pushed her bangs back as she started to cry. “I wasn’t with Jimmy,” Miss Aiello whispered.

“Who were you with?” Harvey asked. Miss Aiello sobbed. “I know it’s scary, but he can’t hurt you more than the system will. Please give me what I need to fight for you properly because we both know you didn’t murder anyone.”

“I didn’t come home the night it happened. I didn’t come home because I was with this guy I’d been seeing behind Donnie’s back. I’m not—. I’m not—.”

“It doesn’t matter. You have to walk me through that night,” Harvey interrupted, “I’m not judging you. I just want the facts.”

Miss Aiello gasped for air through her sobs until he grabbed her hand to comfort her. Someone knocked, and Harvey sighed. “Hold that thought,” Harvey whispered before opening his door a crack. “Honey, it’s not time for dinner yet—.”

“You have to come with me,” Gilda whispered with tears in her eyes.

Harvey stepped outside and shut the door behind himself. “My client is facing an accessory to murder charge, snookums. I can’t just walk away in the middle of the day,” Harvey whispered. Gilda opened her mouth to say something, but she looked into his eyes and nodded.

“Can I wait outside?” Gilda asked.

Harvey bit his lip as he smiled at her. “I appreciate seeing your pretty little face right now,” Harvey whispered as he lifted her chin. “Don’t be upset. I promise you… Twenty-five minutes. You can set your watch by me.” Harvey kissed her, and she closed her eyes, holding back tears as she kissed him back.

“Okay,” Gilda whispered.

Harvey disappeared into his office and sat across from his client a while longer. “Is that your girlfriend?” Miss Aiello asked.

“Fiancée,” Harvey replied, “Miss Aiello… That night. What happened that night?”

Harvey jumped in Gilda’s car, swearing and shaking. “Gilda, is Thomas okay? I just spoke to him this morning. Jesus Christ,” Harvey panicked.

“I don’t know. Mrs. Wayne called me an hour ago, asking if I was with you. I said you were at work, so she made me promise not to worry you. I—. I asked her what was going on, and she said—. She said Mr. Wayne wasn’t feeling well, so they took him to the ER. They told me it wasn’t serious, but I—. Oh, God, Harvey. I’m so sorry,” Gilda apologized.

“It’s not your fault. It isn’t. Thank you. I wouldn’t have been able to do my job if you hadn’t held out on telling me. I’m gonna call Martha and see if she’ll tell me what’s going on,” Harvey whispered once he caught his breath.

He called Martha on his cell and rolled the window down. “Harvey, it’s going to be alright. They broke up the clot, but he’s got to stay in the hospital for a few more days,” Martha whispered.

“A clot? Martha, what’s going on?” Harvey asked.

“You haven’t watched TV at all today… Have you?” Martha questioned in reply.

“No. I—. I’ve been at work since six this morning. Are you gonna try to get in contact with Bruce?” Harvey questioned. She didn’t answer.

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weekendpassrevoked · 3 months ago

Text

Easy's Songbird - Chapter 14 *new*

authors note: for you who have already read the original chapter 14, this is the new version. you can refer to the masterlist on my tumblr to see what is old and new.

please enjoy this monstrosity of a chapter. i hope you all catch a major plot reveal from one of the characters, teehee :3

Fort Benning, Georgia, December 10th, 1942

The days following their historic march had been a blur of recovery and preparation. Isabella's feet, treated with antibiotics and properly bandaged, were finally beginning to heal. Her voice had returned as well, though it still carried a slight rasp that she assured Gene would fade in time.

The respite had been brief but necessary. Colonel Sink had granted the battalion forty-eight hours of complete rest after their arrival, followed by three days of light duty—just enough time for blisters to scab over and muscles to recover from their ordeal.

Isabella sat on her bunk, carefully applying fresh bandages to her healing feet. The barracks at Fort Benning were nearly identical to those at Toccoa, but somehow they felt different. Maybe it was the knowledge that they were one step closer to deployment, or perhaps it was simply the change of scenery after months in one place.

"Looking better," Gene commented as he passed by, medical bag in hand. He'd been making regular rounds through the barracks, checking on the men whose feet had suffered the worst during the march. He had insisted she rest after she had begun following him on his rounds, saying that she had done enough.

"Almost human again," she replied with a small smile.

Gene nodded approvingly. "Good timing. Jump training starts tomorrow."

Isabella felt a flutter of nervous anticipation in her stomach. Five jumps. In three months they would have to show they’re capable of five successful jumps to earn their wings. After everything they'd endured to get here, it was hard to believe they were finally reaching this milestone.

"Mail call!" The shout came from outside, followed by the appearance of a clerk at the barracks door with a stack of letters.

Isabella's name was called several times, and she found herself with a small pile of envelopes—one from her parents, one from Maya, one from Cameron, and surprisingly, one bearing an official War Department seal.

She opened the official letter first, curiosity winning out over her desire for news from home.

“Office of the Secretary of War

Washington, D.C.

December 5th, 1942,

To Corporal Isabella M. Vega

506th Parachute Infantry Regiment

Fort Benning, Georgia

Subject: Project Blitz Status Report and Authorization

Corporal Vega,

Following extensive observation and review of your performance during training at Camp Toccoa and the subsequent regimental march to Fort Benning, I am pleased to inform you that Project Blitz has been authorized to continue through the next phase of training.

The joint committee formed to evaluate this initiative has determined that you have demonstrated the physical capability, technical proficiency, and psychological fortitude necessary for continued participation in airborne training. Your completion of the 118-mile march was particularly noted as evidence of your ability to endure extreme physical demands alongside male counterparts.

However, the committee has also determined that Project Blitz will not be expanded at this time. You will remain the sole participant in the program until further notice. This decision is not a reflection on your performance, but rather a cautious approach to what remains an experimental initiative.

Upon successful completion of jump training and receipt of your parachutist badge, further evaluation will determine your status for overseas deployment with the 506th Regiment.

The progress of Project Blitz continues to be followed with great interest at the highest levels of the War Department. Your conduct and performance remain under observation.

Respectfully,

Col. James R. Marshall

War Department Special Projects Division”

Isabella exhaled slowly, digesting the information. The project would continue—that was the good news. She hadn't failed, hadn't given them any reason to pull her from training. But she would remain alone, the only woman in a combat unit for the foreseeable future.

Part of her had hoped, perhaps naively, that her success might open the door for others. That Sina or other women who would sign up to train would join her. But the War Department was moving cautiously, treating her as the exception rather than the beginning of a trend.

"Bad news?" Gene asked, noticing her expression.

She handed him the letter. "Not bad. Just... lonely."

Gene scanned the contents, his face neutral. When he finished, he passed it back with a slight nod. "They're just covering themselves. You should know best that bureaucrats don't like risk."

"Yeah," she agreed, tucking the letter away. "I just thought maybe..."

"That you wouldn't be the only one anymore," Gene finished for her.

She nodded, unable to articulate the strange mix of pride and isolation she felt. Being the first, the only one, came with a weight she hadn't fully appreciated when she'd signed up.

"Well," Gene said after a moment, "guess you'll just have to be so good they can't ignore the evidence."

Isabella smiled despite herself. "That's the plan."

Turning to the letters from home, she opened Maya's first, eager for news of Anzu and Taiga.

“いさ,

I hope this letter finds you well. We were all so relieved to hear you arrived safely at Fort Benning after your long march. Your father explained to us what an achievement this was, how no American soldiers had done such a thing before. We are all bursting with pride, though I must confess when I think of you walking so far in the cold, my heart aches a little too.

Anzu has started school and loves it beyond measure. Her teacher says she is the quickest learner in the class and has already skipped ahead in reading. She tells everyone her auntie Isa is a soldier who jumps from planes. The other children don't always believe her, but she defends you fiercely!

Taiga is walking now—or perhaps "running" is more accurate. He is into everything, climbing furniture, pulling books from shelves, and generally creating the kind of chaos only a toddler can manage. He has started saying "Isa" when we show him your picture, which makes Anzu very jealous that it was one of his first words.

Things here remain challenging at times. There was an incident at the market last week—someone refused to serve me—but your mother stepped in with such fury that the entire store fell silent. She told them that while her daughter-in-law shopped for her family, her daughter was marching across Georgia to defend their freedom to be ignorant if they chose. No one has troubled me since.

Michel Alejandro writes when he can and our usual phone calls have dwindled, his letters are short and tell us little of what he's actually doing. Reading between the lines, I believe things in the Pacific are very difficult. He asks about you in every letter. I think it comforts him to know you are safe in training rather than already overseas.

I have included another drawing from Anzu. She insists it shows you jumping from a plane, though I think you'll agree the artistic interpretation is... creative.

Be safe, Isa. We all miss you terribly and count the days until you return to us.

With all my love,

Maya (Anzu and Taiga)”

Isabella smiled at the enclosed drawing—a stick figure with long brown hair falling from what appeared to be a blue rectangle, with a massive circle above that was presumably supposed to be a parachute. The stick figure wore an enormous smile and held what looked like a rifle, which amused Isabella given that she wouldn't actually be armed during jumps.

‘Cheeky Anzu’

She carefully folded the letter and drawing, tucking them into her journal for safekeeping before opening Cameron's letter.

“Birdie,

Heard through the grapevine you just marched your ass all the way to Benning. 118 miles? Jesus Christ, Isa. You just love making the rest of us look bad. My CO mentioned it during morning formation, though he conveniently left out that there was a WOMAN involved. Bet that would've shut some of these guys up.

Training here is winding down. We're shipping out soon, probably heading to England from what I can gather. The rumors are flying, but nobody knows anything for sure. Half the guys think we'll be home by Easter, which is obviously bullshit. The other half are convinced we're all going to die the minute we hit the continent. The truth's probably somewhere in between, as usual.

Billy caught pneumonia and got sent to the hospital. They say he'll recover, but he'll miss deployment, which has him more pissed than sick. Jamie's been made a squad leader, which has gone straight to his head. Eli's the same as always—quiet, watchful, steady. You'd like him, I think. Reminds me a bit of your friend Gene from your letters. He likes to stick with me and has become quite useful when I write songs.

Anyway, they're working us hard, getting us ready for whatever's coming. I miss home, but I'm ready for this. Ready to do my part. I know you understand that better than anyone.

Mama mentioned you're starting jump training in her last letter. Try not to break your neck, yeah? I did not drag your ass out of that creek when you were eight just for you to die jumping out of a perfectly good airplane.

Your Lucky Charm,

Cameron”

Isabella smiled, shaking her head slightly. Cameron's letters always managed to make her feel like he was right there beside her, his voice as clear in her mind as if he were speaking aloud.

She makes a mental note to ask him more about this Eli character. Seeing how much he mentions him in his letters worries her slightly considering Cameron’s…’background’.

‘Best not push if I know what’s best for all of us.’

Setting Cameron's letter aside, she opened the one from her parents, finding her mother's neat handwriting covering several pages.

“Dearest Isabella,

Your father and I were overjoyed to receive your last letter and to hear of your success in the march to Fort Benning. Your father has been telling everyone at church about it, showing the newspaper article that mentioned the 506th's achievement (though it sadly did not name you specifically).

We are well, though the house feels empty without you and the boys. Your father spends more time working these days, I think just to keep his hands busy. I have started teaching art classes at the community center, including a special session for wives and mothers of servicemen. This helps me pass the time without you here. We paint and talk and support each other—it helps to share the worry with others who understand.

Lucas wrote to us recently that he has completed his pilot training and has happily been assigned to a bomber crew, though I’m sure he’s already told you. He says the B-17 is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, which I find slightly concerning given how he used to talk about Marjorie Wilson from down the street. He sent a photograph, which I've enclosed. He looks so handsome in his uniform—you all do. My children, serving their country. I am proud and terrified in equal measure. He states that you should ‘take the pick of the lot’ from the picture. I think he’s desperate to set you up with someone. I’m curious to see who you’d like best as well…”

Isabella pauses, face red from embarrassment.

‘I’m hundreds of miles away from both of them and yet they’re still teasing me. Incredible.’

“Maya and the children are managing as best they can. Your father has been taking Anzu fishing, which she adores. She follows him around the house asking questions about everything, just as you used to do. Sometimes when I see them together, I am reminded so much of you at that age that my heart aches.

We received a very unexpected letter last week—from Colonel Sink! He wrote to tell us how well you are doing and how much you have contributed to your unit. I must say, your father was quite impressed, and I believe they may have begun a correspondence of their own after Colonel Sink sent his first letter back in May. Military men, always finding each other.

I pray for you every day, my darling girl. For your safety, your strength, and your spirit. I know God is watching over you, but a mother's worry never ceases.

Jump safely, write often, and know that you are loved beyond measure.

All my love,

Mama

P.S. Your father insists I include his note, though I warned him you have more important things to do than read his ramblings about military matters.”

Isabella snorted and turned to the second page, where her father's bold handwriting took over:

“Isabellita,

I won't waste your time with lengthy sentiments—your mother covers that ground thoroughly enough for both of us. I will simply say this: I am proud. More proud than I have words to express.

Colonel Sink's letters are unexpected but deeply appreciated. He speaks highly of your conduct, your capabilities, and your character. From one military man to another, I recognize the weight of such praise—it is not given lightly or without cause.

He mentioned your marksmanship in particular. It seems those Sunday afternoons at the lake when you were a girl were not wasted after all. Though I suspect you won't be carrying a weapon in your medical role, it pleases me to know you could defend yourself if necessary.

Jump training begins soon from what I understand. Trust your instructors, trust your equipment, and above all, trust yourself. The fear never completely disappears—even after hundreds of jumps—but you learn to use it, to let it sharpen your focus rather than dull it.

Your brothers in arms are lucky to have you watching over them. As was I, to have you watching over our home all these years.

Con orgullo,

Papá”

Isabella felt a lump form in her throat as she finished reading. Her father had never been one for flowery expressions of emotion, making his words all the more powerful. And the fact that Sink had written to them—had taken the time to share her progress with her family—touched her deeply.

She grabs the remaining photo from the inside of the envelope and is faced with a black-and-white replica of Lucas’s crew. Her heart fills with pride at his wide smile. Personally, she couldn’t be happier that he had managed to achieve his dreams and she couldn’t be more grateful to him for being the one to push her to sign up. Without him, she wouldn’t be here.

Scanning over the picture, she sees a tall handsome man standing to Lucas’s left and her eyebrows shoot up.

‘Jesus Christ they’re fucking identical!’

Turning the photo over, she spotted Lucas’s messy scrawl labeling the names:

"Lucas ‘Ace’ Smith – Front row, second from right."

"Gale ‘Buck’ Cleven – Left of me.”

She glanced at the others, scanning the names.

"John “Bucky” Egan – Right of me. You two would probably get along too well."

"Harry Crosby – Back row, left side. Resident navigator and professional worrier."

"Robert ‘Rosie’ Rosenthal – Back row, right side. Only guy who actually enjoys flying into enemy fire."

Isabella snorted.

Classic Lucas. Of course he’d befriend a guy who flies toward bullets for fun.

She studied the men in the picture again, narrowing her eyes as she took them in one by one.

Lucas? Obviously an idiot.

Cleven? Good-looking. But way too similar to Lucas for her comfort.

Egan? Trouble. She could already tell. That cocky smirk? The relaxed stance? Yeah, definitely a problem.

Crosby? He looked like he was constantly thinking about five different worst-case scenarios at once. She felt like she’d like him.

Rosenthal? Handsome, but crazy. She could see it in his eyes.

A sigh left her lips, exasperated but fond.

‘Lucas, you absolute menace.’

Because of course he’d surround himself with a bunch of men who probably caused mayhem wherever they went.

She rubbed her temples, sighing again.

At this rate, she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to write them back or throttle Lucas to death.

Her moment of reflection was interrupted by the sound of boots approaching. She looked up to find Lieutenant Winters standing in the doorway of the barracks.

"Corporal Vega," he greeted with a nod. "Captain Sobel would like to see you in his office."

Isabella felt a flicker of concern. Summons from Sobel rarely brought good news. "Yes, sir. Right away."

She quickly tucked her letters into her footlocker and followed Winters across the base to the administrative building where the officers had their quarters and offices.

"Any idea what this is about, sir?" she asked as they walked.

Winters shook his head slightly. "You know Captain Sobel keeps his own counsel, Corporal." After a pause, he added, "But he received a report from the War Department this morning."

That didn't exactly ease her mind.

When they arrived at Sobel's office, Winters knocked sharply on the door.

"Enter," came the clipped response.

Winters opened the door, ushering Isabella in before him. "Corporal Vega reporting as ordered, sir."

Sobel sat behind his desk, several papers spread before him. He looked up, his expression unreadable as always.

"That will be all, Lieutenant," he said, dismissing Winters with a wave of his hand.

Winters hesitated for just a moment, glancing at Isabella before nodding. "Sir." He departed, closing the door behind him.

Isabella stood at attention, waiting. Sobel studied her for an uncomfortably long moment before speaking.

"At ease, Corporal."

She shifted to parade rest, eyes fixed forward.

Sobel picked up a document from his desk. "I've received the War Department's assessment of Project Blitz following the march to Benning." He paused, as if expecting her to respond.

"Yes, sir," she said when it became clear he was waiting.

"They've authorized your continued participation through jump training." He set the paper down, leaning back slightly in his chair. "They specifically noted your performance during the march."

Isabella remained silent, unsure where this was headed.

"Lieutenant Winters also included a note in his report about your…contributions to company morale."

She felt a flicker of unease. Was he about to reprimand her for singing during the march?

Sobel's expression remained inscrutable. "While I do not typically endorse such... unconventional approaches, I cannot deny the results. Easy Company maintained the highest completion rate of any company in the battalion during the march."

It took every ounce of Isabella's military bearing not to let her surprise show on her face. Was this... praise? From Sobel?

"Thank you, sir," she strangled out, completely out of her depth.

‘There is no way in hell this man is complimenting me right now.’

"Don't misunderstand me, Corporal," Sobel continued, his tone sharpening. "I still believe Project Blitz is an unnecessary distraction from our primary mission. The battlefield is no place for women, regardless of individual capabilities."

Ah, there it was. The familiar Sobel.

"However," he continued, "as long as the War Department insists on continuing this experiment, I will ensure that you receive the same training—and the same scrutiny—as every other soldier under my command."

"Yes, sir."

Sobel stood, walking around his desk to stand directly in front of her. "Jump training begins at 0600 tomorrow. You’ll complete the five jumps to earn your wings with the rest of the company. The standards will not be lowered, the requirements will not be altered, and there will be no special accommodations."

"I wouldn't expect any, sir."

He studied her for a moment longer, then gave a curt nod. "That's all, Corporal. Dismissed."

"Sir." Isabella saluted, turned on her heel, and exited the office.

Outside, she found Winters waiting, his expression mildly curious. "Everything alright, Corporal?"

She nodded, still processing the strange encounter. "Yes, sir. I think Captain Sobel just... complimented me. Sort of."

Winters' eyebrows rose slightly. "Did he now?"

"In his own way," she clarified. "He acknowledged that Easy Company performed well during the march."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Winters' mouth. "High praise indeed."

As they walked back toward the barracks, Isabella's mind turned to the challenge ahead. Five jumps. Five leaps into empty air, with nothing but a pack of silk between her and a very hard landing. After the road they'd traveled to get here—both literally and figuratively—this was the final hurdle before they could truly call themselves paratroopers.

"Nervous?" Winters asked, seeming to read her thoughts.

Isabella considered the question carefully. "Yes, sir," she admitted. "But ready, too."

Winters nodded approvingly. "That's the right attitude, Vega. A little fear keeps you sharp." He paused, then added, "The men are looking to you, you know. After the march, after seeing what you're capable of... you've earned their respect. They'll be watching to see how you handle the jumps."

The weight of those words settled on her shoulders, heavy but not unwelcome. She had proven herself during the march, and had shown that she belonged among them. Now she just had to prove it again, in the air this time.

"I understand."

When they reached the barracks, Winters left her with a nod and continued on toward the officers' quarters. Inside, Isabella found the men engaged in their usual pre-training rituals—checking equipment, sharing rumors about what to expect, boasting about their lack of fear while simultaneously betraying their nervousness in a hundred small ways.

"There she is," Luz called when he spotted her. "What did Sobel want? To congratulate you on your lovely singing voice?"

Isabella snorted, dropping onto her bunk. "Not exactly."

"Let me guess," Liebgott drawled. "He reminded you that paratroopers don't sing."

"Actually," she said, still somewhat bemused by the encounter, "he acknowledged that Easy had the highest completion rate during the march. And that my 'contributions' might have had something to do with it."

This was met with stunned silence.

"Holy shit," Skip finally said. "Did Hell freeze over while we were marching?"

"Maybe Sobel's been replaced by an impostor," Penkala suggested, only half-joking.

"Or maybe," Gene said quietly from his spot nearby, "even Sobel can't argue with results."

Isabella shrugged, leaning back against her pillow. "Either way, it doesn't change anything. Jump training starts tomorrow, same for all of us."

The mention of jump training seemed to refocus the men, their banter turning to speculation about what they'd face the next day.

"I heard they make you stand in the door for like five minutes before they let you jump," Malarkey said, eyes wide. "Just to see if you'll panic."

"That's bullshit," Guarnere dismissed. "They don't have time for that kind of crap. It's in, out, down. Simple as that."

"My cousin did jump training last year," Penkala chimed in. "Said the hardest part is remembering to count while you're falling. If you don't count right, you don't know when to expect the chute to open, and you can panic."

"One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand," Skip recited, mimicking the jump cadence they'd been taught in ground training. "And if you hit 'five thousand' without feeling that jerk, you're probably about to become a Penkala-shaped hole in the ground."

"Very funny," Penkala muttered.

Isabella listened to their chatter, feeling the same mix of anticipation and nerves they all were experiencing. Five jumps. Five chances to prove herself. Five steps closer to becoming a true paratrooper.

As night fell and the barracks gradually quieted, she found herself unable to sleep. Her mind kept replaying the day's events—the letters from home, Sobel's reluctant acknowledgment, Winters' words about the men looking to her. So much had changed since she'd first arrived at Toccoa, since that first night in a barracks full of men who'd viewed her with everything from curiosity to outright hostility.

Now, somehow, she had found her place among them. Had earned their respect not just as a medic, but as a soldier, a comrade, one of them.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new opportunities to fail or succeed. But for tonight, for this moment, Isabella allowed herself to feel a quiet pride in how far she'd come.

Five jumps to go.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jump training was not as hard as she had imagined. Not by a long shot.

Easy Company had lucked out compared to the rest of the battalion. Since they were so physically fit they had been allowed to completely skip over the physical training portion of jump training (much to everyone's relief.)

The first couple of weeks were very familiar; mock door drills, parachute landing falls, and mock airplane exits. All things they had started covering at Toccoa. By the time mid-January hit they began covering new things; the 250 foot tower and combat equipment training.

Isabella found the full equipment jumps the hardest. While she had the advantage of not having a rifle while jumping, she instead was subject to ridiculous amounts of medical supplies weighing her down. She consistently had the wind knocked out of her and she had begun waking up with large purple bruises on her body.

Now, Isabella wasn’t unfamiliar with her body being covered in scrapes and bruises. She had been a very active child growing up and the farm didn’t help with this. Her favorite injury was when one of the donkey’s bit her behind and she had to explain to her mother some days later after she had seen her changing that ‘No mom, I did not have a sexual escapade. My ass got bit by an ass.’ Despite this, Isabella was starting to worry about the significant amount of dark splotches on her body and the men were starting to notice too.

Initially, she brushed off their concern with a smirk and a quip. "You boys jealous? Looks like I'm the only one around here tough enough to take a real beating." But despite her bravado, she had quietly started padding certain areas with extra fabric and bandages. Her ribs protested with every deep breath, and each hard landing made her bite down on curses she usually shouted without hesitation.

It hurt. A lot.

It wasn't until the 250-foot tower that Isabella truly felt the sting of dread. She had watched countless others suspended helplessly in the harness, waiting for that merciless snap of the cable releasing them into open air. But being strapped in herself, high above the earth, Isabella felt her heart stutter in her chest.

She dangled, suspended, staring straight ahead into the vast emptiness. She clenched her fists, swallowing back the lump forming in her throat. “Perfect. Just perfect,” she muttered shakily. “Just what I always wanted—to be a human yo-yo.”

“Ready?” came the instructor’s taunting voice from far below.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Isabella shot back, though the bravado in her voice felt thin even to her own ears.

‘Liar’

When the latch released, she dropped sharply, her stomach leaping into her throat, pulse hammering wildly. For a fraction of a second, panic overwhelmed her—but then the harness caught smoothly, swinging her into a controlled glide. A startled laugh escaped her lips, caught somewhere between relief and exhilaration.

"Okay," she admitted breathlessly once her feet hit solid ground again, "that wasn't... totally awful."

The men erupted into a hearty cheer, and Luz slapped her on the back, nearly knocking her off balance. "See, Birdie? Nothing to it!"

She glared up at the tower, heart still racing. "Sure. If falling to your near-death counts as 'nothing,' Luz."

It’s during this time Isabella also finds herself running into a certain Dog Company lieutenant more than usual.

One day, Isabella was resting against a large pine tree, a habit she found herself doing quite often since their arrival at Benning. As she enjoys the warm sun through the leaves, she feels a presence besides her. The presence doesn’t speak and she doesn’t open her eyes, the both of them still.

Curiously, she finally props an eye open and finds herself faced with Lieutenant Speirs. Usually, she would stand up and greet him accordingly, but it was Sunday and her day off and she just couldn’t find it in herself to actually care.

Sighing, she finally makes the first move. “Sir.”

Speirs answers her blatantly, humor shining through what should’ve been actual concern. “You dying, Vega?”

She smirked sleepily. “Nope. Just thinking.”

Speirs raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

“Mhm!”

“What’s got you thinking so hard?”

She closes her eyes again, in a teasing mood. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Silence stretches until she cracks an eye open again, looking up at him. “If you sit with me, I’ll tell you.”

Much to her surprise, he seems to consider her offer. “Really?”

She nodded, tapping the empty patch of grass beside her. “Yup. But only if you sit.”

He lowers himself onto the grass beside her, arms resting on his knees as he glances over.

“Well?” he prompted. “I’m here.”

She grins triumphantly. “Good. Now I gotta come up with something worth sharing.”

Speirs scoffed. “You mean you didn’t have anything in mind?”

She hummed, stretching her arms behind her head. “Nope!”

He shook his head, smirking. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Well, think of it this way sir. At least now you have changed your routine!”

"You always sit out here like this?" he asked.

She hummed, tipping her head back slightly. "Only when I can get away with it."

He raised an eyebrow. "You trying to go AWOL, Vega?"

She laughed softly. "Nah, sir. Just takin’ advantage of the quiet."

“I’m surprised you don’t have that journal with you.”

She snorts. “Who says I don’t?”

His brow quirks. “I think you owe me a look considering you tricked me into sitting with you.”

Surprised, her face flushes. She lets out a breathy laugh, unsure of the strange feeling in her chest.

"Oh, that's how we're playing this?"

Speirs smirked, arms still resting loosely over his knees. "Fair's fair, Vega."

Huffing, she tilted her head at him in mock thoughtfulness. "So, let me get this straight—you think me convincing you to take a break means I owe you somethin'?"

He nodded once, completely unfazed.

She groaned, running a hand over her face before pointing at him. "Just because you’re curious about my journal doesn't mean you get to see it."

His smirk widened slightly. "That so?"

"Yes, sir. That is so." She crossed her arms, grinning now, her initial flustered reaction disappearing just as quickly as it came. "Some things should remain a mystery."

Speirs tilted his head. "You always this secretive?"

"You always this nosy?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Only when something's worth knowing."

And with that, Isabella found herself a new friend in her journey to the war. Quite an unexpected one at that. Their conversation had continued with them playing a crude version of twenty questions, trying to learn more about each other in order for Speirs to somehow get a glimpse of her journal.

She finds it funny that everyone wanted to see it; Winters, Nixon, Second Platoon, and now Speirs.

‘Weirdos.’

As their mock training continued and time trailed on, her birthday slowly but surely crept up. Isabella is not proud to admit it, but she had completely forgotten about it.

Back home, birthday’s weren’t a major event. Mama, Maya, and herself would make a cake (Anzu too once she came into the picture), and the whole family would sneak into your room at the time you were born and wake you up by singing happy birthday. They’d hand the gifts to whoever was a year older, be it a card or something they had saved up to buy, and then the day would go by and they would go out to a restaurant of the birthday-person's choice for dinner and that would be it. The kids and Cameron specifically liked this tradition the most since they were, in her opinion, the least mature in the family.

While she enjoyed it when she was a child, the spectacle had begun to lose its shine as she grew and Isabella had begun to think of her birthday as any other day. Usual traditions like quinceañeras and sweet sixteens hadn’t been done at her insistence because she didn’t want the family spending so much on something so materialistic, instead asking for the money they would have used to be given to her.

The last good birthday Isabella remembers, is funnily enough, her seventeenth. The day before she left her family behind for Toccoa. Not because she was leaving but because it had marked a new chapter in her life that irrefutably turned her into a better person.

The week of February 24th had arrived and Isabella had noticed the platoon acting strangely around her; which said a lot considering they were strange already. As the days rolled along, the men got jumpier and much more fidgety when she approached their bunks, like they didn’t want her around.

Frankly, it stung.

She finally confronted Liebgott after catching him whispering conspiratorially with Luz and Gene behind the barracks. "Alright, spill. What the hell is going on? You two are acting like teenagers plotting a prank."

Luz sputtered, looking at Gene for help, who quickly found something fascinating about the ground.

"Absolutely nothing," Gene murmured, kicking dirt awkwardly.

Isabella narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "You three are terrible liars, you know."

She didn't press further, deciding she probably didn't want to know anyway.

It wasn’t until the morning of the 24th that she realized why they were acting like that.

She slept snuggly in her bed, Teddy wrapped tightly in her arms. Her dreams were comfortably vague, drifting somewhere between the farm fields of home and the Georgia skies she'd come to know so intimately.

A muffled voice hissed softly somewhere near her bunk. "Alright, on three, guys."

She frowned slightly, still half asleep, wondering distantly if she was still dreaming.

"One... two..."

Her eyes fluttered open just in time for—

"THREE!"

An off-key but enthusiastic chorus of voices erupted into "Happy Birthday," startling Isabella upright. She clutched Teddy to her chest protectively, staring wide-eyed at the grinning, slightly guilty-looking faces of Luz, Liebgott, Gene, Skip, and most of the platoon crowding around her bed.

"What the hell—" Isabella started, her voice raspy from sleep and confusion. But before she could finish her protest, Luz proudly presented her with a hastily wrapped gift made from old newspapers.

"Happy birthday, Doc," Luz announced cheerfully, thrusting the badly wrapped parcel into her hands.

She stared at the gift, bewildered, and then back up at the men. "How'd you—?"

"Figured someone had to remember, right?" Gene muttered softly, rubbing the back of his neck, a shy grin tugging at his mouth.

Isabella's surprise slowly melted into a gentle warmth as she tore away the newspaper wrapping. Inside, she found a makeshift card with "Happy Birthday Doc Birdie!" scrawled across the front. Opening it, Isabella found notes from the men—silly stories, happy memories they'd shared, each note making her smile wider.

As she read, her bed dipped slightly. Looking up, she found Liebgott beside her, holding a smaller box.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Since it's your eighteenth and all, we thought you deserved something special."

Isabella took the box gently, watching the platoon's anxious faces. "You guys are unbelievable," she murmured softly, heart swelling with warmth.

"Just open it already," Liebgott said impatiently, nudging her lightly.

She laughed softly, shaking her head, feeling unexpectedly emotional. Closing her eyes briefly, Isabella opened the box.

Inside, she finds a silver necklace with a small red bird charm hanging in the middle. Her eyes fill with tears as she carefully removes the necklace from its box, overwhelmed.

“Oh, you guys…” Isabella whispered, voice tight with emotion as she gently cradled the delicate necklace. The little red bird shimmered softly in the early morning sunlight filtering through the barracks window.

“It's a bird. You know, 'cause you're our Birdie,” Luz offered, grinning sheepishly as if the joke needed explaining.

Isabella laughed softly through her tears, wiping them away quickly. “I got that part, Luz.”

“Well, put it on already!” Malarkey encouraged, nudging her lightly in the shoulder. “We wanna see how it looks.”

Gene stepped forward shyly, holding out his hand. “Here, let me help.”

She handed him the necklace, and with surprising care for his large hands, Gene gently clasped it around her neck. Stepping back, he offered her a small, proud smile. “Suits you, Doc.”

She touched the little bird gently, eyes meeting those of her platoon. “Thank you. Really.”

Liebgott coughed awkwardly, trying to hide the redness of his ears. “Alright, enough of the mushy stuff. Now, who's ready for breakfast?”

A laugh rippled through the men, breaking the tender moment and returning the barracks to their usual comfortable chaos.

But as Isabella stood and joined her friends, fingers still brushing the small charm at her throat, she realized just how much this little bird—and these strange, infuriating, wonderful men—meant to her.

At breakfast, she’s given well wishes by Winters and Nixon who, much to her surprise, had also remembered her birthday.

“How’s it feel to be eighteen, kid?” Nixon asked lightly, sipping his coffee with a teasing grin.

Isabella shrugged, poking at her breakfast with a smirk. “Honestly? Exactly the same as seventeen.”

Winters chuckled quietly, eyes kind as always. “Enjoy it, Doc. You'll wish you were eighteen again someday.”

Nixon scoffed good-naturedly. “Speak for yourself, Dick. Personally, I wouldn’t relive eighteen if you paid me.”

Isabella giggled, happy beyond belief.

After breakfast, Isabella was leaving the mess hall when she heard a familiar voice behind her, firm yet unmistakably warm.

"Corporal Vega."

She turned quickly, posture immediately straightening. "Colonel Sink, sir."

Sink approached her with his usual quiet authority, though there was a hint of amusement lingering in his steady gaze.

"Eighteen today, isn't it?" he asked knowingly. Isabella blinked in surprise. "Seems like only yesterday you arrived at Toccoa. You've come a long way in a year."

Warmth bloomed in her chest at his words. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate it."

He gave a slight nod, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "There's something for you at headquarters. Looks like your family didn't forget either."

Her eyes widened, excitement sparking within her. "Thank you, sir. I'll go right away."

Sink smiled faintly, dismissing her with a casual wave. Isabella turned quickly, practically jogging to headquarters in her eagerness.

When she returned to her bunk, the package rested in her hands—her mother's familiar handwriting scrawled neatly across the box.

“What is it, Birdie?” Luz asked, curiously looking over from his bunk.

“It’s a package from home!” she replied eagerly.

Many of the men crowded around, equally curious to see what her family had sent.

Carefully unwrapping it, she revealed a stack of letters bound neatly together, Each envelope was carefully labeled in handwriting she instantly recognized: Mama’s looping letters, Cameron’s dramatic calligraphy, Lucas’s messy scrawl, Sina’s flowing print, and Darren’s distinctive print. Beneath the letters, tucked safely within packing paper, lay gifts that made her heart swell.

Art supplies—pencils, a fresh set of charcoal sticks, colorful pastels—things they knew she loved but hadn't been able to enjoy since she left home. Next to these were two books she'd mentioned wanting to read, their covers worn gently from handling, likely passed down or carefully found second-hand. Nestled securely at the bottom was a small tin filled with homemade cookies, slightly misshapen and crumbled but smelling wonderfully of home.

Lastly, a delicate velvet pouch, a tiny paper bag, and a tin with a red bow caught her attention. Inside, a pair of beautiful earrings gleamed up at her. Isabella carefully lifted the earrings from their pouch, breath catching softly. They were delicate porcelain studs, rimmed with intricate gold filigree, each one painted with a tiny, gentle pink rose. She immediately recognized them—they looked just like the ones Mama wore on special occasions, a pair she had admired since childhood. Her throat tightened at the thoughtfulness behind such a simple, beautiful gift.

Tearfully, she unwraps the red bow from the tin, opening. Cosmetics—a small bowl of cream rouge, pink and red lipstick, and eyeshadow. Sina’s doing, undoubtedly; she always teased Isabella about not indulging enough in simple pleasures. Isabella couldn’t imagine how much it must’ve cost her to buy.

She peeks into the paper bag, already knowing what was inside. A light pink omamori from Maya. She gave her one every year and yet it never failed to have her beam with joy. She decided against taking it out of the bag, not wanting the men to ask questions.

“Jesus Birdie, they sent you a whole store.” Liebgott exclaimed, sitting on the ground next to her bunk.

She laughs, still overwhelmed at the gifts. “It’s not a whole store, Lieb. Quit being dramatic.”

Carefully, she puts everything back and grabs the stack of envelopes, eager to read them.

“Alright boys, should I read my letters in order to satisfy your curiosity or should I let you suffer in your boredom?” Isabella said cheekily.

“Don’t be mean, Birdie!” Malarkey shouted. “We’ve been so nice to you!”

“It’s my birthday,” she started. “I can be as mean as I wanna.”

Taking pity on them, she opens the first letter, ready to read it aloud. Cameron’s.

“Dear Birdie,

Happy eighteenth! Can't believe my big sister is officially an adult now. Though let's be honest—you've been more mature than the rest of us since forever. Still, it's a milestone worth celebrating, so consider this letter my official toast to you. Sorry I can't be there to sing off-key and steal icing from your cake like usual.

The boys send you their regards. Billy especially. He’s quite upset he can’t sign off on the letter since he’s stuck in the hospital but at least the thought counts. Billy says that I've told him so much about you that he feels like he knows you already. I think the two of you would get along wonderfully if you ever get to meet.

Jamie has gotten into another fight (unsurprisingly). He got into another fight last week defending some new kid who was getting hassled. Got a black eye and busted knuckles for his trouble, but the kid's now following him around like a lost puppy. His recent promotion to squad leader has him strutting around like a peacock—we can barely fit his head through doorways.

In regards to your last letter, I would like to answer truthfully about Eli. Yes. But, I want to assure you that I will not act upon these feelings. Your worry is unwarranted and I want you to breathe easy. No one knows.

So there it is—eighteen years. Who would've thought that scrawny little girl who used to boss me around would grow up to be making history? I'm proud of you, Isa. More than I can say in a letter.

Try not to do anything I wouldn't do. (Which, let's be honest, leaves your options pretty open.)

Please enjoy the picture. I can’t let Lucas outshine me. Let me know how your birthday went, I can’t wait to hear it.

Your Lucky Charm and his gang of miscreants,

Cameron, Billy, Jamie, and Eli

(P.S You better send your own picture. Unfair you get to see all of us and we have to stay guessing!)”

The men laugh as she reads, always open to hearing what sarcasm Cameron has in store in his letters. Isabella makes sure to jump over the part about Eli. They don’t need to know about any of that.

She carefully lifted Cameron’s photo, smiling brightly at the image. Cameron stood proudly at the center, his familiar cheeky grin brighter than ever, flanked by Billy, Eli, and Jamie. Each of the boys wore their uniforms proudly, their arms slung over each other's shoulders. Isabella felt a rush of affection at seeing their camaraderie captured so vividly—exactly as Cameron had described.

"That's your little brother?" Luz asked curiously, peering over her shoulder. "Looks like trouble runs in the family."

"Oh, you have no idea," Isabella laughed. "Trouble practically follows Cameron wherever he goes."

She carefully set aside Cameron’s letter and opened Lucas’s next.

“Hiya Birdie!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY FAVORITE SISTER!

Eighteen! A real adult now, though between you and me, you've been the most grown-up of all of us for years. Hope you're celebrating properly, even if it's just stealing an extra dessert from the mess hall. Remember how we used to sneak those extra slices of Mama's cake on birthdays? Good times.

Life in the wild blue yonder is just as crazy as you'd expect. Since my last letter, we have been sent to England (as you can see from the return address) and we’ve begun doing our part for the war. The 100th Bomb Group, aka 'The Bloody Hundredth.' Cheerful name, right? But honestly, I couldn't have landed with a better bunch of lunatics.

Bucky is as insufferable as usual, constantly asking if you’re single despite my threats of turning him into a bloody pulp. I told him you'd eat him alive. He said, and I quote, 'Sounds like my kind of gal.' Consider yourself warned.

Buck (God bless him) has been running behind Bucky like a headless chicken trying to keep him in line. He's the most level-headed sonofabitch I've ever met. Reminds me of Michel Alejandro, honestly—calm under pressure, voice never raises, but when he gives an order, you jump to it without thinking. He's got this way of looking at you that makes you feel like he can see right through all your bullshit. You two would get along like a house on fire.

Crosby honestly worries me, the man cannot catch a break. I've appointed myself his unofficial therapist, which means I listen to him catastrophize for hours, then tell him to take a deep breath and have a drink. Total brainiac. I think him and Michel Alejandro would probably get along best, they’ve both got that ‘I’m super smart but instead of helping me it makes me go nuts’ kind of thing going on.

I need you to talk some sense into Rosie because this man is a Harvard Law graduate who could be making a fortune back home, but instead chooses to fly straight into flak because, and these are his exact words, 'It seemed like the right thing to do.’ He’s fucking nuts and doesn’t believe me. Terrifies me, if I'm being honest. But if anyone's going to get us through this war in one piece, it's Rosie. He’s just as batshit as you considering you’re willing to jump out of a moving plane but that’s a you thing.

They all send their birthday wishes, by the way. They've heard so much about you they feel like they know you. Bucky says to tell you he's saving you a dance when we all get home. (I told him not to hold his breath.) Buck says happy birthday, and that any sister of mine must have the patience of a saint. Harry calculated the exact odds of our respective deployments crossing paths (depressingly low), and Rosie just smiled that calm smile of his and said he hopes your birthday brings you joy in the midst of all this chaos.

I hope you enjoyed the picture I sent to Mama, your reply has yet to show up if you’ve sent one. You can do whatever you want with it, although knowing you you’d probably burn it in a fire considering why I sent it.

I wish I could be there to celebrate with you properly. Remember your sixteenth, when we snuck out to that dance hall and I pretended to be your chaperone? Then spent the whole night teaching you to jitterbug while scaring off any boy who came within ten feet of you? Good times.

You're making history, Isa. First woman paratrooper. When this is all over, they'll be writing books about you. Just make sure they get all the good parts right, okay?

Stay safe up there in the sky. That's my territory, you know? So mind the weather and don't forget to enjoy the view on the way down.

With all my love and pride,

Your favorite Ace,

Lucas.’

P.S. By the way, the boys are taking bets on which one of them you'd like best based on the photo. Bucky's sure it's him because of his 'devilish charm.' If you write back, please tell me it's Harry just to watch Bucky's ego deflate a bit. I'll split my winnings with you."

The platoon erupted in laughter, clearly entertained by Lucas's vivid descriptions of his crewmates.

"Your brother sure knows how to pick 'em," Malarkey laughed, wiping tears from his eyes. "Sounds like he's having fun up there."

"Too much fun," Isabella said fondly, shaking her head. "It's worrying, actually."

"Which one’s Lucas in that picture you showed us before?" Luz asked curiously. "The smug-looking blond one in the middle?"

"That's him," Isabella chuckled, rolling her eyes. "He's always been a little too confident for his own good."

She placed Lucas’s letter gently aside and picked up Sina’s next, recognizing her familiar neat script immediately. Carefully opening it, Isabella began to read aloud once more:

"My dearest Isabellita,

Happy 18th birthday, mi querida! I can hardly believe my little friend is officially an adult now. It seems like just yesterday we were playing with your dolls on your front porch, and now you're jumping out of airplanes and making history. If someone had told me then that my sweet, quiet Isabella would become the first woman paratrooper, I might have laughed—but now? Now I know there's nothing you can't do.

New York is still as overwhelming and wonderful as when I first arrived. The WAVES keep us busy from dawn till dusk, but I've found a family here among the chaos. I wish you could meet them all! They've heard so much about you they feel like they know you already.

As you know, Maggie has been teaching me to be more... assertive, shall we say? Last week she convinced me to sneak out past curfew to see a jazz band. We almost got caught, and while I was having heart palpitations, she just winked at the MP and somehow talked our way out of trouble. You'd either love her immediately or be thoroughly scandalized—perhaps both! She's the one who picked out the cosmetics for you. She insists every woman should have "war paint" for special occasions, even if that occasion is just making it through another day.

Helen reminds me so much of you sometimes—that quiet strength, always putting others first. She's the one who helped me find those books for you; her brother owns a bookshop and sent them when she asked. She wants me to tell you that she’s so excited to hear about what you’re doing! I think she enjoys knowing that things might change for women in the near future but I also think she gets a kick out of worrying for people she hasn’t met yet.

As you might recall, Tess is brilliant with numbers—they have her working in code-breaking now, though of course she can't tell us details. She stayed up three nights in a row helping me craft the perfect birthday card for you, insisting that "our paratrooper sister deserves the best." She says that if you ever have any problems with your math studies then you’re more than welcome to ask her via letter.

They all send their love and birthday wishes, by the way. Maggie says any woman brave enough to jump out of planes deserves at least a proper lipstick. Helen packed the cookies herself (though I can't promise they survived the journey intact). And Tess included a little note in Spanish—just between you two. They insisted on sending a photo of us out in the town after Mama told us about Lucas’s…friend exposition.

I miss you terribly, Isabellita. Sometimes at night I look out at the New York skyline and wonder if you're looking at the same stars, wherever you are. Are you scared about the jumps? I would be terrified, but I know you—your quiet courage has always been your greatest strength. You never needed to be loud to be brave.

I hear rumors sometimes, whispers about where they might send us once training is complete. The war seems to be shifting, though details are scarce. Whatever happens, whatever oceans separate us, know that you're always in my heart.

I hope your birthday brings you a moment of joy amidst all the chaos. I hope your fellow soldiers celebrate you properly. And I hope, more than anything, that this time next year we'll be celebrating together again, this horrible war nothing but a memory.

Until then, I remain, as always, Your loving friend,

Sina Navarro

P.S. Darren sends his love too. His letters are rare these days, but he mentioned he's sent something separately for your birthday. Has it arrived yet? He's as mysterious as ever about his Marine training, but he did say, and I quote, "At least Isa's got proper equipment. They're sending us to the Pacific with rifles older than our grandfathers." Classic Darren, always the optimist!

P.P.S. Have you met anyone special yet? Maggie insists I ask. She says wartime romances are the most passionate. (I told her you're too sensible for such things, but she just winked and said, "The quiet ones always surprise you." Whatever that means!)"

Isabella rolled her eyes, setting Sina’s letter aside with care before reaching for the enclosed photograph. Sina stood confidently in the middle of the group, her dark hair elegantly styled, a bright smile on her face. Maggie leaned casually on her shoulder, eyes twinkling with mischief, while Helen stood with quiet pride beside them. Tess, clearly the shortest of the bunch, was mid-laugh, caught in a candid moment, her joy unmistakable. Isabella felt a pang of longing—these women had become Sina’s family, much like Easy Company had become hers.

“Oooh let us take a peek Birdie!” Luz cries, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

She pushes him off, huffing. “I am not going to let you try to get with these girls, Luz!”

“Come on, Birdie!” Luz pouted dramatically. “I promise I’ll be respectful.”

Malarkey snorted. “That's funny.”

Isabella shot Luz a pointed look, holding the photo protectively to her chest. “Absolutely not. Knowing you, you’d fall in love with all of them at once.”

“Worth a shot,” Luz said with a defeated sigh, raising his hands innocently. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

“Oh, I definitely can,” Isabella teased, carefully tucking Sina’s photograph back into its envelope before picking up Darren’s letter next. The platoon leaned forward eagerly, ready for whatever entertaining commentary would surely follow.

"Isabella,

Happy birthday. Eighteen. Official adult now. Congratulations.

Sorry for the brevity and the messy handwriting. Writing this from a foxhole in Guadalcanal. Not exactly the Ritz.

They don't tell you about the rain in the Pacific. Or the mud. Or the smell. Or how every goddamn thing that crawls or flies seems determined to either bite you or give you some new disease. But I'm alive. I think living in Florida in such similar conditions has somehow prepared me for whatever the hell this is.

Made some connections in my unit. Not friends exactly—not sure that's what you call people you might die alongside. But something close.

There's Leckie—Robert Leckie. Everyone calls him Lucky or Peaches. Writer type, always scribbling in a journal when he's not bitching about something. Smart as hell, reads poetry, quotes stuff none of us understand. You'd probably like him. He reminds me of you sometimes—way too thoughtful for his own good. Writes letters to some girl back home he barely knows. He’s a hopeless romantic underneath all that cynicism.

Then there's Runner—Wilbur Conley. Buffalo guy (you’d call him a yank), talks faster than anyone I've ever met. Always has a story or a joke, even when we're soaked through and starving. Somehow keeps our spirits up when things go to shit. Which is often.

Chuckler—Lew Juergens. Big guy, laugh you can hear across the island. Heart to match. The kind of Marine who'd give you his last ration even while complaining about it. Mother hen of our little group, always checking on everyone.

And Hoosier—Bill Smith. Quiet, tough as nails. Indiana farm boy who doesn't say much, but when he does, it matters. Good shot, better friend. Solid in a fight. The kind of guy you want next to you when the shooting starts. You both have the same amount of patience, which is to say none. You’d like him the most out of all of these idiots.

They all said to wish you happy birthday when I mentioned I was writing. They've heard enough about you to be curious. Leckie said any friend of mine who jumps out of planes for fun must be "either magnificent or certifiable." I told him probably both.

The harmonica is from me. Found it in Melbourne before we shipped out. Remembered you used to play when we were kids. It's small enough to take with you, even when you deploy. Music's always been your thing. Might help to have some of it with you over there.

Don't tell Sina, but the Pacific is bad, Isabella. Worse than they're saying back home. The Japs don't surrender, and neither do we. Makes for a special kind of hell. If they send you to Europe, count yourself lucky.

Stay alive. Keep your head down and your wits sharp. Don’t expect any pictures because I don’t have the time or the energy to keep up with whatever weird game Lucas and the others have going on. And happy damn birthday.

Rook.

P.S. Leckie wrote you a line of poetry on the back of this letter. Said it reminded him of what I told him about you. Don't get any ideas—he writes poetry for everyone. Man's obsessed with words and himself.”

Isabella turns to the second page curiously, unsure of what she’d find.

"To the paratrooper friend of our taciturn comrade:

Happy birthday from a rain-soaked corner of hell.

'Hope' is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all -

(Dickinson understood something about courage, I think.)

Your friend speaks of you rarely, but when he does, it's with a quiet admiration that even the deluge here cannot dampen. He played one of your songs on a quiet night—something about home and waiting. The music lingered in our foxhole long after the notes faded.

May your landings always be soft, your voice remain clear, and your courage never waver.

Robert Leckie

1st Marine Division"

Isabella’s eyebrows furrow, confused. “What the fuck?”

The platoon stared at her silently for a moment before Luz broke the quiet with a low whistle.

"Damn, Birdie. You've got Marines writing poetry about you now?" he teased, a wide grin spreading across his face. "You must really make an impression."

Isabella flushed, waving Luz off hastily. "It’s not like that. You heard this Leckie guy just writes poetry to pass the time."

"Sure," Liebgott said with an exaggerated wink. "Nothing says boredom like comparing someone to 'hope.'"

Malarkey elbowed Liebgott playfully, grinning. "Hey, maybe Doc here's got herself a Marine admirer."

"Absolutely not," Isabella insisted, rolling her eyes as she tucked the letter away carefully, trying to ignore her still-warm cheeks. "He doesn't even know me. Plus, Darren said he’s writing to another girl anyway, it’s just a nice birthday gift."

Luz leaned in dramatically. "Oh, but maybe he wants to know you."

"Keep talking, Luz, and the next letter will be your eulogy," she warned, though she was smiling despite herself.

The men laughed good-naturedly, but eventually settled enough for Isabella to gently pick up the small, neatly wrapped harmonica from Darren. Her heart tightened with warm nostalgia at the sight of it, fingertips tracing its familiar shape. She smiled quietly, remembering warm Florida nights, Darren beside her on the porch, patiently listening to her songs drifting gently into the night air.

Darren, for all this nonchalance and cynicism, was incredibly loyal to his friends. To know that he remembered not only her birthday but to get her a gift while he was obviously suffering made her more than happy.

“Alright, next one!”

She carefully picks up the final letter, her mother’s pretty handwriting on the front of the envelope.

“Isabella,

Happy eighteenth birthday. How impossible it feels to write those words—I still vividly remember the tiny baby who clung so fiercely to my finger, the little girl who insisted she could climb any tree, and the brave young woman who confidently marched off to change history. We miss you every moment of every day.

Your father is well, though he worries constantly, as do we all. He spends extra time on the farm helping Mr.Jean next door, telling himself the hard work helps with his nerves, but I catch him pausing often, looking toward the sky, wondering if somewhere you might be doing the same.

Lucas and Cameron write to us often, though Lucas’s letters are few and far between with his new assignment overseas. Cameron’s letters are always long and detailed, filled with stories of his comrades that make us both laugh and worry equally. Sina and Darren both wrote as well—Sina from her exciting life in New York and Darren from the harshness of his deployment. It’s heartwarming to see how deeply you're loved by those around you. They make sure to keep us as updated as they do you.

Enclosed are a few things we thought might make your days brighter. The earrings are a small reminder that home is always close, no matter how far you travel. Please wear them and think of us. The art supplies are from everyone—we hope they bring you comfort and joy in moments of quiet.

Most importantly, never forget how proud we are of you, Isabella. No matter where you go or what you face, we are with you always. Keep your head high, your heart brave, and remember to look after yourself as fiercely as you look after others. You were named after two strong women for a reason, never forget it.

Te queremos mucho, hija querida.

Mama and Papa”

Isabella's eyes shimmered with tears, her throat tight as she finished reading. The barracks had grown quiet, the usual banter replaced with gentle understanding.

"You alright, Birdie?" Gene asked softly.

She nodded slowly, a soft smile forming despite her watery eyes. "Yeah. I just miss them a lot."

“What’d your mom mean by the name thing?” Liebgott spoke up curiously.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Isabella beams. “Well. As you know, my brother was named after my father. Unfortunately, by the time I was born my family had yet to find a name for me. My father wanted to keep the tradition and name me after my mom but my mom hated it. Instead, she and my brother decided to name me after Queen Isabella the First of Castile and the Virgin Mary. Isabella Maria.”

Luz let out a low whistle, nodding appreciatively. "Named after a queen and the Virgin Mary? Damn, Birdie, no wonder you turned out so fierce."

Isabella laughed softly, feeling lighter already. "Mama always joked that they set me up with impossible standards."

Skip spoke up from his bunk, eager to learn more about her. “So what’d they name your brother after?”

She snorts. “Michel after my father and Alejandro which is the Spanish equivalent of Alexander for Alexander the Great.”

Malarkey let out a playful groan. "So, let me get this straight. You’re named after a queen and the Virgin Mary, and your brother’s named after your dad and Alexander the Great?"

"Pretty much," Isabella said, grinning. "My family isn't exactly subtle."

Luz threw his hands up dramatically. "Well, great! How are the rest of us supposed to compete with that?"

"You don't," Isabella shot back with a smirk. "But don't worry, Luz. I'm sure your family named you after someone special too—maybe the town troublemaker?"

Luz clutched his chest in mock offense. "Birdie, you wound me."

The barracks filled with laughter again, the atmosphere relaxed and warm. Isabella carefully tucked her letters away, reminding herself to read Maya’s letter later when she was alone.

That evening at dinner, Isabella is sung happy birthday by Easy Company and presented with a tiny cake made of dry cookies from their field rations and peaches from the kitchen. She’s too happy to tell them that she hates peaches. They don’t need to know that.

"Make a wish, Doc!" Malarkey urged enthusiastically.

Isabella laughed softly, leaning over the makeshift cake. "Trust me, boys, if this wish comes true, we're all getting home in one piece."

She blew out the small candle they’d scrounged up from god-knows-where, and the men erupted in cheers, clapping and whistling loudly enough to turn heads across the mess hall. Isabella smiled warmly, heart feeling impossibly full.

"Alright, Birdie, dig in," Luz encouraged, looking rather proud of their culinary creation.

She took a cautious bite, forcing herself not to grimace at the sweetness of the peaches. "Delicious," she lied, smiling brightly despite herself.

The men cheered again, slapping each other on the back and passing around the leftover cookies. Watching their laughter and camaraderie, Isabella decided she could manage peaches for one night—especially if it meant sharing this moment with them.

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translations: いさ-Isa, Con orgullo-With pride, Te queremos mucho, hija querida-We love you a lot beloved daughter.

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taglist: @malarkgirlypop, @darling-heffron

#hbo war #band of brothers #fics #easy's songbird #band of brothers fanfic #easy's songbird ep 1

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theorganizedfanfictionlibrary · 25 days ago

Text

Name-

The W in Weasley stands for Werewolf

Fandom-

Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Archive warnings-

No Archive Warnings Apply

Rating-

Teen And Up Audiences

Relationships -

Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter , Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley , Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley , Hermione Granger & Neville Longbottom & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley , Sirius Black/Remus Lupin

Characters-

Ron Weasley, Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy , Hermione Granger , Molly Weasley , Arthur Weasley , Neville Longbottom , Percy Weasley , Fred Weasley , George Weasley , Charlie Weasley , Bill Weasley , Ginny Weasley , Luna Lovegood , Sirius Black , Remus Lupin

Tags-

Werewolves , Weasley Family-centric (Harry Potter) , Good Weasley Family (Harry Potter) , Werewolf Ron Weasley, sort of a series rewrite , Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence , Fix-It of Sorts , Humor , Fluff and Angst , Implied/Referenced Child Abuse , Canon-Typical Violence , maybe a tiny bit more gruesome in places , Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter) , Oblivious Harry Potter , Gryffindor & Slytherin Inter-House Friendships , Gryffindor Harry Potter , Gryffindor Ron Weasley , Ron Weasley-centric , BAMF Ron Weasley , The Golden Trio Era (Harry Potter) , Crack Treated Seriously , sort of crack anyways , Manipulative Albus Dumbledore , Fluff , Mentor Severus Snape , he is NOT happy about it though , Good Severus Snape , Eventual Drarry , Bit of a slow burn though , since at first they are eleven , Tags will be added as story progresses to avoid spoilers, multiple POVs , Harry Potter is a cinnamon roll , or the weasleys think so anyways , he's actually a bit feral to be completely honest, Minor Original Character(s) , that show up like once lmao , Werewolf Draco Malfoy , Powerful Luna Lovegood , no character bashing for the most part , except some dumbledore bashing , also there will be romance but it won't be the main focus or anything , Evil Voldemort (Harry Potter) , Minor Character Death , Not Britpicked , Or at least not as britpicked as it probably should be

Author-

gonzoclock

Summary-

When a werewolf comes out of nowhere and attacks nineteen-year old Arthur Weasley, he thinks his life is over before it's even really begun. He's wrong, of course, and now all of forty years later the Weasley family is thriving, happy, and healthy- and every one of them is a werewolf.

Things are going really well for eleven-year old Ron... except for the part where he has to get through school without anyone finding out his family's secret while simultaneously keeping his new brother alive. Easy-peasy. Right?

(Pay no mind to the one-eyed beast that seems to be lurking in the shadows- it's almost certainly nothing to worry about.)

Features the entire Weasley family adopting Harry Potter practically the second they lay eyes on him (or before that, even); Ron Weasley finding himself being altogether far too nice too slimy gits who don't deserve it; Percy Weasley doing his best; Harry deciding that being enemies with this Malfoy kid is too much work actually; Hermione Granger being as smart and ruthless as ever; Severus Snape who did not, and I repeat, did NOT sign up for ANY of this; and much, much more

Link -

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45430777/chapters/114304930

Oh my fucking god i absolutely love this fanfic. Werewolves, found family, drama and so much more! werewolf Ron will always be one of my favourite tags (why is it so underrated aaaaaa) but adding the whole Weasley family too! The author is a god sent for creating it. Unfortunately it's currently on a hiatus but it's at 140,000 words so is still an amazing read regardless of the completion status - Sleepy

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beefromanoff · 1 month ago

Text

Tempting Fate Ch. 12

summary: Evie and Jade finish their girly weekend of fun, Steve and Bucky are being dodgy, Evie doesn't deal well with uncertainty. a tipping point in their relationship.

author's note: guys. GUYS. it's getting so real. this is a big moment. PLS PLS PLS love this as much as I loved writing it. the next one will be amazing. worth the twelve chapter wait. promise. xoxoxox

masterlist

tag list: tag list: @yiiiikesmish @sunflower1290 @barnescamboy @thedisc0spider @bitchy-bi-trash @kulteule @kandis-mom @i-mushi @unknown-writings @jainaeatsstars @mcira @brooklynbear32

The party was over, but the bass pounded on. No, that was just Evie's head.

She woke late on Saturday morning, blinking slowly against the warm slant of morning light that streaked across her comforter. Normally she loved the natural light of the penthouse, but she could have done with a cloudier day today. Her hair was a mess, her eyeliner was smudged, her mouth dry from the tequila haze of the night before—but she was smiling.

A big, stupid, swollen-lipped smile.

The hoodie she wore still smelled like Bucky. Her skin still burned in places she wasn’t going to think about yet. And her heart felt full. Like something had happened the night before that couldn't be undone, even if the three of them had technically stopped before they got to the good part.

The very, very good part.

She stretched, groaning softly as her arms hit the edge of her headboard. Somewhere in the apartment, someone swore.

Jade.

Evie groaned and rolled out of bed, padding into the kitchen in bare feet to find her best friend leaning against the counter in giant sunglasses, hair wild, robe barely tied.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Jade croaked. She lifted her mug dramatically. “I’m trying to make coffee. But the pot is fighting me.”

Evie snorted. “Because that’s a milk frother.”

"And here you said the money wouldn't change you."

Evie grinned and pulled two mugs from the cabinet, walking to the coffee machine teeming with a freshly brewed batch and filled them both with actual coffee, and passed one over. She mentally thanked her drunk self for remembering to set the timer.

Jade took the mug like it held her life force. “Bless you.”

They collapsed on the couch, curled under a blanket, both still in their pseudo pajamas—Evie in the hoodie that absolutely did not belong to her, and Jade in a tank top that Evie had been missing since their junior year.

“So,” Jade said after a beat, lifting her sunglasses just enough to peek at her. “Wanna talk about what the hell happened in that closet?”

Evie tried to keep a straight face. Failed.

“I don’t even know what to say,” she ran a hand over her face. “It was… holy shit.”

Jade grinned. “You looked like a deleted scene from an NC-17 version of The Great Gatsby.”

“Oh my God.” Evie buried her face in her hands. “Was it that bad?”

“Babe, I walked in on you with your legs around Bucky Barnes’ waist and Steve Roger's tongue in your mouth. It wasn’t bad. It was beautiful. I'd swipe my card for the Pay-Per-View version so fast.”

"Stop," Evie groaned, fighting her grin. “I don’t even know what came over me. You seriously saved my ass.”

"Yes. I'm amazing. You're welcome." Jade sipped her coffee, completely unfazed. “And please. I know exactly what came over you. Two brooding, muscle-bound legends with repressed emotions and enough sexual tension to power Manhattan.”

Evie giggled, then sighed. “Do you think it was a mistake?”

“Do you?”

“No,” she said without hesitation. “But I think they might.”

Jade tilted her head. “Mmm. Why do you think that?”

"They're two men from the forties, isn't a threesome a little...progressive?"

"You're ignoring the operative word," Jade sipped her coffee. "Men."

Evie reached for her phone, thumbs hovering.

“What are you doing?”

She typed as she spoke. “Sending a text.”

Jade raised a brow. “What kind of text?”

Evie hit send and grinned. “The good kind.” She flipped the screen around.

Evie: So… we gonna finish what we started in that coat closet or what?

"You're insatiable." Jade giggled. "I love it."

Dropping her phone onto the blanket, Evie waggled her eyebrows at Jade. "So, what's the verdict? How was your first Tony Stark party?"

"Well," Jade sipped her coffee, eyes glinting. “Speaking of closets…”

Evie blinked. “What about them?”

Jade adopted her most innocent expression. “It would’ve been a crime not to finish what you started.”

Evie stared. “No.”

Jade nodded.

“You did not.”

Jade’s grin widened. “You're all about testing hypotheses, Eves. I had to see if your boss was a one hit wonder or if he's always that good with his hands. My hypothesis was correct.”

Evie shrieked and nearly choked on her coffee. “Jade.”

“What? You think you’re the only one who can have a little salacious rendezvous with an Avenger?”

Evie threw a pillow at her. “You absolute menace. I'm gonna have to hear about this. In far too much detail.”

Jade batted it away with a flourish. “You’re welcome for that too, it was some of my best work.”

The buzz of Evie's phone interrupted her before she could fake a gag in Jade's direction.

Steve: Did you make it home okay?

Bucky: You get some water?

Evie stared at her phone.

“…Okay,” she said slowly. “What is this? Suddenly I have two overprotective dads?”

Jade peered over her shoulder, then sipped her coffee. “You probably short-circuited their super-serum-enhanced libidos. Give ‘em a minute.”

Evie laughed, but it was softer now. She set the phone down, curling deeper into the couch.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said aloud, half to Jade, half to herself.

Jade ignored her. "So, city girl, what's on the agenda for the day?"

The rest of Saturday passed in a haze of good food, retail therapy, and unfiltered girl time.

They wandered in and out of every luxury store on the Upper East Side, trying on dresses they had no occasion for and sunglasses too big for any rational human face. But here and there, Evie would swipe her card and they'd leave with a new shopping bag, if only to prove they were serious shoppers and not the giggling college-adjacent girls she was sure they looked like to the employees.

The texts from that morning remained unanswered. She didn't quite know what to say, so she just let it breathe. Jade was probably right, they were likely reeling from the night before. She would be too if she weren't so focused on how to make it happen again.

She was still giggling about Jade’s dramatic attempt to barter with a pretzel vendor when she ducked into a dressing room with a slinky burgundy dress she simply couldn't resist. She had no need, no event, and no arm space left.

But she did have endless closet space, an obscene salary, and a horribly enabling best friend. So as she slid it up her body, she decided who would be the tiebreaker. After wrangling the zipper up, she examined the gown.

She looked ridiculous in the best way. Curves hugged in all the right places, hair a little tousled from the breeze outside, lipstick somehow still intact from the street food they'd been chowing down on all day.

She grinned at her reflection, pulled out her phone, and snapped a quick mirror selfie for her favorite three person group chat.

Evie: Not as conducive to coat closet mischief, but what do we think?

Their response didn't come in the ten minutes it took Jade to get restless, so she made the snap decision to buy it. What good is a penthouse with closets in every bedroom if you can't fill them? The giddiness of time with her best friend and the retail therapy carried Evie for another hour or so, but she caught herself checking her phone to see if she'd missed a message. She tried to stay present, but every so often, when Jade was in a dressing room or distracted by a pair of truly unhinged boots, Evie found herself scrolling back through the messages. Re-reading. Wondering if maybe her tone had been off. If she'd brushed off their less-than-enthusiastic tone from this morning a little too quickly.

By the time they stumbled back into the apartment late in the afternoon with sore feet, arms aching from carrying their bags all day, and faced that hurt from laughing, the weirdness still lingered. It was somewhere in the back of her mind, in her peripheral. Checking her phone one last time before deciding to leave it in her room for the night, she fought the knot in her stomach. Still no response. Tossing it on her bed, she flipped the light off and left it alone with the piles of bags she'd deposited on the floor. Whatever they were doing, issue or not, that was tomorrow's problem.

Evie Langston did not put her life on pause for two brooding men with communication issues.

Even if they were those two brooding men. Even if she couldn't stop flashing back to the way they felt, sounded, tasted...

Shaking her head, she made a beeline for the kitchen and poured herself a bottle of wine.

"J, what do you want to do for dinner?" She called across the living room.

"Ugh, how can you ask that, I'm so stuffed from the street food." Jade emerged from the biggest guest room, flopping onto the couch.

"First of all, we both know that's never stopped you before, and second; I need to know if I need to stay hot or if I can put sweats on?" Evie waltzed over and handed her one of the glasses.

"Hmm," Jade mused as she took a sip. "As appealing as it sounds to let you show me a Manhattan good time, I vote we stay in. Last night was fun, but we didn't really get to hang out. Let's save the night out for the next time I invite myself up here. Sound good?"

"Sounds more than good," Evie grinned. "Pick a movie, we can get Chinese."

"Oh my gosh, I would kill for an order of crab rangoon right now."

Rolling her eyes, Evie was so thankful that her best friend never changed.

Hours later, the results of their indecision were strewn across Evie's coffee table. They'd made the kind of order that was wildly unnecessary—five entrees, two kinds of dumplings, both fried and steamed rice, two orders of crab rangoon and one of spring rolls for good measure. Jade insisted on using chopsticks, even though she was clearly struggling and eventually gave up halfway through, stabbing a piece of chicken with one like it was a skewer.

Now, they sat curled on the couch, empty containers splayed out on the coffee table, movie dialogue humming in the background.

“Do you remember when our biggest concern was whether or not our fake IDs would scan at that dive bar near campus?” Jade asked, swirling the last bit of her wine. They'd finished off the first bottle and were taking a second attempt at the expensive bottle from the night prior, now that they were feeling adequately warm and fuzzy inside.

Evie groaned. “God. I forgot about that place. What was it called? The Rusty Tap?”

“The Rusty Tap,” Jade confirmed. “Home of sticky floors and questionable life choices.”

"I think we provided the questionable life choices," Evie laughed. “You’re the one who convinced me to sneak out the night before midterms. Said we needed ‘vibes over academic validation.’”

“Like you've ever needed to study,” Jade said, tipping her drink in a mock-toast. “You're Genevieve Langston. Child prodigy. MIT grad. Stark Industries genius. Soon to be Vogue-featured super scientist. You should be thanking me for making sure you had fun in college.”

"I do owe you one for that," Evie raised her glass to clink Jade's. "For knowing when to get me into a mess, and when to get me out of one. Cheers to you."

"Cheers to me for being the best, for sure," Jade toasted. "But also cheers to you, for real, for living your dream. I've always known you were destined for greatness, but it's a relief knowing at least one of us is going places."

Evie scoffed, nudging her knee as she shrugged off the compliment. “Please. You’re out here hoodwinking the entire Ivy League. That takes talent.”

Jade smiled but didn’t immediately respond. Her gaze lingered on the flickering screen, expression softer than usual.

“I’m really proud of you,” she said eventually. “I don’t say that enough, but I really am. You’ve built this whole life—and you didn’t take shortcuts to get here. You didn’t let anyone else dictate who you had to be.”

Evie blinked. The moment landed heavier than expected.

“I’m proud of you too, you know,” she said quietly. “Even if you’re still technically enrolled at Harvard under a fake name.”

Jade snorted. “God, don’t remind me.”

“Do you ever think about… what comes next?” Evie asked.

Jade exhaled slowly. “Sometimes. It’s like—I’ve spent so long running from the version of life my parents tried to script for me. Hedge funds, law school, marrying some portfolio manager named Chadwick, or something. Sitting on the board of a nonprofit that's basically just a tax shelter for my husband, keeping up appearances while he sleeps with his receptionist and I try not to get too boozy at our kids' private school talent shows.”

Evie winced. “Yikes.”

“Right? But now that I’ve gone so deep into running from what I know I don't want, I don’t actually know where I’m headed.”

"Where do you want to go?" Evie spoke gently. "What makes you happy?"

Jade hesitated for a moment, twirling her wine glass. "You want to know something weird? I’ve always had this itch to start my own nonprofit. Like, actually build something that does real good—not just some glossy, tax-deductible PR stunt. But every time I think about it, I feel like I’m just this… privileged kid playing dress-up."

"Jade," Evie tilted her head. "You’d be amazing at that. You’ve seen the ugly underbelly of that world. You’d actually know what to avoid."

"That part is true," Jade said, perking up. "I grew up around all these foundations that were supposed to be about change, but they were really just about image. My parents made donations so they could throw fancy galas and see their names printed on marble walls. Half the time, the money didn’t even get where it was supposed to go."

"So change it," Evie said. "You’ve got the brains, the insight, and the motivation. And let’s be real, you work at a bar even though you could literally buy it in cash, so it’s not like you’re in it for the clout."

Jade let out a surprised laugh. "Okay, hey, I like the Bos. It's a cultural institution."

"Have you ever talked to Tony about this? Surely he'd have some pointers on the right people to talk to." Evie leaned back on the couch.

Jade took a sip of her drink, narrowing her eyes suggestively. "There hasn’t really been that much talking between us."

Evie snorted, nearly choking on her wine. "Of course not."

Jade reached for the bottle and filled her glass, topping Evie's off before setting it back down.

"But seriously," Evie pushed gently. "Maybe it’s time you stopped pretending you aren't brilliant, too. If you pull this off half as well as you've pulled off pretending to go to Harvard when your dad is one of the most esteemed alumni and donors, you'll change the world."

"Damn." Jade cocked her head. "You're not half bad at speeches, you know that?"

"It's all the heroes I hang around, I guess." Evie bumped her knee and winked. "I mean it. You'd be amazing. Plus, with all this money, I'm gonna need a good write-off one of these days."

“God, I love you,” Jade said, resting her chin on her curled up knees.

“Back at you, J.”

They sat in comfortable food coma silence for a while, the movie still murmuring in the background. The remains of their feast lay scattered in cardboard boxes and plastic cups, the last rays of the sun sinking below the horizon and casting a golden glow through the massive windows.

Looking at Evie, Jade nudged her gently with her elbow. “So… you gonna tell me how it feels? Finally getting everything you’ve ever wanted?”

Evie raised a brow, then smiled slowly. “If anyone tries to pinch me, I’ll make them my next test subject.”

Jade laughed, but her eyes stayed on Evie. “Seriously.”

Her smile faded into something softer. “It’s weird. I spent my whole life thinking I didn’t want the things most people dream about. I never really pictured myself settling down, not in the traditional sense. Never wanted the white picket fence or a house full of kids. I wanted a lab. I wanted to create things that haven't been possible until me. I wanted to create something revolutionary. I never pictured my wedding day, my dress. Not once. I didn't realize it was strange until I got to high school and realized I was the odd one out.”

Jade nodded. “You always said love was a distraction.”

“Because it always felt like one. I didn’t know if I could love someone who didn’t get it. Who wouldn’t want to live inside the chaos with me. Every time I tried to date someone, they'd like the whole 'tech girl' thing for a while, but the lab hours and the one track mind tend to get old pretty quick. Nothing ever stuck. Nothing ever made me wish it had.”

Jade tilted her head. “And now you’ve got two chaos-certified Avengers sniffing around your workbench.”

Evie huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

“So what does the future look like with them?” Jade nudged her again.

Evie’s answer came slower this time. “I don’t know.”

“But you want to see?”

Evie looked over at her. “I think I do.”

Jade smiled. “Then let's hope this one sticks.” She leaned her head back against the cushions, letting the quiet settle again.

Then, because she couldn’t help herself: “So, how do you think your parents are going to react when you show up for Thanksgiving with two World War II veterans in tow?”

Evie barked a laugh, running her hand down her face. “Oh my God.”

“I’m just saying,” Jade added, smirking, “Your mom’s going to have some questions. Like: Which one is your boyfriend? Do they eat carbs? Are they housebroken?”

Evie rolled her eyes. “First of all, my mom will probably knit them matching scarves and immediately offer them homemade pie. And second, my dad will just be relieved I brought home anyone who'll indulge him enough to watch the Yankees game.”

Jade tilted her head. “You think they'd be that chill?”

“They’re amazing,” Evie said honestly. “Like… disgustingly supportive. My childhood was basically an after school special come to life. Family dinners, mom braiding my hair, parents who are embarrassingly in love. They never pressured me to be anything but myself. Even when ‘myself’ meant blowing up the toaster in a fifth-grade science fair.”

“I always knew I liked them,” Jade smiled. "No wonder you're so well-adjusted. But how are you funny? I thought you needed childhood trauma for that?"

"Just another mystery of my brilliance, I suppose." Evie smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I don’t know if bringing home them would go over quite as well as I'd like to think.”

“Because they’re older?”

“Because there's two of them.”

Jade considered. “Fair. But if your parents know you like you say they do, they should have known it would take more than one man to really pique your interest.”

Evie groaned. "Let's just not think about that right now. Also, I'm done pretending this wine isn't ass. I'm getting the good stuff."

They settled in with a cheaper bottle and an endless amount of conversation topics, determined to make the most of the hours remaining.

Jade’s car pulled up to the curb late the next morning.

She’d managed to fit all her things back into the same small overnight bag she came with, even though Evie swore it defied the laws of physics with everything they'd bought. They took the elevator down together, new oversized sunglasses on their faces to protect their mildly hungover eyes from the morning sun.

The valet pulled up with a flourish. Jade sighed dramatically.

“Okay, call me as soon as the Vogue interview drops or the second you get Eiffel Towered. Whichever comes first.”

Evie choked on her laugh. “You are the worst.”

Jade blew her a kiss and slid into the back seat. “You love it. Bye, baby genius.”

“Bye, Harvard dropout.”

The door closed, and the car pulled away, leaving Evie standing on the curb with a grin.

The apartment felt too quiet after Jade left. Evie changed into leggings and a sweatshirt, one of her own this time, hating how much it bothered her that they'd never replied to her dress photo. After half an hour of piddling around the penthouse and pacing the kitchen, she gave in and sent a text:

Evie: Game day. Come watch the Yanks with me? I promise snacks.

They replied a few minutes later:

Steve: Can’t tonight. Got a debrief at the compound.

Bucky: Sorry. Training will go late.

Evie stared at the screen. The excuses were polite, but they weren’t convincing. She tossed her phone on the couch and buried herself in her work, grabbing her tablet and pulling up project files. For a while, it worked.

Until it didn’t.

At 7:43 PM, she caved and dialed Sam.

He answered on the second ring. “Hey, Evie. What's up?”

Evie pulled her knees onto the couch, tablet still in her lap. “Nothing. Just checking in. How’s the compound?”

Sam paused. “Uh… the what now?”

Evie narrowed her eyes. “The compound. You’re at the compound, right?”

“We’re not at the compound, where'd you hear that?”

"Funny, Steve told me that’s where you were. He said you had a debrief. And Bucky said he had training. At the compound. Which is why they couldn't see me tonight. I'm assuming that's also why they've been acting strange all weekend. Would you happen to know anything about this?"

There was a pause. A long one.

“Oh, come on, Sam,” she pressed. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not—look, I’m not trying to get in the middle of this,” he hedged. “They’re grown men. They can talk to you themselves.”

“Well clearly they can't, so talk to me. What's going on? Is everything okay? Listen, if Friday was weird for them, they don't have to avoid me, it really isn't a big deal—”

"Evie," Sam exhaled. “Screw this. I’m not digging my own grave to protect two idiots who can’t use their words.”

Evie went silent, waiting.

“They found out,” he said slowly. “About Ginny. Your grandma. They realized who she was, and now they’re spiraling.”

“Wait, my grandma? Why the hell does that matter?”

“I guess it was...complicated when they were all friends. They’re stuck in their heads. Overthinking whatever the hell it was, your age, all of it. It’s like it short-circuited their brains. They feel ancient, and guilty, and scared, and instead of being normal about it, they’re hiding. Honestly? You should just give them some space. Let them sort it out. They'll come around.”

Evie stood up, walking to grab her shoes from where she'd kicked them off this morning. “Great. I’ll give them fifteen minutes of space. While I drive over.”

She didn't hear Sam's last protest before she hung up.

It was raining lightly when the valet brought her car up. Of course it was. Her windshield wipers were the only sound as she drove in silence the few blocks over to the Tower. She gripped the steering wheel and made herself focus on the road.

She wasn’t nervous. Not really. She was annoyed. Confused. Lacking patience for any kind of miscommunication or misunderstanding. So she double parked in the front circle drive, strode quickly through the front doors and rode the elevator in silence, the floor numbers blinking slowly. Her heart pounded—not from fear, but from the sheer anticipation of fixing this. Evie had never dealt well with things she didn't understand. The urge to figure it out and fix was always her driving force, and it only grew stronger the more she cared about something. So now, she was practically buzzing as the elevator slowed to a stop on their floor.

When the doors opened, she heard voices. Low. Tense.

“I told you we should’ve just talked to her,” Steve’s voice snapped.

“And said what, exactly?” Bucky snapped back. “Hey, sorry, we can't talk until we figure out what the hell we're doing here?”

“She deserved better.”

“She deserved honesty.”

Sam's voice chimed in. “She deserves a lot more than either of you jackasses panicking like idiots.”

Evie stepped into the room, arms folded. “Well, for starters, I think she deserves an explanation."

Sam looked up from his coffee, looking like the only one not about to crawl out of his skin. "Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention—Evie’s on her way over here."

Steve sighed heavily, dragging a hand through his hair as he began pacing.

Bucky narrowed his eyes at Sam and muttered under his breath, "I hate you."

Steve opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Bucky like maybe he'd magically found the words Steve couldn't. Bucky looked like he wanted to teleport through the floor.

"Ev—" Steve started, then faltered.

Evie folded her arms. "No. You don't get to start with 'Ev.' You start with why the hell you've been avoiding me like I’m radioactive."

"It’s...complicated," Steve said quietly.

"Try me."

Bucky said nothing. His jaw flexed, but he wouldn’t look at her.

"Ev—" Steve began again before stopping himself, searching for different words.

Bucky cleared his throat. "Look, we didn’t—" He broke off, jaw tightening, eyes still not meeting hers.

Steve tried again. "It’s not that we don’t care. It's the opposite, it's...we just..." He trailed off, helpless. "We didn’t handle it well."

"You did not." She cocked her head. "But I'm still in the dark as to what it is that you're handling."

Steve glanced at Bucky, then back to Evie. "You're… young. And this thing with you—it’s not just about attraction, it's um...we’re trying to be careful," He finished lamely.

"Careful." She repeated, looking back and forth from him to Bucky. Neither of them met her gaze, instead focusing intently on the floor.

Evie narrowed her eyes, arms still folded across her chest. She turned to look at Sam, expression skeptical. "Translate."

He looked at the two mildly panic-stricken men and then back at Evie.

"They almost got caught in a love triangle with your Grammy back in the day," Sam said, very matter-of-fact. "And they’re scared they’ll end up wanting to kill each other, again, if they try it with you. Also? They’re spiraling because you’re eighty years younger than them, and they feel like geriatric perverts for what they were about to do to you in that coat closet."

Steve winced. Bucky closed his eyes and groaned.

Sam didn’t stop. "They can’t wrap their big, dumb, super-soldier brains around the idea that this might actually be real, and instead of dealing with it like adults, they’ve decided to hide." He paused, glancing at them. "Sound about right?"

Steve and Bucky looked at each other. Then nodded. Sheepishly. Synchronously.

Evie stared at them, pretending not to enjoy the way they shrank under her gaze. She took a slow step forward, uncrossed her arms, and exhaled.

"Okay," she said. "My turn."

She took another step forward, gaze flicking from one of them to the other. “First of all? You need to forget about her. Grandma. Ginny. Whatever.”

Steve blinked, frozen. Bucky stiffened slightly.

“She adored you both. She told me stories, showed me pictures, talked about how brave you were—how kind. But she was madly in love with my grandpa. They had a beautiful life. So whatever happened—or didn’t happen—between you three? It stayed in the past. It never went anywhere. She ended up where she was supposed to. You two found your way back to each other. It all worked out in the end. Set yourselves free of whatever is holding you back because of it.”

Neither of them spoke, so she continued.

“Second, I’m not her.”

Both heads lifted to meet her gaze.

“I might look like her. I might have her genes. But I’m not her.” Her voice didn’t waver. “We couldn’t be more different.”

She let that sit for a beat.

“So if you want to stay stuck—hung up on the idea of someone you knew a century ago, and all of the 'almosts' that came with her, that’s your choice. But if you want to get to know me—if you want to find out who I actually am before deciding I’m too much or too complicated or too young—this is your chance. I won't tell you what to do, but I'm pretty fucking great. Whether you want to learn that for yourself or not, figure it out. And do it fast. I might not be the Man out of Time, but I'm sure as hell not in the business of wasting my own.”

Evie crossed her arms again. “And just because something didn’t work then doesn’t mean it can’t work now. You know how I know that?”

She took another step.

“Because the two of you are walking, talking, excuse-making proof that impossible things happen every day." She gestured at Steve. "You should be dead." She turned to Bucky. "You should be dead about ten times over." They both stiffened as she continued. "You both should be ghosts. Instead, you’re here relearning everything, building new lives, risking everything for the world and the people you care about.”

She paused to let it settle.

“So don’t stand there and tell me this—” she gestured between the three of them “—is where you draw the line at impossible.”

Steve looked down. Bucky still wouldn’t meet her eyes. Her voice became quieter, but no less firm.

“I’m not a child. I’m not some wide-eyed kid chasing a fantasy. I’m an educated, consenting adult who knows what she wants.”

She took one more step, right into their space now.

“I’m not drunk. I’m not in danger. I’m not under duress. I'm mentally sound. I'm a grown woman. I have health insurance, I pay my taxes, and I make six figures working in one of the most high-pressure industries for the most prestigious company in the country, maybe the world. I’ve survived Tony Stark’s HR department and egos of the MIT male population. I have a great relationship with my father. I’m not confused. Not even a little bit."

She looked at them fully now.

“I want this. Whatever this turns into. I want to see where it goes."

Both men looked like they were about to snap as she continued.

"Right now, I'm hoping it goes somewhere horizontal. Quickly."

Sam, still hovering somewhere behind her, took a long sip of his coffee. “Well. Damn. I feel like I should—”

Steve and Bucky, voices overlapping instinctively: “Get the hell out.”

And he did.

#avengers #bucky barnes x oc #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes #bucky fluff #bucky fanfic #steve rogers #stucky x oc #bucky barnes smut #stucky fanfiction

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geniusboyy · 24 days ago

Text

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 51

Twin Bed

The heat had settled in early that June—thick and without apology. A heat that seemed to seep from the earth itself, pressing close and damp against the skin, working its way beneath collars and cuffs and the fine joints of the spine. Today, the air inside the cabin had taken on a permanent sheen, swollen with salt and labor, the walls fingerprinted with sweat.

Ford and Fidds had their T-shirt sleeves rolled and cuffed over their shoulders—Ford had started gathering his curls back with the rubber bands filched from the lab drawers. Fiddleford didn’t bother—his hair hung in limp ropes that stuck to the back of his neck. The rhythm had calcified into something mechanical—lift, ascend, descend, drop, repeat. They were hauling crates up out of the lab and down to the newly reinforced bunker. One at a time, or two, if Ford felt like being stubborn.

The project was finished. Officially. Forty-seven days of poured concrete and wiring, of sealant fumes and battery backups, of vent testing and emergency lock cycles. A generator hum now threaded faintly beneath the floorboards like a low, persistent thought—quieter than the cicadas, but deeper, more permanent. It never stopped. Neither did Fidds.

That was new. Or maybe not. Ford couldn’t quite say when it had started, only that he saw it now—clearly, in hindsight, where clarity always lived. A slow shift at first, quiet. Like sediment moving along the riverbed. Barely perceptible until the shape of things had already changed. Fiddleford had grown restless. Withdrawn. Less quick to make eye contact. He’d begun spending longer stretches underground before the structure was complete, citing airflow concerns, structural integrity, systems diagnostics—but Ford could tell. The excuses were sound. But the tone was different.

Lately, Ford would come down to check on the progress, finding Fidds crouched beside an open panel, one arm elbow-deep in a tangle of wires. Or else he’d be hunched over the schematics with a red pencil in hand, marking adjustments in the margins no one else would ever read.

They were nearly through the fifth load of the afternoon. The air between the lab and the stairwell had thickened into something visible—veils of kicked-up dust catching the sun through the back window, suspended like spores. The low whine of exertion had become part of the background noise, indistinguishable from the creak of old boards or the cyclical grunt of bodies folding and unfolding with each lift. And still, somehow, the place looked no emptier.

The lab was a hoarder’s den of erratic priorities—half the filing cabinets still full, the drawers sticking from the weight of handwritten notebooks and incomplete reports, everything annotated with Ford’s looping script. Tupperware tubs brimmed with unclassifiable compounds or expired cryptid samples sealed in resin. Then there were the vials—too many to count—wrapped lovingly in bubble wrap, rubber-banded into little clutches that Ford refused to part with on the grounds that they might “prove useful later.”

The bunker, by contrast, was clean and new. The walls still smelled faintly of sealant and heat-cured paint. Down here, they worked in a different rhythm—repositioning, assigning, settling. Everything had to be given a new place, a new logic. It felt like domesticity in miniature: the great migration of their strange little world into something organized and survivable.

Fiddleford had even decided to move Stache.

He didn’t ask. Just grumbled something about Ford’s “incessant whining” over the squeaky wheel distracting him during late night experiment sessions—though Fidds was personally convinced Ford couldn’t possibly hear anything over the sound of his own mutterings and half-audible debates with nobody. Still, the solution seemed reasonable enough: a bigger cage, deeper bedding, tucked into a quiet corner of the bunker.

Ford, for his part, was dragging an ambitious stack of three labeled crates—filled with books—onto the nearest available bench. The crates landed with a hollow, echoing thud. He paused to wipe his forehead with the back of his wrist, catching his breath—

—and then a sharp, immediate sound snapped the air.

A hiss—tight, involuntary, all teeth.

Ford’s head whipped around like a compass needle finding north just as Fidds was yanking his hand away from the cage. “What happened?”

Fiddleford stood frozen, one hand clamped around the other, his face pinched in a wince. “Son of a—he bit me.”

He peeled his fingers away to inspect the damage. Blood welled along the ridge of his thumb, bright as pomegranate juice, a single bead sliding into the shallow curve of his lifeline. “Little bastard’s been weird lately.”

Ford straightened from his half-crouch, arms full of hardcovers and binders, and watched him for a moment. “Weird how?”

“Well, to start with, he’s never bitten me before.” Fidds glanced toward the cage, which sat half-shrouded in shadow beneath one of the steel counters. Stache was visible inside, perched in a corner on his haunches, strangely still. His whiskers didn’t twitch. His eyes gleamed. “Maybe he misses the old cage,” Fidds muttered, voice unreadable.

Ford turned away, sliding the books—methodically, alphabetically, categorically—into one of the built-in shelves he’d already pre-sorted by Dewey decimal classification. “He’ll adjust.”

That was the end of it, apparently.

Fidds wiped his hand off on his pant leg, though it didn’t do much to stem the blood. He gave the cage another glance, then turned on his heel and headed back up the stairs for another round of boxes.

Outside, the afternoon light slanted sideways through the trees, a golden spill filtered through swaying pine—casting long stripes across the dusty earth. The insects were louder now. Every day brought a new crescendo of wings and legs and heat. A living chorus that thickened the air.

But inside, down under the cabin, the world was narrowed to the clink of metal trays, the shuffling scrape of boxes being dragged into line, and the quiet, rasping pull of his own breath.

Fiddleford paused mid-haul, shifting his grip on the containment bin. It was full of raw ore—dense, jagged and dangerous.

He should have been wearing more. A jumpsuit, at least. Gloves, definitely. The handling protocols were posted right there above the bench in Ford’s precise, uncompromising hand. But it was now his sixth load of the day and the heat had turned his clothes into a second skin. His tank top clung to him in patches, and his shorts were soaked along the waistband. The thought of cramming himself into rubber or Tyvek made his skin crawl. He just needed the bin out of the way. A couple feet to the left. Quick and easy.

But it was heavier than he remembered. Bulkier, too. The metal edge bit into his ribs as he heaved it up, trying to clear space on the bench. He leaned it against the table to get a better angle, swiped a slick hand across the back of his neck. His skin was hot to the touch, overheated and buzzing slightly. He squared his stance, tipped the bin.

—it happened fast.

The latch slipped.

A clean, metallic snap,

The lid popped free and caught the heel of his thumb on its way off—just a slight blow, but enough to make him flinch. The container pitched forward with a clatter, the weight of it spilling downward as three chunks of ore—raw, irregular, their surfaces veined with mica and that eerie green filament—tumbled out like loose teeth.

They struck the ground hard. One skidded under the shelving. Another bounced once, twice, and landed at his feet. The third rolled sideways into shadow.

Fidds stumbled back without thinking, adrenaline snapping through his chest like a tripwire.

Nothing—

Nothing?

Slowly, his gaze dropped to his hand. One of the pieces—he was sure of it—had struck his palm as it fell. Right at the base of his fingers. He flexed it. Once. Twice.

…Nothing.

No burning. No stinging. No pins and needles racing up his arm. He turned the hand over, inspecting the joints, the folds of skin between the knuckles. The skin was a little red where the lid had caught him, but… everything felt fine.

His breath was shallow, tight in his chest. He crouched without meaning to, lowered himself automatically, like his body didn’t trust standing. He reached out with his left hand—hesitant, careful. The closest shard was less than a foot away.

First, he barely touched it, almost swiped at it. Then he tapped his fingers on the surface, recoiling them quickly.

And again, nothing happened.

More boldly still, he grabbed it. Let it rest in his palm. He counted to ten. And the waited another ten seconds.

Then, almost casually, he tossed it back into the open bin.

The sound it made was sharp. Final.

It didn’t make sense.

Ford had touched this stuff once—just once—and he’d crumpled like someone had yanked the plug from the back of his neck. Fiddleford could still see it, clear as a film reel: Ford on the cave floor, face bleached of color, breath caught in his throat, pupils wide and empty as if the soul had been vacuumed out—for several agonizing minutes, Fidds had thought he was dead.

So why not him?

He looked down at the shard in his hand, then back to the box where the rest had spilled. His skin was dry now, suddenly very cold. A chill crept down his spine, tightening the air around his shoulders.

The door groaned open behind him, followed by the quick, uneven rhythm of boots on wooden stairs—descending with that stubborn, unrelenting force he applied to most things. Ford appeared a second later, flushed and breathing hard, sweat streaking through the curls at his temple. His eyes snapped to the containment bin before they registered anything else—and the moment he caught sight of the scattered ore, something behind his face changed.

“Hey—careful!” he barked, voice tight with alarm. His hand shot out as if he could stop time with it. “That’s unprocessed—”

“I know,” Fiddleford interrupted quickly. The lie came out fully formed, polished like a coin. “The lid slipped. I didn’t touch it.”

Ford’s gaze narrowed, his eyes flicking between the shards on the floor and Fiddleford’s face. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t press. Just stretched his back with a long exhale, vertebrae clicking audibly, the sound sharp in the tight room. “Obviously you didn’t touch it,” he muttered, sarcasm paper-thin. “You’re still standing.”

He crossed the room and snapped on a pair of industrial gloves—thick, chemical-safe, reinforced at the palms. Fidds just watched as Ford crouched, carefully handling the stones as if they were live mines, setting them back in the bin and snapping the lid on tight.

Only then did he glance back over his shoulder. “What’s with the bed down there now?”

Fidds, mind wondering, blinked. “What?”

“In the bunker,” Ford clarified, waving vaguely over his shoulder as he stood. “That cot you dragged in. Kinda cozy, don’t you think?”

Fiddleford turned, grabbed his clipboard from the edge of the bench, and flipped a page he’d already worn soft at the corners. “It’s just practical.”

Ford tilted his head, one brow lifting with theatrical skepticism. “Practical, huh?” He pulled the gloves off and tossed them aside before leaning on the edge of a nearby bench. “Because from where I’m standing, it kind of looks like you’re planning on moving in.”

“It’ll only be used in emergency situations.”

Ford wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist and glanced down at himself, exhaling a tired laugh. “If we end up needing to shelter in place down there, you really think we’re both fitting on that little twin bed?”

There was the faintest pause—

Fidds tucked a damp strand of hair behind his ear, eyes still fixed on the clipboard. His thumb smudged graphite as he flipped another page without reading it. “I must’ve overlooked that detail,” he murmured.

A low hum answered him—not from the generator this time, but from somewhere deeper.

“Looks like your touch-starved assistant is fishing for excuses,” Bill purred, threading himself like smoke through the ridges of Ford’s mind, voice velveted and smug. “Can’t blame him, though—just look at you.”

His tone coiled, sharpened. “Wear those little shorts tonight—I wanna take ‘em off with my teeth.”

Ford exhaled through his nose, jaw flexing. A bead of sweat rolled from temple to collarbone, gliding along the hollow of his throat. He forced his gaze downward, toward the crate of drives.

“Cut the chitchat, muscles—” Bill whispered. “I wanna watch you sweat some more.”

Ford exhaled and gave a dry snort, “Don’t go spacey on me now, cowboy,” he said, patting Fiddleford’s shoulder as he passed by him. Then he ducked around him, lifted another stack of boxes, and started back toward the stairwell.

The sound of his footsteps faded upward, swallowed by the drone of the lab.

Once Ford had gone, the silence shifted—no longer merely quiet, but thickened somehow, pressurized. Like the stillness after a storm, when all the birds have gone quiet and the air remembers where the thunder used to be. It rang in his ears in a way that felt both familiar and new. Fiddleford stood motionless, clipboard slack in his hand, eyes unfocused.

Fiddleford didn’t move. Not at first.

Then, slowly, he brought his hand up and flexed it again—just once. He still felt nothing.

And that didn’t feel right at all.

He gave his head the smallest shake. Turned back toward the workbench, intending to reach for the coil of copper wire he’d set aside—and promptly fumbled it.

It slipped from his grip and hit the floor with a metallic clatter. The spool rolled—almost enthusiastically—off the tiles and away from his reach, bouncing once before vanishing beneath one of the side consoles and skittering into shadow. It disappeared toward the back of the lab, behind the towering racks of equipment where the light never reached and the dust hung thick enough to taste.

“Oh, brilliant,” he muttered, rising stiffly. “Confound it.”

He stepped around the nearest terminal, ducking under a low shelf and easing past a trolley stacked with glassware. The air back here was different—still and stale. He squinted in the dimness. The spool had come to rest near the base of an old shelving unit, tucked beside a sagging stack of cardboard boxes. As he reached for it, he noticed.

The boxes weren’t fresh. Their edges were softened, warped with time. Cobwebs stitched the corners like sutures. Dust lay so thick it curled in uneven ridges, recording the shape of every past tremor. Fiddleford dragged a finger through the topmost layer, exposing the cardboard beneath.

These hadn’t been stacked recently. More than that—they hadn’t just slumped. They’d been nudged. Disturbed. Pushed out from within.

He followed the trail, breath slowing.

There—just beside the shelves, half-disguised by the slump of storage and the clutter of forgotten tools—was a doorframe.

Not new. Not concealed, exactly. Just… tucked away. Easy to ignore. Easier still to forget.

A thin metal ruler was wedged between the jamb and the frame, a makeshift deadbolt. Not accidental. Deliberate. As though meant to keep something closed.

Or keep someone out.

His skin prickled. The hair along his forearms stood to attention with that unreasoned kind of instinct—something old and deep in the marrow that said: Don’t.

And yet his hand moved.

His fingers closed around the edge of the ruler. It stuck for a moment—then gave with a metallic rasp, sliding free like a blade being drawn.

He stood very still. Listening.

Then his hand found the doorknob.

Cold. Heavy. He turned it.

The door creaked open on stiff hinges, revealing a narrow room—barely six feet square. He reached inside and flipped the wall switch. A single bulb clicked to life overhead—dim, yellowed, swaying faintly in its socket—for a moment, Fidds forgot to breathe.

Every wall was consumed with matching symbols. A single triangular figure, repeated over and over again in exacting variation—Ink bled down the drywall like open veins, seeping into the plaster. Each line etched with deliberate pressure. But the floor—

The floor was worse.

There, burned directly into an old woven rug, was a sprawl of interlocking shapes converging on a complex geometric star. The angles radiated outward like thorns—too sharp to step through, too precise to be casual. The rug had been marked not with ink, but fire—each line scorched, melted through the weave.

He didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t know what language it belonged to, or what purpose it served. But he knew—unequivocally, with the precision of the line work, the obsessive repetition, the dark insistence of purpose—who had made it.

And that it wasn’t meant to be seen.

�� His hand went to the switch. He flipped it off. Darkness spilled instantly, devouring the symbols and returning the room to silence.

He pulled the door shut and, with the same deliberate motion, slid the ruler back into the jamb.

He stood there a moment longer. Listening. Not for sounds—but for the absence of them.

Then he bent down, retrieved the coil of wire, and without another thought squeezed past the equipment and headed up the stairs.

Fiddleford stood in the kitchen, the spool of wire still curled in his hand. He set it down slowly on the counter and leaned his palms against the cool laminate edge, his shoulders tight with something he couldn’t name.

The silence felt unnatural.

He let his gaze drift toward the window above the sink, fingers flexing faintly on the counter. Outside, beyond the thin pane of glass, the clearing shimmered with heat. The air looked liquid. Pine branches shifted lazily in the breeze, but Ford moved through them with purpose.

He was alone. Talking to himself again.

Fiddleford watched.

Ford was pacing in a loose figure-eight, half-gesturing as he moved—one hand drawing shapes in the air, the other curled at his side. His head tilted now and then, like he was listening, like he was being answered. And every so often he gave a soft laugh—warm, private, deeply amused. The kind of laugh meant for someone else’s benefit.

He wasn’t monologuing. He wasn’t muttering for clarity or arguing through equations—he was having a conversation.

Fiddleford had seen this before. Hundreds of times. Ford talking to the empty room. Ford scribbling heated margins into his own notes and circling them days later like someone else had written them. Ford staring into space with a grin like he’d heard the best joke in the world.

He’d always explained it away—chalked it up to genius, to intensity or lonliness, to Ford being Ford. A mind too fast, too saturated with ideas to stay still. Some strange neurological combustion that required external release to stay balanced.

But now… now it landed differently.

There was something about the angle of his smile. The warmth in it. The way his body leaned slightly left, like there was a presence at his shoulder.

Fidds felt it low in his stomach. A lurch. Not quite nausea. Not quite fear. Just… something off. Something sickly and creeping and unnamed. Like the sensation of missing a step in the dark and not yet hitting the ground.

He turned away.

His room was dark, blinds drawn, the air stagnant. He didn’t bother with the light. Just dropped to one knee beside the bed and reached beneath it.

A military-grade lockbox—nondescript, scratched, dented along the seam where it had been pried open years ago and never quite resealed. He slid it out, popped the latches with two quick snaps.

Inside—his cache of Playboys. He pushed them aside without ceremony. Beneath them, nestled between foam padding and a folded flannel handkerchief, was the memory gun.

It gleamed dully in the low light. The dial still set from last time. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t deliberate. His fingers knew the contours, the safety, the switch. He adjusted the dial lower—just a notch.

Just enough to smooth the edge. He raised it to his temple. The barrel met his skin, cool and unblinking. He drew in a single breath.

Click.

The effect was immediate.

His body stiffened—not violently, just a soft arc, like a current passing through. A quiet sound escaped his chest—caught between a breath and a release. The tension behind his eyes unspooled. His scalp prickled, then eased. His heart slowed from a shallow flutter to a calm, even beat. Not numb, but loose. Cleared. Like a glass wiped clean of fingerprints.

He let the gun rest a moment longer against his skin, then pulled it away.

The world had quieted.

That feeling in his stomach—gone. The memory still there, technically. But dulled. The context had eroded just enough to let him breathe again.

He slid the gun back into the case, re-covered it with the magazines, and shut the lid with a firm snap. Then he pushed it back under the bed—deeper this time.

He stood, ran a hand through his hair to smooth it, and left the room without looking back.

The hall stretched ahead, bright with filtered sunlight, filled with the scent of sawdust and sweat. Fiddleford rolled his shoulders once, loosened his jaw, and went back to work.

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slowandsteddie · 1 year ago

Text

Lazy Petals

AO3

Okay. This work is NOT completed. I cannot guarantee an update schedule because only the first chapter is completed. However, I DO have everything plotted out (assuming it doesn’t get a mind of its own) and the goal is to be 50k+ words.

This story is very personal to me. I’ve taken my grandparents love/live story and made it Steddie. The characters are going to be OOC. Just letting you know right off the bat in case that is something you aren’t interested in. Also, this is a No Upsidedown AU.

My grandparents were immediately obsessed with each other, but didn’t date until after they had graduated high school. Which means that while this isn’t a slow burn, it is going to be slower than the stuff I usually write.

I don’t want to give too, too much stuff away. There there is a post where I described the main highlights and asked your opinion on reading it. There is also a poll where I asked if I should start posting before it was finished, and I got a pretty definite yes.

I saved the divider that I plan on using for this series back when I first started talking about it. I have since lost my note that told me whom to give credit to. If you know who made it (or know how to find that information on mobile!!) please let me know.

I think that’s enough of a preamble. Without further ado, here be the CW’s and the first 3,489 words.

Content Warnings: Steve was hit by a car and in a full body cast for over a year - he makes a bowling joke about it, his parents are very distant, his grandparents got very distant after his injury and he doesn’t understand why, Wayne is very careful while babysitting to make sure that no one can accuse him of being inappropriate, mentions of his mom overmedicating him so he’s easier to deal with, mentions of how weak he got from being in the cast. And as always, let me know if I missed anything.

Steve didn’t remember much about that night.

His mother said that it was a blessing and refused to fill in any blanks for him under any circumstances.

His father, however, if he had drunk enough whiskey, would look at the six year old Steve as though he were a much older man and sigh before telling him anything he wanted to know.

Which meant that Steve knew that the car that hit him swerved in order to do so. (He didn’t know if the lady in the little blue car did it on purpose, or if she was a distracted driver. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know that.) He knew that she had to have been going over forty miles per hour because the impact sent him flying at least a dozen feet before he slammed into that bus stop. He knew that the driver kept going and that at least half a dozen people ran to his aid and that one of the women had screamed because he was unconscious and she was so certain that he was dead. His little body was so broken and bloody and they couldn’t see him breathe.

He also knew that his father got to his hospital room before his mother, sweat pouring down the older male’s body as though he had showered in his clothes because he had run there from work. His mother showed up over twenty minutes later, all put together like she had taken the time to clean herself up before appearing. Something his father wasn’t sure if he could forgive her for. (This was one of the few times that his father would express just how much that he loved Steve, and he would carry that warmth with him forever.)

He knew that they had to revive him four times, that they had done twelve surgeries, that they had put him in a full body cast because nearly every bone in his body had been broken, including parts of his spine. He knew that his parents had been told that he would likely never walk again. He knew that a specialist had pulled his father aside to inform him that his brain wouldn’t develop normally after all of the trauma that it had been through after being smacked around in his skull. They’d have to be careful, and that they’d have to understand if he never progressed much past the age that he was now. That he could be in his fifties and still acting five and that there was nothing that could be done beyond what they had already done – remove a small part of bone behind his ear to help relieve the pressure and pray for the best while preparing for the worst.

And, while he couldn’t remember the absolute agony that he must have been in. He did have the descriptions that he used to tell his father. That there was lava in his veins and his bones were shards of ice cold glass threatening to tear him apart completely. His father had only told him that part once, with tears in his eyes. “There wasn’t anything I could do to help you, boy. I couldn’t take the pain away. I would have died to save you even a fraction of that.”

That was one of the few times that he could remember his dad hugging him. He had been so careful and gentle while pressing his face into his hair. He inhaled deeply and he cried. And Steve had done his best to hug him back despite the plaster that made it near-impossible to move his arms at all.

At first, Steve had thought that it was really cool to be stuck in bed all the time. He didn’t have to do anything. That got boring within a week and he still had at least a year ahead of him where he was meant to stay in bed unless he was in the bathroom or at a doctor’s appointment.

Even eating in bed, something that had once been unacceptable and even punishable before, lost its novelty pretty quickly.

He liked having his mom read him notes from the teacher and his classmates. He liked her reading him his homework assignments and writing down his answers for him so that he would still be on track. It made him feel like an important man, like his dad was going to be, with a secretary.

The thing is, though, that he really missed going outside. He missed playing in the woods outside of the trailer park where he lived. He missed going to his grandparents house with the pool and the stairs that he’d probably never be able to walk again. He could climb them, though, after the cast was removed. He was pretty sure. He might not have a lot of muscle left at that point, but that would just mean that he was lighter and had less to have to move anyway.

When Steve brought that up to his mother, her lips would turn into a very tight, thin line and something he couldn’t name would flash in her eyes. “You are not going to go to that house any time soon, young man. It’s best to let those ideas go.”

“But I miss Grandma Marty and Grandpa Pete, and they won’t come here,” he whined.

“The Harrington’s won’t come to the trailer park and you know that.”

“We’re Harrington’s too,” he’d say defiantly.

She’d leave the room at that. Effectively ending an argument that they had had multiple times before. But what else did Steve have to talk about? He didn’t really have anyone else to talk to either, other than their neighbor that he had taken to calling Mister Wayne.

Wayne was probably a few years older than his dad and lived alone in a trailer that had always seemed so lively despite the quiet man who lived in it. He always had the tv or the radio on when he was home and Steve lived for that. Because his window was always cracked open for the breeze, which meant the sound could drift to him as well.

It was better than the quiet of his house that only seemed to get broken up with arguments and slamming doors. He was so used to it, but he still flinched every time and did his best to pull the blanket over his head as though that would muffle the sounds.

Sometimes, Wayne would come to his window and read him a book that his own nephew liked. The Hobbit. Steve fell in love with the adventure of it, and Wayne never seemed to mind reading him the same book over and over, a few pages at a time while he smoked.

More often than not, Wayne was the one who came over to babysit once he noticed that Steve had been left alone. He never once complained about it, never once gave someone else the chance despite all the ladies who would come over with food. And wine for his mom, when they could spare it.

Sometimes, Wayne would talk about his nephew. He was a scrawny kid, a few years older than Steve, named Eddie. Had a dark mop of long curly hair, and eyes that always seemed to have mischief in them. They’d like each other, Wayne was pretty sure, and he’d introduce them the next time that Eddie came to visit.

Steve would want to ask when that would be, but he never did. He had Mister Wayne and that was more than enough for him. His dad was staying later at the office, trying to prove that he deserved that promotion that would get them the hell out of the trailer park, without his parents' money. His mother was getting into yoga and book clubs, and Steve was being left alone a lot. Because, what kind of trouble could he get into when he was stuck in bed? Besides, the neighbors could hear if he shouted for anything and Wayne seemed very invested in making sure that he was okay.

Steve never knew why the older man made sure that his curtains were always wide open and that his light was on so that others could see that he was reading to him, or talking with him, from a chair that was always at least three feet away. Maybe it was so they would know he wasn’t alone? He wasn’t going to ask about it, not wanting to chance scaring away the one adult who never raised his voice at him, who never abandoned him when things got hard like his grandparents seemed to.

Months went by like this. His parents not being home, his grandparents not even calling about him, and Wayne doing his best to fill in the difference despite his own job. The other neighbors would come on occasion, but Steve was very sullen with them where he would laugh with Wayne. That didn’t deter them from coming over as he would have liked, and begrudgingly he found himself becoming friendly with a few of them.

It was the beginning of summer when Steve was finally able to get the casts removed. His father took him to the appointment, and he tried to not be disappointed that his mother wasn’t there at first. By the time he was wheeled out to the front of the office, though, his mother was sitting where his father had been.

He did his best to not look at himself. He was pale and scrawny and kind of stinky from not being able to wash himself properly because of all the plaster that had basically covered him for over a year. Most of his bones had healed great, according to the doctor. He wouldn’t know because he still hadn’t looked.

His father came back from wherever he had been, paid the bill with tight lips, and then took Steve out to the car. His mother helped him into the seat before covering him with a blanket that he was grateful for. It wasn’t that he was cold, he just didn’t want the chance to look at himself yet. He wanted to do that when he was home, where if he broke down and cried, no one else would know. Or, he wouldn’t have to see them knowing in any case. And that was enough for him.

They stopped for ice cream on the way and Steve asked for a small strawberry cone. Strawberry wasn’t his favorite, but it was what Grandma Marty had all the time, and he missed her even though she didn’t acknowledge him anymore. Wouldn’t answer his calls, wouldn’t call him back. He didn’t even know if she got the letters that Wayne had helped him write.

When they got home, Wayne wasn’t home. Not for the first time, Steve found himself deeply upset by that. He’d never voice it. Adults had responsibilities outside of him. And he knew that he only got about an hour with Wayne a day, maybe two if he was incredibly lucky.

His father came to help him out of the car, because he had more muscle if Steve should happen to fall. He clung to his father’s arm with all the strength that could muster as he walked like a baby giraffe toward their trailer. Well, he called it walking. It was more like wiggling his lower spine and hips while throwing his legs forward. After maybe five steps like that, he found himself being lifted into his father’s impatient arms as he was carried the rest of the way in and sat on the couch.

“Thank you,” Steve said instead of complaining about not being able to use his legs. He had wanted to walk, to prove that he could.

His father simply grunted in response before going to the kitchen to grab a drink. The same way he always did when he was home for the night.

His mother was inside a few minutes behind them, having stopped to talk to a neighbor briefly. She looked at Steve on the couch and tilted her head at him with a calculating look in her eyes.

“Would you like a bath?”

“Yes, please.”

This time, Steve did get to walk on his own two feet to the destination. He was leaning heavily on the wall, almost gripping on to it with one hand as he practically threw himself forward. He was breathless by the time that he got to the bathroom and pain seemed to radiate out through his entire body, starting at his tail bone.

“You can have some meds after your bath,” his mother said gently. “And I’ll get you your refill before dinner, okay? So you don’t have to worry about running out.”

Steve didn’t think it was time to refill his medicine yet, but he didn’t question it. His mom was on top of it. He was a kid who lost track of time a lot.

He sat on the toilet and he watched his mom prepare the bath for him, knowing that she would only let him have the water a little above room temperature. His skin was sensitive and the steam wouldn’t be good for him with the medicine that he was taking. He couldn’t even have hot food without the steam making him nauseous.

Carefully, he was pulled back to his feet and stripped of his clothes before he was helped into the tub that seemed to be more bubble than water. He sat down carefully, wincing a bit as he did so, before letting himself lean back in the water that felt warmer than it probably was because of his weakened, cool skin.

He sighed in contentment as his mother washed his body for the first time in what seemed like years. He was nearing seven years old and thinking about years in the past, it would make his dad laugh if he shared that thought with him, an idea that made him smile.

His mom washed his hair, tilting his head back and using a hand to make sure that no soap got in his eyes that he had squeezed tight. He got to play in the bubbles for a few minutes, his dad standing at the door as his mom got him some comfy clothes and a towel.

It was his dad who dried him off and helped him get into his clothes.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he said softly. He knew he was expected to thank his dad for everything he did that was above and beyond, which meant he ended up thanking him for everything.

Steve was carried back to his bed, something that he would have whined about if he wasn’t so tired and in so much pain. He was tucked in and his mom came to give him some toast and juice to take his pills with. He knew he was only meant to have one, but he took both that his mother gave him anyway. He washed it away with grape juice and half of the slice of toast she had brought him.

“Thank you, Mommy,” he murmured.

“Get some rest, love,” she replied while kissing his forehead. “You had a big day today.”

Steve nodded in agreement, wishing that it could be that easy to just let the sleep overtake him. He closed his eyes as his mom left the room.

His father checked on him once a day, his mother gave him two pills instead of one, and made sure he at least had breakfast and dinner. One of the neighbors made sure he had lunch and new puzzles to work on, new toys to play with. Steve would wander around the trailer as best as he was able, and Wayne would read to him before he went to bed.

Days turned to weeks like that.

One day, Wayne wasn’t at work and both of Steve’s parents were gone. He wandered over to his bedroom window and opened it wide.

“Mister Wayne, if I can get to the front door, can you help me out?”

His walking was still unsteady and stairs were very difficult for him.

“Are your parents okay with you being outside?” Wayne asked sympathetically.

“Uh. Dad said I could as long as I either finished my puzzle or put it up first.”

Wayne gave him a knowing look. “Okay, you little hellion. But only because I know you’d hurt yourself trying to do it anyway.”

Steve beamed and closed his window most of the way before making his way to the front door. It was a struggle to unlock the door because of the latch chain, but he managed. Wayne was waiting there for him with an unlit cigarette hanging between his lips.

“Getting outside used to be easier,” he sighed before reaching out.

“Maybe it’s the weight of knowing that you’re doing something you shouldn’t be,” Wayne teased as he picked Steve up and set him back down on the ground.

“No idea what that means, but thank you for helping me pass the stairs.” Steve grinned widely, the dirt and grass squishing slightly beneath his toes. It felt so good.

“You’re welcome, brat.”

Steve giggled before doing his version of walking. He took maybe ten steps, very much aware of how closely he was being watched. His breath came a little harder from the effort, the times between walking so close together. Shakily, he sat down as carefully as he was able. Movement caught his attention and made his head snap up to look toward Wayne’s trailer.

“You gotta ghost!” He exclaimed.

Wayne laughed at that, shaking his head. “That’s the nephew I’ve been telling you about. He’s staying with me for awhile. Treat him like a skittish cat until he’s used to ya, and I’m sure y’all would be good friends.”

“Eddie,” Steve said happily. “Can he come out so I can meet him?”

“I’ll send him out after I smoke my cigarette,” he said as he put more distance between them before lighting up.

“Thank you!”

Steve laid down flat on the grass, spreading his arms and legs out as much as he could without the pain becoming unbearable. It wasn’t very far, but he didn’t care. He got to grip the green strands in his fingers. He got to feel the light and heat of the sun soaking into his skin and settling into his bones. He was beyond convinced that the bright yellow thing in the sky was much more healing than the meds that made him feel tingly from his head to his toes.

He must have fallen asleep like that, because next thing he knew he was being awoken by a toe nudging his shoulder. His eyes flashed open and he was met by the most dark, beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen.

“Uncle Wayne said you just got released from the mummy’s curse.”

“He said that?”

“Well. He said your name was Steve and you just got a full body cast removed a few weeks ago.”

“That sounds more like him.”

“So…What happened?”

“A lady tried to go bowling with me and her car. The only pin she knocked down was me.”

Eddie snorted. “Shoulda planted your feet more firmly, she woulda gotten a strike.”

Steve’s lips tugged into the widest smile that he had ever had on his face. “My parents don’t like it when I joke about it.”

“Parents are stupid.”

“Yeah. How long are you stayin’?”

“As long as I can.”

Steve hummed in thought. “You any good at reading out loud?”

“Depends. What book?”

“The Hobbit.”

Eddie’s entire face lit up, his huge smile showing off the chipped front tooth. “My favorite book in the entire world? Yeah, I’m pretty good at reading it out loud.”

“We should read to each other. I have troubles with some words, but I am trying.”

“I’d like having someone to read and play with.”

“Oh, uh. Playing is hard for me right now. I’m still trying to get my strength back.”

“It’s okay. We read The Hobbit, we gotta have a pretty good imagination. We can pretend to play.”

Steve blushed and looked away. He never had someone his own age willing to work around his limitations before.

“I heard about a game with dice where we can talk out stuff and the dice decide how well it goes,” Steve said suddenly.

“Dungeons and Dragons!” Eddie apparently decided that he was tired of standing because he flopped down next to him at that. He rolled around in the grass before eventually settling on his side, propping his head up on his hand. “I can find a way to make that work with just two people.”

“Oh.”

“Turn that frown upside down, friend. I like a challenge. We’ll make this work because it sounds like fun.”

Steve beamed.

Taglist (let me know if you want added or removed! I was just trying to get who I remembered to seem interested!):

@estrellami-1 @eriquin @epiclazershark @morganski-19 @ellaelsinore @y4r3luv @valinwonderland @thespaceantwhowrites @jackiemonroe5512 @spectrum-spectre @princessstevemunson @ghost--enthusiast @gothwifehotchner @kas-eddie-munson @auroraplume @salisbury-at-the-stake @currently-steddiebrainrot @finntheehumaneater @marshmellowpaint @littlewildflowerkitten @perseus-notjackson @sapphirecobalt-1 @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @gloomysoup @anne-bennett-cosplayer

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve stranger things #eddie stranger things #steve x eddie #taking my grandparents love story and making it steddie #grandparents love story #lazy petals #no upside down au #read the cw #car accident aftermath #mention of medical abuse #let me know if i missed anything

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laxmiree · 2 years ago

Text

[CN] MLQC Lucien’s Rumors & Secrets – Season 2: Threshold (阈值)

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT!! ⚠️

This post contains a detailed spoiler for an R&S that has not been released in EN yet! Feel free to notify me if there are any mistakes in the translation~

Lucien followed the doctor's pointing finger to a line on the report— a small amount of abnormal PTEN gene sequence in the cells.

“Although the abnormal PTEN is only a small amount, irreversible cancer development may occur if your deterioration continues."

"The speed of deterioration is closely related to the frequency of Evol use, so it is recommended to reduce the usage of Evol as much as possible in the future.”

Lucien nodded occasionally, his heart not experiencing significant fluctuations. This day had been expected, and it had arrived as scheduled.

[T/N] It’s advised to read S2 chapter 45 first because this R&S sets between S2 chapter 45 and chapter 51 timeline-wise. I usually translated the main story first but translating this first makes more sense chronologically AND will provide extra pain for S2 chapter 51~

ALSO, after reading the R&S please head up to S2 Chapter 51, the pain is more complete with the main story~

[Chapter 1]

“Professor Lucien, the latest clinical trial report results are out, and they are still not very promising.”

This not-so-good news didn't come as a surprise to Lucien. He nodded and said, “Ah He, you've worked hard these past few days. Take a good rest over the weekend, and next week, we'll come back to discuss improvement strategies.”

“But we've already improved almost every aspect,” Ah He swallowed the words on the tip of his tongue and glanced at Lucien's composed profile. “In addition, two new deteriorating patients have signed the drug trial observation agreement. Here are the records.”

Lucien took the file and opened it, quickly scanning the text inside.

“The first patient is forty-two years old, an Evolver with superhuman vision. Diagnosed with glaucoma seven years ago, their vision started deteriorating significantly six months ago. After genetic screening, it was confirmed that the condition was caused by deterioration.”

As he turned to the next page, Lucien's gaze froze.

....The second patient is a Water-type Evolver, but the symptoms of deterioration are widespread malignant lymphoma.

“Based on previous cases, the direction of Evolver deterioration should be closely related to their own Evol attribute,” Ah He showed a puzzled expression, “and this patient's symptoms were an exception, with a more unstable rate of deterioration than ordinary patients. Perhaps this could be a discovery in the study of deterioration illness.”

Lucien glanced at the photos of the young man again. Although his impression wasn't deep, he quickly found this person in his memory – he had appeared in one of BS's Evol modification experiments many years ago.

“The individual cases don't have high reference value. We need to expand the sample group and continue to watch for similar cases of deterioration.”

“Understood, Professor.”

Back in his office, Lucien spread out the two reports in front of him. The deterioration index line graph in the first report steadily increased over time like most of the patient data he had seen. However, the line graph in the second report suddenly spiked at a certain point in time after a long period of stability.

Lucien unlocked his computer screen, and a medical report appeared on the screen. The diagnosis result, highlighted in red and bolded was glaring and prominent – “Gene Deterioration Detected.”

The deterioration level line graph in the report progressed steadily, almost identical to the first half of the line graph of the second patient on the desktop.

As the report page slowly scrolled upward, a profile picture gradually appeared in the upper right corner.

He glanced indifferently at his own face in the photo, closed the document, and leaned back in his office chair, closing his eyes to rest.

The heart within his chest cavity beat steadily, just like every other day, strong and composed. No changes appeared to have occurred, yet hidden beneath the surface, there seemed to be an undercurrent that was difficult to detect, waiting for an opportunity to stir things up.

His brief reverie was interrupted by the ringing of his phone.

“Hello, Mr. Lucien. Your latest lab test report is ready. Please come to the laboratory during business hours to collect it.”

[If you remember- In S2 chapter chapter 31-1 Lucien mentioned that his situation regarding blood disease is unique. From this R&S I guess what he means by unique situation is that his deterioration wasn't REALLY bad until he started to overuse evol, mainly for the sake of protecting MC. This evol overuse will get worse in S2 chapter 51 :D]

[Chapter 2]

“Have you experienced any discomfort in your body recently? Have you used Evol?”

“Everything has been normal. I've used Evol a few times, but not excessively,” Lucien quickly counted the number of times he had used Evol in his mind over the past month.

It was around seven or eight times, within a manageable range.

The doctor pushed the report in front of Lucien with a serious expression. “Your deterioration had been well-controlled previously, but this time, there are changes in various indicators. Platelet count has decreased, and there might be a slight impact on your clotting function. Additionally—”

Lucien followed the doctor's pointing finger to a line on the report— a small amount of abnormal PTEN gene sequence in the cells.*

“Although the abnormal PTEN is only a small amount, irreversible cancer development may occur if your deterioration continues. The speed of deterioration is closely related to the frequency of Evol use, so it is recommended to reduce the usage of Evol as much as possible in the future.”

Lucien nodded occasionally, his heart not experiencing significant fluctuations. This day had been expected, and it had arrived as scheduled.

(T/N: PTEN is a tumor suppressor gene that plays a critical role in regulating cell growth and preventing the formation of tumors. And since his platelet count is decreasing, it'll be HARD to stop his bleeding)

The hospital wasn't far from the bioresearch institute, and he reached his office right on time for work. As usual, he opened his computer and pulled up the latest clinical reports on anti-deterioration medications that he had just received in his email.

Among the patients participating in the clinical trials, 42% showed some level of deterioration control after taking the medication, with 8% experiencing particularly positive results. However, for nearly 58% of the remaining patients,...

The research on the medication had been ongoing for nearly a year, yet it still couldn't achieve the expected efficacy. Lucien carefully examined the data on the screen, tapping his fingertips lightly on the desk.

Incomplete Evol genes could lead to abnormalities in the human body, but why would the highly praised “evolutionary” Evol genes lead to such destructive deterioration?

Could it be that Evol eliminates those who cannot withstand its power? Or is the deterioration of Evolvers, to some extent, a part of the world's evolutionary process?

Some vague thoughts raced through his mind, and Lucien allowed them to linger, making a mental note as he continued to focus on the report in front of him.

As the sunlight gradually intensified, shifting towards the other side of the skyline, Lucien took a deep breath, preparing to take a short break.

Just as he closed his eyes, his ears picked up three quick knocks on the door. The third knock was slightly heavier, a habit unique to Pete.

“Come in.”

The door swung open, and Pete briskly walked up to the desk, handing over a stack of research reports.

“Professor, there have been new developments in the experiment data regarding the neuronal position for maintaining neuron function. Detailed results and data are all written in the report. We can start the next phase of experiments tomorrow.”

Lucien quickly glanced at the data and results on the report, and he smiled.

“The results are even better and faster than I had imagined. After work, you can take everyone out to celebrate. Consider it a team-building event, and the institute will reimburse it.”

“You should join us too; the rapid progress of the experiment owes much to the insights you've given us. Everyone wants to thank you.”

Lucien paused for a moment, then continued nonchalantly, “Make a reservation for one more seat, and thank you for your hard work.”

“Sure thing! I'll go inform the others right away.”

After Pete left the office, Lucien shifted his gaze to the dormant screen. He saw his own blurry silhouette, and the lingering smile on his lips confirmed his fleeting good mood.

Maybe... He agreed a bit too quickly just now.

Lucien shook his mouse, and a dense data set appeared on the screen again. It was an observation report from NW on unusual energy fluctuations within Loveland City, as well as the strange phenomena they had generated. This report piqued his interest, and according to the original plan, he should have worked late to finish this research tonight.

However, occasionally participating in such activities could be beneficial for teamwork. Lucien hesitated for only three seconds before saving the document and shutting down the computer.

[Chapter 3]

“Swoosh-”

The clear water rinsed away the remnants of liquid in the test tube, and a momentary daydream washed over his relaxed mind. The scene from this morning when he left home reappeared before his eyes.

As Lucien opened his door, the opposite door also swung open, and a girl rushed out with a box of milk in hand. Her hair was slightly disheveled, clearly a result of rushing and not having time to tidy up for work.

He smiled faintly, but strangely, she seemed completely unaware of his presence and focused on her phone, anxiously waiting for the elevator.

In the next moment, the girl's figure seemed to “disappear,” but the elevator remained on the top floor, not descending.

He was briefly taken aback but quickly realized that this was likely the phenomenon caused by the energy fluctuations he had recently seen in the NW observation report on Loveland City. The unknown energy disturbance in the vicinity had created a “rift” in spacetime, and the girl was merely a projected illusion.

The sound of glass clinking brought Lucien back to reality, and he noticed that the test tube in his hand had bumped into the beaker.

“Professor, are you feeling a bit tired? Maybe I should take care of this for you,”

Lucien smiled in response to Pete's concern and began placing the lab equipment into the washing machine. “No need, nothing is pressing right now. I'll consider organizing equipment as a form of rest.”

Although the work on hand was never-ending, under her supervision, he had already learned to carve out some breathing space for himself.

During moments of complete relaxation, unexpected thoughts often diverged in his mind, which brought him happiness. However, lately, whenever he tried to clear his mind, the girl's image and voice would involuntarily “visit” him.

Seeing the slight, involuntary upward curve of his lips, Pete gave him a knowing look and half-jokingly asked, “Professor, are you going on a date later?”

“She's been quite busy lately.” Lucien subtly concealed the thoughts he had inadvertently revealed just now and continued, “Pete, have you chosen a topic for your thesis?”

“It's almost ready. This time, I plan to research 'Using Evol Energy to Stimulate Brain Cells for Alzheimer's Disease Treatment.' I'll put together a formal document for you to review.”

“I remember you were interested in brain memory restoration and extraction before, and you had many intriguing ideas. Are you not planning to explore that area this time?”

“Afterward, I reconsidered. There's more literature available on Alzheimer's disease, and the current market demand is higher. It seems like a more prudent choice.”

Lucien's gaze shifted slightly, not missing the hint of regret that flashed in Pete's eyes.

“I actually think that if it's a topic that interests you, you should give it a try,” Lucien blurted out his most direct thought, receiving a surprised look from Pete.

“What everyone else is doing may be the safer choice, but it's not necessarily the best choice.”

“Uncharted territory doesn't always equate to a dead end; it's just that, in many cases, people tend to instinctively seek the safer path.”

“But in research, the most valuable quality is the persistence to explore and seek knowledge.”

On the way back home, Lucien continued to contemplate the events of the afternoon.

In the realm of scientific research, aiming for safety was not necessarily a mistake; it often led to higher success rates. So, when he made that suggestion, it wasn't solely from an objective standpoint but also a personal desire that the researchers he had mentored could challenge more difficult domains.

Suddenly, a faintly familiar sweet fragrance wafted to his nostrils. He followed the scent and turned to see her favorite cream puff shop.

“Maybe I should buy one and give it a try.”

A few minutes later, Lucien sat on a park bench holding a freshly baked cream puff. He wasn't particularly fond of cream puffs, but the idea that had occurred to him a moment ago had struck without warning. Before he could contemplate the reason behind this thought, his body had already acted on it.

The cream puff, still warm inside its paper bag, emitted a subtle fragrance. He took a gentle bite, the crispy outer shell giving way to the creamy filling, creating a delicate taste on his tongue.

This cream puff wasn't overly sweet and the sweetness that could be detected was minimal.

This subtle sweetness triggered dopamine, and an inexplicable sensation gradually spread from his chest to his limbs. It seemed like his brain had received this pleasurable signal, making him feel considerably more relaxed.

So, this was what she meant by the happiness brought by sweets.

He slowly savored each bite of the cream puff.

Lucien knew that an irreversible change had occurred within himself.

[This behavior of trying new things and impulsively doing something feels like 'my time in this world won't be too long anyway' :""]

[Chapter 4]

Inside the research lab, the mechanical hum of instruments droned on rhythmically, and the stark white lights cast a cold silver gleam on the metal plaques with “NW” written on them.

“Blood pressure stable, sinus rhythm normal, no adverse reactions.”

“According to the drug's suggestions, he will act according to our instructions after leaving this lab.”

Lucien glanced through the glass at the person lying on the observation room bed.

“Conduct thorough post-experiment observations, don't overlook any minor irregularities.”

“Alright. Also, Professor Lucien, your ETL-147* drug trial application has been approved, and you need to sign the liability waiver.” The lab technician handed the paperwork to Lucien, looking somewhat hesitant.

“Are you sure you want to personally participate in the drug trial? Although we've conducted preliminary human trials, we haven't done large-scale clinical trials yet, and there are certain risks involved.”

Lucien quickly signed his name. “Trying it myself is the only way to discover areas that may need improvement.”

[I was right about Lucien experimenting on himself with that drug :"D. Anyway, ETL-147 is the same drug from S2 chapter 45]

“Once you've decided, you'll need to receive the injection within the confines of NW with someone present, as per the regulations.”

“Then let's do it now.”

Declining the researcher's offer to assist, Lucien skillfully rolled up his sleeve and disinfected the area. As he watched the liquid in the syringe decrease, he blinked slightly, concealing some contemplation.

“You can go ahead, I'll observe here for half an hour. If there are any issues, I'll reach out to you.”

He watched the researcher leave and then lowered his gaze to his arm, which had a tourniquet in place. Testing the drug on himself wasn't solely for drug research. He could increasingly feel that something was changing within him, hiding and flowing in the gaps of his nerves, elusive and slipping out of his control.

That's why he needed insurance.

He didn't wait for half an hour and left the observation room. The solemn and cold corridor echoed only with the light sound of his footsteps. Each corner had a circular surveillance device with a flashing red indicator light, watching his unhurried steps. He paid little attention to them as he arrived at Archive Room 8.

“Authentication personnel, Lucien. Authorization Level: Three.”

With a beep of an electronic tone, the door to the archive opened for him.

Rows of gray filing cabinets stood in order. He walked deeper into the room, stopping at the second-to-last row. From one of the shelves, he pulled out a file box.

“Blood Disorders and Deterioration Case Files.”

He opened the lid and browsed through the materials inside. During his involvement in the research of anti-blood disorder drugs at NW, Lucien had seen most of these files. As he turned a page, his slender fingers paused.

“Code **, deterioration level reached as high as 95%, reversed deterioration after ** experiment, and after a period of observation, full recovery of human functions, deterioration level reduced to 7%. Detailed information requires special-level clearance to access.”

Looking at the encrypted data, Lucien's lips curved upward without a hint of a smile. He returned the file box to its original place.

It seemed there were quite a few deals he could make here.

[Chapter 5]

“To see a world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a wild flower. Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour. A truth that’s told with bad intent, beats all the lies you can invent...”

(T/N: From the poem Auguries of Innocence written by William Blake. For Blake there's such thing as white lies. Because 'A truth that's told with bad intent' is worse than any lie, because some lies can be well-intentioned)

Under the camphor tree swayed by the autumn breeze, he softly recited verses from the book. Sensing the girl in his arms gradually breathing deeper, he closed the book and gently brushed a strand of hair from the corner of her eye.

In the warm breeze, Lucien slowly opened his eyes, gazing at the familiar cold white ceiling of his office, feeling a slight sense of déjà vu.

This was the fourth time in these seven days that he had dreamt of her.

Since the deterioration, he had hardly experienced any physical discomfort. However, the frequency of thinking about her had increased significantly. He didn't resist this feeling; in fact, every time he thought of her unintentionally, the neurons in his brain transmitted a sense of pleasure to every cell.

He ran his fingers over his knuckles; the wounds from his struggle with GR had scabbed over, but she still applied bandages to them cautiously. Lucien pressed his temple to clear his mind a bit, then returned to his desk, opened a document, and entered the latest date.

“Dreamt of her in a dream, vivid memory of dream content, but ruled out as a recollection.”

After recording this, he opened his email.

This was the latest data on energy fluctuations within Loveland City. On the vast map of Loveland City, there were numerous unusual energy fluctuations. After comparing the fluctuation charts for each period, he noticed the locations where fluctuations were concentrated at different times.

Approximately 36 days ago at around 18:39, Central Park. He and the girl had gone to the night market in the park after work, and they had dinner at a street food stall.

Approximately 27 days ago at around 12:25, the Life Sciences Institute. She came to bring him lunch and, in passing, asked him about the topic for the next program.

15 days ago at 23:48, his apartment. To celebrate the upcoming weekend, they stayed up late watching a movie and didn't return home until very late. She stood at his doorstep and bid him goodnight.

Nine days ago...

The light from the screen reflected a coldness in his pupils as he stared at the map with red markers blinking in different locations.

The center of the fluctuations, once again, was that source of power that had captivated countless people—CORE.

The more beautifully the flower bloomed, the more it attracted annoying flies.

A sudden sense of irritation welled up within him.

What would it take to keep those ill-intentioned insects away from this deeply-rooted flower?

“Snap.”

The light sound shattered the silence as the pen fell to the ground and rolled twice before coming to a stop by his feet.

That sudden absurd idea had torn away all pretense, revealing the raw instinct in its entirety.

— If she had her own path, she shouldn't be trapped by him.

— Don't restrain yourself with rationality, look at your true heart.

Perhaps that dream had already given him a hint. The scales in his heart had gradually tilted away from reason, moving in an unexpected direction.

— She withstood all the wind and rain that came her way, growing resiliently into someone he found truly remarkable. He couldn't encase her within his protective glass cover.

— Are you really don't expect it? Really don't want to possess her? Humans are inherently greedy. Indulgence is human nature.

Lucien felt as though there was a consciousness from a deeper layer detaching from his body, standing at a higher vantage point, watching with keen interest as the two voices in his mind continued their ongoing debate.

Perhaps his own deterioration graph had already started its inexorable ascent towards an unpreventable height, progressing towards the final moment that could arrive at any time.

He suddenly realized that he wasn't as averse to facing that moment as he thought. All the changes in his body were intriguing, both evolution and destruction.

Cells and genes evolved over countless years to adapt to their environment, giving birth to more complete species. However, the incompleteness of the Evol gene led to human deterioration, going in the opposite direction of evolution.

Perhaps Evol held a meaning deeper than “evolution” and “power,” a meaning that no one, including him, had yet to comprehend.

His phone vibrated suddenly, bringing the storm in his mind to an abrupt halt. The girl's name accompanied a text message that appeared before him.

“Do you have time tonight? I found a new barbecue place on Huapu Street.”

“Of course, I'll pick you up after work.”

Perhaps he shouldn't see her now; if he did, this imbalance might intensify rapidly.

But why not indulge in something that brought him happiness?

Lucien closed his eyes.

This self-observation finally introduced more significant variables.

NEXT STOP-> [S2 Chapter 51]

#first heart disease now CANCER??? pg you should stop giving this man every diseases known to human #SOO excited translating S2 ch 51 #mlqc lucien #mr love queen's choice #mlqc cn #mlqc spoiler #mlqc #mlqc translation #mr. love queen's choice #mr love lucien #mlqc xu mo

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