#i can see why people get drawn in by sunday's plan like genuinely | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hopelikethemoon · 4 years

Text

Weed (Javier x Reader) {MTMF}

Title: Weed Rating: PG-13 Length: 4600 Warnings: Potential triggers if you have toxic family members and/or triggers difficult child hoods. Also recreational marijuana use and fluff! Notes: You can find everything about Maybe Today, Maybe Forever here. Set November 2nd 1998. Summary: Reader goes to therapy and Javier tries something new.

@grapemama @seawhisperer @huliabitch @pedropascalito @rogrsnbarnes @thewallpapergoesorido @twomoonstwosuns @gooddaykate @livasaurasrex @ham4arrow @plexflexico @readsalot73 @hdlynn @lokiaddicted @randomness501 @fioccodineveautunnale @roxypeanut @snivellusim @lukesrighthand @historynerd04 @mrsparknuts @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead @exrebelshocktrooper @awesomefandomsunited @ah-callie @swhiskeys @lady-tano @beskar-droids @space-floozy @cable-kenobi @cool-ultra-nerd @himbopoes @findhimfives @pedrosdoll @frietiemeloen @arrowswithwifi @random066 @uncomicalhumour @heather-lynn @domino-oh-damn @cyarikaaa @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @im-still-a-pieceofgarbage @ksgeekgirl @yabby-girl @xqueenofthecraziesx @punkass-potato @coredrive @pascalesque @theduchessofkirkcaldy @queenquazar @sabinemorans @buckstaposition @holkaskrosnou @yespolkadotkitty @fleetwoodmactshirt @seeking-a-great–perhaps

“I was quite surprised to hear from you again.” Nancy remarked as she shuffled papers in her notebook, peering up at you from the rim of her eyeglasses. “When last we met, you seemed to be well on your way.” She took her glasses off and sat them on her desk, “Have we had a setback?”

You chewed on your bottom lip as you stared across the room at her, “I wouldn’t necessarily call it a setback.”

“What would you call it?”

“I was doing really well. After everything with the articles, Javier and I went on vacation together and things felt…” You sighed. “I felt like I had finally hit my stride. You know?”

“Perhaps you should elaborate.”

You and Javier had already decided that Nancy was a safe space to discuss your elopement. It wasn’t like she could tell anyone about your sessions. Not to mention the fact that you had discussed your aversion to the whole concept at length in previous sessions.

But it still felt wrong to tell her.

“Well,” You drew in a deep breath before exhaling slowly. “Javier and I got married.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” You smiled, picking a piece of fuzz off your leg. “It was perfect. I finally realized I had reached this point in my life where I wanted that. I wanted this thing that was just ours.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I mean, you know that Javier and I are private people. Having our lives splashed across newspapers was daunting. Which… that’s actually why I’m here.”

“Your marriage?”

“No. My mother.”

Nancy’s brows rose upwards and for the first time she seemed shocked by something you had to say. “Your mother?”

You rubbed your lips together and nodded a little. “She showed up this weekend. Halloween.” You laughed quietly, staring at a spot on the floor. “Seeing her again… it brought up. A lot.”

“Would you like to discuss what it brought up?”

“That’s why I’m here,” You retorted, before you sank back against the sofa, raking your fingers through your hair. “For a few fleeting seconds I let myself actually believe that maybe she had changed. That maybe rehab had cured her. Finally. But… then I was thirteen again. I felt so small and… scared.”

“Scared?”

“I’ve worked very hard to make sure my girls have a safe, loving, harmonious life. I even came here. I recognized I had a problem after Sofía and I… handled it. That’s what I do. I handle things.” You swallowed thickly, feeling a knot form in the pit of your stomach. “This isn’t new. We’ve talked about her before.”

Nancy flipped through the pages of her notebook, “Yes. I recall our lengthy conversation about her addiction. You made a lot of progress, grappling with those difficult emotions that grew from a difficult situation. How did this encounter make you feel?”

“I don’t think I’ve slept since Friday night.” You shrugged a shoulder, “Javier’s been great. He’s… always been understanding.”

“But you’ve never fully discussed the details with him, have you?”

You bit down on your bottom lip and shook your head.

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because it’s a lot. We used to talk about it… before we were together. It’s come up before.”

“You once referred to her as a shadow on your life. Does it feel like that shadow returned?”

“Yes.” You rubbed your hands together, leaning forward on the edge of the sofa. “That’s exactly how it feels. She’s gone — I hope she’s gone — but I still feel…”

“Small?”

“She pulled all the same tricks. She tried to make Javi think I was crazy. She pulled the tears and the blaming and… I genuinely don’t think she realizes how traumatized I was as a child.”

“What stands out?”

You laughed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “God, I don’t even know. There was so much.”

“I would like to try something, if you’re open.” Nancy suggested, “Would you be comfortable laying down?”

“Sure.” You kicked off your shoes and stretched out lengthwise on the sofa. “Is this the whole… introspective breathing exercise?”

“Yes.”

You dragged your hands over your face, trying to will yourself to relax. “Alright. I’m ready.”

“Focus on your breath. In and out. As you feel the air rushing into your lungs, I want you to think back to your childhood.” Nancy advised you. “Pinpoint a moment. Just one.”

You closed your eyes, focusing on your breathing just as she had told you to. You pictured your lungs filling with air and deflating as you exhaled. How many times had you used breathing exercises to manage anxiety?

You let your mind wander back — at first you thought of Javier. Those were easy memories to reflect on. Safe memories. The way he’d held you this morning, the way he tried to chase away all of the bad memories that had returned with your mother. But you weren’t sitting on Nancy’s sofa to think about Javi.

“What do you see?”

“The house I grew up in,” You answered, digging your teeth into your bottom lip as you settled into that memory. “We lived in one of those one-level post-War houses. It was identical to the one next to us, except… we had a blue front door. She painted it when she was high, it was… It was poorly painted.”

“Who painted it?”

“My mother.”

“How does that blue door make you feel?”

“I used to dread it. Every time my dad would bring me back after a weekend with him…” You sighed heavily. “It wasn’t a welcome sight.”

“And what was beyond that door?”

“The place I lived. It was never home. It was just the place I lived.” You weren’t sure if you’d ever really had a home before Javier and the girls. They felt like what home had always looked like in books and movies.

“If I was coming back from dad’s house, I knew I was going to be met with hostility. She treated me like a traitor every time I came back to the house. If she had gotten high while I was gone, she was usually passed out on the sofa — that was the best time to come back.”

“Tell me about your room.”

“There was a mural on one of the walls. A butterfly.” You shook your head slowly as you pictured the poorly drawn butterfly. “I used to pretend I was the butterfly, that I could just fly out the window and never look back.”

“Did you feel trapped?”

“Always.” You shifted on the sofa, trying to find a more comfortable position. “I never felt safe.”

“Why?”

“There were always people in our house. Strangers — a lot of strange men.”

“Were you ever harmed?”

“No. I’m certain I’m lucky in that regard. I slept with a chair in front of my door. My dad told me to do that. Even though he wasn’t there, he tried to protect me.”

“Do you think these experiences have played a part in how you approach your life?”

You laughed bitterly, “Every day. Not even consciously. These things are so hard wired into who I am.”

“How so?”

“Before Javier and I were together, I was terrified that my daughter would be brought up into a life like my own. Torn between two people who couldn’t get along. I knew Javier was a good man, but I still feared that. It makes life very confusing for a child.”

“Let’s touch on those fears. It’s very common in adults who have suffered from upbringings like your own — they fear repeating the cycle. Is that something you find yourself faced with?”

“All the time. Everything that happened with Sofía’s birth brought up a lot of those emotions. I was afraid it would be the trigger. I had never felt that way before. I felt like a stranger in my own body.” You focused on your breathing again, trying to push aside the panic you felt. “Seeing her again this weekend, definitely brought those emotions back to the surface. Javier tried to reassure me. He was great — so great.”

“What emotions?”

“She got under my skin.” You admitted. “I have worked so hard to provide everything for my family. We have a home, we love each other, the girls are safe and loved.”

“How did your interaction with your mother go?”

“She showed up Saturday night. We had plans for Josie — a school Halloween party. I let Javier handle it because I just didn’t have the emotional bandwidth. I guess she said some shitty things to him, I’m not surprised. She skirted around it with me on Sunday.”

“Why did you speak to her on Sunday?”

“Javier had to reason with her. To get her to leave, you know?” You swallowed thickly. “So she came back on Sunday and we talked. She made excuses, she blamed me, she lashed out. I was thirteen again.”

“Why thirteen?”

You opened your eyes, turning to look at Nancy. “What?”

“You mentioned thirteen twice. What happened when you were twelve?”

“Oh,” You rubbed at the spot between your brows. “My mother and her boyfriend — I think it was Greg… there were a few at the time — but, they had this party…” You closed your eyes again. “Drugs everywhere. My mother was drunk, on top of whatever she’d snorted… she hadn’t even bothered to make dinner for me. So I was in the kitchen, it was in the back of the house, and I was trying to make something to eat. There was this woman who was there and I guess she had wandered away from the rest of the party—”

“Take your time.”

You covered your face, “She was nice. Obviously very high, but she liked my shirt. It had a butterfly on it.” You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes. “She sat down at the kitchen table and she… nodded out and then she made this sound.” You sat up slowly then, pushing your fingers through your hair. “It was like a death rattle.”

“Did she die?”

You nodded, “Right in front of me. I tried to call 911, but…” You looked at a point somewhere beyond Nancy. “My mother threatened me. She said if I told anyone what happened, she’d make sure I never saw my father again. I couldn’t sleep for weeks.”

“You have gone through a considerable amount of trauma at a very young age,” Nancy surmised, closing her notebook as she leaned against her desk. “Yet you have overcome it. You have a healthy relationship with your partner, you put tremendous consideration into your relationship with your daughters. But I do think there is more work to be done. You are not an island. You are no longer isolated.”

You pressed your lips together and nodded slowly as you weighed her words. “I know I’m not. And I do talk about these things with Javier. I always have.”

“It is okay to let go of the past. You don’t have to carry that baggage with you.” Nancy smiled at you kindly, “This is a minor setback, that you cannot let affect the progress you’ve made.”

You chewed on your thumbnail nervously, “I know. And I am aware that I’m a work in progress. We all are.”

Nancy nodded, “Exactly. Focus on today, on the here and now. Don’t let yourself get trapped in this moment. Your mother has no control over your future.”

“I tell everyone that it’s okay to cut toxic people out of their lives, but when it came to my own mother I hesitated.”

“We all want to believe the best in someone. But some people aren’t wired to be their best. There’s no shame in disconnecting. Focus on your own family.”

You smiled back at her, “Thank you. I do think I’m going to start having sessions again. I want to get through this—“ You gestured to your chest. “I have a lot of pain that I’m still carrying. I would like to work through it with you.”

“I’m here for you. And, of course, Javier if he decides he’d like to join us.”

“I’m sure he will,” You laughed softly. “He was willing to come today if I needed support.”

“Our regular appointment time is still open. Feel free to call and get yourself back on my books.”

“Thank you.”

——

Talking about your past hadn’t necessarily managed to cure your mild malaise, but it has helped to an extent. You felt lighter. You didn’t feel afraid that you’d see Rebecca standing outside of your house when you got home.

Maybe a few more weeks of talking with Nancy — before you packed up the car to head to Laredo for Thanksgiving — would do you good.

You peeled off your coat as you walked through the front door, hanging it on the hook. “Should I be afraid? It’s awfully quiet.” You called out, glancing around the empty family room.

“In the kitchen!” Javier called out and you followed his voice. “You got home sooner than I expected.”

Your brows rose upwards as you looked at the bags of chips sitting on the counter. “Are we having a party I was unaware of?”

“No,” Javier grinned at you, shaking his head. “Connie’s keeping the girls another night. She’s off today.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head to the side. “Bags of chips, no kids…”

He sat a familiar box down on the counter between the two of you, “I’m finally ready to bite the bullet, baby.”

You couldn’t help but cover your mouth and laugh, “Javier!” You moved around the counter, wrapping your arms around him as you continued to laugh. “You really don’t have to try weed, just because I’m having a shitty couple of days.”

“But I want to,” Javier ran his hand down your back. “You said before that it helps with stress and… I think we’re both pretty stressed right now.”

“I agree with that, but you really don’t have to try something you don’t want to. I know how you feel about it.”

“I had a really long conversation with Nadia about it at the party Saturday night. She laid it all out pretty clearly,” He rocked his jaw as you pulled back to look at him. “I can see the merits of smoking occasionally.”

You smiled up at him adoringly, “And here I thought I couldn’t love you anymore than I already do.” You rose up and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Better watch out,” You teased, cupping his jaw. “I might have to marry you.”

“Did you tell her?”

“I’ve never seen her so surprised.” You told him as you ran your thumb over his bottom lip. “It was a good session. I think I’m going to start going again.”

“Good.”

You ran your hands over his shoulders as you leaned against him, “I can’t believe you’re willing to smoke. Finally. God, I hope you love it.”

“I like the prospect of being pain free for an evening.” Javier leaned down and rested his forehead against yours. “How are you doing?”

“I’m here.” You curled a hand around the back of his neck, playing with the hair there. “A lot of bad memories got dredged up.”

“I know you didn’t sleep last night.” He pressed a quick kiss to your lips, giving your hip a squeeze. “You gonna fall asleep on me if we smoke?”

You snorted, “Probably.” You watched him as he moved back to the grab the box off the counter. “Don’t you have class tomorrow?”

“I’ve assigned it a research day. They’ll be working on the proposals.” He answered smoothly. “They need the time to work anyways.”

“I’m touched that you did all of this, Javi.”

He shrugged, “I wanted to do something that would cheer you up, baby. You were pretty out of it last night.”

“Last night was rough,” You admitted as you took the box from him, “Grab the chips.”

Javier followed you into the bedroom, sitting the chips down on the foot of the bed as he watched you open the windows to let some fresh air in.

“What should I expect?”

You paused, hands on your hips as you turned back towards him. “It’s different for everyone, but for the most part… You’ll feel like you’re drunk, without feeling drunk. Warm and fuzzy.” You shrugged. “I just know it makes me feel really calm.”

He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek as he nodded, “This can never get out. They won’t let either of us teach.”

“Marriage, pegging, and weed. Our three dirty secrets.” You wiggled your brows at him as you moved to join him at the foot of the bed.

You sat the box on your legs, opening it and pulling out the neatly rolled joint from the last time you’d taken a hit. “It’s a lot like smoking. Same in and out.” You explained, sitting the box aside and holding the lighter out to him. “The key is that you have to let go and enjoy it.”

Javier dragged his teeth over his bottom lip and nodded, “I think after the year we’ve had, I can let go and have fun.”

“And that’s growth.” You laughed, before tucking the joint between your lips. He flicked the lighter on, bringing it to the end of the joint and lighting it for you.

You pinched it between your fingers, drawing in a deep breath before exhaling slowly. This was exactly what you needed. You could already feel the first tingles as it settled.

“Ready?” You questioned, holding the joint out between you. “You don’t have to, Javi. I don’t mind smoking if you just want to lay here with me.”

He shook his head, taking the joint from you. “I’m willing to try it, baby. I wanna see what all the fuss is about.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course you do.”

Javier brought it to his lips, tagging a drag off of it before passing it back to you. “What am I supposed to feel?”

You snatched it from him and took another breath, “Just let it happen. Don’t overthink it.” You held the joint up, smirking as he leaned forward and wrapped his lips around it.

He had really nice lips.

Javier rubbed his lips together thoughtfully, “I feel a little tingle.” He admitted, taking it back from you after you took another hit.

“Just sink into it,” You advised him as you took the little ashtray out of the box, leaving it on the bed as you rose to your feet.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.” You gave him a look as you sat the box down on your nightstand, before returning to him to take another drag off it. “I’m just making more room.”

Javier laughed as he exhaled. “More room for what?”

You shrugged, “I was thinking a pillow fight.”

“Oh really?” He laughed again, watching you as you picked up the bag of sour cream and onion chips and sat them on the nightstand too. “Why a pillow fight?”

“Because it sounds fun.” You plopped back down beside him, taking the joint from him and take another hit off it, “Javier Peña is smoking weed.”

He rolled his eyes, “I’ve been corrupted.”

“Corruption looks good on you,” You told him, brushing your knuckles against his cheek. “I miss the hair.

Javier grinned around the joint tucked between his lips, “I didn’t let it go until you got your wish.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek, ruffling your fingers through his hair. “You look good when you’re getting fucked.”

“So I’ve been told,” He said as he exhaled a puff of smoke between you, before passing it back to you. “I haven’t got a bad word to say about it.”

“Good.” You scrunched up your nose and laughed. “You’re so good to me.”

Javier beamed, “Have you met you?”

“I don’t know if I have.” You tucked your leg beneath you as you angled yourself towards him. “Tell me more.”

“Well,” He offered you the joint again. “I do feel tingly!” Javier snorted, “Is this what it feels like?”

“I don’t know. How do you feel?” You questioned, toying with the third button of his shirt. “I feel warm.”

“I feel warm too!” He clasped his hands together, looking towards the open windows. “I feel good.”

“That’s all I want,” You admitted to him, sitting the smoldering joint in the ashtray. “You know what?”

“What?”

“You’re hot.”

He laughed loudly, sinking back against the bed, his legs still draped over the edge. “Yeah?”

You nodded emphatically. “I remember… my first day.” You swept your hands through the air dramatically. “I walked into the office and saw you and just thought — hot!”

“Oh, was that your first thought?”

You laid back in the bed, settling into the crook of his arm, “Mhm.” You sighed happily. “And then I quickly realized what a dick you were.” You pressed close to him, nuzzling at his neck. “That’s how I knew I was screwed.”

Javier laughed, rubbing his hand down your arm, “We were both screwed.” He hummed, his lips still drawn into a smile as he stared up at the ceiling. “Do you remember New Years?”

“Like eleven months ago?”

He shook his head, “Before Josie was born.”

Your brows furrowed as you tried to focus on the specific moment he was referencing, “I broke my wine glass.”

“Yeah!” He nodded, tilting his head to look at you. “Steve’s a funny guy.”

You shoved him playfully, “Are you going to rhapsodize about Steve now?”

“No! No.” Javier made a sound that very nearly sounded like a giggle. “He swears he didn’t know that we were orbiting each other.”

“Orbiting each other.” You mocked, sitting up to grab the joint, taking another hit as you laid back on the bed.

“He swears he didn’t really know just how bad we had it for each other—“

“Bullshit!” You called out dramatically and you both started laughing.

“He knew. Of course he knew. That jackass.” He took the joint from you and took two puffs off it. “But that night — son of a bitch — he told me I was holding you back. That as long as I acted like I had feelings for you, you weren’t going to ever look for someone.”

You frowned, “He wasn’t wrong.”

“Made me feel like an asshole, baby.” He rubbed his hand over his chest, like he’d been injured. “It's why, I…”

“Was that’s why you wanted to drive me home?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, “He made it sound like I needed to set you free and…”

You dropped the joint back into the ashtray and cut him off before he could finish. You planted your hand over his mouth and scrambled to straddle him. “No. We’re not doing sad.” You warned him. “Wanna know a secret?”

He licked the palm of your hand.

“Javier.”

He nodded.

“I wanted to go home with you.” You confessed, leaning forward so your nose brushed against his. “I got myself off thinking of you.” You slowly pulled your hand away, “I was so certain 1992 was going to be a shit year. They were thinking about leaving and everything was falling apart but, I thought — I didn’t fuck it up with Javier, I’ve still got him.”

His hands went to your hips, “And you do. I could never up and leave you, baby.”

You leaned in and kissed him, “If we weren’t married, I’d marry you all over again.”

“Yeah?” Javier grabbed at your hips and you shivered, you loved how much more every little touch felt like. “I can’t wait to tell pops.”

You grinned as you laughed, “He’s gonna be so fucking excited.” You nipped at his bottom lip. “I hope we run into Lorraine at the toy store again.”

“Jesus Christ.” Javier groaned, “Why bring up her? I’m feeling good baby.”

You bumped your nose against his, “Because I’m vindictive.” You grinned down at him. “And I love proving people wrong.” You traced your finger down his nose. “But I know the Javier that no one can see.”

“You do.” He parted his lips as you ran your finger over his lips. “We both know the real us.”

“I really like us.” You mused, “I think we’ve done really well for ourselves.”

Javier nodded his head, “I do too.” He played with the hem of your sweater, “Didn’t you say you were warm, baby?”

“Trying to get me undressed?” You questioned, giggling as you let him peel the sweater off your body.

“Maybe.”

“Turnabout, babe.” You quipped as you wrestled with the buttons of his shirt until it fell open.

“You know… my knees aren’t hurting.” He pointed out, running his hand over your bare arms as he looked up at you. “But I can’t tell if I want to fuck your or just hold you.” Javier laughed and you couldn’t help but join in on the pure joy that was in his laughter.

“It’s funny isn’t it?” You questioned, playing with the hair that fell against his forehead. “Am I horny? Or do I just want to be held?”

“What do you want?” Javier questioned, running his hands over your skin anywhere he could reach. Which you definitely enjoyed.

“As tempted as I am to take advantage of your very exuberant self,” You leaned down to kiss him, playing your tongue over his bottom lip. “I just want to be held. Right now, at least.”

“Whatever you want, baby.” Javier promised you, leaning up to meet your lips again.

Somehow he managed to maneuver both of you up the bed with you still on his lap, while you clutched at the ashtray so you could stick on the nightstand.

You rolled onto the bed beside him, staring up at the ceiling as you sank into the warmth of the high buzzing through you. Your eyes felt heavy, but you ignored it — you really did need to sleep tonight. But it wasn’t tonight yet.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s different.” He held his hands up in front of his face. “I feel like there’s this… space in between me and me.”

“Weird, right?”

“And my pops does this?”

You nodded, “Your body gets used to it after awhile. You’re still high just not quite as… tingly.”

“It’s nice though.”

You rolled onto your side and draped your arm over his chest. “I want you to feel good.”

“I do.” He brushed his fingers over your hair. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you too.” You grinned, meeting his gaze before you both descended into laughter. “You’re so dorky.”

“Who me?”

“Yes. You’ve got this dorky face thing going on.” You gestured to his face. “You’ve taken five years off. At least.”

“Mmm, that could work in our favor.”

You swatted his chest and snorted, “Please. No. I can’t believe she even insinuated that! What a bitch.”

“You were incredible yesterday.” He told you warmly, stroking his fingers through your hair. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you.” You sank into his side. “I’m just… if I rest my eyes for five minutes will you still hold me?”

“I’ll hold you until the end of time, baby.”

“That sounds like a long time.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s forever.” He kissed your temple. “Relax, baby. Just sleep. And then we can… I’m a little tired too. Hungry and tired.”

“That’s nice.” You mumbled, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, before two sleepless nights got the better of you.

#javier pena #javier pena x reader #pedro pascal x reader

138 notes · View notes

pocketfulofrogers · 4 years

Text

Cover Me Up

Part 2

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Steve is still mesmerized by you, but while you’re juggling the lie and his life, you begin to question everything you’re doing.

Steve decides that after that night, he’ll take every opportunity he can to talk to you.

The first is when he finds you watching TV. Laid back in sweats with your hair piled on top of your head, chewing absentmindedly on a straw. For an hour he racks his brain for the best way to break the silence, too caught up in his own head to even start a conversation.

He wastes the opportunity on an offhand joke about an informercial you weren’t even paying attention to. Bucky bursts into laughter when you leave the room not long after and whispers his poor attempt at a joke low in his ear each time you walk past them for two days.

Later in the week, he bumps into you at breakfast, nearly knocking your cup of coffee right out of your hand. For a moment he wants to kick himself for making a fool of himself again, but then he notices the slight blush that tints your cheeks when you make your way around him.

The surge of confidence he gets is short lived, snuffed out by the sight of a light blue SHIELD file in your hand. He tries to hold it in, but the stir-crazy Avenger inside gets the best of him and he begins to hound you for details.

You laugh as he reaches almost longingly for it. “Just adding some fine details to a merc case Nat is working.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “I thought she finished that, well, them?”

Coolly, you smile and slide into another lie. “Almost, turns out there’s a little underground action, nothing major. But if it’s entertainment you’re looking for, I’ve got a story that involves me, a polar bear, and a bed sheet.”

Steve tries to be casual about it, about you, but Sam is relentless as he teases him for following you around like a puppy. You find it endearing in a way, find yourself growing fond of this friendship, but Natasha leaves you with some form a warning.

“Careful.” It’s low, whispered in passing with no context, not even a look.

Bucky rests his head, and his eyes, back against the wall he was leaning on. Sunday morning briefs were always a drag, but this particular one had been less enjoyable than usual. All he wanted was a burrito and a nap, but Steve had somehow managed to drag him into a conversation just around the corner from the kitchen.

“You can never have too much backup.” Bucky repeats the last thing he remembers Steve saying and hopes it fits the question.

When he opens his eyes, he sees you and your knitted brows turning a corner. Only a few moments pass before you come back, turning a different corner. It isn’t until he sees you pass the same corner twice that he flags you down.

Quickly, you slide the file in your hand behind your back and into the side pocket of your duffle. He flashes a lopsided grin your way as he jogs up.

“You lost?” He asks.

You hold your hands out and shrug. “Nat was supposed to give me a real tour but she got pulled into a briefing. I heard there’s some crazy high-tech gym here.” You tilt your head to the duffle on your hip.

“You’re close, but not quite.” Bucky throws a wink over his shoulder. “You know who gives great tours? Steve. Steve!” He bellows.

Steve takes a moment, caught between wishing he was on a month-long mission in the middle of the mountains and wanting to drag his friend through a few rounds. Instead, he smiles.

He leads you around, pointing out a few of the more notable places on the way. Not so casually, he mentions his room is only down the hall from yours and you’re surprised at how easy he had been making this.

In all honesty, however, the longer you spoke with him, the more days that went by, the louder the whisper of guilt got. It nipped at the back of your mind each time he genuinely seemed to care, screaming that he didn’t deserve to be played like this.

It’s not long before it becomes about more than the spaces within these walls. He tells you about the team, speaks of them so fondly, with so much respect, all you can do is listen. There are a few stories he offers up. A dented wall from Sam wrestling Bucky just a little too hard, a passive aggressive sign about cleaning the fridge still hanging from when Natasha found an old container of something Clint had forgotten about.

There’s so much laughter that you begin to feel your heart ache. All your life you had looked for something like this and now here you were. Expected to get the job done and head back onto the road.

You imagine Natasha will try to convince you to stay, but you can’t build a home off a foundation made entirely of lies.

“What brought you here?” He asks breaking your small shame spiral.

“Sorry?”

“All I heard was that you’ve known Nat for a while and she’s trying to get you to stay?”

“Oh, yeah. We ran into each other on a few ops when I was in the CIA. We seemed to work well together, so I kept her number. After I left, she got me started on doing my own thing. That’s how I generally prefer it now, working alone.”

“Why the Avengers then?”

You stop a smile at him. “She thinks I’m meant for bigger things.” He nods as you continue walking, contemplating the very vague amount of information he’s been able to get from you. “Is this it?” You ask pointing to a wall of glass. “Doesn’t look too fancy.”

Steve chuckles. “The equipment is pretty standard. Stark wrote some kind of program that will analyze your workouts and techniques and tell you everything you’re doing wrong.”

“Lovely.” You mutter.

He leaves you there with nothing more than a smile, a nod, and a promise to give you something more in-depth later. You’re grateful, as what you were actually looking for was Fury’s office, but it’s not like you can ask without raising any questions. Heading back the way Steve took you, you discover a new corridor with an elevator that looks promising.

It’s another hour before you’ve stumbled into his office. Fury looks up from his desk, eyebrow raised.

“You know,” You huff. “Would be a lot easier to find you if I knew where I was going.” Wordlessly he hands you a map and gives you a ‘is that all’ look. Digging into your duffle you pull out the thick file and plop it on his desk.

This piques his interest. “What’s this?”

“A full report on the 98 names I cleared this week.”

“On top of the 63 at the gala? How?”

You cock your hip to the side, the only evidence of your irritation besides your tone. “Yes. It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you know how to talk to people.” He doesn’t find the humor in your joke. “I used the gala to drop a few comments about money troubles and the bounty on Steve’s head so it’s only a matter of time before he comes for me.”

“No one seemed skeptical?”

“Listen, I know Nat pushed you into this, but I promise I’m very good. I put an image out there of an outsider in over her head looking for what she thinks will be easy money. It’s when he underestimates me that I’ll be able to take him out with ease.”

He keeps his features emotionless except for the slightest twitch of one brow. “Impressive.”

“I Just don’t see why I need to get that close to get the job done.”

Natasha groans. “It is too soon for you to be falling in love with a mark, it hasn’t even been two weeks.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not in love with him, and he’s not a mark. I just think it’s a little messed up.”

“Sure, messed up for you, but not for the girl taking advantage of a friendship to gain the trust of a man worth $500 million so you can slit his throat easier.”

You look up at the ceiling. “I get where you’re coming from, but I’m telling you I can do this without the manipulation.”

“When did you get soft?” She asks the question and you react as if it were a slap to the face.

“Do not call me soft.” You spit. “I’m trying to save your friend without breaking his heart. Maybe show a little gratitude.”

Natasha recoils. She had never seen you like this. Emotional and defiant. Sure, she’s had to spend some time reeling you back in, but this was different. For a moment she considers how loyal she knows you to be, but that kind of loyalty took time for you. More time than you had spent here. This was as if you had drawn a line in the sand, for the first time declaring something you won’t do.

“What is it about him?”

You shake your head. “This isn’t about him, Nat. Maybe I’m just a little tired of always having to be the bad guy just to do the right thing.”

You had planned on just taking the rest of the night to shift through personnel files, but the moment you turned the corner to the hall that housed your room, you bumped into Tony startling yourself.

He quickly reaches out to steady you. “Sorry, I just wanted to catch you earlier rather than later. You may have heard, but there’s a wedding next week.”

You laugh. “I don’t think there’s a soul with decent internet connection that doesn’t know about your wedding.”

You could be mistaken, but you swear you see a blush rise on his cheeks. “Right. Since we’re supposedly trying to get you on the team, I figured leaving you out of that would look bad. I talked with Pepper and she’s added you to the guest list.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, thank you.” There’s genuine appreciation in your voice.

He disappears quickly as he had only a few minutes to track you down before some experiment he was working on finished it’s first phase. Natasha would be happy to hear that she won’t have to bribe an invitation out of Pepper for reasons she can’t disclose.

You reach down to your doorknob, turning it slightly, aching for today to just be over. The door has barely cracked open when you hear the unmistakable click of a trigger.

#Steve Rogers #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #natasha romanoff #Nick Fury #tony stark

9 notes · View notes

rachelkaser · 3 years

Text

Stay Golden Sunday Reissue: The Heart Attack

Note: This is a repost of an older Stay Golden Sunday that had to be redone for housekeeping reasons.

Sophia becomes very ill one night and is convinced she’s going to die. The Girls confront the idea of mortality.

Picture It…

The Girls bid farewell to their guests as a storm rages outside. They praise Sophia for the meal she cooked for everyone, and Blanche says it was even better than the food she ate in Italy. The Girls tell Sophia to take a load off in the living room. They start the dishes in the kitchen, while Rose talks about her family’s Scandinavian cooking.

Back in the living room, Sophia says she’s got a “bubble” of pressure in her chest. Rose thinks it might be gas, but Dorothy says her mother isn’t looking so good. Blanche goes to call the doctor. Sophia clutches her chest as the bubble turns to pain. Dorothy lays her down, while Sophia worries she could be having a heart attack. Blanche says the doctor was out, so she called the paramedics.

DOROTHY: Ma, you know, you don’t look good. SOPHIA: I’m short and I’m old. What did you expect, Princess Di?

The two discuss their family’s deaths – which include a fall from a donkey and misfiring a gun while taking out the garbage – to rule out the possibility of heart disease. Blanche and Rose talk about how death should come without pain or illness, getting sidetracked until Dorothy shuts them up. They go to make coffee, while Sophia begins to worry she’ll die. She starts giving Dorothy instructions on what to do after she’s dead, and says Dorothy was always her favorite, even if she never showed it.

In the kitchen, Rose and Blanche discuss death. Rose says her family members live to their 90s and 100s, which Blanche attributes to the Minnesota cold slowing down the aging process. They also discuss cremation vs burial: Rose wants to be buried with all her sentimental items, while Blanche wants to be buried in Arlington Cemetery because it’s full of men. Sophia tells Dorothy she loves her. When Rose and Blanche return with the coffee, she thanks them for keeping her company. She decides to rest while Blanche goes to call the paramedics again.

BLANCHE: Do you want to be buried or cremated? ROSE: Neither! BLANCHE: What do you want to be, flushed down the toilet like a goldfish?

Rose tells Dorothy it’s probably not a heart attack, as she’s seen one and they’re bigger. She recounts Charlie’s heart attack to Dorothy, which happened while they were making love (she told Arnie this back in Episode 3, but this is the first time she’s told one of the other Girls). She dressed him before emergency services arrived, and his last words were that he loved her. Blanche returns and says the paramedics are held up by the storm, and they’ll just have to wait… and pray, as Rose adds.

The Girls crowd Sophia, who wakes up and tells them she had a near-death experience and saw Heaven. She describes seeing her husband and asks Dorothy to get her rosary. Blanche’s main interest is if there are lots of men in Heaven (which… why wouldn’t there be?), and eventually goes to help Dorothy. Left alone with Sophia, Rose bugs the crap out of her by recounting farm stories.

BLANCHE: What about men? Are there lots of men in Heaven? ROSE: Oh Blanche, come on! BLANCHE: Well you asked her about God and Jesus!

In Sophia’s room, Dorothy’s going through Sophia’s things, looking for the rosary. She tells Blanche that she’s not ready for Sophia to die, and that she’ll still feel like an orphan at her age. She breaks down in tears at the thought, and Blanche comforts her by saying Blanche and Rose are her family too, and they’re there for her.

In comes Dr. Harris, presumably Elliott’s replacement as their house-call doctor. He inspects Sophia and finds her side is sensitive, so he asks her what she ate recently. The girls list a truly disgusting amount of food, including scungilli, fried mozzarella, and two boxes of Milk Duds. Dr. Harris says it’s not a heart attack, but more likely a gallbladder attack from overeating. Sophia is instantly relieved, but takes back what she said about Dorothy being her favorite now that she’s not dying.

Later that evening, the Girls minus Sophia (who’s presumably resting) talk about mortality in the kitchen. They question the reason they worry about things like dieting when they’re going to die eventually – a thinly veiled excuse to eat some chocolate cake and ice cream. They do eventually get turned off of the dessert when they realize that, while they are going to die eventually, they’ll feel the negative effects of overeating immediately, like Sophia did. They decide to go out for a walk (one hopes the storm is not still raging), and Blanche brings it back around to her favorite topic:

BLANCHE: Let’s go for a walk. ROSE: Right, burn it off! DOROTHY: Are you kidding? After what we ate, we’d have to walk to Canada. BLANCHE: Oh, Mounties! I love Canadian men!

“You couldn’t say ‘belch?’ What is it, a Viking curse?”

This is the first episode that centers around Sophia, and given the multiple references to her age and health in the preceding nine episodes, it’s fitting that it’s about a health scare. Estelle Getty, who has mostly played comic relief up to this point in the series, gets her shot at carrying the dramatic half of an episode – and she definitely delivers.

To be a little real with you, this episode has been hard for me to watch the last few years, ever since my mother died. She was the one who introduced me to Golden Girls, and episodes like this hurt both because I know now she and I will never have that Dorothy-and-Sophia rapport in old age like I always assumed – my mom was not even 60 when she died – and because I was basically in Dorothy’s position at the time. If I could have chosen a quote to describe the months of my life after my mother died, it’d probably be this one:

DOROTHY: It doesn’t matter. You lose a parent, you might as well be six. It’s scary. And it pushes you right up to the head of the line.

I appreciate that, when confronted with the possibility that she might die, Sophia’s not accepting or serene even though she’s very old. I think there’s a perception that, when you get old, you just have to accept that you might die soon and be okay with it because you’ve “lived a full life” or some such nonsense. Instead, Sophia outright says “I’m not ready” and that she’d take even one more day of life.

I leave it to other shows to try and teach people to accept death with grace. I prefer Golden Girls’s way, which is to say “Screw that,” and portray the octogenarian matriarch as not wanting to die. There’s something very real in Sophia saying she never really thought she would die.

SOPHIA: 80 years old, and it would come as a complete surprise.

There’s quite a bit of real-world backstory to this one, too. Originally, it was intended to be broadcast live, which is why it’s the first episode since the pilot to take place entirely within the confines of the Girls’ home. According to Golden Girls Forever (quite a treasure trove), NBC had done a live episode of Gimme a Break and attempted to replicate its success with a night of live shows, ostensibly to promote Saturday Night Live. Golden Girls would have been one of about five shows to air its episodes live.

At first all the other shows were onboard, but then showrunners protested the final offering of the night, a detective show called Hunter, couldn’t be filmed live. So the live plan was scrapped. Director Jim Drake remembered it as being for the best, since the actresses weren’t really equipped to do the show in a single live, continuous taping. While their shows were filmed in front of a live studio audience, they still had the option of doing multiple takes. Somewhat relevant, but here’s a video of Golden Girls bloopers:

youtube

The other real-world issue that influenced the filming of this episode was one that also cast a pall over the previous episode – the death of Bea Arthur’s and Betty White’s mothers. But while it seemed to throw off the chemistry of the previous episode to a certain extent, if anything it helps this one. There are differing accounts as to whether Rose’s monologue about Charlie’s death was drawn from the deaths of White’s mother or her husband, Allen Ludden. I suspect it’s a combination of both, but you can see she’s genuinely crying while talking about it.

My only real criticism of this episode is that the final scene doesn’t really seem like it’s attached the rest of the story. The Girls talk about their own mortality, and how the fact of dying makes things seem trivial. They don’t even mention Sophia, despite the rest of the episode revolving around her. It feels like a discussion they might have after a friend died – or, more accurately, a scene inserted by a writer who wanted to opine about death for five minutes.

That’s not even mentioning the fact that the way the Girls behave in this scene is very at odds with the rest of the episode. It’s just strange to me that they’d come to the conclusion that, since they’re going to die, they might as well gorge themselves on rich food, when doing so is the exact reason Sophia had a gallbladder attack – and they just heard a doctor tell her that.

Regardless, this is another great Susan Harris episode, and the first episode that puts Sophia front and center. While it’s a bit melancholy there are enough jokes interspersed throughout to keep it from being a downer.

Episode rating: 🍰🍰🍰🍰 (four cheesecake slices out of five)

Favorite part of the episode:

The Girls crowd around a sleeping Sophia (see the image at the top of the article), and she wakes with a shout, scaring them all. When Dorothy asks her what’s wrong, she says:

SOPHIA: What? You’re sitting on top of me. I open my eyes, I see pores like that, I think I’m on the moon!

#golden girls #stay golden #stay golden sunday #the heart attack #rose nylund #sophia petrillo #blanche devereaux #dorothy zbornak #s01e10 #picture it

3 notes · View notes

starlightbuck · 4 years

Note

It took me far too long to decide, wow but I shall request #23 please!

23. Happening to sit next to each other on a park bench, reading the same book.

you gotta read between the lines || read on AO3

“Here, take this.”

Eddie looks down at the book that May has thrust into his hands. The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin - he’s never heard of it. “What-”

“I overheard you telling Bobby that you want to read more so I figured I’d let you borrow one of my favorites.”

Eddie’s confusion gives way to understanding and is followed shortly thereafter by a burst of affection that he’s sure May would much rather he not put on display while surrounded by their family. And that’s what this, the 118, has become for him - a family.

It’s something his parents swore up and down he’d never have after he told them about his decision to leave Texas. He might find better job opportunities, but he’d never find anything better than the family he was leaving behind.

How wrong they were.

“Thanks, May. I’m looking forward to reading it.”

It’s a statement he means wholeheartedly. After a few months, Eddie has finally found a way to balance his work and home life, but he’s still lacking in any hobbies that he can call his own. Maybe that’s what reading can become for him - a moment of peace in his otherwise hectic day-to-day schedule.

May tilts her head to the side and stares at him for a moment before holding her hand out to him. “Give me your phone.”

He does as he’s told without asking, even if he doesn’t know what she’s planning to do.

Her fingers move across his screen with a speed that Eddie finds a little intimidating. In no time at all, she hands him back his phone. “I put my number in so you can text me your thoughts on the book.”

Eddie shouldn’t make a big deal out of this exchange, but there’s a small part of him that wants to. He’s an adult, May’s a teenager, and she just willingly gave him her phone number. And told him to text her. Does this make him cool now?

He’ll consult Hen later to find out.

“I can do that.”

Eddie starts the book while at work and regrets that decision immediately.

The first interruption comes from Bobby.

“Put that book down, Eddie. You’re helping me cook lunch.”

The next one is from Chim.

“Hey, Eight-Pack! Help me clean the truck!”

And then Hen.

“Eddie, please come and explain to Chim why I’m the superior video gamer.”

Then the alarm goes off and Eddie leaves the book behind in his locker. It remains untouched for the rest of his shift.

Eddie (9:42pm): i’m not sure who i’d want to be paired up with if i was in this game

May (10:01pm): you JUST got to that part??

May (10:02pm): i’m disappointed

Eddie (10:07pm): i’ll try to read faster

May (10:15pm): good

“Daddy, what are you doing?”

“Reading a book.”

Chris takes a seat beside his dad on the sofa and leans heavily against Eddie’s arm. “I’m bored. Can we do something?”

“I thought you were having fun drawing,” Eddie answers, eyes still skimming the words on the page in front of him. He’s managed to make some leeway with the book and now that he’s gotten into it, it’s been harder for him to put it down.

“I was but now I’m not. Please can we do something?”

“Chris.”

“I said please.”

Chris peers up at his dad from under golden eyelashes with a pout firmly in place. He’s only doing it to sway Eddie’s decision and not because he’s genuinely upset but that doesn’t stop the sight from tugging uncomfortably at Eddie’s chest. If there’s one thing that’s guaranteed to hurt Eddie, it’s his son’s unhappiness. The reaction can easily be traced back to not being around when Chris was growing up.

That guilt that will haunt him forever.

It’s what pushes him to mark the page he’s on before closing the book. “What do you think about having a movie night?”

Chris’s eyes light up at the suggestion. It’s the best thing Eddie’s seen all day.

“Really?”

“Of course. How about you pick out a couple of movies and I’ll order us some pizza?”

Chris nods enthusiastically and is about to get up from the sofa when he stops. Eddie is going to ask what’s wrong, but the words get lodged in his throat when his son crawls into Eddie’s lap. He wraps his arms around his dad’s neck and plants a loud kiss on his cheek.

“I love you, daddy.”

The show of affection is almost second nature for Chris, but Eddie knows a time will come when that stops being the case. It’s as depressing a thought as it is unavoidable. Chris will get older and doing things like cuddling with Eddie and randomly saying ‘I love you’ will become nothing more than a rare occurrence.

Until then, he plans to cherish every single one of these moments and then lock them away for safekeeping.

Eddie wraps his arms around Chris, holding him as close as he can and kisses his son’s forehead. “I love you too.”

Eddie (5:45pm): ANOTHER bomb? How many are there?

May (8:32pm): keep reading and you’ll find out

With Christopher at Abuela’s and no shifts scheduled for the day, Eddie decides to take advantage of the cool Sunday weather and go to the park to get some reading done. By the time he gets there, the park is bustling with energy from children and adults alike. It takes Eddie almost ten minutes to find an empty bench but it’s worth it when he settles into his spot. It’s far enough away from the playground that the sound of yelling is nothing but background noise and close enough to a tree that protects him from the sun in case it decides to peek out from behind the clouds.

He leans back in the seat, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. Then he takes the book out of the bag he brought it in, always cautious of how he carries it since it’s a loaner, and dives in.

Eddie’s eyes follow the words with anticipation, drinking in every sentence as he reads them, not wanting to miss a single detail. He’s nearing the end and is desperate to see how the author is planning to wrap everything up. He has a couple of guesses, but the only way to determine if they’re correct is to finish the book.

“Excuse me?”

Eddie flips to the next page.

A throat clears and then, “uhm, hello?”

Eddie barely refrains from growling at the intrusion. The point of coming to the park to read was being able to do so without any interruptions.

He is nothing if not polite though, a trait that he attributes to his abuela. His parents might’ve taught him how to behave himself, but it was Abuela who taught him how to go out into the world and greet people with a smile.

“Yes?” Eddie says, grin locking in place when he looks up and finds a man with bright blue eyes staring back at him with a hopeful smile of his own. The sun is only just making a home for itself in the sky and the glow from its rays reflects off of the man’s hair and gives him an angelic glow. It’s almost too much for Eddie to handle.

Almost.

“I was just wondering if I could sit with you?” He gestures to the small part of the bench that’s empty. It’s possible that Eddie spread his things out when he first sat down so that no one would be tempted to join him. “I’ve done two laps around the park, but there are no other open seats.”

Eddie might’ve preemptively tried to keep strangers from intruding in his space, but he figures he can make an exception for this guy. That decision has nothing to do with how attractive he finds him and everything to do with the manners he picked up from Abuela. It’s what she would do as well, he’s sure.

“Yeah, of course.”

He grabs his jacket and backpack and slides over to the left end of the bench instead of staying in the middle. The man sits on the opposite end.

“I really appreciate this, thanks.”

The words have the potential to sound insincere or sarcastic, but coming from this man’s lips, they’re anything but.

“You’re welcome.”

Eddie wants to say more, find a way to continue a conversation with this beautiful stranger, but he doesn’t know how. He’s very out of practice when it comes to conversing with anyone outside of his family. It’s not something that he thinks about until it inconveniences him, and this is definitely one of those times. It also acts as a reminder that he should try his hand at putting himself out there again. It might be scary, but he owes himself that much.

Next time.

Next time he’ll be ready to actually engage in a conversation with someone who piques his interest.

Until then, he’ll cut his losses for today and jump back into his book. Maybe if he finds the courage to do so, Eddie can sneak a couple of sideways glances at the guy. That’s not creepy, right?

“Are you reading The Westing Game?”

The question catches Eddie off guard as he fumbles to hold up the book. “Yeah, I am.”

“Me too,” the blond says as he turns towards Eddie and pulls out a worn copy of the book out of his back pocket.

Eddie’s eyes are temporarily drawn to a red bookmark sticking out at the end of the book, before settling on the cover itself. The cover is different from his, but the title is the same.

Eddie has no clue what the odds are of this happening, but he’s more thankful than ever to May. Not only has the book been the perfect option for him to turn to occupy his free time, it’s also acting as a way for him to continue talking to this guy.

“How do you feel about it so far?”

It’s the perfect conversation starter and Eddie latches onto it right away.

“I’m really enjoying it,” he begins before diving into a more in-depth explanation of his thoughts.

He talks about everything from the characters to the storylines that took him by surprise to the theories he has for how the book will end. It all comes rushing out of him in a way that words usually don’t and he’s proud of himself up until the guy sitting across from him laughs.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, using his free hand to cover a smile. “I’m not laughing at you, I promise.”

Seeing as though there’s no one else around, it really feels like Eddie is being laughed at. It picks and prods at a deep-seated sense of inadequacy that he’d really rather not be experiencing on his day off.

“Was I rambling?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just, I never said how far into the book I was.”

Mortification seeps into Eddie’s veins in an instant, coursing through his body and making him warm all over. “I saw your bookmark placement and assumed...”

“I just put it in a random spot of the book so I wouldn’t forget it.”

“Oh.”

This is what Eddie gets for assuming, isn’t it? How does that saying go again? When you make an assumption, you make an ass out of you and me?

It’s safe to say that he has definitely made an ass out of himself.

“So, I just spoiled the entire book for you?” The guy doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. The answer is written all over his face. “Shit, I am so sorry. You came here to enjoy your book and instead you got stuck next to an idiot who doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.”

“Hey, no it’s okay. Really. I liked hearing what your thoughts on the book are. Gives me a better idea of what I have in store for me when I start reading it myself.”

The smile on the blond’s face makes it seem as though he’s not annoyed but Eddie’s not convinced. Had someone done the same thing to him, he would be less than impressed. It’s why he starts packing up his things to go, making sure to put his book away first. The guy has reserved the right to enjoy some quiet time without Eddie there to disturb him anymore.

“I still can’t believe I did that.” Eddie stands up, slings his backpack over his shoulder and twists the fabric of his jacket in his hands. He’ll finish his book at home. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He gives an awkward wave and sets off in the direction of the car, all the while internally chastising himself for the foolish mistake.

“Wait!”

Eddie is tempted to ignore the command, but his still deeply ingrained army training makes it hard to do so. He stops walking and the guy is there, standing in front of him, only seconds later. He’s holding his book in his hands and Eddie tries not to cringe.

“You don’t have to leave.” Eddie is about to argue otherwise when the stranger adds, “I know you feel bad about the book. But what if you make it up to me another way instead?”

“And how would I do that?”

“You can take me out for coffee.”

Eddie can’t keep his jaw from falling open. Out of everything he was expecting the guy to say, this was the last thing he had in mind. “Huh?”

“Take me out for coffee,” he repeats, scratching the back of his neck. “Only if you want to.”

“I do,” Eddie answers, perhaps a little too quickly. “I’m Eddie by the way.”

“Buck.” It’s an odd name, but it’s something Eddie intends to comment on. “Now c’mon, that bench is big enough for the both of us and I know you’re dying to finish your book.”

Eddie (3:42pm): met a cute guy at the park and accidentally spoiled the book for him

Eddie (3:43pm): and then he asked me out for coffee

Eddie (3:43pm): also, i finished the book

May (5:02pm): we’re going out for lunch this weekend and you’re telling me everything (your thoughts about the book and this cute guy)

Eddie (6:00pm): you got it

Eddie is half-asleep on the sofa when the front door opens. He shifts at the sound, body too heavy to move into a sitting position.

“Eddie?”

“Hm?”

Feet move carefully across the hardwood floor and then there’s a body sliding into the space right in front of Eddie’s. It’s a tight squeeze, but Eddie wouldn’t want it any other way.

“You didn’t have to wait up for me,” Buck murmurs, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist and kissing his forehead.

Eddie melts into his boyfriend’s arms the way that he always does. Even after two years together, the novelty of being held by Buck has yet to wear off.

“I wanted to.”

Eddie nuzzles against Buck’s neck, drawing a small laugh out of the younger man.

“Someone’s extra cuddly today.”

There was a time when a comment like that would’ve been enough to shame Eddie into pulling away and apologizing. This, being open with how much he craves affection, is something he’s worked hard towards since him and Buck officially became a couple though. Now that he’s allowed himself to have it, there’s no way he’s ever turning back. “I missed you.”

Another laugh. “I was only gone for a few hours.”

“A few hours too long.”

Buck starts running his hand up and down the length of Eddie’s back and that plus the silence around them lulls Eddie right back onto the verge of sleep.

“I have a confession to make.”

“Mhm?”

“I lied to you.”

The words are like a bucket of cold water, effectively waking Eddie up. He presses his back against the couch, earning himself an inch or two of space away from Buck. He tilts his head up, sees the guilt in Buck’s eyes, and feels his breath hitch.

“About what?” Eddie asks, hating how his voice cracks.

He trusts Buck implicitly and knows he’d never do anything to hurt Eddie, but that can’t stop fear from making a home in his heart.

Buck has to be able to feel how tense Eddie is but he stills his hand, keeping it pressed against Eddie’s back. It’s the anchor that grounds him, the only thing keeping him from running away from whatever it is Buck has to say like Eddie so desperately wants to.

“Remember that first day we met?”

Of course Eddie does. How can he forget the day that changed the course of his life forevermore? “Yes.”

“And how you thought you spoiled The Westing Game for me?”

“Yes.”

Years later, Eddie can still remember how mortified he was on that day when he realized what he had done. They’ve told the story many times whenever people ask them how they first met, and the story usually ends with a lot of laughter and Eddie hiding his face in his hands.

“It’s maybe possible that I withheld the truth just a little that day.”

“Withheld it how?”

Buck’s hand curls into a fist at Eddie’s back, a surefire sign that he’s nervous.

“You didn’t actually spoil it for me.”

Eddie must still be a little sleepy, that’s why Buck’s words don’t make sense. “What do you mean?”

“That wasn’t my first time reading The Westing Game.”

The admission takes a minute to register but, once it does, Eddie is left reeling. “Do you-does that-you mean I didn’t spoil it for you?”

“Technically no.”

“Technically?”

“That was my first time reading it in a couple of years, so I had forgotten a lot of the details you mentioned, but I did remember the way it ended.”

Eddie blames the late hour for his lack of filter and for saying what he does next.

“I want a divorce.”

Buck reels back like he’s been slapped and maybe, in a way, he has been. There’s hurt written in the lines of his face, but also understanding. It’s almost as if he was expecting this reaction. He opens his mouth to respond, to say what, Eddie isn’t sure. Because realization dawns on Buck and he says, “we’re not married.”

“Yeah I know.”

Buck uses the arm that is still slung over Eddie’s waist to do away with the small space between them and tuck Eddie against his chest. “You scared me for a second there.”

“You scared me too.”

“I’m sorry I lied.”

Eddie rests his hand right over Buck’s heart, feeling his accelerated heartbeat thrumming under his fingers. He closes his eyes again and lets it lull him back to sleep. “It’s fine. You can be the one to tell our family that you were so desperate to date me that you lied so you could ask me out.”

“I hate you.”

Eddie tilts his head up just enough to kiss Buck’s neck. “Love you too.”

Eddie (1:02am): buck’s been lying to me this whole time

May (10:02am): did he finally tell you about the westing game?

Eddie (10:55am): you knew??

May (11:02am): yeah he told me a year and a half ago

May (11:03am): i think it makes your meet cute even cuter

Eddie (12:02pm): i cannot believe this. deceived by my boyfriend and my pseudo-niece on the same day.

May (12:15pm): don’t be so dramatic

May (12:19pm): you, me, chris and maddie still going ring shopping this weekend?

May (12:20pm): i better not have interrogated your boyfriend about his taste in jewelry for nothing

Eddie (2:03pm): yeah, we’re still on for this weekend. I’ll see you then.

#buddie #buddie fic #911 fic #911 #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buck x eddie #prompt fill #my writing #benjisvictor

24 notes · View notes

amysubmits · 4 years

Note

What areas of life would you say are out of the purview of a Dom? I remember a while back you responded to a post about a Dom telling their sub to vote for a particular political party and you seemed very against that. I would also assume any life-altering decisions (ie. moving, having a child) must be made by both partners, not merely decided by the Dom. Where do you set these boundaries in your relationship and where do you think is a reasonable place for others to set them?

Well, I try to be open-minded about the reality that all submissives are different and all relationships are different. So I think where those lines should be drawn can vary really dramatically depending on the people, the relationship, and other factors. I think if a submissive doesn’t feel assured that if they let go of an area of control, that their needs will still be met, and that the responsibility will be handled well, then that is ‘too far’ for them. But it’s also just possible that something may not be ‘too far’ in an unhealthy way exactly, but may just not be a way that the sub or the couple wants to do D/s.

I think what you may be trying to get at is, what things are *always* too far? This is just my opinion that is largely based on my own instincts, which I think is all any of us can go on because we don’t have definitive answers on what may or maynot be damaging in D/s. But in my mind, D/s shouldn’t be used to change who someone is, to try to control their addiction or mental health. Those are the two main things that come to mind, I guess.

I think it’s great for D/s couples to support each other's mental health, but not to try to control it or take responsibility for it. I don’t think rules or punishments or rewards should be used to try to require a sub to avoid addictive behaviors or mental health behaviors. I just think it’s messy and potentially dangerous, and is kind of trying to ‘play’ psychologist. I also think it’s bad to see it as your responsibility even. I don’t think it’s good for partners to feel like ‘well they’re having a bad day so it’s my job to figure out how to make them happy’ or whatever it may be. You can’t take responsibility for someone else's wellbeing on that level. Try to support how and when you can, but don’t feel like it’s your job to fix their mood, cure their addiction, correct their mental health issue,etc.

With identity or not changing who you are...that’s pretty subjective. But I don’t think it’s good to feel like you’re being asked to let go of a piece of what makes you, you. Or I don’t think it’s good if a sub feels like they’re having to become something or someone that just isn’t natural to who they are. In my mind, red flags related to identity and D/s would be things like trying to force a “tomboy” sub to wear dresses, or trying to cut off contact with the subs friends or family, or saying crap like ‘what you want doesn’t matter, you should find all your pleasure in pleasing me.” or “You don’t need to think for yourself.” or “Daddy is always right.” in genuine ways. As roleplay, pretend, dirty talk, that is no big deal. But genuinely thinking that a sub shouldn’t have needs and desires of their own outside of pleasing their dom, genuinely thinking a sub doesn’t need to think for themselves, genuinely thinking that a sub should always pretend their dom is right...those things all suggest to me that the submissives identity is being ignored and I don’t see that as okay.

The identity reason is why I agreed with that ask about voting. I see voting as a way that we express our moral values and/or our moral priorities. And our personal values are just such a big piece of what makes us who we are. That the idea of a dom trying to tell a sub they have to vote the way the dom wants them to...that just tells me that the dom doesn’t value the submissives values/beliefs. Which to me is quite dehumanizing, really.

I agree with you that big decisions like moving or having children shouldn’t be solely decided by a dom. In my mind that falls into the ‘identity’ category. I think adults need a say in major decisions in their lives for their own mental wellbeing and sense of importance, respect, etc. However, in general, I don’t think that allowing an area of your life to be controlled by your Dom has to *at all* mean that it’s solely his decision. Even in the areas where CD has explicit control, I still get to share my opinion and preferences as much as I want. It’s just that he gets the final say, or like 51% of the vote. Which for me is really important. Even on insignificant issues, if I wasn’t allowed to express my preferences on something, I wouldn’t feel respected in the way I need to feel respected in order to have a loving relationship and to feel like a true partnership. I can feel respected if he hears what I want and tells me no. I can feel respected if I tell him how I think something would be best handled, but he decides to handle it another way. I can’t feel respected if he doesn’t even want to hear my preferences and opinions. That’s not to say that he specifically asks my opinion all the time, particularly on ‘smaller’ issues he might just tell me what he plans to do. But, I always know I can speak up and share my opinion whenever. And for bigger issues he always makes things a conversation and explicitly invites my input. He doesn’t want to decide big things entirely on his own as that wouldn’t feel good to him either.

As far as where we draw our lines? Well, some of the ‘kinda farther out there’ things that CD gets the final say on would be where we live/move, big financial decisions, health care decisions for our dogs, health insurance decisions, our work/life balance, we practice sexual availability, etc. As far as what's too far for me? None of these are things CD would want to control but...when we have kids, what I eat, how I speak, and I just generally need to not feel micro-managed. For example, I wouldn’t be okay with a D/s style where he gave me a scheduled that mapped out every 30 minutes of my life all day long. I wouldn't be okay with having to ask to go to the bathroom. I wouldn’t be okay with being given ‘busy work’. I wouldn’t be okay with him wanting to do “too much” for me, like in general I wouldn’t want to feel like he was treating me like child. I’m sure there are others. It’s kinda hard to really think about because we’ve never really sat down and created boundaries, we’ve just always kinda naturally felt things out. Most of our D/s is based around domestic stuff and letting him lead our relationship. So if he wanted me to start mopping the floor on Sundays he knows he could just give me that rule pretty much without even asking. But he also knows things that are more emotional or sensitive for me that might be harder for me to let go of, so if he wanted to encourage me to work on something we’d talk about it and he’d ask in a case like that. So overstepping just isn’t an issue we’ve had, even though we don’t have a formal list of what is off-limits. I think we’re also just kinda lucky that our natural inclinations for what we both like him to control are pretty similar. But anyway, most of these things I that I say would be ‘too far’ for me, aren’t about being ‘too far’ for D/s in general they are just things that aren’t right for the type of submissive I am personally.

7 notes · View notes

raendown · 5 years

Link

Shout-out to you-know-who-you-are for reminding me to post this because I honestly didn’t even realize it was Sunday. Whoops!

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 4088 Chapter: 14/? Summary: Not all wars are fought on the battlefield. Some are fought at the conference table, with whispers in the shadows, or even in the bedroom.

In a world where the Senju and Uchiha traditional lands were too far apart to have ever made them enemies, Butsuma and Tajima are the ones who come together and sign a treaty of peace. Madara isn’t happy to have his life signed away for him in a political marriage to strengthen the bond between their clans. He is even less happy to have Tobirama make assumptions of him from their very first night together. What follows from there is a journey of healing, of learning, and finding the places to belong in the places least expected.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Chapter 14

“I’m not sure why you’re so worried about solving the problem right this second.” Touka examined her fried squid with a little too much interest to be genuine before delicately catching a piece between her teeth and nibbling it away from the stick. Her apparent disinvestment in their conversation did not fool him for a moment.

“They’re brothers, closer maybe than Hashirama and I.”

“Doesn’t take much,” Touka interrupted with a scoff, her words muffle around the mouthful of squid.

Tobirama ignored her. “Izuna means a lot to Madara and having a wedge like this between the brother he loves and the husband he’s contractually stuck with, it’s got him in knots. He’s moping. But you didn’t hear me say that because every time I use the word moping he gets prissy and starts yelling about the difference between moping and thoughtful silences.”

Pausing to let an older couple pass in front of them in the busy marketplace, he shared a secret look with his favorite cousin.

“Does he get that squinty look? The really hot one where he starts puffing his chest out?”

“Every time,” Tobirama answered.

Touka laughed as she pulled the last of her squid off its stick, popping the morsel in her mouth and tossing the stick in a public trash bin when they passed one. “Shame he’s so mouthy, really. You got lucky in the looks department but he’s too loud for my tastes.”

“I kind of like him the way he is.” Sensing her eyes drilling in to the side of his head, Tobirama huffed. “Yes, I know. Don’t bother saying it. This is supposed to happen in a marriage but – and I never thought I would have to say this about myself – getting attached like this probably isn’t really the best idea.” Knuckles brushing against his own was Touka’s way of expressing sympathy out here where so many strangers could see them.

“Be careful,” was all she said, simple words that carried a depth of meaning very few would be able to discern.

“No promises,” Tobirama shot back. She rolled her eyes at him but let the subject drop.

When they turned the next corner they were treated to the sight of the afternoon sunlight laying a golden crown around the tower that made the center of their village. After getting caught up in a meeting with the Sanitation Committee about why burying their garbage right next to a residential area wasn’t a great solution such a vision was more than welcome, reminding him of the few reasons he did think this village was a good idea. He had missed his usual lunch hour before of the meeting and so ended up taking a late break with Touka as she came off patrol. Now that they were done eating he would have to go back to the drone of paperwork.

Sometimes he really missed risking his life on missions. At least it was never boring.

He had planned to part ways with Touka after she saw him back to his office but they never made it that far, stopped in the hallway by a large crowd of people and immediately drawn by the same curiosity as everyone else had been: raised voices. Both of the shouting voices were unfortunately quite familiar. It wasn’t the first time that Tajima and Butsuma had argued in public, something that had been growing more and more common since the first time after Tajima caught Butsuma yelling at one of his sons, and the only reason Tobirama hadn’t made any attempts to rein his father in was the fact that it didn’t seem to be affecting how well the rest of their clans worked together.

From what he could understand of their yelling it didn’t appear that Tajima had gotten the message on that. It seemed like the longer they worked together and the more people joined this venture they had pioneered the more paranoid he grew about everything that went on around him. Tobirama wished he could say that Butsuma balanced him out with level-headed responses but unfortunately much the opposite was true.

“He is my son, not your own! It should not be for you to say where he goes and when!” Tajima’s voice sounded livid and his face, when they finally fought their way through the crowd, was red with anger. Not an unfamiliar sight.

“This mission requires a certain skill set and Izuna matches that perfectly. Should I pretend the entirety of the Uchiha clan does not exist when assigning teams for each mission?” Butsuma’s face was hardly faring any better and his body language was just as aggressive, much to Tobirama’s tired irritation.

“You do as much whenever it pleases you from what I can tell!”

“I beg your pardon?” Butsuma’s eyes narrowed. Tajima did not take the warning.

Stepping forward almost threateningly, he made wide gestures to match his accusations. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how often my clan members get sent away and pushed to the side while you keep your own children close and pair them with the Hyuga.”

“Are you trying to say something about my administrative choices?”

“I think you understand what I’m trying to say,” Tajima snarled. “You and the head of the Hyuga clan have been getting a little too close for me to ignore it any longer.”

“There is nothing for you to ignore. It isn’t my fault if you choose to jump at shadows and secret plots that don’t exist. I stand by my decision. Your son Izuna was chosen for this mission because he is well equipped for it and Tobirama has been assigned to the land expansion project for the same reasons. That this project happens to work closely with the Hyuga has nothing to do with you!” Unlike his counterpart, Butsuma did not bull his way forward but rather settled his legs in to a firmer stance and stubbornly crossed his arms.

Across the room Tobirama lifted his eyebrows. This was the first he had heard of being assigned to any new projects. Sure he was good with numbers and had a knack for thinking of things in long term views, something that coming up with budgets for future expansions would need, but he was hardly the only person with a head for arithmetic in the whole village. Plenty of other people could take his place crunching these particular numbers.

Clearly Tajima seemed to think so as well, although his issue didn’t seem to be with Tobirama’s placement but more with the other people working on the expansion plans. The red covering his face deepened another shade as he clenched his fists with rage.

“Lies! Do not lie to me! You have the nerve to send my son away on a mission to risk his life while keeping your own safe at home and oh! What a coincidence! Working closely with the Hyuga!”

“What exactly do you imagine is happening that has not already been covered in our very public meetings?” Butsuma demanded, clearly tiring of this argument.

“You are undermining me and my clan! Have you forgotten that this village was only made possible by my clan’s equal contribution? You did not build this empire alone and it is not for you to rule by yourself! I refuse to sit idly by while you replace us with an inferior clan just because you think you can control them better!”

“Be careful what you say to me, Uchiha.” Drawing himself up a little taller, Butsuma at least made a good impression of a man insulted.

Tobirama was contemplating the pros and cons of hiding under a rock for the rest of his life when he heard Touka sigh to his left. When he looked over her face was drawn in to an expression that practically dripped with exasperation, body language screaming her desire to call both of the men before them six kinds of idiots. Pretty much her usual reaction to any sort of interaction with either of their two founders.

“Do you think they know how stupid they look?” she murmured under her breath.

“Hmph.” Tobirama leaned closer to murmur back. “Do you think they realize what a poor image they make of themselves every time they do this in public? What a terrible example to follow.” To make such fools of themselves or to insult another prominent clan so brazenly, he wasn’t sure which was stupider but he did know the answer to his own question. Neither man probably realized how badly the people in the room were judging them.

“So? Do something about it then.”

“What, and solve all their problems for them? They’re going to have to grow up some time.” Tobirama sniffed haughtily like he had no idea what she was talking about and Touka snickered. She tried to swat his arm for being cheeky but he dodged easily, moving as little as possible as in an effort not to draw his father’s eye yet.

There was no escaping her pointed look however.

“Fine, alright. I’m leaving my administrative duties to you, I hope you know. Enjoy covering my paperwork.” She groaned but, amazingly, didn’t fight him on it.

Saying he would do it and actually forcing himself to step forward to interrupt the stupid measuring contest going on between the pair in front of him were two different matters, though. It was hard to find a place to insert himself without screaming over top of them to get their attention, something he was quite sure would only get him in more trouble than it would solve. His opportunity came in the form of another dig from Tajima.

“How are the people meant to trust the man who leads them if that man will send their children away to die while his own sit safe at home?”

“It is the nature of shinobi to die,” Butsuma retorted in a cold voice. The blankness of his voice, a brief reappearance of the typical Senju control over their emotions, was enough to shock Tajima in to silence and give Tobirama a moment to make himself heard.

“Rather than make a spectacle of ourselves,” he stepped in with a mildly reprimanding tone, “I have a solution if you would both hear it. There are several of the Nara I can list off the top of my head who would be more than capable of taking my place on the land expansion project if I accompany Izuna on his mission. Father, I agree with you that Izuna’s skill set is particularly well suited for this task but Tajima-sama does also have a point. He should have back up. Allow me to go with him; it will make a good show of unity.”

Both of them stared at him with matching expressions of shock. Now a step behind him, Touka turned aside to hide her amusement. It took effort to hide his own exasperation at two grown adults who couldn’t make themselves behave like civilized humans until they were handed a perfectly obvious solution by someone more than twenty years their junior.

“That would be acceptable,” Tajima admitted gruffly, the first to shake himself out of his stupor. Not to be outdone, Butsuma cleared his throat and nodded, visibly ashamed of allowing himself to get dragged in to such a public display.

“Agreed,” was all he said but to anyone who knew him well there were entire layers of embarrassment and resentment buried in that one word.

Nodding back to them, Tobirama very carefully did not sigh. “Excellent. I will find Izuna and have him relay the details of the mission to me. Might I recommend Nara Shikou as my replacement? He displays excellent attention to detail each time I have worked with him.”

Without waiting for an answer Tobirama dismissed himself by turning on his heel and striding forward as though entirely unaware of the large crowd that had gathered to watch the altercation play out. People scrambled to dodge out of his path but he kept his eyes forward, continuing down the hall until he was alone with only Touka’s chakra trailing along at his heels like a small cloud of contained laughter. She followed him until he was just around the corner from Izuna’s office and then stopped him before he could go on.

“Good luck cousin,” she said. “Try not to let him smother you in your sleep.”

“Thanks,” he told her dryly.

She left with a wave and Tobirama took a deep breath before approaching Izuna’s door and waiting until his knock was answered with a curt “Enter.” He wasn’t surprised to be met with a glare or to discover that he had interrupted some sort of meeting, probably instructions for filling in while he was gone. The two women Izuna was speaking to took one look between them and bolted without waiting for permission to leave.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“I’ve been consigned to accompany you when you leave for the capitol so I’ll need you to catch me up on the details of the assignment.” To his absolute lack of surprise, the irritation of Izuna’s face slipped down in to outright distaste.

“Are you serious? For fuck’s sake. I don’t need a babysitter – and I don’t need help! Especially not from you!” His entire face pinched in a sour look.

Tobirama watched the other man throw up his hands and mutter darkly to himself, questioning for a moment why he had bothered to do this. A brief but well-timed flare of chakra from the floor above them was all it took to reminded him of why. Madara, whatever he was doing, was apparently having a bad day. Hopefully the news that his husband and his brother would be spending some ‘quality time’ together might help improve his mood and clear the dark little cloud that had been hanging over his head lately.

Drawing the length of his ponytail forward over his shoulder and tugging fitfully at the end, Izuna gave vent to a deep sigh of defeat. “I can’t get out of this?”

“Both of our fathers agreed on it.” And he would not be the one to mention that it had been his own idea.

“Ugh. I seriously do not need your help! I can do this on my own!”

“I am sure you are more than capable. For the purposes of this mission you may consider me an emergency exit strategy and an extra pair of eyes.”

“Hmph.” Izuna glared at him. “That’s about all you’re good for, I’ll bet.”

Really it wasn’t worth letting him start a fight over something so petty. Tobirama refused to rise to the bait. Instead he sidestepped the insult and tried to steer the conversation back to business.

“Do tell me if I’ve missed any details but as it stands what I know of the mission is that we are going to the capital to escort the Daimyo’s niece as she travels in secret. To be honest I didn’t look too hard at that request since I didn’t think I was being assigned to it.” He shrugged, pleased to see even Izuna couldn’t find anything wrong with that. At least he wasn’t sticking his nose in everyone else’s business.

“That’s close but not really it. Apparently the Daimyo’s niece has been travelling to a secret location several times a week and won’t speak about where she’s going. He wants us to tail her and stay completely out of sight. If she’s in trouble he wants us to take out whoever might be hurting her. If she’s colluding with his enemies he wants us to gather as much information as possible and bring him evidence of her crimes.” For a moment he looked up to the ceiling as though running through his memories to check if he missed anything. “Anyway, we’re supposed to keep a low profile on our way to the capital and meet with his representative in the market district, at the Red Dog Tavern. They’ll tell us where she leaves town and when to wait for her. We can’t be seen.”

“Nothing too complicated,” Tobirama murmured. Stealth missions weren’t his favorite, he usually found them quite boring even if he did have the patience of a rock when it was necessary to get that all important paycheck.

Izuna leaned towards the window to check the position of the sun. “I was just giving my assistants a few last minute instructions and then I meant to head out. Don’t suppose you’re all ready to go?”

“Give me half an hour.”

“Fine. Meet at the north gate in thirty minutes. If you’re not there – well, you’re a sensor aren’t you? I’m sure you can find me and catch up.”

Tobirama held his tongue and turned for the door. Thirty minutes was more than enough time for him to make it home and grab the mission pack he still kept ready at all times even though he hadn’t found much time for anything other than paperwork since moving here. But there was something else he needed to do before leaving.

Out in the hallway people appeared to be returning to work and a quick scan for their chakra signatures showed that Butsuma and Tajima had ended their fight in one manner or another, now heading in opposite directions. He could only assume to cool off after embarrassing themselves so thoroughly. With so many people in his way it took a minute or two longer than expected for Tobirama to make it up to the next floor and poke his head in to an office he hadn’t actually spent much time in, both despite and because of who was inside.

Hashirama looked up with a big smile when he entered and Tobirama nodded in return, flicking his eyes over in Madara's direction.

“Could you give us a few minutes?” he asked. His brother stared.

“Like, alone?”

“Yes, you idiot, I would like a few minutes alone with my husband if that isn’t too much trouble.”

“So cute!” Hashirama was up out of his chair in a flash and shoving his way out the door. “Maybe I’ll nip down and visit Mito! Oh this is fun!”

He was gone almost before he was finished speaking and Tobirama was shaking his head as he stepped inside and closed the door behind himself. Madara watched him curiously with a hint of trepidation that he entirely understood. ‘We need to talk’ wasn’t usually the sort of conversation opener that implied anything positive was about to come.

“It’s not anything bad,” he hurried to say when it looked like Madara was starting to brace himself. “I just didn’t want to leave without saying anything to you.”

“Leave?”

“After this conversation, yes. I’m being sent along with Izuna on his mission.”

Madara rocked back in his seat, eyes wide with surprise. “Kami save us all.” His response startled Tobirama in to a wide eyed expression of his own.

“I…thought that would please you.”

“Sending you both off alone and unsupervised? If neither one of you kills the other I will be greatly surprised.” With a low groan he ran a hand through his hair. “You two don’t exactly have a great track record for getting along so far.”

Tobirama scrunched his nose. He deserved that. “Regardless, we’ll need to make at least some sort of effort. I’m not certain how long this should take, hopefully no more than a week all told even with complications, but I wanted to let you know where I was going before I disappeared without warning.”

“I appreciate that,” Madara told him quietly.

“Right.” His message delivered, Tobirama wasn’t really sure what else to say. Yet strangely he wasn’t sure he wanted to leave yet either. He did ask for a half hour and if he wanted to waste chakra on a body flicker it would take less than a minute to flash home, retrieve his kit, and reappear at the meeting point.

“You’ll be careful?”

“I- yes?” The question threw him a little. He couldn’t remember the last time someone asked him to be careful on a mission. Usually it was just implied.

“Good.” Madara cleared his throat and valiantly strove to maintain eye contact. “I’m too young to be a widower so neither one of you are allowed to actually die, understood? A little maiming at most if you absolutely can’t control yourselves.”

Not bothering to fight the sudden smile, Tobirama nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

He hovered for a few another minutes, unsure of what to say and almost hoping Madara would ask him something else, but the moment was made awkward by neither of them quite knowing how to handle it. This was the first time since they were bonded that they would be separated for longer than a day or two and of course it came now that neither of them laid awake at night wishing for a way to escape from the other.

Eventually Tobirama decided that there was little point in standing around staring at each other and he murmured his goodbyes. Madara's gaze burned hot on his back as he let himself out of the room. Their conversation hadn’t lasted very long so he still had quite a bit of time; he used it to walk home at a leisurely pace and take in the sights of the village for no other reason than it pleased him to do so. It truly was amazing what all these clans had accomplished together, the peace that they had built and maintained after so many years of warring senselessly against each other.

Once he had his things he set off again for the north gate at the same easy speed. He could have used his time to say goodbye to Hashirama but surely Madara would mention where he had gone and it likely would have taken longer than the thirty minute time frame to remove himself from his brother’s clutches. Hashirama’s goodbyes had never been quick.

When he arrived at the gates he still had several minutes to spare but he found Izuna already waiting with impatience stamped across his face. He took one look at Tobirama, huffed, and turned away to set off down the path without so much as a word of greeting. It didn’t surprise him, really. That was probably the sort of behavior he had to look forward to for most of their journey – but he had chosen this for himself so he could hardly complain. If not a chance to make friends or make peace this could at least be a chance to come to some sort of agreement. Even if that agreement was simply not to argue too much in front of Madara.

They both cared for the same man and wanted him to be happy and so they would both need a plan to work towards that goal. If Tobirama could find nothing in Izuna not to hate then he would do his best to find something tolerable in the man and focus his attention on those qualities. Or maybe he would just drag them out to the sparring fields so they could beat on each other without fear of worrying anyone else or causing undue offense.

Actually that was a decent idea. He would need to keep that option in mind should this venture prove a complete failure.

Several long steps brought him up to walk at Izuna’s side where his brother-in-law gave him an evil look most people would save for a particularly disgusting piece of garbage or an enemy that had haunted them for years gone by.

“Just don’t get in my way, Senju,” he growled.

“Let’s talk exit strategies,” Tobirama deflected. Talking about the mission was probably a lot safer than giving voice to any of the several responses that leapt to mind.

Thankfully Izuna allowed the change in subject, though he contributed only begrudgingly and continued to make himself as difficult to work with as possible. It took everything Tobirama had not to snap at him before they had traded a dozen sentences back and forth but he held on to his temper with a white knuckle grip and told himself that if he could just make it through this one mission, if he could just prove to Izuna that they could live with each other in some way, the rest of his life would be a lot more peaceful.

And Madara would be a lot more happy.

#rae writes #madatobi #madara #tobirama #touka #izuna #butsuma #tajima #fanfiction

13 notes · View notes

sad-sweet-cowboah · 6 years

Text

Driving Lessons

Hey guys, I’m back to writing! haven’t had the motivation for a while but now I do! And here’s a suggestion from a while ago, where reader teaches Arthur to drive!

Warnings: None! A little bit of fluff.

“Now press on the pedal slowly and easily.”

The car lurched forward, promptly slamming your back to the seat. With the wind knocked out of you, you breathlessly huffed, “Arthur!”

He immediately eased up, taking his foot off completely as the car slowed to a crawl. “Sorry.” He murmured sheepishly.

You sighed. “That’s alright, just remember it’s sensitive.”

He nodded, gripping the steering wheel tightly as he turned his attention forward. The car sped up again, this time a little more slowly.

“Good,” you praised. “Now test out the brakes. Just like before, ease your foot onto it.”

He shifted, and you felt the car slow down, although the initial stop was hard. You braced yourself with your hands on the dashboard to keep yourself upright, the seat belt cutting uncomfortably in your torso.

He looked at you, the apology clear in his eyes. “This is harder than it looks.”

“You’ll get used to it,” you assured him. “It takes everyone a while.”

Although you weren’t sure how often you’d let him drive in the first place. He asked you out of the blue one day to teach him. And after some thought, you decided to do so. He’d never be able to obtain a license, however. And it’s not like a horse and buggy were a common sight these days. You couldn’t afford a horse, anyway.

So you found yourself in an empty parking lot on a Sunday afternoon, thankful that the accompanying store was closed that day.

Maybe one day he’ll find use in this world, especially if he was never going to return to his own life. Automobiles weren’t an occurrence in his time yet, even in sophisticated civilization like Saint Denis still relied on horses and trains. He never saw a car until he was warped to your time period.

“Ridin’ horses is a lot easier.” He grumbled.

“You’re the one who asked,” you reminded him. “Just be glad this isn’t a stick shift.”

He stared at you blankly. “A what?”

A giggle escaped you. “That’s a whole different matter altogether,” you pointed to the gear shift. “Now this stays until you want to park or reverse. This car is an automatic. But with a stick shift, you have to move it in a pattern constantly while you’re driving, or it stops working.”

His blue eyes widened in surprise. “Now why would someone get a contraption like that?”

You shrugged. “Some people just prefer it.”

He exhaled in disbelief. “Okay, what next?”

“Practice steering.” You said.

After ten minutes and a couple of near heart attacks, Arthur had managed to understand pedal pressure and steering to a relative science. He was smarter than he gave himself credit for, and you were silently thankful that he was able to grasp it fairly quickly. He kept his hands on ten and two on the wheel, and you could see his blue eyes dart from between the rear and side view mirrors. Although his entire torso stood stiff against the seat, and no matter how many times you’d told him to relax, he didn’t.

It took him a little longer to grasp the concept of the gear shift. Trying to explain reversing was more difficult than you imagined, and had to coach him multiple times, many narrowly avoiding a light pole. Eventually he’d figured it out, although you kept him driving forward from that point on.

“Can I try on the road?” he asked as the two of you sat idly in a parking space. The sun had since disappeared; the sky a gradient of blues and purples as the last light of the day were fading.

“Probably not the best idea…” you sighed, your gaze traveling toward the street.

“Why not? You said I learned quickly.”

Looking at him again, you smiled. “You did,” he rubbed his arm lightly. “But with our luck, some cop would pull us over, then it’s both our asses for letting you drive without a license.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth twitched slightly in disdain from the mention of the law. “This world o’ yours…so many rules,” he murmured. “But can’t I try? At least for a few minutes?”

“You’re that determined, huh?”

Arthur let out a soft sigh. “S’not so much the determination as it is the freedom, I guess,” he explained. “I miss being able to ride out whenever I wanted to. But horses ain’t the main method of transportation no more. Now y’all got cars, and need special training to use ‘em.”

You listened to him speak, staying silent.

“So it’s just my way of gettin’ some sort o’ freedom,” he continued, his eyes soft. “Even if I can’t drive by myself, it’s just a little reminder.”

Freedom. “Aw, Arthur,” you cooed, running your hand along his arm to intertwine your fingers with his. “Do you honestly feel trapped?”

He squeezed your hand and shook his head. “You’ve been great to me, Y/N. Even if ya had to keep me inside for a while. I just gotta get used to modern times still.”

If only, you thought to yourself, If only you could give him what he wanted. After a moment, you gave him a small nod. “You can drive on the street, but only for a few minutes.”

He smiled widely. “Thanks. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

With a smile as genuine as that, you didn’t have to say that you believed him. He’s been careful so far. Slowly, he drove out of the parking space and approached the exit of the lot. You didn’t have to remind him to look both ways, or which lane to slide into. It was almost as if he’d been driving for much longer. Then again, you’ve watched this man drive a train and take control of horse drawn carriages no problem.

He progressed down the street at a near crawl, and you kept your eyes out for any other drivers or police cars hidden around any corners. Thankfully, it was fairly empty. You’d never been more relieved to live in such a small town.

You alerted him to keep track of his speed. Coming up to a stop sign, you reminded him to brake. He did, softer than last time. He kept his eyes out, briefly acknowledging the other car as it passed by.

With a dead end coming up, you indicated him to turn down another street. He did so, using the blinker and easing around the corner. The movement was slightly jerky, yet much better than you anticipated. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the smile on his face remaining still. You wondered if he was imaging himself on horseback instead.

“Hey.”

He glanced at you.

“Wanna drive home?” you asked.

He blinked. “Really? You ain’t worried about cops?”

You shrugged. “Not many people out today, so we’re probably good.”

A wide grin crossed his face. “Alright, well… show me the way.”

And from that moment, Arthur proved he was a wonderful driver.

The ride was only ten minutes, yet you’d almost forgotten that he’d just gotten behind the wheel the first time earlier that evening. Neither of you spoke much, although the atmosphere was relaxing. You didn’t have to remind him of anything, he kept himself in check pretty easily. You had to wonder if he ever did drive before, yet you highly doubted it.

The last light of the day had long since disappeared when he pulled into your driveway, expertly putting the car into park and killing the engine. As you unbuckled your seatbelt and clutched the door handle, you realized Arthur hadn’t moved. “Arthur?”

He looked at you again. Silent, although the happiness etched in his face didn’t seem to dim. He reached for you, his hands gingerly on your cheeks, pulling you closer. Your lips met, tender and warm. He held you for a moment before pulling back. “Thank you for that.” He murmured.

You smiled at him. “You’re welcome,” you answered with an equal softness in your voice. “Maybe next time, I’ll let you drive to the park.”

He nodded once, the expression not changing. “Sounds like a plan.”

#Arthur Morgan #Arthur Morgan x reader

150 notes · View notes

kattheninjalibrarian · 4 years

Text

What it Feels Like to be Single in the Modern Christian Church

I was recently discussing singleness in the church with a friend, and it made me realize I have a lot of thoughts that I just want to get out about the subject. I have so much more to say about this, but it’s a start. I felt like maybe there might be other people who feel the same way about it that I do. Maybe if we all know we feel the same way, we won’t feel as alone anymore. Take it or leave it as you wish, this is just an opinion of an older single christian woman drawn from my personal experiences.

Being single is hard. Being 34 and single is even harder. But being 34 and single in the modern day christian church? Without trying to sound dramatic, it feels like your life is over. Let me tell you what walking into church every Sunday feels like for me. I feel like a leper. Like I have some horrible disease that everyone is afraid of catching. Like if someone gets caught talking to me, something bad will happen to them. I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve tried to shake people’s hand and say good morning during greeting time and been ignored. You know the time I’m talking about. The time where the pastor says “say good morning to your neighbor!” and you hope that someone will just notice and say hello to you. I also can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve been on the other end of a dirty look from a wife whose husband turned around to greet me and say hello. No, I am not trying to steal your husband from you just because he said hi. You could say hello to me and introduce yourself though and see that I’m not. Maybe we could be friends. I would like some friends.

You see, I feel the modern church today has lost its way. What is supposed to be a group of people coming together to encourage each other, build each other up, worship our Lord, learn about Jesus, do life together, and bring other people in to show them His love has turned into a married person��s social club. People are more concerned with their cliques and their social status within the church than they are the reason we all supposedly go to church in the first place. Jesus. And if you want to be in the group, to be accepted and to be thought of as an equal....well you better have a spouse at your side. Married couples only hang out with other married couples. And if you’re single? Trying to navigate your way in the midst of a sea of couple cliques to any real friendships feels nearly impossible.

It’s hard enough to be single in church at a young age, but as you get older, things really change. The amount of times people have looked at me with great concern because I’m not married at “my age” is quite disheartening. It seems that in the church if you aren’t married by the age of 25, something is gravely wrong with you. And if you make it past 30, well you better accept your fate that you are going to be alone forever. You’re thought of as left overs; not good enough for anybody to want. If someone was going to marry you, they would’ve done it long ago. But the thing is, it seems people don’t take into account your life story. Maybe you weren’t a christian in your 20′s. Maybe you don’t want to get married and you like being single. Maybe you were married and something happened - your spouse left you or you’re a widow/widower. Maybe you just aren’t ready. Maybe your person just hasn’t shown up yet. Maybe you were abused and are still healing.

I spent two years at a church, attending every Sunday, hoping that somehow, someday I wouldn’t be sitting alone every week. I loved the sermons. The preaching was quite honestly the realest, most genuine and Bible based I have ever heard. There are things that were talked about I had never heard preached from the pulpit in my entire life. I would cry almost every week, learning more and more about what true relationship with Christ actually looked like. I looked forward to each week eagerly. But I was always alone. After discussing my dilemma of feeling alone every week, someone told me that I should be the one to be proactive. Instead of showing up every Sunday and expecting someone to come to me, I needed to go to them. So that’s what I decided to do. I jumped in wholeheartedly trying to find a team to serve on and a community group to join. What I learned, though, is that sometimes that’s not enough. As I went through the 4 week class to be able to join a team to serve on, I realized each week that I was the only single person there. At the end of the class, I was put on a team to help out with. I was so excited! I finally had my chance to get connected with people, to help serve and to use my gifts that God had given me. However, after 3 weeks of helping, I never heard from the team leader again, and still haven’t to this day. I also joined a class to be put into a community group. Every week for 6 weeks, I was there. I was determined to finally get involved and meet people. I was also, again, the only single woman in the entire class full of married couples. Every week I thought to myself, ‘Where are the single people? Where are the single women I can be friends with? And where are the single men? Are there even single men my age in this church?’ I had a very clear realization the last week of the class that being single in church makes you invisible to others when a married couple came up to me and asked me if I had been there the entire course. When I said yes, they told me that they had never even noticed me. At the end of the 6 weeks, I was told by the pastor there wasn’t really a place for me. There wasn’t really a small group for me that I could join like I was looking for. Imagine being told that there isn’t a place for you in the midst of a church body of about 1,000 people. Thankfully I did find a nice group of awesome women to hang out with eventually.

Every week at church we were given announcements about family reading plans, family park days, family retreats, marriage classes, marriage counseling, marriage sermons...you name it. But what I noticed was the lack of resources for single people. If we don’t get our resources, sermons and info from the church, where do you think we will turn to? The world, of course. If we aren’t accepted and given the chance to be a part of a body at church, where do you think we will turn to? The world. If we don’t find our spouses and friends at church, where do you think we will turn to? The world. Is it right? No. Is it what happens? Unfortunately, yes. And where are the single people in church anyway? More importantly, where are the single men? Why is there such a wide gap in the ratio of single women to single men in the church? I suppose that question is for another day entirely, as it seems single people in church all across the United States are asking the same question. I feel the answer is a complicated one.

I do remember a brief time where I finally did have someone to sit next to in church. I was so happy that I was no longer sitting alone, that I had someone to share in this time with. And I also remember that the people who I was once invisible to now wanted to have full conversations with me. They wanted to talk to me. I was no longer invisible. As happy as that made me, it made me realize that we as a church really do our single people dirty. I was the same person. Nothing about me was different. I hadn’t changed. But what had changed was the fact that I was no longer sitting alone. I was with someone.

I suppose all this is to say....if you are feeling alone in church, feeling down on yourself, and feeling less than because you’re single, I’m here. It doesn’t matter what you’ve gone through and why you’re single. I am here with you, and we aren’t alone. I want to be here for you. I don’t want anyone else to feel the way I have. There are people who do care about you, and who want to have friendships and relationships with you. I know it’s difficult to find in church, but we’re out here. Don’t give up hope. Don’t give up on gathering together with other christians and hearing the Word of God every week. It’s so important. When all this is over, and we can all be in church together again, I will come find you and introduce myself. Maybe we can sit together.

#single christians #singleness #christian singles #singleness in the church #single christian men #single christian women

1 note · View note

amandajoyce118 · 5 years

Text

Sunday Seven AKA A Better Late Than Never Friday Five

Okay, so last week was very busy for me, so I accidentally didn’t write out a Friday Five during the week, and Friday, I worked on an article and watched the second season of Derry Girls for the third time instead of remembering that I hadn’t scheduled anything. So, since this is a Friday Five two days late, we’ll call it Sunday Seven. There’s no theme this week. Just have seven random things from the last week of my life.

Seven: I Am Over A Month Behind On Comics

So, I subscribe to several series, and I often pick up random books that interest me from my local shop. This local shop holds my subscriptions for me until I pick them up. The last two months, they’ve called me at the end of the month to check and make sure I’m okay because I’m going four weeks before picking up my books. I picked up my books, but have yet to read them. So, no one ask me any comic book questions for the foreseeable future because who knows when I’ll catch up? hahaha

Six: Margot Robbie Is Great

For an upcoming listicle, I’ve been watching a lot of Margot Robbie movies. I’ve mainly been letting movies play while working on other things, but seeing the differences in the roles she’s played is pretty amazing. I know a lot of people base their opinions of her on her Harley Quinn role, but she’s been in such a huge variety of things, mostly in smaller roles. Her command of accents is actually really impressive. I’m curious to see some of the projects she’s working on next.

Five: When Does Fall TV Come Back?

Seriously, I’m lost without a TV schedule to follow. I often plan a lot of my pop culture writing around what I’m watching. Knowing that Agents Of SHIELD and The 100 are ending next season, and that both won’t return until 2020, makes me realize that I watch a lot less serial television than I used to. And I love serial television. Clearly, I need some show recs for the fall, or I need to catch up on the shows I fell behind on.

Four: Watch Derry Girls

Speaking of television, Derry Girls is great if you aren’t already watching it. I think I’ve already watched both seasons three times each. I’m relieved their doing a season three. Honestly, I could probably watch about ten seasons of this show and not get bored. I’m not usually big on comedies anymore for some reason, but I genuinely love this show.

Three: I’m Reference Worthy

I’ve had a few coworkers ask me if they can use me as a reference lately, and I can’t figure out why? Do I seem like I would give good references? I mean, I’m good at my job, but I can’t figure out why suddenly I’m the person people want to give them a reference. (To be fair, I’ve been asked in the past, and no potential employer has ever called me to get information about someone, so, really, do companies even check references anymore? Who knows?)

Two: I Hate Seafood

For some reason, everyone around me lately has also been really into seafood. I just want you all to know I hate seafood. I can eat shrimp every once in a while, but other than that, nope. I wish people would believe me when I say I hate it and stop trying to convince that I just haven’t had the right fish. Not everyone likes the same things. It’s okay, guys.

One: Miraculous Ladybug

If you’re a comic book fan, or a superhero fan in general, and you’re not ashamed to watch a kid’s show, this one is for you. I find the Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir adorable. The mythology developed in the show is fun, it’s got a serialized story, but plenty of episodes stand on their own, and it’s, like I said, adorable. I would watch a live action movie version of this show in a heartbeat. (BTW, so many Ladybug gifs are actually hand drawn animations by fans. That fandom is a talented bunch.)

That’s it for now. Hopefully, you’ll have a new Five on Friday.

#friday five #margot robbie #derry girls #miraculous ladybug

4 notes · View notes

birdiethebibliophile · 6 years

Text

{fic} Bright-Eyed and Bushy-Tailed (part 6)

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses Rating: M Chapter Warnings: References to abuse Relationship: Lucien/Cassian Word Count: 1,664

Here on AO3.

Read the rest: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Holy shit, I can’t believe I finally updated this. Here it is: the chapter I started almost seven months ago, for the fic I haven’t updated since September. (I told you I hadn’t abandoned it.) Thank you so much for the love this fic has gotten. I honestly can’t believe it.

__________________

It wasn’t that Cassian needed an excuse to see Lucien. It was just that his copy of Rosemary for Remembrance was due back, and he didn’t want to give Nesta a reason to stop speaking to him again. And it was mere coincidence that he happened to show up during one of Lucien’s shifts.

“He’s in the stacks,” Nesta told him before he’d even opened his mouth to ask.

“Hi, Nesta. How are you?” he responded blithely. “I’m well, thanks.”

“If you’re trying to pretend you’re not here to see Lucien, you’re failing utterly,” Nesta said, not looking up from her book. “Elain mentioned the cookies. Sweet of him.”

Cassian deflated. “Yeah, it… it was. How’s he been doing?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s in the biographies.”

“Yeah, you’re right, sorry. I’ll…” Cassian nodded at the shelves, then headed off (rather sheepishly) to the northwest corner of the main floor.

It only took him a minute of searching to find Lucien. He was reshelving a truly obscene number of books on Benjamin Franklin. Cassian felt himself relax as he took in the scene. Lucien was humming absently, lining the spines up as he slid each book onto the shelf. His hair was braided down his back, and his eye was clear. It was a good day.

Lightly, Cassian tapped on the side of a shelf. “Hey.”

Lucien turned towards him, and his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Hey, Cass. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yeah, well, I thought I’d drop by. Had to, uh, return a book, and I know you work on Wednesday afternoons, so…” Cassian trailed off, feeling his face heat. “Anyways. I wanted to say thanks for the cookies. They were delicious.”

Lucien laughed – really laughed, not the quick, bitter things Cassian was used to hearing from him. The laughter reminded Cassian of a drink of champagne, bubbling and light and sweet, and it made his head spin. “I’ll tell Nesta to tell Elain you said so. She said she usually makes sugar cookies, but I thought you’d like chocolate chip better.”

“I do,” Cassian admitted.

Lucien pushed a last Franklin biography into place, then turned fully to face Cassian. “I think her exact words were, ‘Could seduce a man with cookies like that,’” he said.

Cassian had to take a moment to remember how to breathe. One of Lucien’s dark eyebrows quirked up, like he was asking a question.

“Certainly could,” Cassian finally said.

A smile flitted over Lucien’s mouth, and he turned back to the shelves. “I saw you teaching that class,” he went on. “The kids’ taekwondo one.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm. Cute.”

“I – uh, I just like teaching,” Cassian said. “It’s fun. They learn fast.”

“Bet you don’t get kicked in the balls as much when you’re teaching adults, though.” Lucien shot him a grin.

Cassian groaned. “You saw that?”

“Absolutely. And documented it for posterity,” Lucien added, tapping his pocket where his phone must be. “Or blackmail, I guess, whichever comes up first.”

“You do, and I’ll get Azriel to hack your phone,” Cassian threatened. “Do you want your ringtone to be the Spongebob theme song? Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

“Joke’s on you – I love Spongebob.”

Cassian’s heart swelled for a moment with something he didn’t want to put a name to – something that matched to Lucien’s heart, quickened when he smiled, ached when he was hurting. Seeing Lucien here, so obviously – well, if not happy, perhaps, then content – made that part of him expand to engulf his whole chest.

“Really, though,” he said softly. “How are you?”

Lucien’s teasing smile faded. “Better,” he admitted. “Nesta was pretty cool about me missing work.”

“Yeah, I thought she might be.” Cassian leaned back against the shelves. “You look… good.”

“Don’t I always?” was Lucien’s lighthearted reply. He didn’t look as faded and drawn as he had a few days ago. They’d texted a few times since then, but Cassian felt better with a visual confirmation of what Lucien had told him.

“You do,” Cassian said anyways, and was gratified – if a bit surprised – to see twin spots of color appear high on Lucien’s brown cheekbones.

“So,” Lucien said after a moment of flustered silence, “did you just come over to compliment me? Because I don’t know if Nesta would approve.”

“I told you – I had a book to return.” Cassian hesitated. “I did, uh, have an ulterior motive, though.”

“Yeah? I figured you must.”

Cassian rubbed the back of his head, running nervous fingers through his hair. “Rhys is throwing a party? Gala, whatever. Something business-y. He invited me, and I thought you… might wanna come with, as my plus-one.”

He’d been tossing the idea around for weeks, wondering whether to go through with it. He’d never been the biggest fan of parties, but Rhys had widened his ridiculous eyes and managed to persuade him it would be fun, Cassian, come on, loosen up a little! Cassian hadn’t been able to tell his brother no.

“I dunno, Cass,” Lucien said. “Who all’s going to be there?”

“Bunch of big shots, probably. CEO’s like Rhys. Why – oh.” It hit Cassian suddenly. “God, sorry, Lu, I didn’t even think about that.”

Tamlin.

Cassian kicked himself. Why hadn’t he thought of that? No wonder Lucien wasn’t sure if he wanted to risk it.

“I mean, I know he doesn’t have any power over me now,” Lucien said, the words sounding recited and rote. “But –”

“No, I got it,” Cassian said quickly. “Forget I said anything. I promised Rhys I’d go, but you wanna come over, like, that Sunday? The day after? I owe you a cooking lesson.”

Lucien’s expression relaxed again. “Yeah, that’d be nice. Maybe we could make chocolate chip cookies so I don’t have to rely on Elain’s good humor when I want to be nice.”

“Are you asking me to give you a cooking lesson?”

“Baking. Yes,” Lucien said. “Maybe. Would you… be okay with that?”

“More than okay. Lucien, I’d l- I’d really enjoy baking cookies with you.”

“It’s a date.” Lucien smiled, and Cassian couldn’t help smiling back. Lucien’s smile was intoxicating – contagious. It was a weapon handmade to take Cassian down with a single blow.

“Oh, is it?” Cassian said, raising his eyebrows.

“If you’d like it to be,” Lucien said, and he reached up and tucked a stray curl behind Cassian’s ear. “Can you blame me? After all you’ve been doing for me?”

Cassian’s hand caught Lucien’s barely an inch away from his cheek, gently, so as not to startle him. “I don’t – Lu, I don’t want it to feel like you’re paying me back for anything,” he said. “I know there’ve been… people in your life before who feel like you owe them. I’m not one of those people. You know that, right?”

“’Course, Cass.” Lucien’s thin hand flexed under Cassian’s, and Cassian could feel the tendons move just under his thin skin, could practically feel the blood rushing through his veins, a hummingbird rhythm beneath his fingers. Careful not to squeeze too hard, Cassian, you’ll crush it. “Friends… don’t owe each other. And you know I trust you, right?” he said, the edge his voice usually carried smoothed under a strain of genuine concern Cassian hadn’t heard from him before. “I know you’d never – you’re not like him.”

Before Cassian could respond, Lucien yanked his hand back. “I mean, obviously,” he went on, his free hand running over the shelf of books in front of him, pushing them into place even though they were already lined up perfectly. (Nesta would be proud.) “You’re way better-looking.”

“Oh, really?” Cassian asked, slipping back into teasing. “That’s a comfort, at least. By the way – you admitted we’re friends.”

Lucien scowled. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did! You said friends don’t owe each other.” Cassian grinned, leaning on the wooden shelves. “Admit it. We’re friends.”

“Wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me.” But Lucien gave him a small, sideways smile. “I should get back to work, but… I’ll ask Rhys to drive me over on Sunday. I’ll bring the chocolate chips.”

“Come over for dinner.” Cassian caught Lucien’s hand as it rested on the now-empty library cart. “Stay over for the evening. Okay? I want…”

Cassian paused, and it felt like the air around them held its breath. Lucien’s eyes, the warm brown and lifeless gold, were still fixed sideways on him.

I want you to be happy, and I know I can’t do that, but I can do this.

“I want to spend time with you,” Cassian finished. “No obligations. No Feysand talking business over us. Just cookies and conversation. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lucien said. “Yeah, okay. I can’t…” His eyes dropped. “You know I can’t promise what Sunday’s going to be like.”

“I know, Lu. It’s okay if Sunday turns out to be a shitty day. Let’s plan on it, though. Dinner. Baking. Sunday.”

Lucien nodded. “I’ll expect to hear all about the party. Hours of shit-talking. You better take notes.”

“I’ll keep track of every terrible rich straight person and their terrible fashion choices,” Cassian promised. “I’ll even take pictures. You can pop some popcorn and open up Snapchat and watch them roll in.” And then, because he could tell where Lucien was going to worry, he added, “Trust me, it’ll be really nice to have someone to talk to. That party’s going to be a nightmare, they always are, and Rhys and the others will be schmoozing CEOs.”

“You came here to invite me to a nightmare?” Lucien teased.

“Wouldn’t be a nightmare if you were there,” Cassian said with a grin, “but Snapchat is the next best thing.”

“Better be.” Lucien shoved Cassian backwards with the tips of his fingers. “Go on, get out of here. I have a job to do. I can kick you out now, you know.”

Cassian laughed. “All right, all right, I’m going! But I’ll see you on Sunday?”

“Yeah,” Lucien said, and he smiled. “Sunday.”

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #lussian #lucien x cassian #lussian fanfiction #acomaf #acomaf fanfiction #acowar #acowar fanfiction #lucien #lucien vanserra #lucien kelly #cassian #nesta archeron #mine #I can't believe I've done this omg #bebt

24 notes · View notes

adrianna-m-scovill · 6 years

Text

New Beginnings (Jackson Neill and Sam Nightingale)

This is a Leap of Faith AU featuring Sam Nightingale and Jackson Neill. It runs parallel to the third chapter of another fic I’ve written about Jonas Nightingale and Sonny Carisi. You don’t have to read that one to read this. It would probably be helpful to know the Leap of Faith plot line, though, and to know that in my AU, Sonny Carisi is the sheriff instead of Marla. You can read more details on AO3.

Rated Explicit, 18,000 words.

“I’ve got some information on your sheriff.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” her brother answered, turning toward her.

“You need to—”

“No, Sam. I told you, he’s off-limits.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but this is something you need to know. About his family.”

“Family? Do you hear yourself? The man is sheriff, if we mention his family he’ll throw us out of town—if we’re lucky. If not, you can say goodbye to your big brother for five to—”

“Would you listen to me? For once?” she asked.

“No, Sam—They’re not a part of the show.”

“Well she can’t be, because even you can’t fake a return from the grave.”

Jonas had begun to turn away, and he stopped, looking back at her. “What…”

“Oh, you’re interested?” She saw his jaw clench, saw his eyes flash. She wasn’t intimidated. “He had a wife, Jonas. She died two years ago, car crash. Now he lives with his—”

“Stop,” he said, and the harshness in his voice surprised her into silence. Glaring at her, he repeated, “He’s off-limits.”

“I told you we couldn’t make money off these people!” she suddenly exclaimed, unable to contain her frustration. “I don’t work miracles, Jonas, remember? You have to let me do my job.”

“You do your job, then,” he said. “There’s a whole town to pick apart.”

Her lips parted. She couldn’t have explained why, but those words hurt. Her stomach burned, but she wouldn’t acknowledge the sting behind her eyes. Jonas started to turn away, again, and hesitated, looking back at her. His eyes softened.

“I always listen to you, Sam,” he said. “But you have to trust me. We’ll make it work, we always do. There’s another way.”

“Whatever you say, Jonas,” she told him. He sighed. “No, really, I’m sure it’ll all just magically work out.”

She thought he was going to say something else, but he reconsidered. With a single, sad nod, he left her standing alone. She watched him walk away, and she hated the churning in her stomach. It was getting more and more difficult to keep the show running, to keep the ends tied, and she was no longer as sure as she’d once been that things would continue to work out.

“Your brother, yes?”

Sam turned toward the sound of the voice, startled, and glanced the man over, taking stock: khakis, white shirt, blue tie, gray cardigan. He had graying stubble across his chin, and his hair was a bit mussed from the wind. He was handsome, with watchful, attentive green eyes. Teacher, she guessed, or perhaps psychologist.

“Is he always so dismissive of your concerns?”

“Are you a shrink?” she asked.

He smiled. “No. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Reporter? She frowned. She wouldn’t have pegged him as a journalist, and she didn’t like being wrong. “What kind of questions?” she asked, even though she knew she was about to nip this conversation in the bud. There would be no interviews.

He tipped his head, regarding her, and she fought the urge to shift her feet. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her—like he could read her. Reading people was her job, and she had no desire to be on the receiving end.

“Do you believe what your brother preaches?” he asked.

“What paper do you work for?”

“I don’t. I’m writing a book, actually.”

“A book. On what?”

He waved a hand toward the empty stage, with a flick of his wrist, and said, “So-called miracles are a dime a dozen at these types of shows, and they can almost all be debunked in a matter of minutes. And yet, people show up, night after night, town after town, lining up to hand over their hard-earned money. I’ve gotta say, the concept fascinates me.”

“But you’re not a shrink.”

“No. I have a doctorate in new American religions.”

“This is not a new religion,” she said.

“No. Let’s just say I needed a break from studying…cults. I’ve been to a lot of these revivals. I will say your brother is one of the most…charismatic. I can see why women—and men—are drawn to him.”

“I’m afraid you missed the boat this time around—I’m pretty sure he’s filled his bed for the weekend, but you can always try your luck in the next town.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling in genuine amusement. “That’s a shame,” he said. “I bet he’s fun.”

She hesitated, caught off guard. She wouldn’t have guessed he was interested in her brother. Based on his body language, she’d thought he was sort of interested in her. “I was kidding,” she said.

“So was I,” he answered with a smile. “He’s not my type. Although I’ll bet he is fun. Let’s hope whomever he’s sleeping with can keep up.”

“I’m sorry, did you come to talk about my brother’s sex life, or…?”

He laughed again, and she tried to ignore how attractive his laugh was. She scowled and crossed her arms, and he made an attempt to appear serious. “Sorry,” he said. “No. Actually, I didn’t even know your show was going to be here. I was on my way to—”

“Our bus broke down,” she cut in, tapping her foot to show her impatience. “I’d hate to keep you, though—I’m sure we’d be quite boring to someone as…educated as you.”

A small frown wrinkled his brow, and he said, “I’m unsure how I’ve managed to insult you.”

She was again taken aback. “I’m not insulted,” she said, although she was feeling self-conscious. To someone like him, her lack of education must be glaringly obvious. She wasn’t used to feeling so insecure, but his eyes were too watchful. And why was he being so polite and pleasant? She was being intentionally rude, and he was worried about hurting her feelings?

“Do you mind if I talk to some of your…performers?”

“Angels.”

“Angels, then. May I?”

“Why are you asking me?” she said. “They can talk to whoever they want.”

“It seems pretty clear that you run things,” he answered, further surprising her. “Also, I wouldn’t want to give the impression I’m sneaking around behind your back. Or that I have any underhanded motives. I’m not interested in...insulting their faiths. I’m only interested in honest conversations, from those willing to engage.”

“Oh, please,” she said. “You already said the miracles can be debunked. A professor of religions—surely discrediting faiths is part of the job.”

“Faith cannot be discredited,” he answered. “Certain aspects of religions can be disproven, some cannot. Faith itself requires no proof. And I’ve never claimed to have all the answers. If I believed that, I wouldn’t continue…learning, trying to learn, researching.”

“Searching,” she suggested.

It was his turn to look surprised. He considered. “I suppose that’s fair, yes,” he said. “Would you answer some questions?”

“No,” she said. She needed to get away from him. For some reason, he’d scrambled her thoughts and frazzled her nerves. “Sorry, I just…don’t have time,” she added. She started to turn away, and his voice stopped her.

“It’s Sam, right?” When she hesitated and looked back, he said, “Is it Sam Nightingale?” She felt a flutter of unease, and it must’ve shown on her face. He held up a hand. “Just Sam, then,” he said, before she could figure out how to answer. Then he lowered his hand, extending it toward her. She shook it automatically, before she even realized what she was doing. His palm was warm, and she felt an unwelcome pull of desire at the touch. He held her hand for a moment. As he released her, a small smile curved his lips, and he said, “Jackson Neill.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them that the Lord values patience.”

Sam smiled, but it felt tight. “You know we’ll settle up as soon as we can, Ida Mae,” she said.

The older woman put a hand on her shoulder. “I know, Sam. You and Jonas always come through. But lately…things are tighter and tighter. And the Angels are getting antsy.”

“They’ll be paid, I give you my word.”

Ida Mae sighed. “Sam, you and I are the only ones who know how bad the books are. With the bus breaking down, we’re gonna have a hard enough time just getting out of this town, let alone—”

“Sunday night, we’ll have a miracle. We’ll get the money.”

“These people don’t have much to give,” Ida Mae said.

“We’ll give them something so big they won’t be able to resist,” Sam said.

Ida Mae hesitated. “Well, sugar, I know you have a plan—you always do. But even Jonas can’t make it rain unless it’s God’s will. And with the sheriff already snooping into our finances—”

“Jonas has the sheriff occupied,” Sam cut in. “And don’t worry about Jonas, he can take care of himself. We’ll get the money for the bus, and the Angels will get their pay. Just tell them to have faith for a little longer.”

Ida Mae sighed. “It’s not faith they’re lacking, love,” she said. “And speaking of faith, what should we do about the professor snooping around?”

“Is he being…obnoxious?”

With her eyebrows raised, Ida Mae said, “Obnoxious? Lord, no, the boy’s charming as all get-out. I’m trying to keep Ornella away from him. But he’s asking all sorts of questions about Jonas, and you—”

“Me?”

“Wants to know if you and your brother are true believers,” Ida Mae said. She rolled her eyes. “He seems to think maybe Jonas is conning us all.”

“He’s not a cop. And his book isn’t about us, specifically. Just…let him poke and prod if that’s what he wants. We’ll be out of here Monday morning. He might be charming, but he doesn’t stand a chance if he decides to take on my brother.”

“Eavesdropping is a terrible habit,” a voice said, and Sam and Ida Mae turned toward the sound, startled. Jackson held up a hand. “One in which I never partake—intentionally. I apologize, I didn’t want to interrupt, but I can’t in good conscience—”

“How long have you been there?” Sam asked.

“Too long,” he admitted with a grimace. “Sorry.”

Sam looked at Ida Mae. “Thanks,” she said, touching a hand to the older woman’s arm. “I’ll see you at rehearsal.” Ida Mae nodded and, casting a look at Jackson, left them alone. Sam put her hands on her hips and faced the professor. “Do you just get your rocks off by going around listening to people talk about you?” He’d lost his sweater and tie, and she couldn’t blame him. It was still early, and the day had already grown hot.

He raised his eyebrows. “I rarely stumble upon people talking about me.”

“I doubt that,” she muttered.

He grinned, and she had to clench her jaw and narrow her eyes to keep from smiling in return. “You said something about letting me poke and prod? Does that extend to you?”

“I—What?” she asked, flustered. She felt her cheeks beginning to heat and cursed herself.

“Will you answer some questions?”

“Oh,” she answered, blushing more furiously than ever.

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee, or…a slice of pie or something? Ask a few questions? It’ll be painless.”

“Poking and prodding is rarely painless,” she said.

“I promise to be gentle,” he answered, and her heart stuttered in her chest. She tried to tell herself that the nervous flutter in her stomach, the hollow ache in her lower belly, the hot flush in her cheeks—that these things had nothing to do with desire. She tried to tell herself that she wasn’t alarmingly attracted to him.

She was an accomplished liar, but even she couldn’t fool herself this time.

He tipped his head a bit, regarding her.

She cleared her throat. “Why are you so…”

“Persistent?” he suggested with a small smile.

“Interested,” she countered. “I guarantee, I have nothing to add to your book, Professor—Dr. Neill, or whatever I call you.”

“Jackson.”

“I can’t get you an interview with my brother, if that’s what you’re looking for. You’ll have to try to pin him down yourself.”

“I’m not interested in talking to your brother,” he said. “Well,” he added, bobbing his head, “I am, but that’s not—How about lunch?”

She blinked, surprised. “Does that mean the offer of pie is off the table?” she heard herself asking. “Because I was sort of…warming to the idea of pie.”

He chuckled. “Lunch and pie, of course,” he said. “And coffee.”

“Fine, but I promise you, you’re gonna be disappointed.”

“I doubt that,” he said, smiling.

There was something oddly sensual about the way he ate apple pie, and she had to keep reminding herself to pull her gaze away from his mouth. If he’d noticed, he hadn’t commented. He’d been asking her innocuous questions—What kind of music did she like? What was her favorite book?

They were personal questions, not related to Jonas or the revival, but they weren’t overly personal. He’d been making small talk all through lunch, and she’d even asked him a few questions of her own—how long had he been teaching? Did he have another career path in mind? How long was he planning on traveling the country, researching revivals?

By the time their pie arrived, however, she’d begun to feel guilty. She didn’t like the feeling, and she didn’t like feeling as though she owed him anything. Nevertheless, she’d agreed to answer questions for his book. He was buying her lunch and hadn’t yet asked one question pertaining to Jonas or their show.

She realized she was staring at his mouth, again, and forced her eyes up to his. “Look,” she said, setting her fork down and putting her elbows on the table. “I appreciate the whole nice guy routine you’ve got going on, alright? What’s your favorite color, what’re your hopes and dreams, did you turn out like this because your father was a piece of shit alcoholic—but you don’t have to pretend to be interested in my life.”

“Who’s pretending?” he asked quietly.

“You’re worried about offending me, don’t be, I’m not breakable. Ask me what you came to ask.”

“Was he abusive?”

“What?” she asked. Her heart was suddenly dancing nervously in her chest. She didn’t know why she’d mentioned her father—Jackson hadn’t asked her about her childhood.

Jackson leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, as well. She had to fight her urge to sit back. She had to struggle to hold his steady gaze. “Your father. Was he abusive?”

She didn’t mean to answer. She never discussed her childhood, not with anyone. Ida Mae knew a bit, because she’d been around a long time. But no one except Sam and Jonas knew what it had really been like.

Jackson’s expression was kind, his green gaze perceptive, and she heard herself saying, “Not to me. Not when Jonas was around.”

“Was it just the two of you?” he asked.

“It’s always been just the two of us.”

“Ah,” he said.

She frowned. “Don’t say ah like you understand something. I know you think my brother is a fraud—”

“I don’t know what your brother is or isn’t. I haven’t spoken to him. But I did speak to your…Angels. And they love him. Oh, they made jokes. Even hungover, Jonas can run circles around any evangelist, and just imagine if he ever tried it without a hangover. He’s slept with half of every town you’ve been to, and the other half is jealous. He’s the only gambler who always manages to break even without ever winning. But they love him. I don’t know if they all believe what he preaches, but they believe in him. He may be a con artist, but unless he’s really bad at it—which I doubt—he’s not in it to get rich. Most of these guys live in mansions and drive fancy cars and wear ten thousand dollar watches when they’re not out slumming it in these small towns—”

“Most of these guys?” she repeated, cutting him off. “Look, Professor, my brother might drink, and sleep around, and gamble, and…bend the truth. But life isn’t handed to everyone on a silver platter, and we do what we have to do to survive. Maybe you think that’s an excuse, a copout, a…justification for bad behavior, but my brother…All he ever wanted was to sing, to perform, to…to make people happy. My earliest memories are of watching him sing in church, or dancing in the backyard, he used to put on shows for me and my toys, and—” She broke off, giving her head a shake to clear it. She hadn’t meant to get nostalgic. “But as for conning people? Maybe you don’t think it’s…godly to convince someone to, say, buy a car they don’t need.”

“I would hesitate to use the word ‘godly’ applied to any man,” he said.

“Men feel godly all the time. I daresay even you,” she added. “Maybe you don’t like the word. Maybe you’d prefer…powerful. It’s the same thing in the end. But some men convince people to spend their money on cars or TVs or timeshares in the Caribbean.”

“Your brother convinces them to spend their money on miracles,” he said.

“If he can talk a person out of an addiction, is that a miracle? If he can convince a girl who hasn’t spoken in three years to talk to her parents, is that a miracle? If he can get a man who hasn’t walked without crutches—”

“People with blind faith are susceptible to manipulation,” Jackson interrupted. “And desperate people who want to believe in miracles can, in fact, create their own…unexplained—”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is, if you’re only in town for three days, it’s easy to convince a man he’s no longer addicted to nicotine or gambling or…sex, or whatever. But after you—after Jonas leaves town, how long do you think it takes for those cravings to return? What you’re talking about, it can work for trained hypnotherapists, or psychologists, but without the proper follow-up care—” He stopped and let out a breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, surprising her. “I didn’t mean to…” He waved his hand, grimacing.

“Preach?” she suggested.

He smiled. “Right. Would you like more coffee?”

She glanced at her cup. “No. Thanks. I have to get back and set up for rehearsals.” She slid her plate aside and put her hand on the table, turning to get up.

He reached out and touched her wrist, lightly, stopping her. “I know it might feel like it’s too late to…change the course of your life,” he said. His expression was earnest, and his fingers were warm against her wrist. “It’s not. There are so many things—”

She pulled her arm away and pushed to her feet. He leaned back in his seat, looking up at her, and she could sense his disappointment. Or perhaps it was merely frustration.

“You think of yourself as open-minded, but you’re a lot more judgemental than you think you are. And it might be easy for you to point fingers at Jonas, but I’d say you’re the one with the savior complex. I doubt that worked well for you in those cults you mentioned.” She saw his wince and continued: “I don’t need you to save me, Dr. Neill. And trying would be a waste of your time.”

“Sam,” he said when she started away. She thought he might get up, follow her, but he didn’t. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved.

“Thanks for lunch,” she said, walking away from him.

“You’ll have your money Monday morning.”

As the mechanic walked away, Sam lowered her head and took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and finger. The bus was fixed; now they just needed to pay for it—or sneak out of town before Monday morning. Jonas had talked the motel owner into comping several rooms, one for Jonas and the rest for the Angels. Sam could’ve had one for herself, but she chose, as always, to stay on the bus. They might not have to worry about the vehicle being stripped, not in a place like Sweetwater, but old habits died hard. Without the bus, they would be screwed.

She didn’t know if they could get enough money from the residents of the town, even with a ‘miracle.’ Getting money from Sweetwater would be like getting blood from a stone, but she couldn’t convince Jonas of that.

He had no idea how dire their finances really were. Jackson had been right—Jonas wasn’t in the game to get rich. He didn’t care about money. He did care about keeping himself, his sister, and their choir fed and sheltered, he cared about keeping liquor in his flask and fuel in the bus, and he was willing to sweet-talk, schmooze, and seduce to keep their operation running. But, money? That was Sam’s department, Sam’s and Ida Mae’s. Jonas knew that they’d been creative with their books and lax on their taxes, but he didn’t ask for details.

And Sam didn’t volunteer them. Jonas had already done a few short stints in small jailhouses. She would do whatever she could to keep him from anything more serious. Plausible deniability might end up saving him in the end.

They were going to need a big miracle on Sunday, and her brother wasn’t going to like it. Not when he found out what she had in mind. She didn’t like it, herself, but the boy was their only hope. Their only other option was to load up and sneak out of town before the kind and generous, and desperate, residents realized they’d been swindled.

“Sam, we’re missing three speaker cables.”

She lifted her head. “Missing?”

Jed cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “Uh. We had ‘em last night. But…”

She suppressed a sigh. Maybe Sweetwater wasn’t as sweet as it seemed, after all. Why someone would steal the cables, and not the speakers, was beyond her, though. “There’s one extra under the driver’s seat of the bus. Take that for now, stagger the speakers further apart for rehearsals. We can make do being down two speakers if we have to but I’ll see what I can do.”

“There’s a hardware store, they might have something?”

She shook her head. “Go on with the setup. And, Jed? Everything is going to be locked up tonight, got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turned and saw Jackson talking to Ornella. The young woman had her hand on his arm and her brightest smile plastered on her face. Jackson had his head tipped toward her, eyes focused on her face while she talked, but as Sam watched, his gaze flicked up to hers for a moment. She faltered, flustered.

She gave herself a mental shake, frowned, and took off, striding toward town.

As she neared Main Street, she caught sight of her brother, and she slowed to a stop. He was on the baseball field with a boy—the boy—in a wheelchair. She felt a nervous wiggle in her stomach. Jonas seemed to be showing the kid something on a keyboard the boy had across the armrests of his chair.

Don’t get attached, Jonas, she thought. We need him.

She stood there for a few moments, and it occurred to her that there must be something wrong with her. Attached? He’s not a stray dog, he’s a child, she thought, with the acid of self-loathing churning in her stomach.

“He’s good with kids.”

Sam jumped, whirling toward the sound of the voice, cursing herself for being caught off guard. She never let anyone sneak up on her, and Jackson had now managed to startle her three times in one day. She tried to glare at him, but his expression held wariness and contrition, and she couldn’t maintain her dirty look. He didn’t deserve it, anyway.

“He’s good with everyone,” she muttered, turning away from the professor and starting along the sidewalk.

“I owe you an apology,” Jackson said, trailing along behind her.

“No, you don’t,” she answered. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Sam, please,” he said. She stopped, turning to face him. “I had no right to…presume to tell you what you should do with your life. I just…I don’t want to judge, I just want to understand. If you’ll give me another chance to observe…”

“Observe?” she repeated. “Ornella would be happy to show you around. She knows all the backstage secrets, believe me, and she loves to gossip. You’ll have a good time with her.”

“I’m not interested in—” He stopped, a small frown creasing his brow, and regarded her for a few seconds. She resisted the urge to fidget. “I’d like to spend my time with you, if you’ll allow it.”

She was again caught off guard by his directness. He kept throwing her off. She couldn’t imagine why he would be interested in her company. “I can’t stop you,” she said.

His expression tightened. “Absolutely, you can,” he said, quietly. “If you tell me to leave you alone, you won’t see me again.”

She didn’t want that, and the realization alarmed her. She almost told him to go away simply because she wanted him to stay. She bit back the words and said, instead, “Do you have a bad back or anything?”

He hesitated, blinking. “Excuse me?” he finally asked.

“I might need you to carry something. I’m headed to the school to see if I can talk them out of some cables, but we also have a split hose, we need water jugs—”

“Say no more,” he interrupted, holding up a hand. “Just load me up and tell me which way to go.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “Fine, you can tag along,” she said. “Prepare to be bored.” She cast another glance toward her brother and the boy as she started up the sidewalk.

“May I ask something, and this is without judgement—” He hesitated, looking sideways at her as they walked, waiting for her permission. She nodded. “Does your brother—Jonas—believe that he can heal someone like that kid?”

“Are you just asking if he’s a conman?” she asked.

“Not exactly,” he answered. “I…” He looked over his shoulder. “Look, I have my opinions on the monetary aspect, and I have my opinions on the religious aspect. But I can see a real smile on his face right now, and I could see the…sort of…love he has for performing, when he was rehearsing. You said he can…talk people into or out of things, addictions, whatnot.”

“Which you pointed out was probably temporary and most likely dangerous,” she said.

He grimaced and waved a hand. “Forget anything I said that sounded…jackassy. I’m genuinely curious about his motivations.”

She sighed. “Does Jonas believe that he can heal people?” She hesitated.

He stopped walking and, after a couple of steps, so did she. She turned toward him, and he surprised her again. “Off the record,” he said. “While I can’t and won’t condone the…fleecing of desperate people, I also won’t go around trying to discredit what I don’t fully understand. You have my word, I won’t use anything you say about your brother against you, or him, or…the show.”

She had no real reason to trust him. She’d only just met him, and she’d learned early on that people were built to lie. Even so, she did trust him. She was fully aware that it might come back to bite her, but she found herself answering honestly. She could still see her brother, out in the field, and she felt a twinge of guilt for talking about him.

“No, he doesn’t think he can heal people, people who are…really sick, or…or hurt, but that doesn’t mean he can’t help people,” she said. “Look, my brother can be…abrasive, obnoxious…loud, brash, overbearing…egotistical…” She frowned. “Well, no, actually, if anything he thinks too little of himself, but…all the other things, he can be a lot to take, I get that. I can hardly stand him myself, half the time.” She paused, trying to gather her thoughts. She’d just spouted a bunch of negative-sounding adjectives, and she wanted to make it clear that they were just a small part of who Jonas was, just the armor he wore against the world.

“He doesn’t believe in himself, but you do,” Jackson said.

She opened her mouth, and closed it again, frowning. Finally, she said, “I’ve seen things I can’t explain. I’m not delusional, if that’s what you mean.”

“Of course, it’s not. You have faith in your brother.”

“Yes,” she answered, and he nodded, seeming to accept that.

“So,” he said, resuming their walk. She fell into step beside him. “What kind of cables are we looking for?”

Jackson had his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His hair was damp at his forehead and the nape of his neck. Sam kept sneaking glances at him as they walked; she couldn’t help herself.

He kept looking at her, too, and every time their eyes met she felt a pleasant flutter in her stomach. He had an endearing little half-smile, and he somehow—without even trying—made her feel attractive.

She was sweating, too, even though he was carrying the heavy stuff: the coil of green garden hose that she’d borrowed from the hardware store, the wound lengths of speaker cable she’d convinced the high school A/V club to offer on loan, and an armful of books salvaged from the discard bin at the library. She was carrying two empty water jugs. She felt a little guilty, and not just about the disparate weight distribution.

“Your shirt’s going to be filthy,” she said, glancing at the dirty hose wrapped around his arm.

He shrugged a shoulder, offering her that half-smile. “It’s just a shirt,” he said. “When my kids were little, I think I went through five a day.”

She tried not to think about the way her heart had just stumbled. “You have kids?” she asked, after taking a moment to gather her composure. She didn’t think he was married—he wasn’t wearing a ring—but she hadn’t asked.

“Mmhmm,” he said. She was looking straight ahead, now, but she could feel his eyes on her. “Two. They’re currently at Disneyland with my ex-wife and her…boyfriend.”

Sam noted the hesitation, of course, and glanced at him. “Is that weird for you?” she asked.

“Which part?”

“Your ex having her boyfriend on vacation with your kids.”

“He’s a nice enough guy. The kids like him. I guess I just feel weird about the word.”

“Boyfriend?”

He laughed. “Yeah. What about you? Do you ever look around these towns and think about starting a family?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he said, “Sorry, too personal?”

“I don’t think about it, much,” she said, which wasn’t exactly true. She’d been thinking about it more and more, lately. “But a town like this? No. I might’ve come from the sticks but I’m never going back. A place this quiet might be good for a while, but I like the city. The noise, the pace, everything. I’d go crazy in a place like this. Is this what you want?”

He sniffed, looking around. “It has its appeal,” he said. “There’ve been times when I wondered if I should’ve raised my kids in a place like this, where everyone knows everyone and you can hear yourself think. But, no. Maybe when I’m eighty and ready to retire.”

She smiled. “You’re not gonna retire off this book you’re writing?”

He chuckled. “Even if I can convince more than three people to read it, no. I’ll teach until they throw me out.”

“Teaching religious studies to a bunch of obnoxious twenty-year-olds?” she asked. “Is it really that great?”

Grinning, he said, “They can be obnoxious, yes, but I used to teach eighth graders. Trust me, they’re scarier.”

“I’ll bet you’re everyone’s favorite professor,” she said. “You probably grade on attendance and bake the class cookies.”

He laughed, turning his head to look at her, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Bake cookies?” he repeated.

His beauty in the bright sunlight stole her breath, and she had to struggle to keep her voice steady. “Tell the truth,” she said.

He was still laughing, and she wanted to kiss him. The impulse shocked her. “Once,” he said. “I baked cookies one time.”

She laughed, trying to ignore her flush of desire. Hopefully he would think she was just overheated. “I knew it,” she answered. “Was it a birthday? Or did you just feel guilty about giving them a test or something?”

He cleared his throat.

She stopped walking, looking at him. “Seriously?”

He turned to face her. His expression was sheepish. “Actually, I gave a test that everyone but one student failed.” He hesitated, and she knew that wasn’t the whole story.

“Because?” she prompted.

“Because my wife moved out and took the kids to her mother’s house and filed for divorce within the span of a week and I was…”

“Cranky?”

He smiled. “Something like that.”

“That’s rough,” she said. “Why’d she leave? Did you cheat on her?”

He seemed startled by the idea. “No,” he answered.

She read his expression. “She cheated on you,” she said. It wasn’t a question, and she saw his throat bob as he swallowed. “Sorry,” she said, and she meant it. “But hey, on the bright side, now you’re free to sleep with all the pretty young college girls that’re no doubt falling at your feet.”

He regarded her in silence for a few moments, chewing the inside of his lower lip. “I would never sleep with a student,” he finally said. “It would be unethical.”

“So if I enrolled in your class?” she asked, but she felt a surge of guilt for making a joke just to cover her own discomfort. “Sorry,” she repeated. “Look, I didn’t mean to…offend you, or whatever.”

“I’m not offended,” he said quietly. “And for the record, I’m not trying to sleep with you.”

She tried to think of something to say. “I…”

“Not because I don’t want to,” he added, shifting the stack of books he was holding. “Because, also for the record, I find you very attractive, and to answer your question, if you were enrolled in my class, I’d be distracted all the time and probably bake a lot more cookies.” He turned and started walking, but slowly, and she fell into step beside him. “Sex is all well and good, Sam—”

She snorted. “Well and good? I don’t want to speak ill of your ex, but she sounds like a bore.”

He smiled, and finished, “But romance is better.”

“Isn’t the point of romance to get to the sex?” she asked.

“The point of romance is romance,” he said. “Making breakfast in bed, or sending someone flowers on a random Wednesday just so they know you were thinking about them? Celebrating your six-month anniversaries and…waking up early each morning just so you have longer to spend curled up together? Nicknames, secret jokes, holding hands, showering together—crying together, all of it.” He turned toward her again. His shirt was stuck to his sweaty shoulders and back, and they were never going to make it to the bus if they kept stopping. “Forgive me, Sam, but it really pains me to think you haven’t had anyone love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

“You don’t even know me,” she muttered. Her heart was racing. She was caught between her instincts for fight and flight. There were sarcastic, cruel words perched on her tongue; her feet were itching to run. “Maybe I’ve been loved exactly the way I deserve.” She didn’t know she was going to say it until the words were hanging in the hot air between them.

He studied her face, and she forced herself to keep her gaze from dropping. “I don’t think so,” he said, and his voice was soft. He let out a breath. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. And, at the risk of undermining my, uh…rugged masculinity, these books weigh about ten times what they did when we started out.”

“And it’s hotter than hell,” she said, as they started walking.

“It’s a shame your brother can’t give the county a little rain.” When she shot him a look, he said, “I’m serious. This place is about to blow away.”

She looked around at the town. She’d meant what she said: she wouldn’t want to settle into a small town, Sweetwater or any other. That didn’t mean she couldn’t see its appeal, though. “It’s a shame,” she said, quietly. She squinted up at the cloudless sky.

If he could make it rain, we wouldn’t need the kid, she thought, looking toward the deserted baseball field. Her brother was nowhere in sight, and neither was the boy. Jonas isn’t going to like it.

“Who’s the guy who’s been snooping around?”

“What guy?” Sam asked without looking up.

“The old guy who looks…soft and professor-ish.”

She lifted her head. “He’s not old,” she said, without thinking. She saw Jonas’s smirk, and clenched her jaw.

“Just soft and professor-ish?” Jonas teased. “Maybe he should do something about the gray, then,” he said, pinching at his own hair near his temple.

“He is a professor, he’s got a doctorate in new American religions. He’s writing a book about revivals. And not everyone has a love affair with vanity,” she said, and her brother laughed. “Besides, he’s only six years older than you.”

Jonas tipped his head. “By my calculations, that makes him eight years older than you,” he told her. “I’m tempted to ask how you know, since it seems unlikely you’d come right out and ask…” He narrowed his eyes, regarding her, and she felt herself flushing. “You Googled him, didn’t you?”

She crossed her arms to keep from fidgeting. “It’s my job to dig up information on people,” she said, hating the defensiveness in her own voice.

“Oh, so you found something we can use? Great, we’ll make a believer out of him.”

“No,” she said, harsher than she’d intended, and she saw Jonas’s smile. She cursed herself for continuing to rise to his bait, but his smile was gentle, now. That was somehow worse. Jonas understood her as no one else ever had. “Don’t worry about it,” she told him. “He won’t cause problems. If I have to, I’ll keep him distracted until we leave town. He won’t follow us, he’s got a hundred other revivals to visit.”

“If you have to,” Jonas said, softly, and she could see the sadness in his smile. She didn’t want his pity. “Sam,” he said, with a sigh. “You’re allowed to—”

“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do,” she cut in, because she didn’t want to have this conversation. “I get along fine, thanks.”

“Right,” Jonas said. “God forbid you actually care about someone.”

“You’re one to talk!” she exclaimed, but they both knew that caring about people had never been his problem. Their father had always said he was too sensitive, but Sam knew the truth. Jonas had always felt things deeply, had always loved wholeheartedly, and he’d always been fiercely loyal to anyone who treated him with kindness.

Yes, he could convince a widow to hand over her wedding ring, but she would do so with a smile. Yes, he could take a different person to bed each night, but he never left them feeling disrespected or unappreciated. Yes, if he felt cornered or betrayed, he could cut a person in half with the sharpness of his tongue.

Jonas loved performing. He got his high not from the dollars landing in the baskets, but the smiles on people’s faces. Their money kept him fed, but their cheers were what nurtured him. Jonas was the most alive when he was on a stage, and he took no pleasure from fooling people. When he convinced a man to quit smoking, it didn’t matter if it was really God’s will or not. What mattered to Jonas was that he’d impacted someone’s life, that he’d left a mark. Jonas wanted desperately to be loved, to be appreciated. To be respected.

Sam knew the feeling. It was something they shared, a remnant of their childhood. They’d spent their formative years searching in vain for the love of a parent. They’d craved affection and acceptance, and they’d turned to each other. He’d been her best friend, her protector. And then she’d become his protector. It had been a gradual shift. Every punch from their father had left more than a physical mark. Every cruel word had added an invisible scar.

Jonas felt things deeply, and Sam trained herself to keep her own feelings buried. She’d made herself into an emotional shield for him, the way he’d once been a physical shield for her. It had been the two of them against the world for as long as she could remember, and she didn’t know any other way of life. Until recently, she’d never allowed herself to fantasize about anything else.

They often argued. In fact, there were few things on which they’d ever seen eye to eye. But Jonas was the one person who would never betray her. She loved him, even when she wanted to strangle him. If it weren’t for him, she might not believe herself capable of love.

But Jonas, he deserved the kind of all-in love—breakfast in bed, celebrating half-year anniversaries, flowers on Wednesdays, cuddling in the early morning light, affectionate nicknames, kisses both passionate and tender, holding hands on the sidewalk, shared showers, shoulders to cry on, private jokes, gazes filled with adoration—that he secretly craved. The years on the road were slowly eating away at him. Each performance gave him joy, but the rest of the life was wearing on him.

No matter whose bed he was in, he always fell asleep alone. He didn’t have to tell her that. They didn’t typically discuss their sex lives. Nor did she care about what he did with whom. What she cared about was the fact that, lately, even the performances couldn’t completely erase the sadness from around his eyes. The highs were no longer outweighing the lows.

She couldn’t stand to watch him destroying himself.

She wanted to set him free, and she didn’t know how. She wasn’t sure who she was without him and the show. She was terrified to examine herself in the mirror, afraid that she would see nothing but an outline, a shadow, in the reflection.

“Look, I’m not some helpless little girl anymore,” she said. She was horrified to feel tears burning her eyes, and she gritted her teeth, forcing them back.

“You were never helpless,” he answered quietly.

“So you don’t have to worry about me,” she said. “What you need to worry about is the show. We need to use the kid.” He knew that Jake was the sheriff’s son, now. She hadn’t been the one to tell him, and she hadn’t asked him what had happened.

“No.”

“No? No? I’m telling you, we don’t have a choice, not if you want to get out of this godforsaken town.” When he was silent, she narrowed her eyes. “You do want to get out of here, right?”

“Of course,” he answered, but she wasn’t sure he believed himself. “But he’s the sheriff’s kid, and…Jake’s been through enough.”

“Oh, really? The world is cruel, Jonas, you know that. The sooner the kid learns that—”

“He knows about the cruelty of the world, Sam,” Jonas interrupted. “The one thing he has left is hope—faith. I won’t take that from him.”

“Everyone in town says it’s psychosomatic,” she said. “There’s no reason for him not to walk, no medical reason. It’s in his head, Jonas. All you have to do is convince him that God wants him to walk, and—”

“No,” he repeated, his tone harsh.

“He believes in you. He will believe in you.”

“Yeah,” Jonas said, running his fingers through his hair in agitation. “Yeah, Sam.” She could hear the rawness in his voice, and it alarmed her. He was too emotionally invested, already. “And what if it’s not all in his head, huh? He doesn’t need someone like me coming in and—”

“Is this because you’re sleeping with his father? You’ve done miracles on kids before.”

“This is different and you know it.”

“Everyone in town loves the kid. You can’t give them rain, Jonas, but you can give them something they want just as much. They’d each give their last penny to get that kid on his feet, you can see it in their faces when they look at him, when they talk about him. If you’re looking for a change, we can change. We can figure something out, but we have to get—”

“Sam.” He sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. When he looked at her again, she could see the weariness around his eyes, the unhappiness around his mouth, the defeat in his posture. “I love you, sis,” he said, quietly. “But I can’t discuss this right now.”

Before she could say anything, he turned on his heel and strode away. She stood, staring after him, stunned. She was feeling a little bit of everything at once, all the emotions swirled together to leave her with a general sense of unease.

Her gaze shifted, and she caught Jackson’s eyes. He always seemed to be around; her eyes always seemed to find his. He’d changed into jeans and a gray t-shirt that accentuated the muscles in his arms, and she thought, soft and professor-ish, my ass.

She didn’t think he was close enough to have heard the conversation. He certainly wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. She could feel his concern, though, could see it in his expression. He was worried about her, and she didn’t know how to deal with that. She didn’t know how to feel about it. She turned her back on him and walked in the opposite direction of her brother. And Jackson.

“It’s Jackson, right?”

The professor turned. “Jonas Nightingale, at last,” he said, extending a hand. Jonas looked him over while shaking his hand. “Did Sam tell you I wanted to ask a few questions?”

“No,” Jonas answered. “Actually, I came to talk about her.”

“Your sister?” Jackson said, suddenly wary.

“You seem to have spent most of the day with her,” Jonas said. “Are you trying to screw her?”

Jackson blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“First of all, vulgarity aside, I—” He stopped, raising his hands when Jonas stepped closer.

Jonas poked him in the chest, and said, “She’s had enough assholes in her life. If you hurt her, I’ll bring hellfire raining down on your head, professor.”

“I appreciate your attempt to look out for your sister, here—Could you back up, please? Thanks,” Jackson said, smoothing the front of his shirt when Jonas took a step back. “I have no intention of hurting her, and I only met her this morning.”

“It only takes a few minutes,” Jonas said.

“Not for me, it doesn’t,” Jackson answered.

Jonas laughed, pointing at him. “Touché. So. Jackson. What’s everyone been saying about me behind my back? Come on, don’t make me buy the book.”

“So far as I can tell, everyone loves you,” Jackson said. He saw something like guilt flit across Jonas’s features. “They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.”

“Hey,” Jonas said, spreading his arms. “What’s not to love?”

“I met you forty-five seconds ago.”

“Well, I like you, doc,” Jonas said. “You’re an honest guy, I can tell. I’ll bet you’ve never told a lie in your life. Don’t let Sam scare you off.”

“I’m not—there’s nothing going on between—”

“Careful, now, don’t make this your first lie,” Jonas said. He pulled his flask from his back pocket and unscrewed the lid. He held the flask toward Jackson, raising his eyebrows.

“No,” Jackson said. “Thank you.”

Jonas smiled as he took a drink. Replacing the lid, he shook his head. “So polite, too. Ask me some questions, professor. I love to talk about myself.”

“Alright. Why do you do what you do?”

“Do what I do?” Jonas asked. “You mean the Lord’s work?”

“If that’s what you believe, then yes,” Jackson answered.

Jonas narrowed his eyes. “I think we both know the answer,” he said, all traces of humor gone from his expression. “We rip people off. No—I rip people off. I use their secrets against them, I manipulate them, I give them false hope, and I take their money. And then I never see them again.” He shrugged, spreading his arms again, the flask glinting in one hand. “Do they go back to drinking? Cheating? Hitting their wives? Who knows. I get my money and I leave.”

“People ask for help…not hitting their wives?” Jackson asked, feeling ill.

Jonas’s expression contorted, and Jackson didn’t doubt the sincerity of his pain. “Oh, doc, you wouldn’t believe what sins people confess,” he said, softly. “They want God to cure them. So I put my hand on their forehead and I promise them absolution if they change their ways. And what promise does the bruised and battered young woman beside them get? What assurance does she have that the beatings will stop? Nothing but the word of a conman. We can phone in an anonymous tip—” He stopped, licking his lips as he gathered his thoughts. He shook his head and looked at Jackson. “What kind of man needs someone like me to tell him not to hit his wife? Not to fuck around on her? Not to hit his kids—” He pulled in a deep breath. “You’re an educated man, right, professor? Me, I never graduated high school, so maybe I just don’t get it.”

“There are a lot of terrible people in the world,” Jackson said. “But there’re good people, too. I have to believe that the good outnumber the bad.”

“And what absolution does a man deserve after hitting his wife and kids?”

Jackson swallowed. “I don’t know the answer to that,” he said.

“What kind of redemption is there for a man who offers false hope—” He stopped again. He opened his flask and drank the last of his liquor. He shook the empty bottle. “I need a refill,” he said.

“When you look into the face of a child with a black eye, and you see yourself,” Jackson said, “what do you do? You can tell me that you offer absolution to the father and take your money and leave, but I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you because of your sister, and Ida Mae, and Ornella, and every person I’ve talked to about you. I think what you do is tell the man that God will give him the strength to be better, you tell him that he has the power to change and be forgiven, and you take his money. And then? You get that money into his wife’s hand along with the phone number of someone who can help her. And then you whisper into that kid’s ear, and you tell him that God is on his side, not his father’s, and that he will survive the hell in which he’s currently trapped and he will thrive in the world, and there will come a day when his father can no longer touch him.”

Jonas opened his mouth but couldn’t find any words to speak.

“Is that false hope? Maybe. I don’t know,” Jackson said. “Maybe sometimes yes, sometimes no. Maybe they get away. Maybe they don’t. Nobody can save everyone, but false hope is still hope, and sometimes that’s all we have to get us through the day. Hope for tomorrow. You want to know what people say behind your back?” Jackson bobbed his head, raising his eyebrows, and said, “They say a lot, Mr. Nightingale.”

He turned and walked away, and Jonas stared after him, stunned into speechlessness.

Sam didn’t have time to worry about Jackson or the sheriff once the show started. She had to make sure the microphones were working, that the Angels were on their marks, that Jonas’s earpiece was working. She had to make sure she knew which audience member was sitting in which seat—and she had to make sure that the sections were clearly marked, because otherwise Jonas wouldn’t know where to go.

She had to make sure Jonas was sober—she could smell the alcohol on his breath when he got to the stage, but she could also smell the coffee. He’d made an attempt to sober himself up, and she followed up on that by pumping him full of water. She made a mental note that they might need to add an extra two minutes to his wardrobe change for a bathroom break, but they would cross that bridge if it arose. Once Jonas was on stage, he was usually able to push everything else aside and focus on the show.

She had to make sure there was water readily available for him and for the rest of the performers and crew. She had to supervise the collection baskets: if they were circulated too soon, people would begin to feel antsy and might even decide to leave; if they were passed around too late, people might not want to pay for a show they’d already seen.

There were a lot of things to worry about, but she was relieved, once the show started, to see that Jonas seemed fully committed. He was in top form, and he barely looked at the kid—Jake—where he sat near the corner of the stage. And he didn’t, as far as Sam could tell, look at the sheriff a single time during the performance.

He sang. He danced. He smiled. He flirted.

He was kind, compassionate. He was witty, funny.

He went in every direction Sam pointed him, without hesitation, and even Sam, who’d seen his act more times than she could count, was impressed by the advice he was doling out. He was the best he’d been in years, and Sam—at first relieved by his performance—gradually became aware of an uneasiness growing within her.

As Jonas drove the revival toward its conclusion with the velocity of a barrel traveling Niagara Falls, she could see his increasing desperation. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was performing for the last time.

The thought filled her with dread.

“You disappeared after the show.”

Jackson stood in the doorway, looking out at her. “You had a lot going on,” he answered. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You weren’t avoiding me?”

“No.”

“Do you like me, Jackson?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I mean, like me, like we’re in junior high and—”

“What’s wrong, Sam?” he asked quietly.

“Can I come in?”

He stepped aside and pushed the door open wider. When she’d walked into his room, he closed the door with a soft click and turned to face her.

“I looked for you,” she said. “I was afraid you might be gone, that I’d never see you again.”

“I’m sorry,” he answered. “I felt like I’d forced my company onto you enough for—”

She stepped forward and kissed him. He made a sound of surprise, but it quickly turned into one of desire when she pushed him against the door. His hands rose to her face. He was kissing her in return, but she could feel his hesitation, his wariness. She pressed closer against him, running her hands down his sides. She reached for the button of his jeans, and he pulled his mouth away from hers.

“Sam,” he said. His hands were still on her face, his palms warm against her cheeks, and she met his eyes. “You can talk to me,” he told her.

“I don’t want to talk,” she said. “Just for tonight, I want to feel something good.” She hesitated, holding his gaze. “That’s not true,” she admitted. “Not just anything, I want you. I want you, Jackson, if you…if you’ll have me.”

He searched her face for several seconds. He bent his head, watching her eyes, and kissed her. His lips were gentle, and she could feel the pads of his thumbs, soft against her cheeks.

He made her feel vulnerable and safe at the same time, a combination that she could scarcely comprehend. She would normally flee at the first feelings of vulnerability, but in spite of her apprehension, she didn’t want to run. Something about him called to her, and had since she’d first laid eyes on him. He looked at her as though he were seeing her, the real her, the woman she kept hidden away from the world.

He turned, and she felt the wall against her back. She ran her hands down his sides again, but this time she didn’t reach for his fly. She took hold of the bottom of his shirt and slid it upward, and he lifted his arms, pulling his mouth from hers long enough to let her tug the shirt over his head. Then he claimed her mouth again as she slid her hands over his stomach, his chest, his arms. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, all of it.

He turned his head and his lips were soft and damp against her jaw, the crook of her neck, her throat. She tipped her head back against the wall and held onto his shoulders, arching against him, needing to be closer.

“Jackson,” she said, and she could hear the plea in her own voice.

“Sam,” he answered against her throat. One of his hands slid under her shirt, the heat of his palm seeping through the fabric of her bra as he cupped her breast. He sucked gently at the sensitive skin of her throat, and she made a sound, desperate to feel more of him. She lifted a leg, hooking it around his hips, and she could feel his growing arousal.

“I need you,” she breathed, something she’d never said before. “Please, Jackson.”

He grabbed the backs of her thighs and lifted her. She threw her other leg around him and held onto his neck. He covered her mouth with his again as he spun, carrying her toward the bed. In just a few seconds, he was lowering her onto the mattress, still kissing her. His arousal was nestled between her thighs, and she shifted, trying to pull him closer, her legs still around him.

His hands were hot against her stomach, and he pushed her shirt up, his fingers splayed over her ribcage. He pulled back, and she reluctantly dropped her legs away from his hips. A moment later, his lips were pressed against the bare skin of her stomach, and a shiver passed through her.

While he trailed kisses across her belly, one of his thumbs found her nipple—with uncanny ease—through the cup of her bra. She grabbed at his bare shoulders; she couldn’t remember ever wanting anyone as badly as she wanted him. She wanted him to hurry, but she also wanted the moment to last forever.

He seemed to have no intention of hurrying.

His mouth was slowly driving her insane with need—and that was only her stomach. The ache between her legs was building, and she wanted his tongue to move a few inches lower. His thumb was lazily teasing her nipple, and she wanted the barrier of her bra to disappear.

She wanted all the barriers between them to disappear.

He turned, reaching back to slip off her shoe. She made a sound of protest, when his mouth left her skin, that shocked her. He chuckled lightly, but instead of embarrassing her, his laugh only made her want him more.

He pulled off her shoe and sock, and then the other, dropping them to the floor. In just a few seconds, his fingers were at the button of her jeans, but his movements were still unhurried. He lowered her zipper and gently tugged the jeans over her hips; she shifted her legs, trying to make it easier, wanting the restricting garment gone. While he was pulling her jeans off and tossing them aside, she levered herself up and stripped her shirt over her head, throwing it past the edge of the bed. She unhooked her bra and pulled it off, too.

Jackson turned, his gaze sliding up the length of her body until their eyes met. He leaned forward and kissed her lips, but it was quick. She felt his hand on her inner thigh and she spread her legs further, wanting—needing—to give him better access. He shifted, and his middle finger found her clit through the thin cotton of her panties. His mouth closed around her breast at the same moment, his tongue flicking her nipple, and she gasped in surprise at the dual assault on her senses. She grabbed at his hair, tipping her head back as she arched, involuntarily, against his hand.

His fingers were gentle, massaging her through her dampening underwear, and he matched the rhythm with his tongue on her nipple. The pressure within her was building at an alarming rate; his ministrations were hurtling her toward climax more quickly than she’d imagined possible. She shifted against his hand, again.

“Jackson,” she said; his name was all she could manage.

He lifted his head and his mouth found hers. He kissed her while his fingers moved faster, rougher against her panties, and she arched her back, gasping into his mouth as her orgasm crashed over her. She shuddered against his hand, her muscles clenching as she tried to draw him closer.

He released her mouth and she pulled in a deep breath, blinking as she tried to make sense of how quickly he’d taken her over the edge—and the fact that he was still half-dressed. Before she could say anything, he took hold of her hips and shifted her further up the bed. He hooked his fingers into the elastic of her underwear and slid the panties past her thighs, down her legs, discarding them. In a heartbeat, she felt his breath between her legs, and she closed her eyes, once more saying his name.

His mouth closed around her, his tongue finding her sensitized clit, and she bucked against his face, gasping. Her hands were buried in his hair, and all she could do was hold on. Tremors rippled through her and then, almost without warning, she came again, crying out his name as she arched against his mouth.

He pushed to his feet and she watched, barely capable of rational thought, as he stripped out of his jeans and underwear. He was back in a moment, trailing kisses up her thigh, over her belly, across her breasts, her chest, up to her mouth. She shivered, running her hands over his shoulders, down his back, cupping her palms around his bare ass to pull him closer. She could feel his erection against her hip and she shifted, turning her mouth from his.

His hand was between her legs again, and she bit back a moan, closing her eyes for a moment. “Wait,” she managed, and his fingers stilled. She opened her eyes to find him looking at her. “I want you,” she said, reaching a hand between them to wrap her fingers around his erection. A shiver passed through his body, and she felt him twitch in her hand. He held her gaze, his eyelids heavy with desire. He lowered his head, pressing his lips against hers.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been kissed so much, if ever.

He pushed himself backward, slipping his erection from her grasp, and she blinked in surprise as his warmth disappeared from her body. She levered herself up on her elbows, watching as he tore open a small foil package. She didn’t know where it had come from, or how he’d had the presence of mind; she’d certainly been thinking of nothing so responsible.

She watched him roll on the condom before dragging her gaze up to his. She saw his lips curve into a smile, and she held out a hand, motioning for him. His body once more covered hers, and his hands were all over her—gently kneading her breast, tracing the curve of her hip, trailing along the hollow of her shoulder, tickling her inner thigh. She couldn’t keep track. Her skin was tingling everywhere he’d touched, her whole body on fire with desire.

So far, he’d gotten almost nothing in return.

Sam pushed at his chest, and he didn’t resist as she rolled him onto his back. In a few moments, she was straddling his stomach, and his hands were resting lightly on her hips. She ran her hands over his chest. He shifted his shoulders and she felt his stomach tightening against her inner thighs. She could feel his erection behind her, and she kissed him while she shifted her hips backward. He groaned against her mouth, and she reached between their bodies, taking his arousal in her hand.

He flexed his hips beneath her, pushing himself into her palm, and part of her was sorry that he’d already applied the condom. She wanted to feel him, his silky length against her hand. There was no time to worry about it, though. She could see the tightness in his expression, could feel the quivering of his muscles beneath her, and she levered herself up.

Holding him loosely in her hand, she positioned herself over his erection. His lips were parted, his fingertips pressing into her hips.

As she lowered herself partway down, she withdrew her hand and paused, meeting his eyes.

He was breathing shallowly through his mouth, his bright gaze fixed on hers. He slid his hand from her waist, and his fingers once more found her clit. She gasped in surprise, sinking down his length. He smiled, stroking lazily with his thumb. He shifted his hips beneath her, the muscles in his abdomen tightening.

She didn’t immediately move, taking a few moments to savor the feeling of fullness. She spread her palms over his stomach, relishing the way he quivered at her touch.

He needed release, though, and she wanted to watch his face as she pushed him over the edge. Bracing her hands on his abdomen, she started moving her hips, watching his eyelids droop. His thumb was still massaging her, and she increased her rhythm, determined to bring him to climax before he could make her lose control again.

He wasn’t moving his hips beneath her, but she could feel the tension in his muscles, could sense the effort it was taking for him to hold back and let her set the pace. She worked her hips faster, harder, and both of his hands were back at her waist, holding onto her. He said her name on a breath as he thrust upward, once, involuntarily, filling her completely as he came inside the sheath of his condom.

His hand fumbled its way between them, again, even as the tremors were still wracking his body, but she was already coming apart before his fingers found her most sensitive spot. At the light pressure of his fingers, she cried out, tightening around him, closing her eyes as her third orgasm stole her breath. She jerked and shuddered against his hand, and then he’d curved an arm around her shoulders and was pulling her down for another kiss. She collapsed against his chest, feeling weak and shaky as their mouths met.

He wrapped both arms around her, holding her against himself. She had to pull away from his mouth to draw a ragged breath, and she laid her cheek against his shoulder, shivering from the aftershocks of her orgasm. He kissed the top of her head.

“Sam,” he breathed into her hair. She could feel the thud of his heart.

“Jackson,” she murmured in return, and his arms tightened around her.

Sam eased out of bed and quietly began gathering up her clothes. She was holding her shirt clutched to her chest, bending down to peer beneath the bed for her bra, when she realized that Jackson was watching her.

“You don’t have to leave,” he said, quietly.

“Oh, no, it’s alright,” she answered, feeling self-conscious. “I should get back to the bus…” She snatched her bra off the floor and straightened.

He was lying on his side, with his hand beneath his cheek. “Would you think less of me if I asked you to stay?” he asked. His voice was soft, and so was his expression. She felt a flutter in her stomach, something close to nervousness.

“Less of you?” she asked, confused.

He smiled. “Sorry, is that not possible?” he said. His tone was light, joking, but she felt compelled to reassure him.

“That’s not what I—” She chewed her lip for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “I wouldn’t want you to think I don’t respect you,” she said.

“And I wouldn’t want you to think I’m needy,” he answered. “It’s late. Come back to bed.”

Normally, she would bristle at something so close to a command. Except…it didn’t sound that way, not when he said it. And as she regarded him, she found that she really didn’t want to leave. Lying there with his hair mussed, his jaw stubbled, his eyes bright and watchful, naked—though covered from the waist down by a tangle of blankets—he was both sexy and adorable. Appealing, in a way that frightened her.

She was afraid of how badly she wanted to crawl under the covers beside him, to curl into his warmth and drift to sleep with his scent in her nostrils.

What could it hurt, though? After Monday, she would never see him again. He would move on to another revival, and she and Jonas and their revival would move on to another town.

She walked to the edge of the bed, dropping her clothes to the floor. She wasn’t sure why she felt so shy as she crawled onto the bed, or why she felt just a bit emotional about the fact that he pulled the covers up over her. He leaned over and kissed her, and she expected him to want more. She wouldn’t have objected—her body responded quickly and naturally to his—even though she was tired and inexplicably emotional.

After a quick kiss on her lips, however, he kissed her shoulder and settled his head on the pillow beside hers, putting his arm over her. She turned her head a bit so she could see his face. His eyes were closed, and she felt herself relaxing into his heat.

“Goodnight, Sam,” he murmured. She didn’t answer, but she found herself turning toward him. He lifted his arm, and she curled against his chest, closing her eyes. His arm once more settled over her, and he kissed the top of her head. Within a minute, he was asleep. She could feel the steady drum of his heart, and his breaths were soft and even. The rhythms of his body quickly lulled her into an easy sleep.

When she woke, she was alone in the bed. She was surprised. She was normally a light sleeper, and wouldn’t have believed that someone could get out of bed—especially when the last thing she remembered was being tucked up against his body—without waking her.

She stayed there for a couple of minutes, listening. She could hear Jackson moving around in the bathroom. She could also smell bacon and eggs, and coffee, and knew that he’d gotten breakfast. After a moment, she spotted the white takeout containers beside the television. Her stomach rumbled at the scent, and she frowned. She wasn’t about to invite herself to share his breakfast; she already couldn’t believe she’d crawled back into bed and spent the whole night with him—let alone being curled up in his arms like…like…

She sat up and shook her head to clear it. What the hell is wrong with you? she thought. She leaned over the edge of the bed and grabbed her shirt off the floor, quickly pulling it over her head. She was debating whether or not to throw on her jeans and sneak out, but before she’d made a decision, Jackson stepped out of the bathroom.

He was dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved, button-up shirt—white—that was open at the collar. He hadn’t shaved but appeared to have smoothed his hair.

Not only had he managed to leave the bed without waking her, he’d gotten dressed and, presumably, left to get breakfast. She couldn’t remember ever having slept so soundly.

He saw her sitting on the bed in her t-shirt, and he smiled at her. Her heart did a strange little skip in her chest. It was a real smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He was genuinely happy to see her, and she wasn’t sure how to process that.

He walked over to the bed. “Good morning,” he said quietly, still smiling.

“Morning,” she muttered. She knew that her hair was a tangled mess. She was probably a scary sight, and she was naked from the waist down, covered only with the sheet. “You seem cheerful.”

Grinning, Jackson put a knee on the edge of the bed and leaned over, bracing his hands on either side of her hips. He kissed her; she could taste coffee, and she could smell his cologne, and desire bloomed in her belly. She sank back against the pillow, and he followed her down, smiling against her lips.

She found herself smiling in return; she couldn’t help it. He lifted his head a bit to look at her, and she suddenly forgot that she had messy hair and no makeup and morning breath. When he looked at her, she felt beautiful.

“I don’t usually stay until morning,” she admitted quietly.

He kissed her, again, and said, “I’m glad you stayed.”

“I just made myself sound like a whore,” she muttered.

He gave his head a little shake. “Lonely,” he countered, his voice and eyes soft. He rolled onto his side, propping his cheek on his fist as he looked at her. “Sam, I don’t…know you very well, and I…don’t want to ask for anything you’re not ready to give. But I’d like to get to know you, and I want you to know that I’m willing to try and make that work, whatever it means.”

After a moment, she turned onto her side, too, so they were facing each other. “My real name is Samantha Newton,” she said, quietly. “But that feels like a different person. Jonas chose the name Nightingale, and that feels…truer. I don’t even remember my mother, and my father was…the meanest sort of drunk. He wasn’t so nice when he was sober, either, but it was worse when he’d been drinking. And he hated Jonas, because Jonas was everything he wasn’t. Smart and funny, creative, kind. And happy. When we were little, he was so optimistic about life, it seemed impossible that even our father could beat it out of him.

“But he did, a little at a time. I could see it happening and I couldn’t do anything.”

“You were just a child, Sam.”

“We were both kids, Jackson. He sacrificed his…light, for me. And all I can think is that…I don’t deserve it. I haven’t done anything in my life to be worthy of what he’s given up for me.”

“Sam,” Jackson said on a sigh. “I’d argue that you’ve given up just as much for him, but that’s not really the point. I can’t tell you how to live your life, but I can tell you it isn’t over. There’s still time to have the life you want. You think you can’t leave him, that you owe him the rest of your life, but I promise you, he doesn’t want that. If you want my opinion, I think it’s likely that he’s carrying the same guilt you are. That he couldn’t protect you, that he’s not worthy of what you’ve given up.”

“How do I set him free?” she asked. It was the question she’d never been able to ask Jonas, the one she’d never been able to answer for herself.

“By being happy,” he answered.

She considered that. It seemed so simple, and yet… “I’m not sure I know how,” she admitted.

He lifted a hand and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I wish I could answer that for you,” he murmured. “But I have absolute faith that you’ll figure it out, and when you do…I’d love to hear from you. Maybe look up one day to find you walking into my classroom…”

She smiled. “You don’t sleep with your students,” she reminded him.

He chuckled. “I meant for a visit,” he said. “But if you decided to enroll, well, we’d both just have to suffer through the semester.”

She laughed. “Maybe you could let me observe for free, and I wouldn’t technically be a student.”

He was still smiling, but his eyes were serious as he regarded her. “I look forward to it,” he said.

She shifted toward him, and he met her kiss halfway. She rolled onto her back, pulling him with her, and he covered her body with his as he kissed her. His hand slid beneath her shirt, and her nipple hardened against his palm.

He lifted his head to look at her. “Will you spend the day with me?” he asked.

She studied his face for a few moments, noting his sincerity, his hope, and a touch of nervousness. “Yes,” she said. Kiss me again, she thought, amazed that she wasn’t tired of his lips, yet. Smiling, as though reading her mind, he touched his mouth to hers.

“Is it true that Ida Mae and the Angels haven’t been paid in months?”

“Jonas, I—”

“Is it true, Sam?”

“I told you I was worried,” she said, feeling defensive. “But you didn’t want to listen.”

Jonas nodded. She expected him to argue, to point out the fact that she’d never told him just how bad their financial situation had gotten, but he didn’t. “I know,” he said instead. “And I’m sorry. You’ve been carrying a weight that wasn’t yours. But that ends now.”

His words, and his obvious resolve, filled her with apprehension. “What are you saying?” she asked.

“You’ve been running the show for years, Sam. And all I’ve done is make your job harder. But—”

“No, Jonas,” she said, grabbing his arm. “You’re wrong. You are the show. You’re the one people come to see, you’re the one who’s kept everything together. Kept us together. You saved us, over and over again, and I started to take it for granted that you—that you always do whatever it takes. You always come through for us, for the Angels, for the show. I took it for granted and I’ve let you give up too—no, I’ve asked you for too much, and you never say no.”

He smiled. “I say no to you all the time, sis, you just don’t listen.”

“No,” she stressed, squeezing his arm. “You drag your feet and complain and put up token resistance and then you do it, you do everything, you chip off pieces of yourself and fling them to the crowd. And the rest of us? We just tag along, living off your sacrifice.”

“You’re giving me too much credit.”

“No, you’re not giving yourself enough,” she countered. “Jonas, you think you sold your soul. But you didn’t. I sold it, or at least brokered the deal. This isn’t the person I want to be,” she said, spreading her arms. “I tried to force you to convince a kid that you could heal him and I tried to convince myself that it was justifiable because it was for the greater good. That the possible trauma to an already traumatized kid was an…acceptable risk. And you balked. And I…I would’ve done it anyway. I would’ve forced you into it because that’s what I do, isn’t it? I let you do all the feeling, all the caring, and I just…take care of business.

“I don’t let myself get emotional, right? I met somebody I actually liked and I didn’t even know what to do because it’s been so long.” She saw Jonas’s gaze shift toward Jackson, who was at the other end of the tent talking into his phone. “And something happened between you and the sheriff, something more than just sex, you can’t tell me otherwise. We deserve to be happy, Jonas.”

Jonas caught Ida Mae’s eye and motioned her over. When the older woman had joined them, Jonas put a hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eye. “I want you to know that you—both of you, and the Angels—have been my salvation, you two especially have kept me going through some dark times. Ida Mae, I will make it right, I give you my word.”

She patted his arm. “We never doubted you, my boy,” she said with a smile.

“I will take care of it,” he told Sam.

His sister shook her head. “Jonas, you’re not listening—”

“No, Sam, I am listening,” he said, quietly. “I’m hearing you, I promise. You two have stuck with me, and I love you for it. I just need you to trust me a little bit longer.”

“Son, you know I’m with you to the end,” Ida Mae said. Jonas bent forward and kissed her cheek, giving her a hug. Then he looked at Sam.

“Promise me you’ll be okay, Jonas,” his sister said.

He smiled. “I promise. We’ll be okay,” he answered.

“I’ll do whatever you think is best,” Sam said after a few moments of silence.

When Jonas walked onto the stage with his guitar, a hush fell over the crowd. Sam could see a ripple of confusion pass through the audience, saw people exchanging glances. She saw her brother look at the sheriff for just a moment before quickly looking away. He looked at the kid in the wheelchair, up front near the stage. The boy offered Jonas a smile of encouragement, and in that moment, Sam knew that Jonas would give up everything—his very life—to be able to help Jake.

He believes in you, Jonas, she thought. There’s still a chance.

The Angels were on their marks, but they were silent. Jonas walked to the middle of the stage.

“Jonas?” Sam asked, softly, into her mic. He looked over at her and nodded.

Jonas faced the audience and started playing. Sam felt Jackson squeeze her hand, and she looked over at him, grateful for his presence.

Jonas started pacing as he played Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” on the guitar. The audience was silent, still not sure what to think. It wasn’t gospel music, and it wasn’t what they’d expected, but it was a song that Sam knew had always soothed him. It was difficult to play on guitar, and he’d never performed it on stage before. He seemed to play it effortlessly, though. He walked the stage, scanning the audience, meeting their eyes, reading their desperation.

He transitioned from Pachelbel into “Rise Up,” and the Angels, led by Ida Mae, started singing a subdued version of the song. He walked back to his spot on the center of the stage.

“My name is Jonas Nightingale,” he said, his gaze skimming the faces. Some were familiar, the citizens of Sweetwater; others were new. “But that wasn’t always the case,” he continued, and another murmur passed through the audience. “Who here has read Romeo and Juliet?” he asked. He nodded as half the audience members raised their hands. “The nightingale didn’t bring good fortune, did it?” He smiled as a nervous titter of laughter rippled through the tent. He ran his fingers over the strings of his guitar, gathering his thoughts. “I chose the name because all I ever wanted to do was sing. My father was less than encouraging of that dream. But my sister, Sam,” he said, turning to look at her with a gesture of his chin, “she always believed in me. She told me once, when I was nine and she was seven, that God was going to send a whale to rescue us. She’d learned about Jonah in Sunday school—though she’d mixed up bits of it with Pinocchio, I think,” he added, winking at Sam as the audience laughed again.

She could do nothing but watch him, mesmerized, as she held Jackson’s hand in a deathgrip.

Jonas looked at the crowd. “I was sitting in my closet with a broken arm and a bloody nose, gifts from our father, and I told my little sister that there was no such thing as God, and that no one was coming to rescue us. I looked her in the face, and I told her to grow up and to stop believing in fantasies. I was cruel, because I was hurt.” He paused, and the silence in the tent was tangible. “And my sister put her arms around me, and she said something that I will never forget.”

“Jonas,” Sam breathed, as tears burned her eyes at the memory of his pain.

“She said, ‘then you save me and I’ll save you.’ I dropped out of school to go to work after our parents died, determined to make sure she graduated even though she was a pain in the ass about it,” he said, and she laughed, glancing at Jackson with a shrug and a nod. “So I was working, scraping pennies together wherever I could, and our local preacher asked me to sing at the church picnic. I didn’t get why he’d ask, I was a sullen little heathen who hadn’t stepped inside the church in years, but I wanted to sing. I memorized some gospel, and I memorized some scripture, and I got up there in front of all those patrons in their Sunday best, me in a ratty old suit of my father’s that was too big, and I put on a show, by God. I was angry about it, at the start. And then something changed.

“People were smiling, and I started to suck up their energy like a sponge. Aside from Sam, I don’t think I’d ever made anyone happy in my life. Now, someone had put out a bucket for donations. The very idea of charity made my fists clench, but Sam told me it wasn’t charity. It was payment for my performance. She called me a prophet for profit.” He paused, cocking an eyebrow at the crowd. “Get it?” he asked, and he was answered with nods and some laughter. “Jonah, Jonas. Prophet,” he said, shrugging a shoulder. “Nightingale. I think you can follow the logic of the boy I was.”

He paused again, running his fingers absentmindedly over the guitar strings.

He glanced over at Sam, and she knew what he wanted.

“D-three,” she said, quietly. “Dry well.”

Jonas looked at the third seat in the section marked D. He walked toward the edge of the stage and hopped down, swinging his guitar to his back. “When Sam was a senior in high school, our well went dry,” he told the young woman. “We didn’t have a drought to worry about like you folks, but we couldn’t afford even basic repairs on the house, let alone the thousands of dollars the well-driller quoted us. I was hauling water from the creek for bathwater, and we were boiling it to drink.

“And then one day Sam came running into the store where I was working to tell me that they were out at the house drilling. By the time I got there, it was too late to stop them, and I panicked, because I had no way to pay for the work. One of the workers tried to calm me down, and I punched him in the face. He was about twice my size and promptly knocked me on my ass—more out of surprise than anything else. He could’ve squashed me like a bug. Even so, I jumped up ready to fight.

“It was the preacher who grabbed me and pulled me back. He’d stopped by to tell me that the church had taken up a collection to pay for our well.” Sam could see the tears shimmering in the young woman’s eyes as Jonas put a hand on her shoulder. “I know you feel guilty about all the help that you’ve been getting from your friends and neighbors…”

“Florence,” Sam said.

“Florence, but ask yourself this: if your roles were reversed, would you hesitate to help?” She shook her head, and Jonas continued, “The rain will come, I promise you. You will get back on your feet. I know it feels hopeless. I used to lie on my bed, staring at my ceiling, my stomach full of knots and acid, unsure how I’d provide our next meal or pay the following month’s electric bill. But someone told me that when you feel like you’re drowning, there’s usually someone willing to throw you a lifeline if you look around. You just have to be willing to take it.” He straightened and looked at the sheriff again.

“A-fourteen,” Sam said. “Alcoholic.”

Jonas walked over to the man, who looked up at him apprehensively. “When I was nineteen, I stole a twelve-pack of Pabst from the gas station. It was easy. The attendant was in his seventies and more likely to fall asleep behind the counter than not. I used to steal cigarettes because there was no way I could afford to buy them.

“Anyway, I got hammered, and I was wandering around town, and someone offered me a ride. The preacher’s wife—the same preacher who’d let me perform at that picnic, who’d organized a fund for our well. His wife drove me onto a two-track a mile from my house, and we had sex in her car. I was so drunk that I barely remembered it in the morning, but I remembered enough.

“She was more than twice my age, but I knew that I was responsible. I’d made the choices that led to that road. And I couldn’t confess, because I wanted to protect her. I wanted to protect her husband. And I wanted to protect myself. So I just let it eat away at me, and I drank more and more until I got caught stealing a bottle of vodka from the station. I spent the night in jail, and it was the preacher who picked me up in the morning.

“He knew already. I don’t know if she’d told him or if he’d just guessed, but he knew. And do you know what he did? He forgave me. He told me that we don’t have to be defined by our poor choices, that there’s always time for redemption if we’re willing to work for it.

“I’ve found myself in ditches, in strangers’ beds, in jail, even passed out beneath a church pew. It always starts the same. I feel like I’m drowning, or suffocating, like there’s no way out of the hole I’m in and the sides are caving in on me, and all I want is to shut off my traitorous mind for a few minutes, just to get some relief. The bottle helps for a bit, doesn’t it? But it’s a false prophet, my brother, and you know as well as I do that it solves nothing.

“That preacher forgiving me didn’t solve anything, either. All that did was add to my guilt. Confessing our sins is the first step toward redemption—”

“Harold,” Sam said.

“Harold, but the final step is forgiveness. Not from others, but from ourselves. We have to accept that our transgressions are a part of us, but they are not all that we are. The world can seem hopeless, but I promise you that the alcohol makes it worse. Things aren’t as bleak as they seem from the bottom of the bottle. Ask for help and you shall receive it.”

Jonas turned, adjusting his guitar. Sam said, “C-seven. Cheating on his wife. His name’s Scott.”

Jonas took a breath as he approached the man. “I won’t lie, Scott,” he said. “I’ve slept with married women, and men. I told myself it wasn’t that big a deal because they were clearly unhappy in their marriages. I tried not to think about their spouses, and how they would feel. I tried not to think of each and every one of them as that preacher. But they deserved better, and your beautiful wife here deserves better. You can change, Scott, and maybe she’ll forgive you. But you,” he said, turning to the young woman.

“Janie.”

“You deserve better, Janie,” he said. “Don’t settle for someone who doesn’t treat you with respect. Don’t settle for someone like me.”

“At least you weren’t married!” someone called out, and Jonas lifted his head, holding up a hand.

“No, I wasn’t married,” he said, “but I was still hurting people. Qualifications are dangerous, my friend, because we start to give ourselves permission to put our own desires ahead of everyone else’s.”

Sam gave him another seat, and Jonas turned in that direction.

For the next hour, he traveled through the crowd, confessing his sins, admitting his moments of weakness and despair. There were more and more heckles from the crowd as many of the people grew restless and irritable. This wasn’t what they’d come to see.

Jonas turned and walked onto the stage. He faced the crowd and waited while they grumbled amongst themselves. Finally, they began to quiet, their curiosity getting the best of them.

“I can’t offer you a miracle,” Jonas said, and there were a few angry shouts. Jonas paused. “I’m not even sure I believe in miracles,” he continued.

“You’re a fraud!” someone shouted.

Sam’s stomach clenched. She was afraid for him. She wanted to protect him, because she knew that their words had the power to hurt him.

“Yes,” Jonas agreed.

“No!” Jake shouted, and Sam looked toward him, surprised. The boy wheeled his chair forward and faced the crowd. “You’re not listening!” he told them. “He’s talking about life! Don’t you get it? Life is a miracle!” Sam could tell by her brother’s expression that it was something he and the boy had discussed. “We’re all alive!” Jake said.

Sam saw Jonas glance upward at the sound of thunder outside. There’d been several short, dry thunderstorms since they’d been in Sweetwater, and no one seemed to pay any attention to this rumble. Except Jonas. Sam could see something else on his face, something like hope.

“Jake,” he said, and the boy turned to look at him.

“You came to save us, Jonas,” Jake said.

Jonas shook his head. “No, son,” he answered. “They’re right, I’m a fraud. But it ends tonight.” He looked out at the crowd. “These Angels behind me have stuck with me when I didn’t deserve it. My sister has given up her own dreams so that I could stand on a stage each weekend. I’ve lied, robbed, cheated—Everyone here has sinned in some way, small or large, but you’re not alone. I’ve committed more sins than all of you. Tonight is about atonement. It’ll take me longer than one night to pay them back, but for the rest of you, you’ll notice the baskets at the ends of these aisles? That’s all the money that’s been collected from the citizens of Sweetwater. I trust you’ll take what you gave.

“As for those of you we owe money,” he said, nodding toward the garage owner seated in the front row, “you will be paid. Over the next week, I’ll be liquidating my assets to pay my debts. If you don’t want to wait, I have a title I’ll sign over—”

“Jonas,” Sam said. He looked over at her and offered a small smile.

“I only ever wanted to make people happy,” he said. “I wanted to sing, I wanted to make people smile, and I wanted to make my sister proud.” He looked at the crowd. “You have no reason to believe me, but I want you all to be happy. If I could, I would—”

“No,” Jake repeated, and Jonas looked down as the boy rolled himself over the nearest basket. “You came to save us, Jonas!” he repeated. “I believe in you, you just have to believe in yourself.” The boy shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of dollar bills and change, dropping the whole mess into the collection.

There was a loud clap of thunder, and Sam saw more people looking up at the tent, now.

“You said, music is life and life is magic and we just have to listen and believe. Well, I do,” Jake said.

“Jake,” Jonas said, and Sam could hear the rawness in his voice. He stepped toward the edge of the stage but stopped when Florence, the young woman with the dry well, got to her feet and walked to Jake’s side.

“I believe that everyone deserves a lifeline,” she said, dropping money into the basket. She ruffled Jake’s hair, and the boy smiled up at her, his relief evident. She looked up at Jonas. “And new beginnings,” she added.

One by one, people started rising and making their way to the baskets, dropping money into the collections. Jonas took a step backward, and then another. He looked at the sheriff as the man walked over to stand beside his son.

Sam felt like her heart was going to explode in her chest.

She saw people looking around at each other, and looking up, and she suddenly realized that the pounding sound wasn’t just her heart. It was rain, beating against the tent. She called her brother’s name, but he didn’t seem to hear her. The crowd surged toward the exit, and Jonas watched as the sheriff took hold of Jake’s chair and wheeled him into the crowd, calling to his deputies to make sure people stayed calm as they tried to get outside.

The Angels filed off the stage, also headed outside. Jonas looked over at Sam as she and Jackson walked onto the stage.

“Rain, Jonas,” she said, unnecessarily. “Come on.” She reached for his hand, but he stepped back, pulling his guitar strap over his head.

“You go,” he told her. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Jonas—”

“I’ll be right out, I promise,” he said, turning to set his guitar on the stage.

She hesitated, but Jackson’s hand was light at the small of her back, and he offered her a smile when she glanced at him. She let him walk her toward the exit flap, following the crowd, and they stepped out into the pouring rain. She turned her face up into the wetness, laughing in disbelief. Jackson’s arm went around her shoulders, and he pulled her close to kiss her temple. She turned toward him, pressing her wet lips against his, clutching the front of his soaked shirt.

She knew by the reaction of the crowd that Jonas had stepped outside, and she turned toward him as people spread apart to let him pass.

Jonas walked over to the boy’s chair. Jake looked at him, still smiling, and Jonas lowered himself into a crouch. Sam suddenly realized what he was doing, and her heart leapt into her throat. She held tightly to Jackson, thinking, Please, please. He needs this—they need this, please.

“Jake,” Jonas said. “It’s time.”

The boy’s smile faltered. His hair was plastered to his forehead; rain dripped from his face. He shook his head. His chin trembled. “I can’t,” he said.

“You’ve punished yourself long enough,” Jonas said. “Look at me, son. You were wrong, I wasn’t sent here for the rain, Jake. I was sent here for you. To tell you it’s time.”

Jake stared up at him, and Sam could see the kid’s fear. But she could see the faith. The belief and hope. She’d told Jonas that Jake believed in him, and it was true. She was still terrified as she walked over to her brother’s side.

“Jonas,” she said, and he looked up at her. She shook her head. “You don’t have to do this,” she told him. If it didn’t work, he would lose everything of himself. She didn’t think he would ever recover.

“Yes,” he answered. His gaze cut toward the sheriff. “I do.” The sheriff started forward, but he was too far away to make it through the crowd in time. Jonas looked at Jake and said the boy’s name.

Jake swallowed, and gave a little nod. “Get me up, Jonas,” he said, quietly. All around them, people had begun to quiet and were turning toward the boy. Under the drumbeat of the rain, a hush spread through the crowd.

Jonas reached an arm behind Jake’s back, grabbing him under his arms. Sam was holding the chair to keep it steady; Jackson was beside her, a hand on her shoulder. Through the rain, she heard the sheriff call Jonas’s name.

Jonas lifted Jake to his feet and held him up, seeming to support all of his weight. The sheriff stopped at the edge of the crowd, and Jonas closed his eyes against the reluctant hope shining in the other man’s gaze.

With his eyes closed, Jonas said, “You can do this, Jake. Have faith.”

Please, Sam thought again. If you’re up there, if you’re listening, please help him.

“Jonas,” Jake said. “Let me go.”

Jonas opened his eyes and slowly lowered his hands, holding his breath. Sam wasn’t breathing, either. Jake looked at his father and stepped toward him. His knees started to buckle, and the sheriff started forward, but Jonas and Jackson grabbed Jake’s arms before he could fall.

The boy straightened his legs and lifted his chin. “Let me go,” he repeated, and Jonas and Jackson exchanged a look through the wet darkness. They pulled their hands back, and Jake stepped forward, slowly. He paused, and then took another step. The grass was slick from the rain, but his footing held. He took another step, and then his father, unable to wait any longer, met him halfway and grabbed him in a hug, lifting his feet off the ground as he kissed his son’s neck.

Jonas sank to his knees on the ground, dropping his chin to his chest. Sam felt hot tears on her cheeks, mingling with the rain. She put her hand on her brother’s head. He drew a deep, shaky breath and opened his eyes.

The sheriff was standing in front of him. Jonas’s eyes slid up to his, and he swallowed. The sheriff took his hand and hauled him to his feet, and Sam could see the emotions stamped on her brother’s face.

He pulled his hand from Sonny’s grasp and said, quietly, “I need to go.”

“Jonas,” the sheriff said as Jonas turned away. He grabbed Jonas’s arm, pulling him back around. “No more walking away,” he said. He slid his hand into Jonas’s dripping hair and bent forward, kissing him.

Sam turned toward Jackson, but Jackson was no longer beside her. She frowned, looking around, peering through the rain, but she couldn’t find him in the crowd. She glanced at her brother. He didn’t need her now.

She made her way through the throng of celebrating people, and still there was no sign of Jackson. He can’t be gone, she thought. Not without a goodbye. She didn’t like the painful tightness in her chest or the lump in her throat.

She clenched her jaw, forcing back her tears. If he was gone, she wasn’t about to chase after him and beg him to spend more time with her. Maybe he needed time to process whatever had happened at the tent. Maybe he’d just decided it was time to leave. Either way, she had no intention of forcing her company onto him.

She turned toward the bus but had only taken a few steps before she stopped, cursing herself. She thought of his face, already familiar. His eyes, always full of kindness and good humor. His courage to be unflinchingly honest, even when facing the possibility of rejection.

He wouldn’t just leave with no explanation, she thought. Not Jackson. Sam didn’t trust very many people, but she trusted him, already.

She turned the other way and started through the rain.

When she reached the motel, his car was not parked in the lot. She walked up to the door with her stomach full of butterflies. He’d left it ajar, and she pushed it open, walking inside. The lamp was on, and there was a note beside it. His suitcase was gone, and everything in the room was neat and tidy. He’d made the bed even though the housekeepers would have to strip the sheets, anyway.

Sam picked up the note by the corner, trying not to get it too wet as she stood, dripping on the carpet.

Sam,

Given half a chance, I would beg you to come home with me. I know that’s not fair. You barely know me. What’s more, you deserve above all else to be happy, and you need to decide for yourself what will do that. I hope with all my heart to see you again, but if I don’t, please know that I will never forget you.

Everyone deserves a new beginning, Sam. Like the kid said, life is a miracle.

Meeting you was a miracle, too.

Please be well. Please be happy.

Yours,

Jackson

She stared at the signature for a long time as her clothes made a puddle on the thin carpet. Yours, Jackson.

There was a business card with the note. Jackson Neill, PhD was printed on the front, along with Professor of New American Religions.

His classroom and phone number were written on the back.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and nodded once. “Okay,” she said, and she felt the knots in her stomach loosening.

Jackson Neill looked up from his desk, and his lips parted in surprise.

Sam stood in the doorway, watching as the corners of his eyes crinkled, as his mouth curved into a smile. His happiness to see her—unmistakable and unadulterated—soothed the butterflies in her stomach, and she found herself smiling in return.

He put his palms on the desk and started to rise, but she held up a hand, stopping him. He sank back into his chair, his eyes tracking her as she walked toward him.

She’d been nervous, after not seeing him for weeks, afraid that she’d somehow imagined the connection they’d shared. One look at his face, however, had dispelled those worries. She stopped at his desk, holding his gaze.

“Professor Neill,” she said.

“Ms…?”

“Nightingale,” she answered. She’d decided to leave her father’s name behind for good. “You can call me Sam.”

“What can I do for you, Sam?” he asked, and his soft voice was like a caress.

“I was told I might be able to observe your class,” she said. “Does that offer still hold?”

“For as long as you’re in town,” he answered, searching her face.

“That might be a while,” she said. “I enrolled this morning. Figured I’d ease into the whole higher education thing.”

“Not my class?” he asked.

She put her knuckles on the desk and leaned forward. “No. I was afraid there might be a conflict of interests.”

“How’s that?” he asked, and she could see the amusement sparkling in his eyes.

“I was hoping I could convince you to have dinner with me.”

“Are you asking me out on a date, Ms. Nightingale?”

“Yes.”

“Then I accept your invitation, with what I hope is not an indecent level of eagerness.”

She grinned at him. “I missed you,” she admitted.

He leaned forward, and she pressed her lips against his. When he pulled back to look at her, he said, “I’ve missed you, too, Sam.”

“Sorry it took me so long. I had things to take care of,” she answered.

He shook his head. “You’re right on time,” he said.

#leap of faith au #jackson neill #sam nightingale #smut #angst #samson #new beginnings #working something out

18 notes · View notes