#i even compromised and was like 'you can just put a bit of artificial grass and keep the natural grass and if you don't like the grass we

[collectingthestars]

i'm honestly so disappointed with my mum right now

[collecting-stories]

Igloo  - JJ (Outer Banks)

Request: Okay, so idk if you’ve watched Atypical but I read the Autism ReaderXJJ and I was wondering if you could do a story based loosely off of the “I just got a hand job in an igloo” moment (but like I guess more of an ‘i just got ate out in an igloo’ since it’s a fem!reader) ? (ALSO I don’t think there’s the exact moment secluded in a video but you can youtube ‘the best: sam gardner (atypical)’ and it’s at 1:03)

A/N: Consider this a continuation of Yellow. 

Warnings: Smut. Oral, female receiving. 

Outer Banks Masterlist

///

“Come here.” JJ weaves through the party, hand firmly grasping yours. It’s been almost two months since you’ve been to a party and just a few weeks since the two of you started dating. The parties you could have gone without permanently but you knew JJ liked to party and you couldn’t help feeling a little left out on a Friday night when he went out with the other pogues and you were left home alone.  

“Where are we going?” You asked, the sound of the bass beginning to set you off. It was so loud you could feel the vibrations in your stomach and it was making you a little woozy.  

You had been trying to pull through it but JJ was a surprisingly observational person and he noticed the slight tic you had of rolling your shoulder or cracking your knuckles to give your brain something to distract you. When you’d cracked them for the third time without the usual popping sound setting off JJ knew it was getting bad. So he’d told Pope that you guys would be right back and he grabbed your wrist, a touch that was sudden but managed to pull you back into the moment.  

“Here,” he had walked all the way outside in search of somewhere quiet to hide away from the endless stream of partying, finally pulling you into a life sized, blow-up igloo that had been set up on the lawn for some Christmas in July shindig.  

“What are we doing?” You asked, pulling back against his grip when he tried to get you inside.  

“Go in.” JJ instructed.  

“Like hell i’m going in there. I don’t need to add claustrophobia to the list of things wrong with me when that blow-up death trap collapses.”  

JJ smiled, leaning over to place a kiss on your cheek. “You’re adorable, now get your ass in the igloo.”

You and JJ had found a sort of compromise between your aversion to touch and his eagerness for it. The compromise was that you were slowly learning to like the feeling is his hands on you. Before you could go whole weeks without even a hug from your mom and now it felt like you couldn’t last minutes without JJ touching some part of you. Holding your hand, kissing you, keeping an arm around you, his knee knocking yours under a table. The touches became grounding whenever you felt yourself ready to float away.  

JJ crawled through first and you followed, coming into the igloo blow-up to find him laying on his back with his arms stretched out, “Ta-da.”

“I don’t really know if this is a ‘ta-da’ moment. We’re in a giant blow up igloo, in the dark.” You mentioned, hunching slightly because you couldn’t stand to full height.  

“Hold on,” JJ reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone and switching on the flashlight before lying it on the ground. “There you go.”

“Brilliant, that’s really helpful, JJ thank you.”

“I’m innovative.”

You hummed, still standing hunched near the entrance.  

“Come here,” JJ beckoned you over, waving his hand for you to come closer to him. You did, walking to his feet and stopping, “Come here,” he repeated, sitting up and opening his legs for you to stand between them. You came closer, and JJ planted a kiss right about your knee.  

“What do you want?” You asked as his hands settled on the backs of your ankles. “I’m sure this is a really great angle of me.”

JJ’s hands ran up your legs, pushing your dress up to your waist so he could see your underwear, “it is now.”

“Ew, JJ.” You laughed, swatting his hands away.  

“What? I’m distracting you...isn’t that what I’m supposed to do when you have a panic attack.”  

“I’m not having a panic attack.” You replied. This was miles away from the breakdown you’d had the night you met him. Just a mild bout of anxiety that you were slowly getting a hold of.  

“But you almost might’ve.”

“But I didn’t.”  

“Cause I’m distracting you.” JJ replies, clearly proud of himself. His hands returned to the back of your thighs.  

“By talking about sex?”

“I could distract you by having sex with you. That’d be new.”  

“JJ.” You groaned. You hadn’t had sex yet. Not because you didn’t want to or were waiting for anything special just because you were worried it would be too overwhelming.  

“I’ve been told I’ve got a very talented tongue.”

“I’m sorry, are you, bragging to me about girls you’ve had sex with in the past?”  

“No?” JJ said, looking up at you and offering his most innocent of smiles.  

“Oh my god.”  

“Okay, okay sorry...but seriously, let me distract you?” He asked, hands running up the back of your thighs and beneath your dress.  

“We’re practically in public JJ.”

“No one will know.” His fingers hooked into your underwear, resting there against your hips as he waited for your answer. “Can I?”  

You bit your bottom lip, eyes locking with his in the artificial light from the phone. “Okay.”  

“You sure?” JJ asked, kissing both knees this time.  

“Yea. Yes, positive.” You replied, you could feel the steady rhythm of your heart beating as he pulled your underwear down your legs and you stepped out of them.

“Take your shoes off.”  

“Why?”

“Cause, I don’t want you to fall.” JJ replied, tapping your ankles. You slipped off your sandals and watched him toss them aside.  

“Why would I-Oh my god!” You yelped in surprise as JJ lifted one of your legs off the ground and slipped it over his shoulder. You grab his shoulders for balance and he places a firm grip on your left thigh, holding you to him.  

“I really like this dress, it’s like a little tent,” JJ remarks, demonstrating by peeking up at you and then throwing the dress over his head, the hem just hitting his shoulders.  

You roll your eyes at his antics but the playfulness doesn’t last much longer as he places a kiss to your abdomen. He travels the short expanse of skin with his mouth, kissing a path toward the apex of your thighs. When you jerk a little against him, pressing yourself closer to his face, he stops, peering out from under your dress.  

“You okay?”

You nodded, embarrassed suddenly. “Sorry.”  

“It’s alright,” JJ promised, rubbing circles into your skin with the hand that was holding your hip, “you wanna stop?”

“No. It was just, sensitive.”  

JJ smiled tilting his head to the side and kissing your arm before disappearing back under your dress. He placed his mouth on your skin, just above your thigh. The skin there was especially soft and you felt his tongue poke out between his lips, giving you the smallest of kitten licks before he was sucking a bruise there. You gripped his shoulders a light tighter. He didn’t stay long, finishing his trail of kisses at your lower lips. His tongue pushed into your folds, licking a circle around your clit. He smiled against you when he felt your right hand move to the back of his head. You’d never had anyone touch you before, especially not put their mouth on you.  

JJ continued, closing his mouth around your clit, sucking the way he had on your thigh earlier, his tongue flicking out to brush over the bundle of nerves. The sensation was so intense that you didn’t notice the hand that had been on your hip move down between your legs. Your heel dug into his back as he slipped two fingers inside you, the ring on his index finger cold against your warmth, coating them with precum. Even though your dress covered his head JJ could hear the soft gasps and moans as he moved against you. You gripped his hair when his tongue replaced his fingers, slipping inside you as his nose brushed your clit. Your toes curled into the cold grass beneath your foot, thankful suddenly that JJ had the good sense to take your shoes off.  

He repositioned his hand, pressing his thumb against your clit and rubbing in slow circles as his tongue pushed in and out of you. JJ had been right about this being distracting, the party felt light years away, the only thing you could focus on was the way his tongue felt inside of you. A coil of tension wound itself in your stomach and you pulled JJ closer. His tongue curled inside you, hitting the perfect spot as his fingers sped up but it was the hand on your thigh, keeping your leg over his shoulder that did you in. When you pushed against him he pulled you, nails digging into your skin and you felt the coil burst as you came on his tongue.  

He doesn’t move, holding you against him just as tight as before. He grips your hip with one hand and keeps the other on your thigh as licks you clean, loving the short spasms that he causes when his tongue brushes your clit a few times. Finally he pulled his head away, blond hair appearing from beneath the hem of your dress. He looks up at you, mouth and chin glistening in the iphone light, and smiles.  

“You okay?” JJ asks, eyes tender as he watches you even out your breathing. Looking down at him, tears pricking the corners of your eyes and skin flushed, JJ is certain he’s never seen a more beautiful sight.  

“That was...”

He smiles, proud of himself at your loss for words. Carefully he relaxes his shoulder, letting your leg down.  

“Shit!” The sudden feeling of both your feet on the floor unbalances you and you fall back, ungraceful, on your ass. “Oh my god.” You whine, embarrassment overwhelming you as you cover your face with your hands. You can hear JJ laugh as he crawls over top of you. His wet lips leave a sticky kiss against your forehead and you gag. “Ew.”

JJ pulled your hands away, “hi.”

“Hi.” You smiled, “I just got eaten out in an igloo.”

“It was delicious too.” JJ replied pressing more kisses to your jaw and neck.

“You’re so weird.”  

“Telling you I enjoyed snacking on you-”

“JJ!”

“Sorry, sorry, you wanna go?” he asked, moving away from you to grab your underwear and your shoes, both of which he helped you put on.

“We can go back to my house, my mom is working the night shift.” You offered as you sat up.  

“Your mom isn’t home?”  

“No.”

“Has she not been home this whole time?” JJ asked, grabbing his phone and backpack. He kept the light on as the two of you crawled out of the igloo.  

“Yeah.” You jerked when you felt his hand against your ass. “What the hell?”

“Sorry, you got grass on your ass.”

“JJ!” You smacked his arm and he laughed.  

“I can’t believe we coulda been home alone this whole time.” He mentioned, pulling you into his side.  

“You wanted to come to the party!”

-

taglist: @maplelattes22 @poguesrforlife  @freckled-and-daydreaming  @chasefreakinstokes @millie-753 @fangirlwithme @alex12948 @howdyherron @katherine097 @tangledinsparkles @tragicmisfits @carbonated-beverage @mariofgreengables @damonsalvawhore27 @ssprayberrythings @dopedoodes @dolanfivsosxox @belledutchess @poguelifeeee @jjsthumbring @faded-blue @jolomez @timotaychalabae @parkerpetertingle

[n0-eyedtaissa]

Christmas Kids — Ruthie Soh-Peterson x Romeo Fogarty (Serpent Siblings!AU)

A/N: Just a little late Christmas/holiday themed moment about Ruthie and Romeo for @hughstheforcelou​! Featuring secret Santas and not-so-secret feelings when Ruthie and Romeo take a break from the family Christmas party.

Word Count: 3,707

Holiday season at the Fogarty household was always a big deal. The Abuelas decorated every available surface with knickknack Santa’s and intricate Christmas village sets that included moving pieces and miniature light fixtures that actually worked. Decorating was a weekend-long event that took all hands on deck. Maria and Atzi sat, watching and instructing as Dante and Fangs brought the big boxes down from the rafters so they could pick through which decorations were deemed worthy of the occasion. Dante was getting frustrated with how indecisive Maria was being, like how she would tell him to put a big box away just to have him cart it back down a few minutes later. When Fangs got on the roof to string the icicle lights, Dante grabbed the ladder and ran off with it so Fangs was stuck up there in the cold until Atzi threatened to whack Dante with her cane if he didn’t get his brother down from there this instant. But because the Abuela’s had scheduled extra time on their decorating agenda (space to either be filled by snacking or arguing), they had predicted that something like this would happen so they found a way to work around the two brawling boys, chastising them and letting them know there was still more work to be done. Maria decided it was smart to let Dante get some of his anger out, so she tells him to set up the nativity scene in the front yard and hands him a mallet. Dante laughs as he goes to town staking the hollow plastic pieces into the dry yellowed grass. When he’s done, he pulls out a cigarette and stops to admire his handiwork, basking in the warm glow of the lights. He exhales sharply, unable to distinguish his cigarette smoke from the warm fog of his breath against the cold air. 

Christmas on the Southside of Riverdale was never something that felt unnaturally hopeful: you were born knowing that Santa was too good to be true, and that it was always better to get new socks as a present because they’ll be useful long after any toy. Christmas morning was meager at best, but always appreciated regardless. It was humble, and on the Southside you learn early that there was nothing wrong with being humble. Ruthie had this theory that people like the Abuelas would dress up fancy and decorate their houses with bright colorful items as an attempt to brighten up their way of life, to make even the most mundane things feel exciting, even if they weren’t. Like if they could distract someone with bright lights and sparkly tinsel, everything in the outside world wouldn’t feel so shitty by comparison. It still seemed to be working on Sweet Pea and Fangs, but Ruthie had outgrown the sugar-rich feeling of artificial Christmas cheer. Things felt forced this year, though no one could put a finger on why. It felt like the first breath of fresh air that anyone had in a while, but it would prove to be the last breath of fresh air they’d be able to take for the time coming. 

When she thinks no one is looking, Ruthie slinks out of the living room and into the Fogarty’s garage in order to sneak out the side door. She makes her way outside unscathed, it was the part of the evening in which everyone was either too full, too buzzed, or too hopped up on sugar. Dante was leaning back in the reclining chair, one hand resting on his stomach from eating one tamale too many. Sweet Pea and Fangs were laying under the Christmas tree playing with the new Lego set Fangs got, looking over their shoulders and snickering as they listened to the Abuelas as they belted along to old Christmas records. It was the perfect diversion tactic. Ruthie shivers as the late December wind picks up, but she’s had enough peppermint Schnapps where she can try her best to pretend that the cold doesn’t bother her as much as it does. She pulls her pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of the dress Atzi made her, but before she can light it a voice pops up from over her shoulder. 

“Trying to get away from us already, Shorty?” Ruthie looks up and finds none other than Romeo Fogarty standing in the doorway. He smiles and steps out into the cold, rubbing his hands together. 

Ruthie fumbles to light her cigarette and she hopes that Romeo doesn’t notice. 

“I just needed a breather, I guess”

Romeo nods, “I feel that.” The two of them stand next to each other quietly in the side yard, the sound of laughter trickling from the windows as everyone inside got their second wind of energy. Neither one of them talk for a little, and neither one of them have a problem with it. It’s always Romeo that breaks the silence, though.

“So do you know who had you for Secret Santa?” The wind picks up and blows loose leaves over the concrete and stirs Ruthie’s hair around her shoulders. Romeo looks over at her and her bare arms starts shrugging off his cardigan before she could say no. Ruthie tries to scowl at him but she knows it’s no use. 

“Of course I do,” She laughs “I know who everyone has….And I think I know what everyone got, too” She raises a conspiratorial eyebrow at Romeo as she flicks away her cigarette ash. 

“Well, now you’re speakin’ my language!” Romeo laughs, giving Ruthie a nudge in hopes that she’ll divulge some details.

“I’m not telling you shit” She nudges him back and tosses her cigarette on the ground. 

“That means you have me, huh Shorty? Am I gonna like my present?” He teases. She shakes her head at him.

Ruthie can’t help but laugh, knowing that Dante had been pestering her about the same thing as well, earlier that evening. Once Maria and Atzi finally declared the Christmas party was over, Ruthie, Romeo, Dante, CD, and Spyder were all planning on heading over to the Soh-Peterson household for their own kind of after party. When the topic of doing a Secret Santa gift exchange came up, Ruthie really didn’t think anyone would follow through with the idea but they did. Earlier that month they had drawn little slips of paper out of one of CD’s old hats, each one with a name on it. She coordinated all of it. She was Spyder’s secret Santa, he was Dante’s, Dante was Romeo’s secret Santa, CD was Ruthie’s, and Romeo was CD’s. And ever since then, Ruthie had been getting pestered with questions by her friends: Do you think he’s gonna like this? What should I get him? What do you even like? For a group of friends that had known each other for years, they were all rather unobservant.

“My lips are sealed for another handful of hours”

Romeo sighs with fake defeat and pulls a joint from behind his ear, where he always put it for safe keeping. He lights it and inhales, the smoke engulfing the shoddily rolled paper. Ruthie watches the smoke seep from the gap between Romeo’s lips, how he blew out small little smoke rings that got carried away on the cold breeze. She puts out her hand out to take the joint but Romeo smiles and leans away. “You’re not gonna get any of this until you tell me some shit” 

Ruthie laughs loudly at his persistence and weighs her options. She knows that she’d have no problem divulging any secrets to Romeo, but she also knows that Dante and the rest of her friends took this Secret Santa business very seriously and would be upset that she let Romeo get a leg up in the game. So she does what she’s learn to do best and compromises the best way she can. 

“I’m not your Secret Santa, I’m Spyder’s” Ruthie lets it slip and only feels a little bit bad about doing it.  “He finally got the speakers in his car fixed so I made him a mix CD for the first time we all go out driving again.” She looks up at Romeo and sees an emotion on his face that looks a little bit like jealousy. 

“Well, I’m sure he’s gonna like that, Shorty” Romeo nods curtly and hands the joint over to Ruthie. 

Something about his words feel too harsh, heavy with the weight of something not understood fully enough to be well communicated. Ruthie wraps her sweater — Romeo’s sweater— tighter around herself and crosses her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling a lot smaller, like she had done something wrong. She wonders of she’s just already paranoid from the weed, tells herself that she’s being silly and reading into things and nothing was wrong at all. She inhales a big lungful of smoke and tries to act like she doesn’t have to cough when she hands it back to Romeo. 

“Yeah he’ll probably like his present, but I’m not too sure you’ll like yours…” Ruthie smirks over at Romeo, trying to probe past the tension that might have been present. She leans closer towards him, opens herself up to him more. Romeo seems to pick up on the shift and smiles down at her.

“What’re my odds?” He winces in preparation.

“About 50-50, I’d say” Ruthie blows a cloud of smoke upwards “You know Dante’s really hit or miss with gifts” She bites at her lip as she divulges that little piece of information, hoping that it might make up for earlier. Romeo laughs and starts nodding in agreement. 

There’s some sort of a commotion from inside that brings them back to reality, popping the little bubble of privacy they were able to have for a brief moment. Dante’s voice pipes up loudly and Ruthie guessed that meant Spyder and CD had finally arrived, or that he had finally slept off his food coma. The door that leads from the house into the garage opens and Dante ducks out, grabbing a six-pack of beers from the outside refrigerator before heading outside. “Nah man, I dunno where either one of them ran off to” Dante says, unaware of the fact that Ruthie and Romeo were only a few feet away, just outside of the side door and unseen in the shadows. When the coast is clear the pair break out laughing at their friend’s obliviousness. Now they had a secret just the two of them could keep. 

“Guess we should be getting back inside, huh?” Ruthie scuffs the toe of one of her hightop against the handprints that were pressed into the cement ground, not really wanting to meet Romeo’s eye. She feels a little bit deflated, like this was a moment that was hers for the taking yet she didn’t know what to do with it. 

Romeo takes a short pull from what’s left of the joint and hands it over to Ruthie one last time. “Nah, I’ll go inside and start corralling those idiots so we can do presents. You kill that joint and then come and join us, you probably need that shit more than I do, any ways.”

“You’re probably right…” She smirks.

“I’m gonna head inside now” Romeo adds, somewhat awkwardly. “You just finish taking your breather, Shorty, don’t even worry about those guys.”

“Why thank you, Romeo” Ruthie rolls her eyes but she smiles afterward, laughs at this unnamed thing they were both experiencing. 

“You ain’t gotta thank me” Romeo adds, turning on his heels and starting to walk back through the garage before stopping abruptly. “You look nice tonight by the way…pretty” He tacks the word onto the end of his sentence like it’s a nervous afterthought. He looks at Ruthie in her hand-sewn party dress (made from the green velvet that Atzi got from the fabric store for a great bargain), his own sweater dwarfing her skinny frame, sees the hole in her tights her uneven socks, and her beat-up hightop sneakers. And he thinks, ‘Wow…’ He had meant what he said. He thought Ruthie was one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen. Hell, he hadn’t seen all that many girls but right then and there he knew that she would top every one of them. 

She looks over at Romeo, half flattered and half confused, like she was waiting for a punch line that made her the butt of the joke. “Thank you” She says. “You know, in the entire year or so that I’ve known you, I don’t think you’ve ever called me pretty.” She tries to laugh off her discomfort but Romeo picks up on it easily. 

“I mean it” He rebukes, wanting her to realize that he meant what he said because it was true. “But I guess for you to know that, I gotta tell you more often, huh Shorty?” His playful confidence is back again. Same Romeo, charming as ever, but now Ruthie knew that he liked her, and she thought that maybe she could like him to, or that maybe she had liked him this whole time and now she just had a better word to describe what she was feeling. 

“Guess so” She smiles through a cloud of smoke, meeting Romeo’s eye one last time before he retreated inside to start gathering up everyone for their secret Santa gift exchange and getting their after-party started. Ruthie lingers for another few moments in the dark, stomping out the joint on the concrete and putting the roach in her pocket. She pushes her thick hair out of her face and sighs, butterflies bounding in her stomach every time she heard the echo of Romeo’s words in her ears, I mean it. She feels her cheeks get hot and goes to rush inside knowing that by now there was no way that her friends didn’t realize she’d been unaccounted for. She waits to sneak back inside until she hears an uproar of CD’s loud laughter, hoping that her return would go unnoticed if the boys were already distracted. 

“Where ya been, Ruthless!” CD’s already drunk when he runs up to hug her, his frame feeling heavy and unsteady. “Dante told me you Houdini’d and he’d been looking everywhere for you”

Ruthie rolls her eyes and can’t help but laugh. “He would’ve had a lot easier of a time finding me if he bothered to get his lazy ass up out of Maria’s chair!” Last time she saw Dante, he was taking a nap with his belt undone and his dress pants unbuttoned. 

Dante flips her the bird but still hands her a beer, and soon everyone is getting ready to head back over to Ruthie’s for the gift exchange. The Abuela’s make sure that the kids leave with a Tupperware dish full of tamales and the first thing Spyder does once Ruthie unlocks the front door is head over to the microwave (like he usually does). Romeo pours up a round of shots for everyone and Ruthie drinks both hers and CD’s too. He stares at her with wide eyes when she drinks both down without even flinching and Ruthie laughs, giving him a wink that wasn’t at ass as smooth as she hoped it was. The five of them drink more and a heated debate breaks out between CD and Spyder about whether or not it’s sacrilegious to roll a cross-joint on Christmas. They all argue while trying to find a Christmas movie that they could all actually agree on (Home Alone 2, of course), but they spend too much time talking about their respective awkward interactions with distant family to even really pay all that much attention to it in the first place. Dante starts getting impatient (because he always was impatient) and decided that gifts needed to be doled out at that very moment. He hops up from the couch quickly 

Ruthie handed Spyder a jewel case with a mix cd covered in sharpie doodles. She hand drew the cover art and wrote all the names of the tracks in her nicest handwriting. “Cause you got your speakers back, I figured you needed some good music.” Spyder puts his hand on her shoulder and gives a tender squeeze, the closest thing one might get to a hug from him. 

Spyder hands Dante a cross-joint and a lighter in a ziplock bag. Turns out he was rolling up Dante’s present that whole time. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving, you know?” 

CD gets a big mason jar filled with his favorite sour candy from the bodega. He gets so emotional that Romeo remembered all of his favorites that he just about sheds a tear. He watches the candy jar like a hawk for the rest of the evening, a protective hand sitting on the lid at all times. 

CD tries to juggle three packs of fancy cigarettes that he knew Ruthie liked to buy from Ignacio’s, ends up tossing them to her one by one. “Nearly risked my life to get this shit” He laughs, launching into an animated story about his attempts and Ruthie tucks her feet up under herself, getting comfortable and unwrapping the plastic from around one of the packets.

Last but never least was Romeo. Now Dante wasn’t always the most sentimental, he’d always say that he was shitty at gift-giving, but Romeo was his cousin and he was having a rough time so Dante wanted to do something nice for him. “If you don’t like it, blame Ruthie cause she was the one who helped me pick it out.” He laughs somewhat awkwardly as he handed Romeo his gift. Tearing away at the newspaper, Romeo reveals the small red leather-bound journal and runs his fingers over the spine. “Thank you” Romeo replies, and Ruthie knows it’s aimed at her more than it is Dante. 

Christmas on the Southside was humble, but more often then not the small gifts shared among family and close friends were what always meant the most. A small recognition, a nod towards the gratifying ordeal of being understood by those worthy enough to be close to you. The five of them — Ruthie, Dante, Spyder, CD, and Romeo, knew more about the others than most of the outside world would ever. They knew each others strengths, weaknesses, knew each other well enough to see something and say hey, this made me think of you. They all liked their small gifts more than they would let on. CD shares his candy with his friends, but makes sure that he had enough saved for later. Dante never had a problem sharing his weed, he was sitting back in the big comfy chair and laughing at the end of Home Alone. Ruthie would always share her cigarettes, and never minded all that much when CD launched into one of his many animated stories about the situations only he could find himself in. Spyder knew that next time they went out driving, they had a soundtrack to yell and scream with the windows down, and Romeo could write all about it in his journal, cataloguing the best and the worst and understanding that growing up was hard and the world was cruel, but it was always sweeter when you had good friends by your side. 

They let the movie credits roll and they pass around what was left of Dante’s Christmas present. Ruthie doles out glasses of water and painkillers in preparation for the morning. She takes CD’s sticky sugar-covered hand out of his half-empty candy jar and puts a blanket over Dante as he snored. Thinking that everyone was probably asleep by now, Ruthie hikes herself up onto the kitchen counter and opens the window, pulling the white ceramic ashtray from its spot inside of the cabinet. She lights one of her fancy new cigarettes and resists the urge to pull at the too-high collar of the dress that Atzi made her. She blows a thin stream of smoke towards the window and takes a big sip off the discarded bottle of cheap tequila that Spyder brought from home. There’s a creak from the other end of the house and Ruthie snaps her head to attention. 

“Can’t sleep?” Romeo asks, rubbing his glassy eyes as he filled a chipped mug full of tap water from the sink. He pushes himself onto the counter next to Ruthie and scoots close to her so that their knees are touching. He takes a big sip of water and offers her some. 

“Haven’t got around to trying” She takes the water from his hands and finishes it.

“I feel that” He echoes his words from earlier that evening and suddenly it’s like they’re back outside at the Fogarty’s house again, hiding and smoking in the side yard and trying to navigate their feelings in a way that didn’t seem so scary. Ruthie leans her head down slowly until it comes to rest on Romeo’s shoulder and both of them try hard to pretend like they’re not completely breathless. His skinny fingers play with the ends of her hair and she hums contentedly.

“So did you like your present?” Ruthie asked, her voice tickling Romeo’s ear. 

“I loved it” He replies with the same forceful certainty as before. I mean it. I loved it. Like he always wanted to make sure that Ruthie knew that he was serious and to be believed. 

“Merry Christmas, Romeo” She whispers into the dark expanse of the kitchen. She can smell his cheap aftershave, can feel the vein in his neck pounding nervously after this bout of newfound contact. 

“Merry Christmas, Shorty” He mumbles into her hair, smelling the floral perfume of her shampoo. The two of them sit like that for a few quiet minutes, with Ruthie’s head on Romeo’s shoulder. His hand rests on one of her knees, his thumb tracing around one of the rips in her tights. Ruthie laces her fingers with Romeo’s and slides off of the kitchen counter, leading him down the hallways and towards her bedroom. 

[kittae]

Under The Missiletoe [1]

Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader

Genre: Sci-fi, fantasy, Fluff, a lil bit of comedy,... we’ll see what else!

words: 5k

summary: Yoongi is an extraterrestrial scout, sent by his superiors from his home planet BT21, to gauge the chances of successfully usurping planet Earth. When his ship lands, it’s December 24th. Yoongi is tasked with observing the strange behavior of Earth’s inhabitants to get a good idea of whether or not they would pose a threat. Satisfied with what he finds, he prepares to go back home. His ship seems to have become defect in the meantime, leaving him stranded on Earth. He strolls into a convenience store (he needed to gather some evidence to present to his superiors anyway) and finds a lonely girl, one who’s not smiling. His curiosity gets the best of him.

Author’s note: The first part of this fic, because I got too many ideas while writing and it escalated (as expected)! This will have a second installment soon! I really enjoy writing this, so I hope you’ll have fun reading it! (please excuse errors, I used up all my juice to finish this so editing is for another day!)

Warning: only a liiiittle bit of violence and some swearing for now!

→ Part of the stranded for christmas Collab!

“This is ISV Aeron, reporting to home base, do you copy?”

“This is BT21 home base, Avalon station, I copy.”

“Requesting permission to disclose travel log.”

“Permission granted.”

“Approaching destination Earth, ready to enter atmosphere. Vehicle deficiency tests all negative. Landing coordinates approximately 41° 52' 54.5952'' N and 87° 37' 23.4372'' W.”

“Any abnormal observations so far?”

“Negative.”

“Proceed with landing process and notify us after arrival. Keep defensive appliances close for your own safety. In case of hostile activity, proceed as seen in training and return to home base immediately. Good luck, captain Min.”

“Copy that, sir.”

A single tap on the earpiece ends the conversation immediately. This is, hopefully, the last time he’d hear a familiar voice for a while. Aside from notifying them of a successful landing, he’s only supposed to initiate contact with his home base in case of emergency or at take-off. So far, though, everything has gone surprisingly smooth.

The cosmic ball of life, encircled by a radiant, blue light, grows rapidly in size as he approaches its atmosphere. Years of training and simulations prepared him for the intense turbulence and other kinds of impact he puts his small but agile ship through, once he breaks through the barrier and gravity takes over. The vehicle soars through the mesosphere like a rocket, small droplets of sweat dampening the hair underneath his helmet when the ship externally catches fire. He doesn’t panic, knowing the material has been designed for this mission –and all that comes with it– specifically. This is Yoongi’s cue to start braking, drastically decreasing the velocity with which he’s rocketing towards the surface.

Despite having gone through countless simulations, the real thing proves to be more challenging than anticipated. He holds his breath as he keeps a tight grip on the steering element, controlling the ship to the best of his abilities. He already knows it’s going to be a rough landing, but nothing he can’t handle. It requires incredible amounts of focus and precision, considering he’ll be landing near a densely populated area and wants to remain unnoticed. For now.

There’s an open field behind the woods, large enough for him to land safely and secluded enough to hide his ship from curious humans. This is his target. With the speed he’s still going, though, it’ll be tough to land precisely where he wants. Good thing there’s no better pilot than him.

Only a few more seconds before he’ll reach the ground, when Yoongi stays calm and collected as he swiftly creates the necessary combinations from the impressive control panel. He easily knows his way around the countless buttons and gears, lights and wheels. The high technology of the ship is like a second home to him. One he’ll leave for something entirely unknown, soon.

As expected, the ship lands neatly in the field, with space to spare. However, as Yoongi predicted, it’s a rather rough landing. The ship was still going slightly too fast for a smooth one, but he needed the speed as not to land in the trees instead. The vehicle shocks and shakes when it hits the ground, grating off the grass and several layers of earth as it digs itself into the soil for a couple more meters until it comes to a full stop. The body of the ship, made from extremely valuable metals from his home planet, still smoulders when the door automatically opens.

The night has already fallen, it seems. There aren’t many stars visible in the sky, their light compromised by the artificial illumination coming from the city. Yoongi feels the icy breeze fan over his cheeks when he steps outside. He remembers learning about a phenomenon on Earth, called ‘seasons’. Because of the planet’s tilted axis, throughout the year, different parts of Earth receive the Sun’s most direct rays. Having studied this planet until he knew its mannerisms and workings inside and out, Yoongi came prepared.

His team has arranged a collection of garments for him to wear, to blend in with the humans and stay protected against this planet’s unpredictable atmospheric conditions. Something to place on his head, and around his hands. It still feels odd and unnatural, but he doesn’t feel like returning home with some strange human disease, caused by his own carelessness. He can’t risk putting his own kind in danger by causing an epidemic. If there’s one thing he’s learned about humans, it’s that they’re walking disease mills. The best thing he can do for himself is to keep himself at a safe distance, and not let his own immune system dwindle under any circumstances.

With that thought in mind, he wraps a long and thick piece of fabric around his neck and throat. It instantly adds warmth and comfort. Better safe than sorry. Adjusting to this planet might not be such a challenge after all. He’s sure he’s got quite the hang of it already.

Another tap on the earpiece reconnects him with the station. “This is ISV Avalon, here to notify BT21 homebase of safe landing with exact coordinates 41° 52' 54.5952'' N and 87° 37' 23.4372'' W. No threats so far, presumably because of the wild vegetative environment. Will now explore the field closer to the subjects, after ensuring the vehicle’s preservation. This was captain Min, ISV Avalon, going offline until further notice.” His hot breath creates a cloud of steam, evaporating in the cold air, when he heaves a slightly tense sigh. Getting the ship to land safely was the easy part. Now comes the hard part: observing the subjects.

Fishing a tiny remote the size of a fingernail out of the pocket of his jacket, it only takes one click to hide the ship entirely by activating the invisibility shield. This way, no snooping humans will find it. His snooping, however, has yet to begin.

Fairly confident in his knowledge and training, he starts walking towards the forest. It’s not long until he finds the city, bare before him underneath a tall hill. Despite his usually unwavering professionalism, he can’t keep his heart from beating faster the closer he gets to the streets. After all, he’s worked towards this moment his entire life. The moment he gets to see planet Earth and its inhabitants with his own two eyes. He’s always been fascinated by this project and finally, after hundreds of years, he’s the one who gets to play the most important role of all.

Only one other has stood where he stands. Well, not precisely in this spot, but he came to Earth with the same objective. Unfortunately, he never made it back to BT21. As it so appeared, he got caught in the middle of a warfare waged amongst the humans, at the time. As such, the first attempt of accomplishing this mission had failed. Now, over seventy years later –although time means little to his kind, since it’s a human construct– the honour has fallen upon him. Bringing this mission to a successful end would mean great progress for his people. The beginning of a new era. The failed attempt of his predecessor was not in vain, however, as it provided them with loads of valuable information. Information he could now use, to be better prepared.

Turning his wrist to face the sky, the minuscule chip underneath his skin starts glowing. It creates a holographic screen, showing his reflection and ready to record.

“Captain’s log, day one, shortly after arrival on planet Earth. It is night time as I approach the city, and I can hear strange sounds coming from the streets. Despite it being dark, it doesn’t seem to stop the humans from going outside. We believed they tend to rest when night falls, yet there seem to be a significant amount of people, conscious and busy. This is my first observation, and already they prove to be rather interesting. I’m going to take a closer look, yet keep my weapons close to me, should they make an attempt to attack.”

The screen is gone as quickly as it came and his wrist stops glowing, making him appear completely normal again. Another big benefit, is that his kind and humans have no apparent physical differences, at first glance. He looks just like one, which makes it so much easier to explore their planet. Scientists back home believe their kind must have evolved from humans, a long, long time ago. Although it’s clear that the ones on Earth are much more primitive, still, he doesn’t classify himself as human. There are too many differences if one looks past outer appearance.

Even though he feels excitement, walking into the busy streets filled with music and vibrating with lively energy, he remains cautious. Some people are already looking at him in a strange way, but he feels it’s innocent curiosity seeing as they smile and laugh. A positive indicator.

“Why is he dressed like that?” He hears a male utter to his female companion as they walk by.

“Shhh, not so loud! Some people are just really into vintage fashion, Connor. I think it’s cool.” She replies.

Yoongi instantly catches their short exchange of words, despite their lousy attempt to keep it quiet. It makes him think. He has no clue what ‘vintage’ or ‘cool’ means, but he figures it’s the clothes, drawing too much attention to him. Now he’s really looking around, he realises no one is wearing garments even remotely resembling his. He needs to find a way to fix this. He’s not blending in as well as he’d expected.

His first challenge here on Earth comes sooner than he would’ve liked, but he knew it was inevitable. Still, he keeps his calm and reminds himself of the extensive lessons in Humanology. Walking into one of the large buildings, showcasing garments behind tall windows, he acts indifferent, mimicking the behaviour of the people around him. He observes some racks, faintly recognizing the clothes as those for female humans. Women, he believes they’re called here. He shouldn’t dwell here for much longer, or people will notice something’s off about him. On to the male garment section!

These look more like the ones the males on the street are wearing, and he knows he’s in the right place.

“Hello, sir. Can I be of any help?” A voice sounds from behind him, startling him so badly he instinctively reaches for his laser gun. He stops himself just in time when he realises the human most likely means no harm in this context. He appears to be submissive, and asks to assist. This might be easy after all!

Yoongi clears his throat before he speaks to a human for the first time. “Indeed. I need garments, young male.”

The young man blinks a few times, confusion showing on his face for a split second, before he collects himself again, putting his thoroughly practiced customer service smile back on. “Of course, sir. What are you looking for, exactly?”

Yoongi thinks about that question for a second. “Not...vintage. Or cool. None of those concepts.”

The store clerk enthusiastically claps his hands, making Yoongi flinch. “Ah! A man with taste, I see! You’ve come to the perfect place, sir. We pride ourselves in our eye for highly stylish and qualitative fashion without following short-lived hype. You know how it is with kids these days, one moment they’re all crazy about the newest designs and the next it’s something totally different. Apparently, now, it’s vintage. Those second-hand stores are even getting popular because of it. The older the better, can you believe it?”

The clerk eyes Yoongi up and down and visibly regrets his words after realising what he’s wearing, oblivious to the fact Yoongi didn’t understand a single thing of his rambling, anyway. Still, he nods as if he did and lets the young man lead the way.

“This is part of our new collection.” The man adds when he stops in front of a rich

black, cashmere turtleneck sweater. “Now, I admit, it is a bit pricier but you’ll find the material to be divine. It’s also perfect to wear with the holidays–”

“I will purchase this item.” Yoongi nods curtly, approving of this simple garment. The colour is attractive and it looks warm.

“Wonderful!” The clerk’s face lights up with joy and Yoongi wonders what he did to make this human so happy. “This turtleneck is also great in combination with these trousers, shoes and coat.”

Yoongi carefully examines the other items, which the assistant mistakes as doubt.

“I’ll bring these to the fitting room so you can try them on, sir. You will see how well they’ll fit you once you wear them.”

Not sure what a fitting room is, Yoongi follows the man nevertheless. The garments are being neatly hung on hooks on the wall, as the clerk gestures for Yoongi to go inside the cabin. He decides to trust this friendly human, but remains suspicious when the curtain closes behind him. He guesses that he’s supposed to switch his old garments for the new ones in here.

Fortunately, he’s had some experience with these types of clothing and manages to put them on correctly. It looks completely different, but in a good way. He’s sure he won’t draw any unwanted attention like this.

Making use of the privacy he’d obtained inside this cabin, he takes the chance to record another short log.

“Captain’s log, day one, shortly after the first one. I have come to the conclusion that the garments prepared for me by my team are not sufficient. Apparently, time is very important here on Earth. A lot of things change in short periods. My garments caused me to draw too much attention, so I went into a Garment Building to purchase modern ones. I am currently inside something they call a ‘fitting room’, which is a cabin they close with a piece of cloth to ensure physical privacy. Remember, humans detest public nudity. This is why I manage to create this log, undisturbed.”

He lowers his wrist to showcase his new outfit. “These are the garments I will be purchasing. I think they are far more visually pleasing than the ones prepared for me. It is possible that these humans have evolved in this short period of time, which amazes me. I am most inquisitive about what other changes I will discover. These humans seem tame in comparison to the ones my predecessor, Minho, has described. This would mean great success in regards to this mission. I will now continue my exploration.”

When he comes out of the fitting room, fully changed into his new attire, the store clerk stands there, waiting for him dutifully. Even if he heard Yoongi talk to himself in there, he doesn’t make a comment on it. He just assumes he’s some kind of popular, new influencer doing vlogs, especially with the weird way he speaks. When he sees Yoongi, a dramatic gasp tears from his lips.

“You look stunning, sir! Absolutely ravishing!” He places a hand on his chest to steady himself. “I have never seen a more perfect picture than you, standing here before me!”

Yoongi assumes the young male is complimenting him, although it makes him feel a little bit uneasy. It’s human custom to return the kindness, however. “...Thank you. You look very...stunning...too.”

This makes the young man blush. “Why, sir, you’re quite the charmer, aren’t you? I’m sure you have people lining up to date you.”

“Date?” Yoongi murmurs, confused. Isn’t that some kind of combat technique? “Ah, yes! Many people would like to… date me, but they have never succeeded!�� He announces proudly.

“As expected.” The clerk winks and Yoongi flinches again. What an odd gesture. Still, Yoongi feels reassured now that this complete stranger recognizes his exceptional combat skills.

“Are you taking all of these, sir? Or are there some things you aren’t completely sure of?” He asks Yoongi, gesturing at the clothes he’s wearing.

“I approve of all of these items. I would like to purchase the set.” Yoongi lets him know as he takes out the pocket with currency, also provided for him by his team.

“Excellent decision! Would you like to change back into your other clothes or would you prefer to keep this outfit on?”

“I have no use for the garments I came here with. These fresh ones will remain on my body.”

“Perfect! Then, please follow me to the cash desk, sir.”

Yoongi complies, emptying the pocket on the desk in front of the cheerful shopping assistant. He doesn’t even get fazed at Yoongi’s strange behaviour anymore. Remarkable adaptation abilities, these humans!

“Is this enough currency to purchase?” Yoongi asks.

The young man behind the desk throws a brief, hesitant look at the pile of cash money, but quickly answers with a syrupy sweet smile. “Let me count that for you, sir.”

To Yoongi’s relief, the assistant manages to collect the correct amount of money after counting for a few minutes.

“You may want to invest in a credit card, sir. It would certainly make a lot of things much easier...for you, of course.”

“Ah, yes. Certainly.” Yoongi smiles while putting the surplus of cash back in his pocket. He has no idea what a ‘credit card’ could be.

When he exits the building, it is with a newfound confidence and era-appropriate outfit. The human who assisted him didn’t suspect a thing! Yoongi always knew he’d be quite competent for the job, but if he had known it would only take this much effort for him to blend in? He wouldn’t have had all those sleepless nights back home, perfecting his imitations. Well, maybe it’s because he stayed up late, studying human behaviour, that got him so far. Yet it seems like all it really took was a change of garments.

He roams the streets with a calmer heart now, feeling safe enough to observe more details. The more he learns, the better they can prepare themselves for the next installment of the plan. Everywhere, music plays. Different melodies are flowing into each other as they come out of the stores. There’s one in particular Yoongi keeps hearing until he starts to recognize the words.

“...Make my wish come true. All I want for christmas, is you.” He quietly sings along under his breath, cheeks flushed either from the cold or the embarrassment, wondering what his peers back home would think of such behaviour. Still, he comforts himself with the thought that no one can hear him unless he contacts them himself. Enjoying human music will be his little secret to keep from his time on Earth.

Christmas. The word keeps popping up, everywhere he looks and in everything he hears. It must be something very important.

As he continues to ponder over what this ‘Christmas’ could be, he follows the brightly illuminated decorations, hanging at the top of the buildings and over the streets. He’s so deep in thought, he doesn’t even notice how he’s walking away from the city centre and into a dark neighborhood. There are no festive lights, no music or vibrant crowds. When Yoongi notices the sudden silence, he also perceives the sound of footsteps, matching his own.

Upon turning around, he finds a strange man wielding a blade of some sort. Yoongi understands he’s finally being threatened, and slowly reaches for his laser gun.

“You look like some posh fucker. Walking around this part of town in those nice clothes, huh? Bet you got money to spare.” The assailant hisses, moving closer as he speaks.

Yoongi stays quiet and doesn’t move an inch as he lets the thug come closer. He just needs to be patient.

“What, cat got your tongue? Those fancy clothes didn’t come with a witty answer? You rich fucks are usually good at that, no?” The foul man is now within arm’s length, the blade dangerously close to Yoongi’s abdomen. This is his time to strike.

Faster than the blink of an eye, Yoongi overpowers the unsuspecting male with few but extremely precise moves. The man is now subjected to his mercy, his shoulder in a painful angle and with a strange weapon in his face.

“What is your objective?” Yoongi calmly asks.

“My...my what?!” The thug squeaks in between pain-induced hisses.

“Your objective. What is the reason for your attack?”

The man stares at him in disbelief. “Wh- isn’t that obvious?! Your money, man! I wanted your money!”

“Money?” Yoongi muses. “You would harm one of your own, for currency?”

“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” Is the criminal’s response. “Please, let me go… I’ll leave you alone, I promise!”

“Hm, not much persistence, I see.” Yoongi tuts, a tad bit disappointed. “I expected your kind to be more violent.”

The other says nothing, opting to go cross-eyed looking at Yoongi’s weapon instead.

“Tell me something.” Yoongi demands.

“Anything. Anything if you let me live. Please…”

“What is this...Christmas? What does it mean?”

Confusion is written all over the thug’s face. “Ch-christmas? Y-you don’t know what Christmas is?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, briefly losing his composure. He doesn’t appreciate his intelligence being questioned by a lowly human like this.  “Since I am asking something like you to enlighten me, you may assume that I am not yet informed about this concept.”

The man nods fervently. “Ch-christmas is… You know, it’s… It’s a popular holiday. People buy each other gifts. There’s Santa Claus–”

“Santa Claus?” Yoongi frowns.

“Yeah, he’s like, uh, a fat Finnish dude with a white beard and red clothes and he gives presents to children.”

“Why is that?”

“I- I don’t know, he… Just does? It’s not real, anyway, people just dress up like him at the mall to earn a few extra bucks.”

Yoongi has a really hard time understanding the language this male is speaking, but his curiosity has not yet been satisfied.

“So, this… Santa Claus. He gives human offspring gifts? That’s what christmas is?”

“Well, no… Not really–”

“You dare lie to me, human?” Yoongi growls, pushing the tip of his weapon into the man’s cheek.

“No! Of course not!” He squeaks, “I just meant that it’s not the most important thing about Christmas! Christmas is about… It’s about family. Spending time with your family, exchanging gifts with each other. The Santa Claus thing is all marketing but people come together on Christmas.”

“Why?” He asks again.

“Because they love each other.” The man’s tone of voice suddenly changes. He sounds...saddened. “They spend time with each other, eat food, play games… It’s a time for families and friends to come together and enjoy each other’s company.”

That confuses Yoongi. “But you’re alone. If it is Christmas, why are you roaming the streets, attacking people for currency? Why are you not with your family to do Christmas?”

The thug lets his head hang, no longer even afraid of Yoongi’s weapon. “Because I have no one to spend it with.”

A strange feeling stirs inside Yoongi’s chest. He can’t really place it, and it makes him uncomfortable. Time to end this interrogation.

“I much appreciate your cooperation. I will spare your life.” He decides, reaching for another device, stored in his pocket, and aiming it at the strange man.

“Wait– you said you’d spare me!” The other panics, but it’s too late.

One simple flick of Yoongi’s thumb activates the device, sending sonic waves into the direction of his target. The man loses consciousness almost instantly, only to fall asleep on the cold concrete of the street.

“You are a pitiful being.” Yoongi murmurs before he drags the limp, unconscious body of the thug into a more secluded alley. He leaves him there, but not before zipping up his garments to its full capacity and putting some currency in his pockets. He’s not quite sure why he did that.

He needs to confirm this male’s theory. If what he said is true, then Yoongi’s job here is done.

On his way back, he shamelessly peers through the windows and into people’s houses to observe their activities. And just as the thug explained, he sees humans from varying ages gathered in their houses. Smiling, eating, laughing. Giving each other wrapped objects, which he assumes are the ‘presents’. They seem completely harmless. Defenseless, even. He could wipe out this entire city on his own, and with ease.

Not once, aside from the incident with the pitiful male earlier, has he encountered armed humans like his predecessor had described. The time for warfare on Earth appears to have passed, and with it, people have become comfortable in their little bubble of safety. They let their guard down, making it all too easy for a foreign civilisation to usurp their whole planet. Home after home, he finds the same scene of happy, carefree humans, enjoying sustenance and each other’s presence. This is not even the challenge he’d secretly hoped for. It almost feels...wrong.

He can’t let himself dwell on useless emotions like this, however. His kind has evolved too far to attach any importance to things like feelings. This is good news. He needs to return to BT21 immediately. His stay has been far shorter than he’d expected and, granted, he’d like to extend his knowledge about humans further, yet he feels relieved to go home.

Yoongi turns his back on the streets that fascinated him only shortly before, to make his way through the forest once again. As he reaches the open field, harbouring his hidden ship, he presses the tiny remote to lift the shield. Nothing happens.

Frowning, he tries again. Still no luck. When the tiny remote starts to glow a pulsing red, he knows what the problem is. His ship is still in time-out, needing at least twenty-four hours to repair itself and recuperate from the rough landing. This to ensure a safe trip back home. For at least twenty-four hours, the ship will be in sleep mode, and there is nothing Yoongi can do to activate it sooner. Meaning, the radio connection is also down at the moment. He can’t even notify the home base of his discovery.

This might not be so bad after all. At least now, he has an excuse to keep exploring just a little bit more. The curiosity tickles and the city beckons him to return.

Of all days, you hadn’t thought your boss would make you work on freaking Christmas Eve. So what, your family lived abroad and neither of you could afford plane tickets so you’d be alone anyways, but is that a reason to make anyone work the night shift during the holidays?! Ridiculous.

It’s almost midnight and only a handful of people have passed through the convenience store this evening. Which isn’t surprising, considering most people are cozying up at home with their families, drinking good wine and eating good food. Giving each other presents. You know your mom sent you a gift, but it hasn’t been delivered yet. You expect it to arrive somewhere this week, though.

It’s stupid. It’s stupid you have to work on what’s supposed to be a magical night, to keep a store open for only a couple of customers. He could’ve easily decided to just close for tonight.

You sigh, defeated, before you stretch your arms above your head and leave your counter to get some fresh air. If you’d smoke, you would have something to do. You’re bored and miserable and you want to go home and make yourself a carb fest while binging your favorite Netflix series. But you need the money. College tuitions don’t pay themselves.

Only a minute after you’d sat back down behind your counter, sneakily watching some episodes on your phones, a new customer walks in. You pause Netflix to greet them, albeit a bit half-heartedly. Most people coming in at this our need cigarettes or booze. When you look up, though, you don’t see your typical after-midnight customer. You’re facing one of the prettiest men you’ve ever seen in your life. And he’s holding a black cat?

“Ah… greetings. I found this creature,” he holds the cat up in a rather clumsy manner, “It vibrates.”

What in the…?

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (10)

Thank you for your patience. I’m a little sad that this chapter didn’t push me over the 50k works mark, but eh. Hopefully next chapter will make up for it. As always, thank you @dickbutt-writes-again for your help.

<<Chapter 9

The news tells a small audience of heat-exhausted agents that today is one of the hottest days of the summer. Zarya’s face tells of someone who wants to shut the newsomnic up, but can't seem to muster the energy to stand. It's a disconcerting sight to behold. The heat seems to even put out McCree, who normally relishes in it. The only person who seems unaffected is Ana, who still manages to walk outside fully covered, making fools and weaklings of everyone else.

Every remaining agent was forbidden from going outside for day and Mei could not resist contacting the base, reporting her observations with rapid-fire jargon and a heat in her voice that rivals the weather. Hanzo could not really put any effort into listening, busy tending to himself with a crudely made fan.

Athena sounds apologetic when she tells a group of sweaty, irritated agents that the thermostat cannot be adjusted any further without rerouting energy from vital functions on base. Hanzo suspects all the current efforts are being rerouted to cool down Winston whom he had seen neither hair—fur—nor hide of in the past few days, busy with 'meetings’. It's unfair especially when the common areas are barely cooled and their rooms are no better than if they were to open a window (provided that the rooms had windows), and those agents who were relocated to cooler places for a mission were the momentary object of envy.

This heat doesn't quite rival Japan’s, but it is difficult to breathe, to move without wanting to shower or suddenly take a flight to the Arctic. Hana did not spare any words when pointing out the frizzy state of his hair, and he spared no mercy when pointing out her hair is artificially straightened.

(He learned two things after that: not to mention it in the future and that age has not been ridiculously kind to him in the ways he wants to believe.)

It's his first summer away from Japan, but despite the weather, it doesn’t feel like summer at all. Almost fondly, Hanzo thinks a proper summer should have watermelon. Or shaved ice. The air should be thick with the smell of grilled foods and bright with lanterns or fireworks and accompanied by windchimes or the song of cicadas. (Genji would used to try to catch as many as he could when they were younger, essentially eliminating the entire population near their estate at his peak.)

He doesn’t realize he misses all of that until you serve watermelon as a part of lunch.

They’re neat, thick pyramid shaped slices with actual seeds that betray the semi-professionally sculpted meals you make for them. He steals away into his 'secret’ spot once he's finished off the main course to enjoy the chilly summer treat. He takes in the harsh beat of the sun against his skin, the rare summer breeze and relative silence brought on by this thick, overbearing weather.

The only thing missing are the cicadas.

He takes his first bite with a loud ' hrmph ' and regrets nothing. The cool contrast in his mouth against the heat on his skin is a delight of sensations. The salty air tossed around by the occasional breeze only adds to the experience—he briefly thinks that he should have asked for some salt, but there’s no helping it now. And the hunger —Hanzo is not shy about his eating, the bites audible and vicious. Sweet juices trickle down his mouth and into his beard, trickling freely down his hands. It's utterly disgusting and undignified, but there’s no graceful way to eat watermelon. Sure, they could be turned into cubes or little balls, but that just defeats the point of eating watermelon.

Watermelon slices, no matter how undignified, is best. He’s glad you seem to agree.

Hanzo mindlessly spits a barrage of seeds off the ledge.

For a moment, the sun is not yellow, but white. The cry of gulls are cicadas. The sea before him is grass and the familiar landscape of Hanamura. Genji sits next to him, smaller, younger— human —a wide grin on his face right before he spits a line of seeds as well.

「See, brother? I’m better!」

And he hears himself saying, 「You’re too many years too early to think of besting me at anything.」

The younger Genji protests, taking another bite of his watermelon, chewing furiously through the meat of the fruit. He inhales deeply, puffing up his chest and stomach dramatically before the summer air is filled with panicked coughing, barely drowned out by the whining of cicadas and the pounding of a fist.

A ray of sun passes over his eyes and the scene is gone—the sweetness of the fruit turns his mouth numb and bitter, and he nearly throws the rind off the ledge too, only to remember Winston had long warned them against leaving evidence of their occupation behind, no matter how innocuous.

He sucks a shaky breath through his teeth instead and exhales, then wipes his mouth harshly on his arm, clutching the remains of the fruit tightly in his hand. The juice becomes tacky, sticking to him just as uncomfortable as his thoughts. The twisting in his gut threatening to squeeze out the food he’s just eaten and he clenches his teeth until it hurts.

Maybe he doesn’t miss the Japanese summer as much as he thought, after all.

Hanzo does not throw the rinds into the ocean below, barely mustering the maturity to take them back to the cafeteria to be discarded of properly. He finds himself there on reluctant legs anyway.

To his relief and surprise, he finds it relatively empty and significantly cooler than the rest of the base. Even Ana’s usual afternoon crowd is not around.

Hana’s here, her hair up in a ponytail, a tell-tale towel around her neck that indicates she's just finished her training session for the day and deep in a heated conversation. Hanzo thinks she’s surprisingly chipper for such nasty weather, but figures she’s endured worse.

“Chef, why can’t we have shaved ice?”

“Agent D.Va, I cannot allow your health to be compromised. You just came from exercise. Ice will only cause muscle crampin—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She shoves her hands through the window, making grabby hands at you. “Shaved ice, please. Lots of condensed milk and mochi. Oh, and red bean.”

“I have no such thi—”

“Liar.”

The watermelon remains slip straight out of his hands and into the garbage disposal. He’s dumbstruck by the speed at which Hana calls you out, and by the looks of it—hands frozen in midair—so are you.

She begins to tick off her fingers. “You have ice. You have a mandolin”—she ignores your cries of “It’s not the same!”—“you use condensed milk for Mei’s milk coffee sometimes and you just started to make it for Zarya, and you have rice flour for Hanzo’s red bean cakes, so mochi and red bean.”

The MEKA warhero gives you the slyest of grins and crosses her arms, leaning deep into the window. “ So . Shaved ice?”

You fiddle with your sleeve cuffs for a moment, debating. Instead of answering, however, you deflect with, “How do you know all this?”

“McCree told me,” she says innocently and far too easily.

“Excu—He what ?”

Hanzo almost laughs despite himself. No hesitation with throwing McCree under the proverbial bus. But then, the thought of McCree knowing all of this expunges any and all mirth from his being, the implications of it all casting a dark cloud over him.

“Chef. I require a wet towel,” Hanzo says suddenly from behind the young woman.

Naked relief floods your voice as you answer, “Oh, Agent Hanzo. Of course. Right away.”

You depart the window sill in a hurry, leaving both himself and Hana, who gives him an appraising look that is not unlike Ana’s.

“Nice save,” she mutters sarcastically, “I'm sure the chef will now love to show you right into the Cellar.”

He ignores the obvious bait, leaning down momentarily to gauge your distance. He can hear the water running toward the side of the dish waking station; you won't be hearing their conversation should the MEKA operator choose to continue this conversation.

Luckily, she waits in silence, instead just choosing to look at him expectantly as though waiting for him to break down and spill out all his deepest, darkest secrets. He almost scoffs. That will not be today and it most certainly will not be to her. (Hanzo has seen Hana be professional—reporting back to a sudden call from some higher power from the army, the image sternly reminding everyone that this woman is not a fool or a child and she is not unaffected or unawares of the gravity of her situation—whatever the the totality of that may be—but even that will not make the impossible happen.)

You return shortly, presenting a neatly folded towel. “Here you are, Agent Hanzo.”

“Thank you.” He takes it, a little pleasantly surprised to find it warm rather than ice cold. He wipes his sticky hands and face with it, the heat cools quickly against his skin, the faintest hint of a sigh escaping. Much better.

“Hey, Chef. Isn't hot in there?”

That shouldn't have surprised Hanzo as much as it did and for once, he realizes that he's never once seen you wearing anything other than your uniform—standard Overwatch-issued chef’s jacket with a high collar and sleeves with thick cuffs around your wrists.

Even if there was air conditioning inside the kitchen, the fact that you work with fire constantly probably nullifies any relief you may get.

“A little,” you confess, clearly reluctant. “I'm used to it. And”—you chuckle a bit, like it's an inside joke—“don't tell anyone, but I go into the walk-in to cool off sometimes.”

Sometimes Hanzo forgets how honest and earnest normal people can be. While he's used to the posturing, the facades, the measuring of people, this is different, refreshing, even. He hides the beginnings of a smile into the towel.

“Ooo, you’re so lucky. Can we come in at least?”

“No. Non-kitchen—”

“Stingy.”

“I cannot allow non-kitchen personnel to—”

“You let him in, didn’t you?” She jabs a thumb at Hanzo, and a chill spills into his stomach. How did she hear about that? Did you tell her?

“That was...not intentional,” you say slowly, carefully.

Hana shoots him a glance with an eyebrow raised, asking him silently whether you were serious. Then she has the audacity to smirk at him—she knows just like every other person in this base, but even she would not be so obtuse as to let it slip. He returns it with a frown and a warning behind it: do not say anything.

“Oh?” The MEKA driver’s voice sounds downright conspiratorial as she turns back to you. “Is that right? Hm.”

Hanzo does not like the look on her face or the tone of her voice—it reminds him too vividly of his brother right before he’s about to commit some heinous act against the family that Hanzo would inevitably have to clean up.

“Chef~” Her voice turns singsong and you shrink away a mere half-step. Hanzo thinks it’s because you’re trying to shield yourself; you may be obstinate against impromptu requests, but you might not be so strong against Hana. “Come on, it’s hot and we can’t go outside. Please?”

“No, Agent D.Va, I cannot allow tha—”

“If you won’t let us into the kitchen, then give us the shaved ice! It’s just ice, Chef. Don’t be so stingy. We’re melting out here and you have...a walk-in? Chef ! Don’t you love us?”

You begin to stammer messy half-assurances and Hanzo and D.Va both know that she’s won. Hanzo huffs through his nose. If it’s this easy to fluster you and convince you to do something, then he has questions about why Winston chose you to be here, to defend the kitchen, to serve them when you’re such a pushover. (Though he remembers the multiple attempts to get Ana’s coveted cookies without success and wonders if it’s not because it’s Hana that you seem more accommodating or if it’s because you’re wary of him.)

Hanzo resists the urge to sigh. “If the chef does not want to, there is little point to force the matter.”

“Wow,” she says, utterly sarcastic. “Way to say that after you tried to break into the Cellar.”

“Hana!”—“Agent Hanzo!?”

“Oop-sies,” she says, already slinking away without a hint of apology. “I still want my shaved ice, Chef!” The young woman tactically retreats, leaving Hanzo to deal with the bombshell she so casually dropped.

He needs to give chase and probably put her training to the test for that, but his legs betray him, staying firmly planned to the ground, and all he can feel is bone-deep exhaustion that he wishes he can blame on the heat.

Almost instinctively, he steels himself for the inevitable loss, the towel wringing dry in his grip: his food will no longer be safe to eat despite your thin reassurances; the one sanctuary he thought he had found in this base that was free from judgment and the politics of his past is also decimated; he will have to start spending the meager salary Overwatch provides (or his own) and suffer not knowing if the restaurant he choose will be acceptable—it truly shouldn’t be so much of an issue considering just what he managed to make himself eat during his years on the run, but he may have unknowingly, unwittingly become conditioned by your cooking, by your devotion, by the quality he never thought he would ever come close to allowing himself to have ever again.

The broiling sorrow nearly bowls him over with its force, sapping him further of strength. Weak. He’s become weak. Luxuries like food should never have been afforded to him, and now you know and there’s little doubt in his mind that you wouldn’t retaliate with something more devastating than your shabby fencing skills.

Then you laugh, breathless and disbelieving, shattering him from his silence.

“She is really too…” You stop yourself, breaking off with another laugh. “It’s all right, Agent Hanzo. I already know. Someone else told me.”

Hanzo cannot help closing his eyes for a moment and tipping his head back, willing himself to not immediately leave and strangle someone. He knew the base was conspiring against him, he knew McCree could not keep his flapping mouth shut.

“McCree had insisted I try.” Since that man’s name is already tarnished by someone else, there’s no point in trying to mask his source anymore.

“Oh? So it was Jesse ? That rascal.” Your voice sounds fond, and he does not miss how you refer to the cowboy by his first name and only that, cannot miss how you don't seem to bear a hint of anger at McCree when you easily directed your rage at him. He tries his best to ignore the unfounded and uncomfortable twist in his stomach.

“When Jesse used to do this, he was one of the few people to do it alone.”

You rest your hands a little more on the sill and he glances down. The cuff of your sleeves lie limp against your wrists, damp.

“I guess he's just done it so much that I'm not surprised anymore.” You chuckle to yourself. “His attempts were pretty bad, you know. Even back in the day, he was big—oh, you know.” You gesture exaggerated measurements in the air. “Big, tall, loud. No one could miss him. Thought he could blow off the door once. That almost screwed up the line for a day. Head Chef was so angry he fed him meatloaf for a week.

“People who did it in a team usually were more successful. Some of them broke the mechanism; we had to load in food from the front for about a week while those guys were reprimanded and getting the door replaced. Others tried to go in from above, but that lead nowhere. There may have been a few who were smarter and tried the other side, but there was no shortage of people trying then. Even I had to fend off a few people—I was better back then, I think.”

He bites the inside of his lip, but can’t suppress the quirk of his lips. You? Better at fending off agents whose lives were dedicated to espionage and covert operations? Impossible.

“I’m a little shorthanded and busy because of it, but I welcome the challenge.” You laugh again. “Though, I’m not sure I’m a match against a ninja. I remember when Agen—ah, no.” You clear your throat and he has a feeling he knows what you’re about to say, but lets it go. He doesn’t want to tread that path either. “Well, I ask that you do not do it that often. I do have a job to do and customers to feed, so I ask you please respect that.”

In spite of himself and the situation, he finds himself smiling just a bit. “We shall see.”

To everyone's joy, you do call them to the cafeteria for shaved ice a couple of hours before dinner. It turns out there was a machine from your cache of unused kitchen equipment. For people who have never had any, it was an interesting and welcome experience. For people like Hana, this was sweet, sweet victory.

You knew this was bad—indulging agents in their requests when does little to improve their health—but you reasoned against all reason that this was an exception, this was fine , and this was not getting in the way of anything even as your communicator rung incessantly. It makes everyone happy and a chef’s greatest joy is the happiness of their customers. What was it your mentor used to say?

“ Love them with all our being. We live for them. We die for them .”

By the time the last of the agents got their little bowl of shaved ice, it was already time to prep for dinner service. You have to swallow back the rising burn and pressure in your stomach as you shove an ice cube into your mouth—it won’t work, you’ll need medicine to handle this, but it’s just so troublesome—and get to responding to your missed messages and calls as you changed out of your drenched chef’s jacket.

Dinner rolls around and it’s then Hanzo realizes that the game has now changed when he receives his tray. He can tell you're watching him carefully, mischievously despite your face being hidden by the wall. That single piece of pepper—harmless, really—sits at the top of his dish where he could easily pick it out and throw it away if it truly bothers him.

But Hanzo Shimada is no coward.

He picks up his chopsticks right at the service window and takes great pleasure at the stuttering gasp you make when he snaps up the sliver and eats it.

“Thank you for the meal,” he says haughtily before taking his tray and walking away.

His only regret is that he could not look you in the eyes as he did so.

Hanzo holes himself into his room, ignoring the damp humidity that clings to him incessantly even after a shower, his belly full enough to put him to an easy lull. However, after tonight’s slight against him, it means that it’s time for him to take it a little more seriously. He doesn’t truly hate the pepper as much as he thought—lightly grilled and seasoned, less bitter than he expected, but it’s the intent behind it that counted. You will regret your transgressions and challenging Hanzo Shimada to a fight.

“Athena. I need the floorplans of this Watchpoint,” he says, sitting in the single chair in his room and picking up his makeshift fan and cooling himself with it.

The AI is silent and Hanzo waits with bated breath for answer. Will she provide them or is she alerting someone that he’s trying to look into something that he may not be authorized for?

“One moment, please.”

Hanzo spends the first few minutes in suspense, almost ready to tell Athena off for wasting his time when his communicator beeps with the arrival of a file. It’s a large file, one that takes a little too long to open and takes up a ridiculous amount of space when it does.

However, what results is a pleasing document of neat lines and even neater notes. (Some part of him says that if he did not take the path of an assassin and lived a normal life, he may have become an architect.) There are areas he recognizes and areas he knows are no longer there, having either been damaged in some manner unknown to him or long replaced by something newer. He doesn’t linger on them, however, quickly seeking out his prize.

Hanzo zooms in on the kitchen area and can almost recall every detail of the area from the plan. If he thinks about it hard enough, he can probably even map out the exact path he took in the little scuffle. To his amusement, nothing’s changed, it seems. Not the counters, not the measurements, nothing seems out of place except...

Hanzo scrolls through several more files, searching and finding nothing. He leans back in his chair with a steady hand over his eyes.

“Athena. Is this all? Is there a floorplan of anything beneath or beyond the kitchen area?”

“Unfortunately, that data is unavailable.”

“What do you mean…’unavailable’? Does it not exist or…” His eyes narrow. “Am I not authorized to see it?”

She pauses. “I cannot answer that, Agent Hanzo.”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow, a slow smirk curling on his lips. Is that the game they're playing? “And who has the authority to see this information?”

Athena sounds just a touch amused as she answers, likely having caught onto his line of thought, “Unfortunately, you do not have the authority to know that either.”

“How can I gain such clearance?”

“The information is distributed on an as-needed basis. Currently, Agent Hanzo, your duties do not require access to this knowledge.”

Maybe a different tactic then. He supposes finding out who can see such information can come later.

“What can you tell me about the Cellar?”

If a voice could do the equivalent of an eyebrow raise, he's sure that Athena would be doing it. “Unfortunately, I do not have access to any information regarding the Cellar.”

“But you do not deny its existence.”

“...no. I cannot.” The relenting tone in her voice makes his stomach clench with some thrill. “However, I cannot condone spaces that I am unaware of. The safety of all agents and staff within the Gibraltar Watchpoint are my prerogative and data of this nature should be centrally managed.”

Hanzo’s mouth drops open slightly, the implications of Athena’s plea only semi-clear.

Is it possible that not even Athena herself has access to the floor plans then?

“Thank you, Athena,” Hanzo says slowly, trying to piece together the hints he’s been given, “you've been very helpful.”

“I am glad to be of assistance.”

Her voice fades, leaving Hanzo in silence to ponder and scheme.

The plans do not hint at a Cellar. Does it mean it was built after these plans were created?

He leans deeper into the chair, a little bit of a smile playing on his face. It should be laughable, the amount of thought and effort he’s putting into this operation. He tells himself it’s all in good fun, it’s a harmless brain-teaser where lives are not in danger and he stands to have a little something to gain from this. There is no reason to stop yet.

He thinks back.

You seem to come out of that door frequently. The boxes you brought seemed to hold produce and ingredients for an empty kitchen. When Athena summoned you, he heard the Cellar door open before you arrived even though you had nothing.

So it is a storage space, then? For more than just alcohol, it seems.

“.. .and there have always been reports of people filching food ...”

Stolen food. Perhaps that’s why the Cellar exists? To defend it? Then what is the point of having a kitchen?

Though, it’s implied that the other chefs were far more capable than you at defending it. Why need the Cellar at all? Is it because the previous Head Chef knew one day it would end up like this, with a single lone chef to defend the treasure that is the food?

“ I kind of wish they were here .”

If so, then why aren’t they here? You had mentioned that they were around, but you are here alone, catering to a base of criminals and defectors. Hanzo supposes they cannot be blamed. No innocent civilian would want to be embroiled into the political mess that is Overwatch and risk their lives just to cook. Though, you did mention an ex-convict.

Hanzo scoffs. Even he knows that a person’s past cannot dictate their future.

“ We wouldn't have been able to compensate them properly .”

Surely Winston could afford hire at least a single bot to guard the door or just one more chef off the streets (even if air conditioning wasn’t affordable). Is it because of the dangers of the job that the compensation is not comparable? But what dangers could you possibly be in? You do not risk your life like the agents do. You do not travel far. You do not put yourself out there to be recognized. You have no bounty on your head. You’re in a base staffed by at least two capable agents at all times. You should have very little to fear other than boredom.

Hanzo furrows his brows, musing idly on the cost it would require to get a civilian to agree to such a dangerous job when strangeness of those words—“ we ”—strikes him, forcing him to sit straight up.

What would a mere chef know about Overwatch’s finances?

“We lost contact with two more agents heading here,” Winston says solemnly. “I suspect more and more Talon agents are converging on Gibraltar.”

“They probably never left,” Soldier: 76 growls, tightening his fist. “Just lying low, waiting for us to split ourselves up and take us down one by one.”

Winston sighs, a wisp of frosty breath fogging his glasses momentarily. “I believe it may only be a matter of time until they decide to rally their forces for a targeted attack. Should we go in for a preemptive attack or wait?”

The former Strike Commander remains silent.

Athena’s icon lights up the monitor. “May I interrupt?”

Winston waves. “Go ahead, Athena.”

“Chef has forwarded an urgent message. Would you like to view it now?”

The two narrow their eyes at the AI’s screen. Urgent? From the chef? The two briefly exchange a glance with each other.

“Yes, please.”

It takes a few moments for the message to appear, too long to have been simply decrypting itself, but even so, it’s ridiculously short. 

'SENDER: OFFICE OF WILL B. PETRAS

RCPT: CŒUR D’ARTICHAUT

AMT: 30,000,000 CREDITS

ACH: XXXXXXXXX0987

RCV: XXXXXXXXX6750

BIC: UNCUUSNY024

MSG: TO YOUR CLIENTS, MY SUPPORT’

An air of sickening silence strangles the two, and Soldier: 76 could feel the words rocking him to his core. He reads it over and over, the implication of the messages turning over new waves of anxiety in his gut.

Winston turns his head to Soldier, looking pallid. “Is...is this the Petras?”

“Affirmative,” Athena answers instead, pulling up an image of the man who Soldier: 76 recognized as the reason for Overwatch’s persecution. It stares impassively into the room, that heavy-set scowl is too familiar to forget. “The chef would like to know how to proceed with this.”

Winston turns to the older man, voice quiet as though the image would hear them. “Do you think...he knows? By all accounts, he should be the last person to have found out—”

“I can't put it past him. That man has eyes and ears in places most people can’t touch.” Soldier crosses his arms, breathing out heavily through his nose. “'Clients,’ huh?” He laughs derisively to himself. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

“I thought...I had believed he hated Overwatch. Athena, are you sure this is meant for us?”

“Affirmative.”

“But why…?”

Soldier: 76 rubs his forehead, a deep sigh rumbling in his chest. There can only be two reasons. One, as a trap, and the other—

“Sometimes, what a person represents and what they personally stand for don’t fit.”

He’s seen it in his time: people who claim one thing for the vote or the money, but secretly do the opposite because that’s what they truly believe in. But Petras was another story. He was so sure, so certain, that Petras truly believed in the drivel he spewed about Overwatch: it was becoming too powerful, too autonomous, that Overwatch is not necessary in times of peace. History has shown what happens to organizations created for war; they either get dismantled or live long enough to take over the country.

Perhaps Petras believed it at one point and is now of a different mind. Or maybe he, too, was forced to play the role designated to him. If he was, he had played it well.

With another rumbling sigh, Soldier straightens up. “This is getting out of hand. We need to pull out of this before this blows up and takes us all with it.”

Winston gasps. “You can’t be suggesting to cut ties and leave the chef to deal with it, are you, sir?”

He shakes his head. “No.” He knows firsthand how that feels. “But this place is no longer safe. Chef is no longer safe. This has gone too far. We must end it. Now.”

“But without Chef’s help, we would’ve never been able to keep the current Overwatch running. We can't just—”

“This is for everyone’s protection.”

Winston was always a bleeding heart who cared more about the people than the mission. He made for a great comrade, but (in his opinion) made for a terrible leader. Leaders need to make difficult decisions all the time and often in opposing interest of the very people it will affect. Winston just doesn’t have the heart to do such a thing, and it’s a miracle that Overwatch has been operating for as long as it did under his instruction.

This only solidifies his concerns that recalling Overwatch was very much a mistake and there’s no telling how many people or lives it may take with it this time. Soldier: 76 knew what he was getting himself into when he begrudgingly answered, but not you. You are just here out of a foolish obligation that should’ve— everything should have —died with the old Overwatch. Continuing this any further can lead to the demise of an otherwise bright future where you could continue doing good without them. Time and again, your presence and involvement has been the point of several heated discussions between himself, Winston, and Ana. Nothing good happens when civilians get involved. While you seemed determined to make a place for yourself here—and doing a damn good job of it, winning everyone over by appealing to the most basic of human desires—he wanted you gone.

“Isn’t it safer here? I mean, just last week we received reports of two more former agents—”

“And they’re only targeting agents. Chefs are not an considered agents and not considered relevant. Before that happens, we have to end this because Chef as hell isn’t going to.”

Talon is dirty, but they should not be so dirty as to go after people who were not directly involved in the missions or other had limited information. Or so he hoped—it was a foolish hope, he knows. (He has never once forgotten Amélie, never once forgotten the promise he made to Gerard’s grave, never once forgot the arguments he had with Gabriel after what happened with Ana and Widowmaker.) Soldier: 76 can reluctantly imagine why they would go after you; you’d make a halfway decent hostage—helpless (compared to the current agents), well-liked, well-connected, and a vital part of Overwatch’s current survival. Your existence, no matter how well protected, cannot be ignored.

He looks to Petra’s impassive image and makes up his mind.

With stern determination, he says, “Athena. Call Chef up here. We have to talk.”

Winston looks lost for a moment, mouth agape and eyes searching the air for an answer as Athena answers, “One momen—”

“ No .” Winston raises himself up to his full height, face set in steely determination. “I will not allow you to jeopardize our relationship with the chef like this. Athena, cancel the call.”

His voice drops to a growl when he asks, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“We will regroup and attempt to make contact with Petras and determine his intentions. If it goes well, it will be a huge leap in re-establishing the legitimacy of Overwatch. We will use this to our advantage and bring Overwatch back from the brink.”

Soldier: 76 sneers, a flare of annoyance offsetting the chill of the room, the naivety of Winston’s words sparking nostalgic bitterness from a younger Jack Morrison who had no direction or help.

“You’re making a mistake. We need to stop this operation. Now.”

“Unfortunately, Soldier, I do not recall you volunteering to be the leader.”

Those words lodge a stone in his jaw, preventing him from retaliating. They both stare each other down for a moment before Soldier spits, “Think you can do my job, can you?”

Winston frowns. “Someone has to.”

Chapter 11>>