#i just hope he sticks with this. tryin to learn how these things work in healthy relationships instead of the toxic crap he's used to

[kindacreepy-kindaugly]

Actually told Mr. V we're probably gonna talk about some of. His issues. In therapy, sometime soon-ish

He took it surprisingly well? Kinda just tried to laugh it off, like he always does when he's uncomfortable but doesn't want me to think it's a big deal

[mimi-ya]

indifferent ~ trafalgar law x reader

1,300 words | no pronouns

summary: law totally doesn't care that you don't like him a/n: for my sweet anon out there! i hope this can brighten your day!

masterlist

When you’ve been a pirate as long as Trafalgar Law has, you learn not to take things personally.

It was essentially a job. Different than most, but a job none the less. There were duties and responsibilities, crewmates or coworkers depending how you look at it.

It was only natural coworkers didn’t get along.

Law drums his fingers on the table, chin resting in his hand.

How long had it been since he was in the familiar submarine? Only a few months, but it felt like a lifetime to be separated from his crew.

Who was he kidding? Being a pirate wasn’t a job, it was a way of life. His entire life. His crew were the people he cared about most and being without them was hell.

So why is that one of his crew seemed to want to be anywhere but with them? With him more specifically.

“Oh!” Your gasp startles Law from his thoughts, not that he gives anything away with the easy slide of his eyes to meet yours, “I didn’t realize anyone was here.” You glance off to the side, fingers curling tightly around the book in your hands.

Law nods at your hands, “Taking an interest in medicine, (y/n)-ya?”

“I started reading them while you were gone.” You place the book on the edge of the table, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Trying to put me out of work?”

Your eyes go wide, hands already waving, “Of course not! I wouldn’t, couldn’t-” You snap your mouth shut, huffing in frustration, before quietly adding, “A little out of my league if I’m being honest.”

“Then why read it?”

Your mouth opens and closes before you give a small shrug instead, eyes quickly darting to the side of the room.

And Law takes that as his cue. Pushing himself from the desk, he rises to his feet, and you quickly scurry out of the way.

Law pauses at the door, wanting to say something, anything. But when he looks back, you’re already hunched over the book, hand clenched in a tight fist on the table.

Does his presence irk you that much? Is he so unbearable that a few minutes of conversation is like pulling teeth? Well, he won’t put you through any more than necessary.

He figures it’s always been like this. Never speaking to him directly, always sitting furthest away from him as possible. Law is sure you wouldn’t even be on the sub if it weren’t for you devotion to your previous captain.

So why now does he care?

With a frustrated sigh Law continues down the hall. Might as well check on the Strawhats who have temporarily joined for the journey to Wano.

Law rubs his neck, already feeling a knot forming at the idea of interacting with the rowdy crew. There was a reason he was seeking solace in the small library before you came in.

Shit, Law remembers, he had gone there in search of a book for Nico-ya in the first place.

Turning on his heel, Law heads back, not looking forward to the icy interaction he’ll probably get from you.

“You’re such an ass!”

Law stops in just outside the door when he hears the hiss of your voice.

A deep laugh echoes off the submarine’s metal walls, “Not like ya talked to him anyway!” The teasing lit of Jean Bart’s voice is something Law isn’t familiar with.

“You were spying on me?”

“Course I was! I pushed ya into that damn room, ya think I wasn’t gonna stick around?”

“I’m thinking I shouldn’t have been the one to stick around!”

“Ahh, c’mon on now! I’m just tryin’ to help.”

“Well, you’re not. And it’s not funny!”

Jean Bart’s laughter sounds again, “It’s kinda funny. I mean look at ya! You’re reading his textbooks like they’re some love note!”

“Shut up!” Your voice shouts, followed by a thud that Law can only assume is a book smacking Jean Bart in the face if his groan is anything to go by. “It’s embarrassing.” Law almost misses your words with how soft you’ve spoken them.

 A beat of silence, “It’s been two years and you can barely be in the same room, what’s it gonna take?”

The frustrated cry makes Law jump, not expecting such a reaction from you, “I don’t know! It’s just, every time I’m near him my heart starts beating so fast and I’m worried I’m going to say something stupid!”

Law inches closer to the door, desperate to know who you’re talking about.

“I don’t remember you bein’ like this when I first met ya.”

“Well, I didn’t think you were cute.” A smile sneaks onto Law’s face at your snarky comeback.

“Harsh.”

If he could just get a peak in, and shit.

Jean Bart catches the corner of Law’s signature hat before he could move out of the way quick enough. A devilish smile crosses on the man’s face.

“Well what else do you think is so great about the captain? Might help ya figure out how to talk to him.”

A pitiful whine leaves your mouth, pulling your head up from crook of your elbow, “I don’t know, everything?” You drop your cheek into you hand, “I mean, he saved you when he didn’t have to, and he’s a lot sweeter than he lets on.”

Jean Bart smirks. The faint sound of his captain’s devil fruit hasn’t sounded yet, so he must still be hanging around in the hall, “And here I thought it was just skin deep.”

“C’mon Jean.” There’s an unimpressed look on your face, “You have eyes, use ‘em and see what a fucking meal the captain is.”

Jean Bart lets out a hearty laugh, both at the crudeness of your words but to also cover up the choking coming from the hall. “Well, we have another week before we reach Wano.” Jean Bart stands from his seat, “Maybe use the time to fess up before things get a little crazy.” He pats you on the shoulder, leaving you to enjoy the medical textbook he can’t imagine is any bit interesting.

When Jean Bart gets into the hallway, he isn’t surprised to find a singular screw where he’s sure captain had been standing.

.

Dinner on the Polar Tang has turned into quite the affair with the additional members. You would think a few extra mouths to feed wouldn’t be too much to handle but there is something wild about these Strawhats.

How Law put up with them you’ll never know.

“(Y/N)-ya.”

Your heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice calling your name. It had to be a mistake, there’s no way the captain would be singling you out- but he is.

He’s looking right at you.

“I saved you a seat.” Law nods to the open spot next to him.

“Oh.” Your feet are stuck to the floor. All you have to do is walk over there and sit down and then what?

“Move it or lose it.” Jean Bart hip checks you as he moves past you.

“Hey!” You cry, but Jean Bart is already seated down the table laughing with Penguin. Turning back, you see Law is still staring at you with unreadable eyes, so you quickly take the spot before you cause even more of a scene, “Uhm, thank you.”

“Are you still reading the books?” He asks.

You blink, “What?”

“The medical books.” Law clarifies.

“Oh!” A nervous laugh bubbles in your throat, “Yeah, did you- did you want them back or something?”

“No.” Law takes a swig from his drink, as if to steel his own nerves, “We could read them together.” He glances at your stunned face, “If you want, that is.”

“I do want!” The outburst gets a few looks, and you almost clap a hand over your mouth, “I mean, yeah, okay.”

A soft smile pulls on Law’s lips, “Okay.”

“Okay.” You repeat, a just as nervous smile of your own.

And down the table Jean Bart has a smile, and it’s extremely smug.

[musette22]

Local museum volunteer Chris explaining all the items and history facts to teacher Sebastian and his 20 kids on a school trip or to single dad Sebastian and his twins (one who is really into it and ask a lot of "but why?" And the other one who just sticks his fingers up his nose and yawns lmao)

Okay so I was just on a walk and I started thinking about this ask again (I am so so so sorry for how long it took me to reply to this, I suck wow) because I couldn’t get that new pic of Seb looking like a literal DILF out of my head, but I couldn’t remember the specifics so what came out is slightly different from what you suggested but not much – hope you still like it (I personally screamed into my fist multiples times while thinking about this – I’m furious at how cute this little scenario is, thank you so so much for this!)

Disclaimer: I literally wrote this just now so it’s unbeta’d and probably riddled with nonsense, but I hope you guys like nonetheless!  <3

*********************

“Hi, guys! Welcome to the Concord Museum. My name is Chris and I’ll be your guide this afternoon.”

Chris eyes the little family – a father and two young kids – standing in front of him in the entrance hall of the bite-sized museum, then makes a show of looking around the otherwise empty hall. “Seems like it’s a quiet one today, so you’ll have me all to yourself!”

The father smiles, his sparkling, blue-grey eyes crinkling in the corners in a way that Chris shouldn’t be thinking of as ‘adorable’, but does nonetheless.

“Fantastic,” the man says warmly. “It’s nice to meet you, Chris. This is Margot,” – he gestures to the girl of about eight standing next to him – “and this little guy here is David,” he adds, lightly bouncing the three or four-year-old, curly haired boy on his hip. David gives Chris a wide eyed look before promptly burying his face in his father’s neck. “He’s a little shy,” the dad says fondly.

“That’s fine,” Chris tells them. With a smile, he ducks his head to try and catch David’s eye. “You’re not the only one, kiddo. I’m a little shy myself sometimes, you know.”  

“I’m not shy,” Margot pipes up.

“No,” her dad agrees with a chuckle, “you certainly are not.”

Chris turns his eyes back to their father’s face. “And your name..?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the man says, “I’m Sebastian.” He holds out his hand for Chris to shake, warm and dry with long, elegant fingers that fit nicely against Chris’s own, studier ones.

Sebastian, Chris thinks. Perfect name for a perfect guy. The term ‘DILF’ flashes unbidden through Chris’s mind – wildly inappropriate, given the circumstances, but oh so accurate. Sebastian has a sweet, charming smile, incredible bone structure, and dark, wavy hair, swept up in a quiff-like style that manages to make him look both sophisticated and a little boyish at the same time. There’s a hint of grey at his temples as well as in his beard that has Chris placing him at maybe two or three years older than himself.

“New York?” Chris guesses, as he reluctantly lets go of Sebastian’s hand.

“That’s right,” Sebastian nods. “Well, formerly, anyway. We just moved to the area, actually.”

“Oh, really? What brought you all the way out here?”

Sebastian runs a hand through his hair; a nervous habit, perhaps. “Oh, um. My ex-wife got a job in Boston last year, and I didn’t want to be too far from her and the kids, so I decided to follow suit. Only moved down here last month. This is my first full weekend with these guys at my new place, so I thought I’d take them out to do something cultural, learn a little about the local history, y’know?”

“Well, we’ve got plenty of that here,” Chris assures him. “In fact,” he adds sheepishly, “that’s kinda all we've got.”

Sebastian laughs, causing Chris’s brain to glitch, which is probably why the next thing that comes out of his mouth is – “Divorce, huh? I’m sorry, that must’ve been tough.”

When Sebastian doesn’t answer straight away, Chris wants to kick himself for running his big, stupid mouth. As usual. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes hastily. “That’s none of my business. Just tryin’ to make small talk, but I always seem to forget I’m really bad at that. Just forget I said anything.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Sebastian assures him, flashing Chris a quick smile. “Thank you. These things are never easy, but it’s better this way, you know?”

“They’re not fighting or anything,” Margot chimes in again, from a few feet below. “Mommy and daddy only got divorced because mommy’s a girl and daddy likes boys better than girls. Right, daddy?"

Well. Chris tries not to be too obvious about glancing at Sebastian’s face to see his reaction to that bombshell his daughter just dropped, but he’s not sure how well he manages.

Sebastian closes his eyes for a moment as if praying for strength. “That's right, sweetheart,” he says with a grimace. “But I'm sure Chris doesn't need to hear about all that."

Chris begs to differ – he’s actually extremely interested in hearing about all this, but before he has a chance to say anything in reply, Margot squares her jaw and crosses her football jersey-clad arms.

“Why not?” she asks defiantly. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Some girls just like girls and some boys like boys, it’s totally normal. It’s not prola- probu –" She sighs in frustration, looking up at her dad, who’s watching her with something like pride on his handsome face.

“Problematic?”

“Yeah,” Margot concurs, “not probametic.”  

Chris hums in agreement. “It’s not, you’re absolutely right. I’ll tell you what,” he tells her conspiratorially, “I happen to like boys better, too.”

Margot’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You do?”

“I do.”

Suddenly, Margot’s little face lights up, her shrewd eyes flitting to her dad’s face for a second, then back to Chris. “Do you like my dad?”

“Margot,” Sebastian cuts in, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “That’s enough, honey.” When he tuns back to Chris to give him an apologetic look, Chris can’t help but notice the slight blush coloring his cheeks. “I’m sorry about that. She’s gotten it into her head that she needs to find me the perfect man ASAP, or I’ll waste away or something.”

Chris laughs, throwing back his head in genuine mirth. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine,” he assures them, then claps his hands together to change the precarious subject. “So, who’s ready to learn a little bit about what living in Concord was like over a hundred years ago?”

******

Chris always enjoys volunteering at the museum – it’s nice to give something back to the community that’s been his home for his entire life, and to chat to visitors from all over who have come to visit the land of Little Women, among other things – but what Chris likes best is when he gets to show kids around the place. Some of them need to be won over (after all, a dusty old museum isn’t quite as exciting as a trip to Disney World), but others are instantly captivated by the strange objects and old-timey atmosphere – Sebastian’s kids, fortunately, seem to fall in the latter category.

There’s one room in particular that’s an invariably a favorite with kids – the one that houses the old children’s toys. Trains, dolls and dollhouses, most of them made from wood, all arranged in a colorful parade, with a few screens set up in front of the glass display cases on which kids can watch animations of the toys being used. To Chris’s delight, Margot and David are both immediately taken with the display, David pressing his nose against the glass while Margot fires off question after question that Chris answers patiently and to the best of his ability.

“You sure know a lot about them,” Sebastian remarks, not without a hint of admiration, once Chris has finished explaining the mechanics of the miniature train set.

“Ah.” Chris rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess you could say I’m something of a toy enthusiast myself. I’ve actually got a carpentry workshop – that’s my real job,” he explains. “I’m just a volunteer here – and I dabble in some toy making sometimes, too.”

Sebastian’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding. I used to want to be a toy maker when I was a kid, you know,” he says wistfully. “Probably just saw Pinocchio one too many times, but it just seemed like the best job in the world to me, at the time.”

“It kinda is,” Chris grins at Sebastian, getting lost in his dancing grey eyes for a moment. “So what did you end up doing for a living, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m a journalist. I love it, don’t get me wrong. It’s enriching, challenging. But there’s just something about working with your hands, creating something tangible, something useful…”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Chris nods. He bites his lip, hesitating for just a moment before deciding to bite the bullet. “Hey, I don’t know if you guys have plans after this, but my shift ends in a few minutes. I live pretty close, maybe a ten minute drive – if you want, I could show you my workshop? Maybe the kids can try out some of the things I’ve been working on, see if they’re actually any fun to play with?”

There’s an excited collective gasp from the kids, both of them immediately turning big, hopeful eyes on their father. “Oh, daddy,” Margot pleads, tugging on his sleeve. “Can we go see the workshop, pleaaase?”  

Chris tries to ignore the way his stomach drops when Sebastian visibly hesitates.

“I don’t know, guys.” Sebastian looks back at Chris. “I don't want to intrude. It’s almost dinner time on a Saturday. I’m sure you’ve got plans, maybe with your partner..?”

Oh, Chris thinks, chest expanding with hope. He shakes his head. “No partner,” he says, holding Sebastian’s gaze. “Just a dog.”

“A dog?” Margot squeals. “Oh my god, daddy, he’s got a dog. We have to go.”

Sebastian chuckles, rolling his eyes. "They've been hounding me about a dog for months, excuse the pun. I want one too, but I'm just not sure I'm home enough.”

Chris nods sympathetically. “Yeah, it can be tricky if you work full-time, but there’s usually a solution for this kind of thing, in my experience.”

“What’s your dog’s name?” Margot interrupts, bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet.

“He’s called Dodger,” Chris tells her, unable to keep the pride out of his voice as he talks about his beloved, four legged-rescue.

From Sebastian’s other side, a small voice suddenly joins in. “Like the one from Oliver?” asks David. His big, brown eyes are wide as he stares up at Chris.

“That’s right,” Chris confirms, dropping to his haunches to level the playing field a little. “Exactly like the one from Oliver. You like that movie, huh?”

David nods, looping one arm around one of his dad’s long legs while clearly fighting the urge to hide behind him completely. “It’s my favorite,” he mutters, then quickly sticks his thumb in his mouth to signal the end of the conversation.

“Really?” Chris asks, beaming at him. “It’s my favorite, too!”

David actually smiles at that, doing an excited little wiggle on the spot. “Daddy, can we go see Dodger, please?” he asks his dad, not bothering to remove his thumb from his mouth.

From his spot on the floor, Chris looks up Sebastian too, probably looking just as hopeful as the kids are – maybe even more so.

Smiling, Sebastian shakes his head. “Sure, buddy,” he laughs, ruffling David’s hair. “How could I resist all these cute little faces, huh?”

There’s a chorus of cheers from the kids that gives Chris a much-needed moment to recover from the euphoria of hearing Sebastian call him cute. Well, sort of.

“Alright,” Chris says, getting to his feet again. “I’ll just go grab my things. Meet you guys in the parking lot?”

“Sounds good.”

Chris nods and is about to head in the direction of the staff room, when Sebastian halts him with a hand on his arm. Chris stops in his tracks, swallowing as he tears his gaze away from Sebastian’s elegant hand on his bicep, back to his face.

“Thank you,” Sebastian says, giving him a look from under his eyelashes that can only be described as coy. “I really appreciate this, you know.”

Holding Sebastian’s gaze, Chris lifts a hand to cover Sebastian’s with his own, giving it a quick squeeze. “It’s my pleasure,” he replies honestly. “Trust me.”

Smiling, Sebastian bites his lip, no doubt noticing the way Chris’s eyes flicker down to his mouth when he does. “I do.”

Chris’s foolishly romantic heart can’t help but skip a beat.

“See,” Margot says suddenly from beside them, breaking the moment and sounding awfully smug about it, too. “Not prolametic at all.”

Chris barks out a laugh while Sebastian covers his eyes with his hand. “Whatever you do, never have kids.”  

“Oh, I dunno,” Chris chuckles, giving Margot a wink and David’s hair a quick ruffle. “I kinda like yours.”

Sebastian clears his throat. “Alright, guys. Let’s go find your jackets and we’ll go see what Chris has in store for us, huh?”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Misread Details: Robert

CW: Dehumanizing language, BBU blanket warning, serial killer/death talk, descriptions of death/abduction/murder, blood, whumper death, some real vague implied noncon references, creepy whumper, sadistic whumper

Part One: Nanda | Part Two: Brute | Part Three: Robert

The Dark Discovery in Robert Weber’s Basement: Box Boy Killer, Part 3

r/LetsTalkTrueCrime

•Posted by u/oshaycanyousee

3 days ago

After Part One, where we learned about the mysterious, but possibly entirely natural, death of Nathaniel “Nanda” Benson, and Part Two, where we saw Henry “Brute” Hanlon’s double life lead to his untimely gruesome murder, you see the single thread that connects these two men who otherwise never met, interacted, or even shared a single person in common… a nameless Box Boy, present at the death of Nanda even if he isn’t responsible for it, and the proven killer of Brute.

It’s my theory that this Box Boy may have accidentally killed his legal owner, Nanda, and then picked up a taste for the act and moved on to taking shelter with those he turns into his victims.

With Brute, he simply didn’t know the man had a wife and children and entire other life, and may have assumed no one would come looking for him or recognize his death. With our third individual, Robert Weber, it seems like our Box Boy Serial Killer got in over his head.

I give you… the Accidental Vigilante death of Robert Weber.

You decide if our unknown killer is simply the unluckiest guy in the world or a killer who even now may be somewhere living with - and earning the trust of - his next victim.

-

One bright and sunny day in the quaint, old-fashioned California town of Rancher’s Rest, Robert Weber was late for work.

Weber worked in a vehicle repair business owned by lifelong “RR” resident Randy Niles, who had known Weber since his childhood and had been his boss since Weber was eighteen years old and fresh out of high school.

Niles, who is now nearly seventy-five and still spends his days in the shop with an Australian Shepherd named Cody and a blind pit bull named Sue keeping him company everywhere he goes, stated that Weber had no living family he knew of beyond his sister in Vermont, and he was just about the closest thing Weber had to a relative just from having known him so long.

“He didn’t have too much to do with his sister,” Randy said in an interview with Unsolved Mysteries. (You can see the interview on the new Netflix reboot of the show! It’s a really good episode, definitely recommend. It’s how I got into this case in the first place.) “Or nobody, really. Just us at work, the guys at the bar, that kinda thing. He was quiet, kept to himself really. You’d never just strike up a chat around town or anything. But he got on just fine with the boys here in the shop. He was a bit of an egghead, too, always going on about this thing or that he’d seen on the news. Little… odd. Little bit off, you might say. But really, who isn’t? In any case, you know, I’d known him since he was a little boy, so he was just Bobby Weber to me.”

Then, of course, one day Robert Weber didn’t show up to work. Randy Niles immediately felt that something was very wrong.

“When nine, nine-thirty came and went and he wasn’t there,” Niles said, “I knew someone needed to go check on him. Bobby showed up for work right on time or ten minutes early, rain or shine, for twenty years. My first thought was maybe he’d had an accident at home, or some kind of, you know, health thing. Almost never called in sick, took one vacation a year, that kinda thing. So I drove right on over there. This would’ve been, oh, probably ten or ten-fifteen when I got to the house. Had my dogs with me, and they never did like Bobby much, but as soon as I opened my door and got out of my truck they just lost their damn minds. Barking, growling, Cody’s hackles were up like you wouldn’t believe. I know it sounds damn crazy, but I’m sure those dogs could smell that evil had been done in that house.”

On camera, Niles goes quiet, here, his gaze slipping away from the interviewer as he scratches at the side of his nose. When he looks back, the hint of good humor that seems to be an eternal part of his expression is gone.

“I didn’t know what Bobby had been up to all this time. None of us knew. I’ve known Bobby Weber his whole life, and I… I had no idea.”

Randy Niles was unable to convince his two dogs to exit the truck, and eventually rolled down the windows to give them some air and a way out if they chose (he is insistent on this point in the Unsolved Mysteries episode - “don’t you dare say I left my dogs locked up in a truck on a sunny day, I sure didn’t - Cody even knows how to pull a door handle if it’s the right kind”) and got out to knock on Robert Weber’s front door.

No one answered.

Niles knocked again. Still no response.

The front door was locked, but Niles was able to locate an unlocked back door into the garage, where he found Weber’s car neatly parked and nothing out of place. However, once he used an interior door in the garage to enter Weber’s home, what he found was so shocking he still struggles to describe it today.

“The, uh. The first thing I saw,” Niles says in the Unsolved Mysteries episode, wiping at his mouth with a handkerchief, “was a cage. Big old cage in the living room. Like a kennel for a big dog, Great Dane or something, except… except, you know, kennels’re usually mostly wire, not that heavy. You can fold ‘em up, put ‘em away. This was… geez. This was pure metal. Bunch of blankets all piled at the bottom, too. Here’s the-... you know, my mind just didn’t want to even make the thought, but I just, I looked at it and-”

In the episode, Niles has to take another moment, here. His eyes grow wet, and his voice is hoarse when he speaks again. “People cage. Bobby had a damn man-sized cage in his living room. That’s when my stomach just fell out. Even then, though, I couldn’t-... I just thought, oh, well, what people get up to in their own homes is their business. But still, I just. I just decided, find Bobby, figure the rest out later. So I kept walking around looking for him.”

Randy Niles continued to call out, hoping to hear Weber’s response, but received none… at first. The radio in the kitchen was playing a local public radio station (“Bobby always hated the country western and classic rock we played at work, he was a big news man, big into classical, jazz, you know.”)

Niles noticed, he says, that the cage next to the couch had a wooden top, as though it were meant to act as a side table, and on that table was a small woven basket. Inside the basket appeared to be several State IDs and Driver’s licenses. Niles took note of this but his first assumption was maybe that Robert Weber had stolen some IDs or something.

Which was technically true, just… not quite the way he thought.

The kitchen, hallway, and all three bedrooms were equally empty of life. Every room was clean, everything neatly in place. Empty bottles of Jameson whiskey, Weber’s favorite brand, were lined up like décor along the mantel, and one half-full bottle was next to two clean, empty glasses on the kitchen table.

Even the beds were perfectly made.

The only thing missing was any sign of Robert Weber himself.

The question of Weber’s whereabouts was answered when Randy Niles heard a sound coming from the open door to Weber’s unfinished dirt basement.

“Like a ghost,” Niles said in his interview. “Just this low moaning sound. Hardly even thought of it as human, you know. But I just-... I called out, ‘Bobby? That you?’ and the moaning got a little louder, like whoever it was was tryin’ to answer. I could still hear my girls in the truck just going nuts, probably worried about me knowing what they maybe could smell even out there. I figured… I figured I’d best call the cops and get them out here. Seemed like a plan. So I picked up my phone and dialed, and then I headed down those basement steps.”

What Randy Niles discovered in Robert Weber’s basement was a dying man, battered and stabbed eight times, lying in a half-dug grave.

Robert Weber had been beaten with the very shovel that had done the digging. The shovel lay off to the side, caked in dirt and blood. Police would find some of Robert Weber’s hair on it, too. Then, the individual who had beaten him had gone back upstairs - blood smears were found on the railing to the stairs - and taken a kitchen knife out of the knife block on the countertop. A bloody fingerprint was found on the side of the knife block. They had then returned to the basement where Weber was stabbed, almost entirely through the stomach and chest, twenty-six times, until the cheap knife simply broke from the force.

Randy Niles admitted in his interview that he became very ill at this time. “From the shock,” He elaborated. “I haven’t been able to smell much since I was in a car wreck when I was young, so I didn’t smell what-... what my girls prob’ly smelled from outside, and what the cops smelled. To me, it was just… just a little off, is all. It was the sight of it that got to me, not the smell. The sight of the-... the hand.”

Behind Robert Weber’s body, the hand of another person was sticking up out of the loose dirt, as though someone was trying to dig their way out.

“I remember… I remember her nail polish was pink. That’s when I got sick, actually, was when I saw that hand with the painted nails. That’s when it just hit me all at once what Bobby had done.”

Randy Niles went back up the stairs and waited for the cops to arrive. Rancher’s Rest is a small town where everybody knows just about everybody else, and Niles was on a first-name basis with every single police officer he spoke to that day and in the days after. He would learn alongside the investigation that Robert Weber was not simply the quiet, intellectual car mechanic he had always seemed.

Instead, Robert Weber was a serial killer whose potential final victim had managed a miraculous, deadly escape.

Robert Weber never answered a single question about his own murder - he never fully regained consciousness and died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. His injuries were simply too severe. His autopsy showed that the cause of death was a stab wound that went deep into his chest and that he was first stabbed only after the beating with the shovel had taken place. Like Brute, most of his stab wounds were applied post-mortem in a rage rather than as part of the killing itself.

Medical examiners also found scratches on Weber’s face and arms, indicating that he had attempted to defend himself - or someone else had attempted to defend themself from him.

So why was Robert Weber killed, and why was there already a body in his basement? Investigators would piece together the story over the following days and weeks from a crime scene that only seemed to become darker and more baffling as time went on.

Excavating the basement was originally thought to be something that would be brief, but after the first body was removed, another one was found beneath it. Then another off to the side of that. And another, although this was simply bones.

Every time the forensics team thought they’d found the last human bone, they dug a little deeper or in a new spot and found more.

Eventually, the remains of twenty-two individuals would be removed from the basement of Robert Weber’s home, not including Weber himself. The oldest located victim was identified as Melinda Traxson, an Iowa woman reported missing by her family after she ran away in March of 1996… more than two decades before Robert Weber didn’t come to work one day.

Investigators are still working to match up every body with a missing persons’ case. For nearly all of them, the cause of death could not be easily ascertained due to the deterioration of the remains, but some showed signs of skull fractures. Identified individuals so far include:

Melinda Traxson, 19, from Iowa, ran away from home in 1996.

Billie Mortimer, 21, disappeared from a day out with friends at Lake Tahoe one year later in the summer of 1997. Her friends went to get lunch from the car after a swim and when they returned, she was gone.

Matthew Ranger, 22, went missing during a road trip to Yellowstone National Park in 1997 (only five months after Billie). His car was found abandoned by the side of the road with a flat tire.

Karl Janssen, 24, a tourist from the Netherlands who was also visiting Yellowstone, disappeared a month after Matthew. Last seen by an employee of the park who witnessed him speaking with another young man and getting into the man’s car. The employee said that the two seemed to be friendly with one another and did not seem like strangers.

Hannah Pointer, 26. She was reported missing in 1999 by her mother after failing to return home from work in Reno, Nevada. This disappearance occurred more than a year after Karl Janssen’s. Investigators would later discover that during this time period, Robert Weber dated a young woman from his hometown and he may not have wanted to risk her finding out what he was doing.

Isaac Jackson, 26, a Rancher’s Rest resident who disappeared after going out to a local bar to see his friend’s band play in 2000. His car was found submerged in a small pond two years later. This is the first time Weber apparently killed anyone close to home. He was actually briefly suspected in Jackson’s death, as he was the last person noted to see Jackson alive, but was cleared of suspicion at the time.

Dustin Swill, 21, who was driving from Colorado to California to visit his sister who had moved to Berras to work for WRU in 2001. He was last seen in a gas station near Yellowstone, where employees noted he spoke to a man who was smoking outside, who gave him a cigarette. When Swill left, employees saw the man put out his cigarette and leave shortly after. They did not find this unusual or noteworthy at the time.

Maria Vargas, 25, a Rancher’s Rest resident who was reported missing in 2002. Her family is intensely private and have shared few details about her, but it is known that her boyfriend at the time suspected Weber, who had attempted to convince her to leave the boyfriend for him and had apparently threatened her. He remained a suspect but there was never enough evidence to charge him.

Jennifer Striker, 28, from who never arrived for an appointment with a realtor in 2011. The long pause between Maria Vargas’s murder and Jennifer’s appeared to be due to Weber keeping a man named Finn Schneider within his home for more than a year after abducting him, as well as Weber serving five years in prison for a violent assault on a man he believed had sold him a defective vehicle. (Schneider was no longer in the home before the assault and prison time.)

Riley Nievelt, 25, was staying at the Big Meadow Campground with six friends during a weeklong vacation in 2012. She vanished while on a trip to purchase supplies. Her cell phone was found on the ground in the parking lot of the Food Lion in Rancher’s Rest, a short and easy drive away. At this time, with multiple individuals vanishing after being seen in Rancher’s Rest or being residents of the town, police begin to suspect and start hunting for a possible serial killer.

Alexander Peterson, 29, was a long-haul driver who vanished while working. He was last seen at a rest stop in 2014 on the California/Nevada state line, and would likely have passed right through Rancher’s Rest on his journey. He was reported missing by his ex-wife in South Dakota when he did not return as scheduled for a custodial visit.

The most recent victim, and owner of the hand that Randy Niles saw sticking up out of the dirt, was Yolanda Pierce, 26. She was a Rancher’s Rest resident with a troubled relationship with her husband, who had stormed out after an argument and was never seen again. She is believed to have died the same day as Robert Weber.

More remains exist but have not yet been identified. If you or anyone you know has a friend or family member who went missing during this time period in or near Rancher’s Rest, Yellowstone National Park, or Death Valley, it may be worth looking into, as those appear to be Robert Weber’s “hunting grounds”.

Disappearances in Yellowstone and Death Valley almost always matched up with Robert taking one of his rare weeklong vacations from work.

When investigators located three large diaries hidden inside a locked box in Weber’s closet, the first two fully filled up and the third nearly two-thirds finished, they found an exhaustively detailed record of Robert Weber’s crimes.

In these records, they discovered Weber’s first three victims were killed within 24 hours of abduction, with the rest being kept alive for longer and longer time periods. It is believed all of them met their end in Robert Weber’s basement.

Diary entries included records of two victims who were not a part of the bodies buried in Weber’s basement, both of whom may still be alive:

Finn Schneider, 19, a German tourist who disappeared in 2003 during a visit to Death Valley. Until Weber’s journals were found, it was believed he had perished in the park and had simply never been found. Robert Weber also visited Death Valley during this time. No one linked the two together. Evidence found in Weber’s home after his death, including the aforementioned diary entries and photographs, shows that Schneider was alive in Weber’s home for nearly sixteen months. It is believed Weber purchased the “human cage” that Randy Niles noticed around this time. The last diary entry that mentions Schneider states that he was “traded” on June 16th, 2005, to an individual only referred to as “Mouse.” What Weber received in exchange is unclear, but he was seen driving a new, custom-painted truck around this time, which he said he bought “from a personal ad” when asked by Niles about it. Schneider has never been found. However, his mother did receive a phone call in 2013 from an individual she believes to be her son, telling her that “Finn” was okay and to stop looking for him.

Our Box Boy, 334235, purchased by Nathaniel Benson years prior, whose whereabouts had been unknown since he murdered Brute Hanlon. Weber believed the Box Boy to be in his early twenties, according to his diary entries, and mentioned that he had picked the Boxie up hitchhiking and had intended to kill him before seeing the barcode on the inside of his left wrist and changing his mind. His diary suggests the Box Boy remained in his possession for roughly a fourteen months prior to Weber’s murder. Police have not released the details of what the Boxie was subjected to during this time, stating only that it is not the public’s interest for this information to be known, and they would like to locate the missing Boxie and interview him about certain details.

Four murders occurred during the time the Boxie was kept by Robert Weber. Weber noted that “the dog helped” with either murder or burial, suggesting that he may have worked as Weber’s accomplice in his terrible crimes.

Is it possible that they bonded over a shared urge to kill? Did the Boxie start a captive and become a companion?

Weber’s diary contained other disturbing facts, as well:

Weber also noted three failed abduction attempts in detail, in 1998, 2004, and 2017. In each he described with incredible precision of memory the appearances and descriptions of each person he failed to capture. He also appeared to do intensive research using their license plates and other information to find out where they lived and who they were. The names of these individuals have been kept quiet for privacy reasons.

Other failed abductions were noted, about one per year, without much detail. Or at least not enough for police officers to know who they were. Nearly all these failures were in one of three locations: Yellowstone National Park, Stanislaus National Forest and nearby campgrounds, and in or near Death Valley.

The last entry in Robert Weber’s diary was penned the day of his death.

NOTE: Weber referred to the Boxie as “the dog” in nearly all his journal entries. His last entry went:

May 6th, 20XX: The dog is pissed about something again. He’s always pissed about something. I think the thing in the basement probably kept him up all night with her caterwauling. He never gets used to the noises they make. God knows I can’t sleep either, at least not well. I’ll handle her tonight, have a drink with the dog after, see if that shuts up his nonsense for a while. Note: missed NPR interview with Senator Carlotta Grant on new leg. about the bb prohibition act. Find that on website later.

Found in Weber’s home, in boxes under his bed, were a series of restraints made of leather, high-quality items that appear to be custom-ordered to specific measurements. These included “gloves” intended to keep someone from being able to claw or scratch in their own defense, five sets of cuffs, a body harness, a leather half-face-mask that police referred to as a “muzzle”, several gags, some of which were deemed to be “designed to cause injury to the inside of the mouth”, and “other assorted items for use in torture and torment”.

You can find some leaked police docs online that go into more detail, but suffice to say they pretty much match the kinds of “toys” found in Nathaniel Benson and Brute Hanlon’s homes, too. And apparently, if you really know where to look, you can find some blurry low-quality photos Weber took, too.

While the items are a bit salacious, they aren’t entirely uncommon in consensual relationships, too, so it’s really not clear if they’re evidence of the Boxie being held against his will or not.

The investigation of the crime scene suggests that at some point after writing his final diary entry, Robert Weber made himself a pizza, which he ate half of and put the rest away in the fridge. His shaving cream and razor were found out on his sink, and Weber’s body was clean-shaven, suggesting he shaved shortly before his death.

He then watched three episodes of Law & Order: SVU. We know this because he texted during this time with his only living relative, the sister in Vermont. Little is known about Weber’s family and childhood, beyond his sister’s recounting of a quiet, strained home life with an overbearing mother and her mention that Robert endured several head injuries as a child and adolescent, including one that hospitalized him for days.

After he finished watching TV, Weber entered the basement and murdered Yolanda Pierce. It is believed he took the Box Boy downstairs with him, either as accomplice or witness. At some point while he was disposing of Yolanda Pierce’s remains, the Boxie became enraged for one reason or another, beat him with a shovel, got the kitchen knife from upstairs and stabbed him to death, and then left the house.

A neighbor remembers hearing odd noises around 3:30 AM and looking out their window to see a shadowy figure walking quickly down the road, but they weren’t able to see well enough to say whether or not the individual matches the description and WRU-provided photos of the Boxie. It does seem reasonable, though, to assume that the neighbor witnessed the Boxie fleeing the scene of the crime.

The Box Boy has never been seen again.

Police are pretty mum about the active investigation into the Box Boy’s whereabouts. I was able to get ahold of one source closely related to a member of the investigative team who said that there’s just not a lot of urgency. “Weber killed nearly two dozen people, just that we know of,” The source said. “The cops are a little bit ‘good riddance to bad rubbish’ about the situation. Unless the Boxie comes back to RR, they’re just inclined to let sleeping dogs lie.”

The sense of “let it be someone else’s problem” would be understandable… if this Box Boy weren’t responsible for one other direct murder, possibly two.

Police believe the Boxie has not left California, and is likely to be continuing to survive by engaging in prostitution or perhaps panhandling or some other hidden way of making money. Unconfirmed sightings have been located in three cities in central California, but all of these are unverified and should be taken with a grain of salt.

It’s also possible he hooked up with a pet liberation movement group, in which case he may be hiding out in a safehouse, protected from the consequences of his actions by the pet lib movement’s understandable insistence on total secrecy and anonymity for the Boxies they take in.

If he’s an innocent victim of circumstance, that’s fair.

If he’s a burgeoning serial killer with three victims under his belt and a taste for inflicting terrible violence on those who take him in… well… anyone who gives him shelter may be next.

Is our Boxie a purposeful killer or just supremely, almost incomprehensibly unlucky? Will he kill again? Was he Robert Weber’s accomplice or his victim?

Will he strike again?

Should there be an audit of WRU’s psychological testing on potential sign-ups to see if, perhaps, a Box Boy-wannabe with an urge to kill slipped through the cracks?

What do you think?

-

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @whump-tr0pes @raigash @eatyourdamnpears @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @boxboysandotherwhump @outofangband @whumptywhumpdump @whumpfigure @thehopelessopus @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @butwhatifyouwrite @newandfiguringitout @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @oops-its-whump @endless-whump @cubeswhump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whumpiary

[hargrove-mayfields]

Billy has to stick up for max a lot because of her autism, at school he walks to her class and their afraid of him because just,,, look at him

warnings for mentions of bullying and ableism.

It isn’t easy to make Maxine Mayfield cry.

At least, Billy had almost never seen her shed a tear in the six years he’d known her but maybe two times: once when she was still little, and just learned her step-family was going to move into her house and replace her real dad forever, and once when she was told they would be leaving California. Both times she’d run off to her room and slammed the door before anyone could see, but Billy had noticed. He always did when it came to Max. Had to when he knew damn well how much trouble he’d be in if things went wrong while he was watching her.

Beyond that there were a few teary eyed looks that got wiped away, maybe a sniffle she’d try to cover up by complaining about her allergies, but it was very rare, even during meltdowns, that she’d be full on crying, tears streaming down her face so quickly she couldn’t wipe them away while sobs wrack through her and make her shake.

So Billy knows first thing that something is very, very wrong when she’s already at his car after school, her face buried in her balled up jacket and doing exactly that. He can hear her from outside the car, so he sighs and knocks on the window before he yanks the door open, but Max doesn’t even flinch, just curls up tighter in the passenger seat and ignores him.

That’s a bad sign too, the fact she isn’t even trying to hide it from him, “What’s a’matter Maxi?”

“None of your business.” She snaps at him, voice thick and wet with tears. It’s unfamiliar seeing her like that and it makes Billy feel tense ang guilt even though he didn’t do it this time, so he tries, “Come on. It totally is my business. You get tears on my leather seats n’the salt’ll stain ‘em up, and you’ll be the one to clean it up.”

All it gets from Max is another heavy sob, instantly hitting him with a pang of regret for trying to be light about this, “Shit. M’sorry, Maxi. Didn’t mean it like that. Just tryin’ ta make you smile.”

“Well it didn’t work!” Max sniffles, throwing her jacket on the dash and finally turning to look at Billy, face flushed red and tracked with tears, her bottom lip still wobbling, “I’ll never ever smile again..”

“Why not? I know it’s not just because of your dumbass brother.” Billy sees a twitch at the corner of her lip, the slightest hint of a smile at him insulting himself, and he counts that as a small win, a sign he’s getting at least a little bit through to Max, so he prompts her again, “What happened at school today, Max?”

Her gaze drops to her lap, and she shrugs her shoulders slightly, stiffly, as she mumbles an explanation, “Remember how I told you about that boy, who's mean to me and my friends?”

“‘Course I do. I never forget anythin’ you tell me.”

Max wipes her nose on her sleeve, and corrects him, “Except for when you forgot I told you I had AV club and you came in the school looking for me and then you got stuck talking to a teacher for like, three hours after I was done.”

“Yeah, well that was one time. N’I was already havin’ a bad day when you told me, thank you very much.” He encourages her, his face serious though their tone is light-hearted, “Keep goin’, what’d this kid do now?”

Again Max’s features close off, and she tries to lie, “He was just.. Well it was my fault.. I-I don’t know.”

“Max. I need the truth.”

Talking fast, like she’s fighting against her thoughts, she makes him promise, “Promise me you won’t do anything dumb, first.”

Billy lifts a hand from the steering wheel, “I won’t. Cross my heart, Maxi.”

At this point, in the silence that builds while Max wills herself to speak, Billy starts to drive, since it’s clear he won’t be going back into that school. It isn’t lost on him the way Max takes a deep breath, out of relief that he meant it when he said he wasn’t going to be dumb and march back in there.

Quickly, once she’s ready, she explains, “Okay. Well he kinda sort of told me that I was annoying ‘cause I laugh too much, and I told him it was just a stim n’that I couldn’t help it but he said that made me a baby and I told him I wasn’t and he called me a retard instead and I was already stressed so I started crying like a dumb baby and he laughed at me and none of my friends said anything or helped me and I just.. yeah.”

All Billy can do is raise his eyebrows, has about a hundred and one pissy and angry things he could say, but he doesn’t utter a word, because he doesn’t want to make Max more upset than she already is.

Clearly just the change in his expression spooks her though, because she insists, sounding like she could cry again at any second, “You promised me!”

He puts his hands up sort of defensively, though he has to grab the wheel again when the car veers, swallowing his anger to tell her calmly, “I didn’t even say anything. I promised I’d be nice and I’m gonna keep that promise.”

She nods hesitantly, more to show trust than agreement, so Billy continues, “But Maxi that’s.. bad. Why don’t you tell a teacher or some shit?”

“Yeah, like they would even do anything. They already hate me for being in their coed classes.” Max mumbles the last part, looking away, “They’d probably rather Troy beat me up so I wouldn’t be bothering them anymore.”

“Tell me you’re being dramatic.”

But Max just shrugs again.

“Fuck, I hate this fucking place.” Billy tears his eyes from the road to look Max in the eyes as she says it, even knowing she can’t return the gesture, “You know you don’t deserve to go through this shit, Maxi?”

“It.. is kinda my fault though.”

He lashes out, just a little, hearing her talk like that about herself. Because it’s not fair that a thirteen year old girl looks at herself that way, yeah, but also because he knows it’s in some ways his fault too, and their parents for the way she’d been brought up, and the shit she'd been around that she even thinks to say shit like that.

He hits the palm of his hand against the rim of his steering wheel, rather he goes to before he catches himself, slowing it before it really hits, tapping it more than anything, “No the fuck it isn’t. It’s nobody’s fault but the assholes that make it into a problem. And fucking Neil’s for dragging us to this close-minded little spot on the map. I hate this fucking town”

“Oh.” Is all Max says.

Billy waits, but he can see she doesn’t know what else to say, so he sighs, “Look, I made my promise to you. Can you make one for me now?”

Max looks confused, “Okay?”

“Promise me that the next time somebody says some shit to you, you stand up for yourself.” Max scrunches up her face, like she immediately disagrees with that, but Billy insists, “Look, I don’t care if you’re crying like a damn baby or you can’t even talk while you do it, just don’t let ‘em walk all over you like that again.”

“I’m not fighting anyone, Billy. I’m not.. like you.”

“That’s not what I said. I said to stand up for yourself. It’s different.”

“Yeah right. How am I supposed to do that?” Billy knows that some asshole had to have said that to Max, that for whatever bullshit reason she couldn’t stick up for herself. Damn kid can’t catch a break in life, so he tells her, at this point not sure if this is even advice or just him ranting at Max, “This kid calls you a slur again, tell ‘im at least you got the diagnosis. Make him feel like he’s the stupid one. And if a teacher ever pulls some shit about the way you learn, tell ‘em you’ll go to the board of education and personally get their asses fired. Your mom would fight for you.”

“No she wouldn’t.”

“Then dammit I would. Your friends would if they understood. I know Sinclair would kick ass for you.”

Max’s toughness finally cracks- she learned that from him, to put on that hard exterior and fake it- Billy's determination stronger than her stubbornness. She looks up at him with a look in her eye that says he’s said all the right things, “You really think so?”

“No shit. Big brothers know all about this kind of bull.”

“I guess.” Max smiles just a little, and tells him matter-of-factly, “But you’re not that kind of big brother. You’re too cool.”

“Hell yeah I am.” Billy hums proudly, adding with humor in his tone, “But it’s even more cool to be nice to your little sister than it is to be an asshole. Remember that one.”

Max nods, listing it off on her fingers, “Stand up for myself, but don’t be an asshole, and Billy's secretly a big softie. I think I got it.”

“Good. Now out of my car, shitbird.”

Giggling in that way that says she knows she got him, Max swings open her door and runs into the house, leaving Billy to watch after her. He turns off the car but doesn’t get out, trying to bury his worry for her under his expression, not because he didn’t care, or even because he didn’t want her to know, he was long past that, but because he was worried what would happen if Susan saw his concern.

She’d weasel the truth out of Max if she knew something was up, and somehow, despite her promises, Neil would find out once he dragged his ass back home from the bar later tonight, and then it would somehow be Billy’s fault. He just hopes, if Max lets slip about the bullying, she at least doesn’t get too mouthy and mention the part where she was crying.

That was a Friday when that all went down, so Billy has the weekend, which thankfully does not include any snitching, to decide what he’s going to do about it. It’s not like he was ever going to go beat up on any tweens anyways, but he promised Max he wouldn’t be dumb, and he knew that meant no passive aggressive bullshit either. At least not while she could see him.

Because that ruled out like, half of his options, he’s still kind of clueless on what he’s going to do that next Monday morning when schools back in. He’s sitting in the middle school parking lot, fingers twitching against the steering wheel without a cigarette to busy them with, waiting for 7:30 on the dot when Max always goes in.

At this point, he’s considering just ditching with her to go get ice cream or something so she doesn’t have to face any bullies today, but his epiphany comes in the form of watching Jonathan Byers walk the littler one all the way to the front doors, his hand protectively hooked through the handle on the kid’s backpack. When the clock ticks the right time and Max opens her door, he knows what he’s going to do, and he turns the car off.

She freezes, can tell he’s up to something. “What are you doing?”

“Nothin’. M’just walking you in.” She glares at him in response to the smug smile he wears, so he swears, “Honest. I got basketball today. No way I’m missing that shit ‘cause I fought some little kid.”

“You’re lying.”

“Can’t I just be nice to my little sister?”

From the look on her face, she’s still skeptical, but it's enough to get Max to agree to it, grabbing her bag from the backseat and mumbling, “Whatever. Just don’t embarrass me.”

Billy chuckles, giving Max a head start towards the building before he follows, “Hey now, I thought just yesterday I was your cool older brother.”

“Cool older brothers don’t walk their sisters to the door.” She calls it over her shoulder, and Billy can’t help but tease her more, correcting her in a sing-songy voice, “Who said I was stoppin’ at the door? I’m walking you all the way to your class.”

“Oh god.” Max stops walking, but Billy keeps up, this time pulling ahead enough to call back to her, “Come on shitbird. Don’t wanna be late.”

“I hate you so much.”

“Yeah, right. You love that I would take the time outta my morning to do this for you.” He props open the door for Max with his boot, pretending not to notice the way all the little middle school kids at their lockers turn to gawk at them, letting her shove past him with her face flushed deeper than the color of her hair in embarrassment.

Pulling on her backpack straps, like she’s trying to physically make herself smaller, she mumbles, “No, I actually hate you.”

He almost feels bad for embarrassing her, but that’s the other part of his job, and he reminds her of that, “Good. There’s some more advice for ya, little sisters should always hate their big brothers, or he’s doing something wrong.”

They get a little ways down the hall, Max’s confidence going up just some as the shock wears off and people start to turn away, but Billy hardly notices. He doesn’t even come close to being bothered by eighth grade politics anymore, and if he’s intimidating the poor kids, well that’s exactly what he’s there for.

When he’s met with a particularly harsh glare from some snob nosed brat, who happens to remind him a lot of one Tommy Hagan, he bumps into Max on purpose, and announces louder than he needs to in hopes the kid’ll know he was looking for him, “That the little asshole s’been givin’ you trouble?”

Glancing nervously between him and Billy, she nods, “Yeah..”

Billy just nods, a cross between acknowledgment and judgement, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You said-“ Again Max panics, but Billy cuts her off this time with a simple assurance of, “And I didn’t do anything.”

Her eyebrows knit together, realizing that that wasn’t a lie, “I.. guess you didn’t.”

“What’s your first class anyways?”

“We report to the cafeteria before first period.” She informs him, leading him that way, but he hooks two fingers through the strap on her bag to stop her, “Not gonna happen, Maxi. Being shoved in a tiny room with three hundred other kids makes you feel all ‘meltdowny’ I think was your exact word. So you’re not doin’ that anymore. I just decided.”

“But that’s against the rules.”

“Yeah, so’s me bein’ in this building during school hours, but nobody’s saying shit to me, are they?”

Max narrows her eyes at him then, and he knows he said too much, that he’s been found out, “That’s your plan isn’t it.”

There’s a crooked smile on his face he can’t hide as he plays innocent-like, “What is?”

Max pushes him a little and he pretends to misstep while she accuses him, “Coming into school and being all intimidating so nobody will bug me anymore.”

“Pfft, yeah right.” Billy denies again, getting nothing but an eye roll in response at first, but when it’s clear it’s he’s not going to give up and admit it, Max does, glancing shortly over at him, “Well thanks anyways, Billy.”

She adds, realizing he’s wandering with no idea where they’re going, having never been in the middle school himself, “My first class is in B-18.”

“Which one is’at?” He asks, just curious, but Max deflects the question, giving a short, “It’s taught by Mr. Clarke.”

Just from how quiet she is, Billy can tell that she's hiding something, “Max. You seriously don’t even know what class you’re in?”

“No I don’t, okay?” Max stops in the middle of the hallway, ranting at her brother, “It’s already not the same as my old school, and then they moved my schedule all around again after they decided I didn’t qualify for special ed, so now I just go where I’m s’posed to, and I know my teachers better than my classes.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

“No. There’s nothing anyone can do so it doesn’t matter.” Her tone implies she thought a lot about it, maybe even wanted to, but decided not to.

Billy insists right back, these past two days feeling like he’s constantly petitioning for Max to trust and rely on him, “Oh I could do somethin’. You know I could.”

“I do. But I don’t want you to. Sticking up for me is enough.”

That’s what makes Billy understand. The firmness in her voice says everything she needs him to hear: Max doesn’t want Billy to do for her what she can handle. This is bigger than just being the older brother. This is her setting boundaries, asking for help without wanting to be controlled. That’s something he never really got how to do, being raised by a dictator and all, but it’s something she needs. Sometimes he forgets that.

He doesn’t say anything else, just lets it sit while Max takes him down some stairs to the right room. She stops outside, scuffing up the dusty marble floors with the toe of her Chuck Taylor’s, “Could you.. stick around for a little bit in case he says something?”

Billy clicks his tongue, remarking, “I dunno. I got a class in a few..”

But his sarcasm falls short with Max, which, that’s his bad for not realizing that it would, and her face falls, “Oh, well I guess I can just-”

“Was just funnin’ you shitbird. I don’t give a fuck about my classes.” Max grimaces in that all too familiar way of uncertainty, so he promises, “I’ll be right out here. Go talk to your teacher, ‘n if he says some shit to you, remember I only promised not be stupid about the bully.”

He at least gets a smile for that one, before Max rolls her eyes, “You’re not fighting my science teacher, dummy.”

“Whatever. Just get in there, brat.”

He can see Max holding back a smile as she listens, bounding into her classroom with another quick glance back at Billy to check that he wasn’t lying and going to walk away.

Billy waits until the door fall closed to lean against the row of lockers opposite it, watching her through the little meshed over windows. By now, he’s pretty well versed on what arguments with angry authority figures look like, and the conversation between Max and her teacher is not one. He still stays though, just because Max asked him to, but maybe, just maybe a little for himself, a reassurance that the second he leaves shit isn’t going to get worse, and Max’ll have at least someone other than her equally as nerdy little friends behind her.

Then they both turn and give him a little wave, Max and her teacher, an acknowledgment to Billy that this new routine was indeed going to work out. The way the school district had handled everything else, he wonders if the guy even knew Max wasn’t like his other students until now.

Still, seeing that, Billy gives a half nod in response, and decides his job is done here, at least until tomorrow when he does the same. Max’ll get used to it, and his hope is that the little bully brats won’t. He’ll just have to keep them on their toes.

Which is exactly why, while on his way out, Billy has to break his promise to Max, just slightly, and do something dumb. He finds the Troy kid again, and waits until the little punk is at his peak to knock him down a few pegs.

He’s complaining about some teacher, which is pretty typical for a thirteen-fourteen year old kid, but the other things he’s said to Max make it not as relatable, not as innocent. So he does what any logical, mature adult would do, and scares the piss out of him.

Billy waits until the kid gets a laugh from his troop of assholes, and slams the locker door beside him shut, uncaring of who’s it was. All eyes are quickly on him, all too wide against too pale faces. It’s too easy.

“What are you little shits whining about over here?”

The one in charge steps forward, trying to be tough despite the way he has to practically bend backwards to look up at Billy’s face, “None of your business. Did the freak send you after us to scare us? It ain’t gonna work.”

“Oh I’m not here to scare you. I’m just here to give you your final warning. We’re past the point of intimidation. Matter of fact, next time I have to come here.. it won’t be looking so good for you.”

“You’re lying.” The kid accuses, despite the obvious doubt written behind his features.

Billy can work with that.

“I might be. But I’m still an authority figure over your sorry little asses, and if you don’t start respecting that..” He bends down a little further, still nowhere near the kid but making his whole troupe flinche back, and drops his pitch, “well, I can’t promise what’ll happen to ya, but unlike your teachers, I don’t play by the rules. You got that?”

Straightening himself back out, Billy pretends to start walking away before he adds, “Oh, and if you pick on my kid sister ever again, I will know. Just remember that, uh, Troy was it?”

The kid nods dumbly, literally vibrating with something like fear, and Billy can say he’s pretty satisfied with that. He pats the kid on the shoulder, a touch so gentle it wouldn’t’ve hurt a fly, and notably couldn’t get him in any trouble, but the little shit scampers off, three other puffy head bullies trailing after him.

Everyone sees it happen, Billy with his nasty smirk and his distinguishably high-schooler way of carrying himself, Troy running for the hills in the other direction. He leaves feeling like his point has been thoroughly proven.

It isn’t easy to make Maxine Mayfield cry, but it’s even harder to get away with it, and Billy knows it won’t be a problem from now on.

[v3nusaphr0d1t3]

i’m in love with a stripper

crossposted on ao3: <3 rating: mature warnings: strip club environment, suggestive themes (no actual smut tho) gender neutral stripper!reader x hawks. afab implied but can be read either way.

your job was to look good, feel bad, and entertain. in the most literal sense.

life as an ‘exotic dancer’ wasn’t nearly as glamorous as movies and shit made it out to be. your body ached constantly, you had nearly fought about 4 people in the past two weeks, and you came home in the morning smelling like alcohol and sweat and some random cologne. the pay wasn’t amazing on its own, so you had to rut yourself against old men to pay your rent.

and yet, it was addicting in a way you couldn’t exactly explain. you had wanted to work in the entertainment industry since you were little, a star up on the big screen. this was sort-of similar. you had eyes on you at all times, and it was your job to put on a great show. but instead of red-carpets it was party favors and gross back-room carpeting. 

it was good workout, and you knew you looked good enough to taste, so that was always a plus. tonight, you were all dolled up, one of your more femme looks. your shorts were riding low on your hips, yet still stopped so high on your legs that it could be considered more of a belt than a pair of shorts. your thong straps framed your hips, bright red in comparison to the blue jean shorts. you had a red bikini top on, and a crop top that was yet again just another shred of fabric framing it. your shoes were red and tall enough to make you feel like you were on top of the world. 

you had gotten used to the sashay and drama of all the bullshit presentation, perfected your sultry stare, and polished your pole skills. yes, you could use work. but so could everyone, it was an art that you were still constantly trying to learn more about. 

so as you walked your way out on stage on a busy friday night, you could tell that tonight would be a good tip night. first off, there was MUCH more security than normal, which meant that someone important was probably in attendance for some kind of ‘special night’. they got bachelor parties and birthday parties all the time, but usually they weren’t this… guarded?

 it was strange, but you instead focused on feelings the rhythm in your bones as you strutted your way up to the pole, starting to go into one of your choreographed routines that you knew like the back of your hand. though you supposed you could throw in some more risky moves, for whoever was currently paying for your console gaming subscription. being in the air was always exhilarating, but you were always worried about flashing too much. you knew that it would happen eventually, but you would still prefer for it not to.

you spun too fast on your way down and got that wobbling feeling in your stomach as your heels hit the stage a bit too hard to be ‘graceful’. oh well, you thought as you moved to the more floor-based part of your routine. you brought your hands up, running them over your body and pulling at your crop top, pulling it off and throwing it further back on the stage to be retrieved when you were done with your set. 

you made it slow, teasing, swaying your hips to the beat of the song and running your hands back down, under the strings of your thong to snap them against your hips. it was effective, but it was hard not to wince in annoyance. you were too salty to do this shit. it was a lucky thing that you were so good at acting. you slid further onto your knees, back arched as you looked some random guy that was halfway decent and crawled forward. that was something that always racked in tips. it made folks feel engaged with the whole experience. the guy held up a 20 and you stuck it under your thong strap, moving to collect more of the money that had been thrown at you.

you were honest with yourself when you said you loved the attention that this job brought. there were many people out in the crowd that wanted you, that sat in their chair or stood amongst the sweaty crowd with a white-knucked grip and lust in their eyes, and you ate it up. you loved being wanted, it was one of the worlds wonders. 

eventually, you finished your set, hair tousled from flipping it, back of your knees and your hands sore from gripping the pole, but ultimately you felt invigorated. energized. like someone had wound you up like a toy. and now you had to pounce on someone in hopes of attention and the money you needed to buy that new game you had been saving up for. comical.

you could tell a bunch of the dancers were anticipating the party that was in tonight. it was obvious they were important, and important people had money. so the dancers that weren’t on the stage currently were prowling around the VIP area, looking to advertise themselves.

you decided to do the charity work and tend to the rest of the forgotten crowd. you knew from experience that eventually the richer guests would get tired of giving their money away and eventually leave. and the rest of the crowd was just sitting there, so you slipped your way in to the seats that were closer to the stage (shitty stripper etiquette, but some of thesen dancers were fuckin’ shady sometimes) and found some dude who looked wimpy enough to play the whole deity act with. 

you walked your way around the chair, placing your hands on his shoulders and beginning to rub them, your hand making it’s way down his chest as you whispered a greeting in his ear. you used your other hand to run through his hair, plucking the bill in his hand out of his hand and into your g string on your hip with the rest of them. you moved back around the chair and plopped down on his lap, feigning interest and asking him about his day, making him feel special with the whole shebang. you eventually were able to make quiet some money from that guy, surprisingly. and you left him alone and unsatisfied when the lights dimmed between sets. 

now, to find someone else out of sight of the first guy. you were on your way to do that when something caught your eye. a glimmer of gold, no- not metal, someones eyes. you were momentarily mesmerized before you realized that the person attached to those honey irises was staring at you. at you. from the VIP booth. while you were in the middle of the crowd. you were never flustered, so it was new when you felt a heat in your cheeks. 

you quickly put your act back on, throwing him a wink. he made a ‘come here’ motion with his finger, but you gave him a playful grin and a little teasing wave of dismissal. you had no idea what came over you to do that, but you decided to stick with this little ‘hard-to-get’ persona, and you disappeared into the crowd. 

not 10 minutes later you were grinding on some guy through your shorts, just to work that 50 out of his hand. he was one of the assholes that would promise and never give. it was hypocritical for you to think that way, you supposed, but it was your job. either way, you got it from him by nosing up his neck (too much cologne) and giggling in his ear. and he put the bill in your g-string himself. gross.

you slid away from him between sets like you always did, and once again felt the heat of eyes on you. this was different, however. it wasn’t like the usual eyes on you, the gazes you had grown to crave and expect. this was predatory. you were being watched like a hawk. you spun around to find him staring at you again, this time split off from his little friends and instead sitting in a chair further back from the stage. he gave you a certain look and raised his hand, waving a bill in his hand. like bait! that was hotter than it should have been. 

still, decided to make your way over to him, stopping in front of his chair, towering over him in your platform heels as he sat in the chair. he didn’t seem too physically imposing, but his energy was cockier than shit and you could tell he was bulked up. you usually didn’t fuck with these types, but something about him was just magnetic. it was insane. he leaned back in his chair, obviously insinuating that he wanted the same treatment as the others. you instead took a singular finger and raised his chin up to meet his eyes as they ran you up and down. 

and that was when you realized, under the dim lights, that you were a complete and total idiot. you hadn’t even realize that the man in front of you was hawks, number two pro hero and the man too fast for his own good. you tried not to make a face, but you knew he could most definitely see in your eyes the minute you put the puzzle pieces together. what the fuck was he doing in a place like this?

“what the fuck is someone like you doing in a place like this?” you asked, coming out of your mouth before you could really stop yourself. he only chuckled, grinning as you felt his jaw tense against your finger. the main reason you didn’t recognize him is because there was a lack of giant red wings.

“what anyone else is tryin’ to do. have a good time! it’s my friends birthday, i have a life outside work, you know?” his voice was barely heard over the pounding of the music and the bass rattling under your feet. 

“what about your reputation? i’m surprised there isn’t a line to gag on your dick at this point,” you held no filter in speaking to him. you never had it with anyone else, really, and what was so special about him? he was just another dude in the club, so you did what you always did and slid into his lap, pressing your bodies together in all the ways you knew did the best. you watched something flash in his eyes as he bit his lip for a moment. he looked back up to meet your eyes again.

“well, how long did it take you to recognize me? and you’re sober, aren’t you?” hawks brought a sculpted arm up to wrap around your waist, and you slapped it away as you worked your hips against his to the beat. 

“no comment. and no touching, unless you want to pay for that too.”

“i might just have to. what’s your name, gorgeous?” his face was too smug for a man who could buy the building, yet completely in the the eye of the public had a semi hard-on for a stranger in some daisy dukes. 

“i don’t know, what’s yours?” you asked, raising your eyebrow. you didn’t know his real name, no one did. it was a mystery highly speculated about online, not that you checked or anything. 

“fair enough, fair enough. pick one before i blow a couple hundred on getting free roam to touch you.” he said, rolling his hips up to meet yours. this shocked you, catching your breath, and you knew he had noticed by the shit-eating grin he wore. 

you gave him your stripper name. it was sufficient enough to add another layer of mystery, because even though you were in his lap, you wanted to keep up this game of cat and mouse. predator and prey.

the thought of that made you tingle. you told him your rates, and he forked it over quite a fuckin’ bit. you stood up from where you were sat in his lap (thought the loss was more upsetting than you would care to admit). you took his wrist (his hand was big) and started to drag him back to one of the more secluded areas. 

you had to pass the VIP area to do that, and when you did, you heard a shout. it scared the shit out of you for starters, but hawks seemed to recognize the voice. it was coming from a woman with white hair and rabbit ears, currently cheering hawks on.

“fuckin’ get some, dude!” she said, and her voice was strangely familiar as hawks flashed an award-winning grin and a thumbs up. you winked at her and pulled hawks on with you.

you pulled him into a pseudo-room in the back. not cut off by doors, but isolated and split off by room dividers. you pushed him back onto one of the booth-like seats lining the wall.

the music was quieter back here, and it was easier to hear yourself think. the lights were dim and the bass was still thumping through the floor. there was no one back here, just you and him. 

“ ‘kay, so i’m technically not supposed to let you touch me, but you just paid for my groceries and they don’t really check the cameras here. also, you’re cute.” you rambled off, more genuine and clearer now that the music wasn’t so intense in the middle of the madness. and then, catching the beat, you started your ministrations, rolling your hips against his and hearing his breath catch as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. 

“so i’ve been told,” he says with a shit-eating grin.

“don’t let it go to your head, princess.” you said, and he didn’t reply, too focused on oogling you.

his hands came up to hold your waist, and he put his effort into moving along with you, and his grinding did not go unnoticed. or unappreciated, for that matter. with his hips at your waist, he raked his thumbs under your thong straps and snaps them against your hips like you had earlier. it earns a breathy chuckle from you as you watched his pupils pin. you pulled back, standing and watching his face sour as his hands were pulled from your waist. but you decided to give him a little show, just ‘cuz you had a case of the hots for him and the way he was looking at you was much appreciated.

you now stood in front of him, towering above him as you toyed with the waistband of your daisy dukes. he simply bit his lip, practically eye-fucking you. it was exhilarating. you enjoyed the lustful gazes from customers, but this was on a different level. you felt truly alive, and yet like you were melting all the same. your insides felt gooey but you kept your perfected expression hard, movements practiced, sex appeal seasoned to flawlessness. and now you unbuttoned your shorts, pulling them down to reveal your bright red thong, hips, legs and torso all one long line. he looked at you like dinner and you were fucking living for it.

you kneeled inbetween his legs, laying your head on one of his thighs in the way you knew drove people crazy.

you heard a small “god damn,” exit his mouth as he looked at you, entranced as you caught his t-shirt on your way up his body with your teeth, pulling it up and dropping it back down, promptly standing up to slide backwards into his lap. you roll your ass where you know it’s appreciated and hear his breathing speed up behind you. you can practically hear his heart pounding to match your own, like a drum to the beat. your body laid down the bass, your eyes were the melody and he was drowning.

and when it was all over, poor guy walked out of the club with his fellow semi-disguised pro-heros with a raging hard on.

and later on, when you were pulling all your money out to count it, you caught a piece of paper rolled up along a $100 bill. it was his number. a pro-hero gave you his number. that was risky, especially in the type of place they were in.

you liked the risk he took. you put his number in your phone. 

[thiswasinevitableid]

54. I’m not sure what you think I said, but you start calling me an asshole and whip a ruler at me and somehow, we both end up in detention

Indruck, sfw, please?

Here you go! Content note: spiders appear at one point.

I based some of this AU--namely the concept of the Crucible and how magic is channeled--on the Carry On series by Rainbow Rowell. And Duck is trans in this, because any good wizarding school is inclusive.

After three years at Amnesty Academy, Duck is used to the objects being magically propelled through the air. But a ruler zipping through the air and smacking the back of his head is a new, unpleasant experience.

He tracks it to two chairs to his left, the new third year with the silver hair. He hasn’t even been here a day, what the fuck the is his problem?

“Hey, what the hell man?”

“You know very well what.”

“Uh, no I don’t, and I don’t appreciate bein hit with a fuckin ruler!”

“The maybe think before you insult someone next time!”

“I didn’t fuckin insult you! I don’t even know your name!”

“Ahem.” Ned, their Charms professor, looks down at them reproachfully, “gentlemen, while I know the review of Zone of Truth is rather dull, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t entertain yourselves with mindless conflict.”

“Sorry, Ned.” Duck mumbles, sending his pencil shooting below desk level to whack the other guy in the leg at the exact same moment he whips his pen at Duck’s hand.

“OW!”

Ned sighs, “I hate to do this, but-”

------------------------------------------------

“Detention! Lovely, my first day here and I’m in trouble. Thank you so much, Duck Newton, for landing us here.”

“You started it!” He growls as they take their seats. God, he hopes this isn’t one of Woodbridge’s days.

“Huh, only two.” Mama wipes her boots on the mat, closes the door behind her, “Afternoon, Duck. And…”

“Indrid.” Says his nemesis, “It is nice to meet you Professor C-” he cocks his head, “you really prefer I call you ‘Mama?’”

“Yep. Never could get behind that more formal stuff. Let some of the first years call me ‘Ms. Mama’ if they really need to feel like they’re showin some deference.”

Mama is deputy Headmistress of Amnesty. The only reason she’s not fully in charge is that she’s not a witch and some families object to that. So The Quell technically runs the school while Mama does most of the actual day to day work. She also teaches a course of non-magic practical skills because, “some things you can’t magic your way out of. Like taxes.”

Duck loves her class and, while he doesn’t understand why someone would opt into this weirdness, he admires the guts it takes as a fifteen year old human to walk into a wizarding school and declare that there was plenty you could learn there even though you couldn’t so much as send a spark from your fingers.

As he and Indrid watch the clock tick down, Mama pulls a bag from her satchel. The contents are cookies, which she offers to each of them.

“Barclay tryin’ out new recipes?”

“Course he is. Kid is gonna be the best damn kitchen witch in the country by the time he graduates. Guess he’s plannin to spend the summer drivin around and learnin the food magic of different regions.” She smiles, “bet you’ll never guess who’s goin’ with him.”

“Joe?”

“Bingo. Apparently he wants to study niche cultural magic.”

Duck’s pretty sure there’s another motive; sharing a van bed with Barclay. It sounds fun, roving the country, discovering new places with someone handsome by your side.

All that’s by his side is a glower hiding behind red glasses.

“Mama? I, ah, would it be possible for me to leave five minutes early? I’m supposed to get my pairing from the Crucible tonight.”

The older woman looks between the two of them, “Better tell me how you landed here first. Ned just said it was an argument.”

“He threw a ruler at me outta nowhere.”

“It was not, you know what you said.”

“The last thing I said before you hit me was ‘“nah, man’ when Billy offered me a pizza roll from his lunch.”

Indrid goes still, “Oh. I, ah, I misheard you. I thought you said 'mothman.' I apologize. I ought to have given you the benefit of the doubt.”

He seems so suddenly downtrodden that Duck shrugs, “Yeah, you should have. But it ain’t the worst thing that’s happened to me here. Not by a long shot.”

“No kiddin” Mama leans back on the desk, “Two of you can go at five til.”

His evening turns uneventful after that; dinner, hanging out with Juno and Aubrey, half doing homework and half fucking around on his phone in his room (the agreement between the school and the government is that a long as the students don’t post vidoes of themselves doing sick stunts with magic, the government will ignore any explosions and/monsters in the vicinity of the school).

He’s never had a roommate; when the Crucible spat out his name in fire on his first day, there was no other name with it. Almost everyone else rooms in pairs or trios. So his belongings are strewn about the tiny cabin that makes up his home away from home. Which is why, when the door creaks open at ten p.m, he sits up and prepares to fire off a spell.

Indrid stands in the doorway, one bag over his shoulder and another in his hand. He looks tired.

“Hello, Duck. Ah, I guess that one is my bed, then.”

----------------------------------------------------------------

The class schedules for Amnesty are generated by the heart of the school itself. Indrid isn’t entirely sure what that means, but the heart must not be terribly creative. It stuck him in divination class. He’s been seeing the future since he was five, managing it with his drawings since he was eight. Even the professor has no idea what to do with him, since the images come in like a garbled T.V signal when he uses a crystal ball and the cup shattered when he tried to read tea leaves.

At least Barclay gave him a conciliatory caramel while they swept up the shards. It made him feel a bit better, though whether that’s due to enchantment or Barclay being exceedingly good at cooking is hard to say.

And now he has to go to “Magical Weaponry.” Magical Defense he understands; there are still lots of malicious forces out there, or even just everyday evils that it’s good to be able to ward against. Plus, Vincent is a good professor, enthusiastic and understanding.

Professor Minerva is just as enthusiastic but twice as loud. This is their first day in the actual gym, as opposed to at a blackboard, and his visions suggest it’s going to go poorly for him. As it should; he’s not a fighter, he’s a disaster.

At Amnesty, magic is channeled through objects. Most people use wands or their hands but some, like Aubrey, use jewelry (a necklace from her mother) or another accessory.

Duck Newton uses a sword. Or he’s trying to. The sword seems to be winning.

“Exert your will on him, Duck Newton, he answers to you!”

“I answeeer to only the capable.”

“Shut up, Beacon.” Duck adjusts his grasp, but nothing happens until he drops the sword and sends a spell through his fingers. The target explodes. Indrid suddenly feels a bit better about his own probable performance.

Duck notices him, indicates the practice area next to him is clear. While they started off poorly, his roommate is doing his best to demonstrate southern hospitality. He invites Indrid to eat with him, helps him when his visions offer no help in navigating the grounds, and even lent him a blue and green shirt (Amnesty's colors) for his first Spirit Day. Duck is the best thing to happen to him in his first month here.

By the time class is over, they have six broken targets, a shredded mat, and a knife that is now a very confused frog between them. They manage to laugh about it, even as Duck scoops up the amphibian and tucks him into his shirt pocket.

It’s then that Indrid realizes he has a crush.

--------------------------------------------------

“You comin to the game tonight?” Juno measures her sapling.

“Assumin nothin comes up and nobody’s tryin to kill me, you know I’ll be there.” He loves cheering Juno on during her soccer games (hey, not everything has to be magic based, even at a wizarding school).

“Drat.”

The hissed frustration draws his attention to the far end of the work table. Indrid is trying to coax his Venus Flytraps to perk up, but they remain brown and limp.

“Need some help?”

“Please, as you clearly know what you’re doing.” Indrid tilts his head towards the sapling pine tree Duck is working on. If he does his growing spells right, he’ll be able to take it home as a Christmas Tree during winter break.

“You tend to picture words or, uh,pictures when you do your spells?”

“Images work best. The trouble is that the futures sometimes make it difficult for me to picture a spell clearly.”

“What if I try describing how I’d see it and you picture what I say?”

“It’s worth a try.” Indrid closes his eyes.

“Okay. Think about the roots drawin water up from the soil, about the traps absorbin nutrients from prey. That brown is goin green as they do, they’re stems are growin stronger…” he grins as the plant turns bright green, it’s mouths open, “hey, ‘Drid, look”

“Oh!” Indrid flaps his hands, “it worked! Now I can keep them healthy and big andohno, nono not again.”

The table cracks and collapses as the plant turns gigantic, blocking out the light from the greenhouse roof.

“Holy fuck, that’s great!”

“Language, sport, but I agree.” Thacker, the head of the magical Horticulture classes, whistles as he looks the plant up and down, “this is mighty impressive Indrid. Wonder if we could use it on some pumpkins come fall…”

“I don’t recommend it, unless you want them to chase people.” Indrid points to one of the heads, which is swaying in the air and lowering closer to him. It snaps and he leaps back, falling to a pile of potting soil. Thacker raises his walking stick and the flytrap returns to its proper size.

Duck helps Indrid up, but his friend stays quiet through the end of class and on the walk back to their room.

“You know it ain’t anythin to be ashamed of, right?” Duck flips on the light, “we all fuck up spells now and then. Hell, Aubrey is on track to be the best spellcaster this school’s ever seen and she still has trouble.”

“But mine go haywire constantly” Indrid flops, dejected, onto his bed, “forget mastering my powers, I’ll be lucky if I graduate able to keep them in check. If I graduate at all.” His hand searches the bed blindly; Duck sets the weighted, plush bat into so Indrid can set it on his chest.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never lasted more than a year at a magical school. Or a non-magical one. I started at Mt Vernon when I was fifteen. Tried Deep Hollow and Shasta the year after that. I’m powerful but I can’t seem to channel it well, and three different schools decided I was more trouble than I was worth.”

“Bullshit.” Duck rests a hand on Indrid’s knee, “you’re strugglin with somethin; that means you need more help, not less. And if anyone gets it into their heads to kick you outta Amnesty, I’ll raise a goddamn ruckus.”

Indrid chuckles, quiet and disbelieving.

“I’m serious. You know Aubrey and them would side with me, and Joe knows school policy well enough he could probably find a reason why them tryin to get rid of you was against the rule.”

“Thank you.” Indrid’s smile is a rare flower, fragile and stunning.

“You want one of those calm-down caramels Barclay made?”

“Please.”

Duck grabs the box from the cabinet of their little kitchenette, then snags a Coke and a pineapple soda from the fridge. Indrid is no longer horizontal, is instead sitting with his back to the wall so Duck has space to join him.

Under the fizz of fresh bubbles, his friend murmurs, ‘“Have people really tried to kill you?”

“Yep. Someone sent an assassin after me my first year, and there was a Dire wolf on the grounds last winter that was clearly locked on to my scent. Perk of bein a Chosen One.” He grumbles as he swigs his drink.

“...Who on earth sends an assassin after a fifteen year old?”

“Right?! Fuck if I know, they never got any information out of the guy. Fuckin prophecy I swear, I didn’t even want these powers, let alone to be some kind of hero.”

“I sympathize.” Indrid rests his head on Duck’s shoulder, “there are prophecies around my birth as well.”

Duck clunks their bottles together, “To bein’ fucked over by stuff we can’t control.”

Indrid drains his soda, then perks up, “Oh! Oh dear, you should go if you want to be there for Juno’s match.”

“Come with me?” Duck can’t get the image of the two of them sharing a giant pretzel while smushed thigh to thigh on the bleachers out of his head.

His friend grins, “Of course.”

-----------------------------------------------------

Duck hoped, after his not-great time in middle school, that a magic academy would be asshole free. But no, there are assholes everywhere, and these ones have even more tools for tormenting their targets. He’s never been one, nor have any of his friends. The one time someone tried to bully Barclay, Dani sicked three spectral hummingbirds on them until they apologized.

Indrid, odd and new, is an easy target, though he seems to hold his own just fine (and his proximity to the most powerful witch in school does scare off many potential antagonists). But three guys in their Magical Defense class have zeroed in on him.

They’re standing in line to practice against an evil eye when Indrid’s glasses, the ones he doesn’t take off even when he sleeps, hit the floor by Duck’s feet. Duck scrambles to grab them before they get stepped on, wondering why everyone is making such a fuss. Then he turns and backs up in alarm.

An eight foot tall moth creature is where Indrid should be, red eyes wide and claws clicking together anxious.

“Who let that thing in here?” Someone yells from behind him.

Indrid’s antenna flatten.

“Fuck, wasn’t expecting him to be that big a freak” one of the bullies scoffs.

Black wings twitch.

“Newton, give him the glasses back so we don’t have to look at him!”

Indrid trills, upset, and leaps into the air at the same moment Aubrey yells, “that’s enough” and Vincent shouts a reminder about no flames in enclosed spaces and also detention for you three. Duck is to busy climbing out the window Indrid flew through to pick up the details.

One two-story fall later, he’s chasing a dark shape into the Monongahela forest. While the parts of the woods near his hometown of Kepler are non-enchanted, this chunk is magic down to the moss (he plans to write his final year project on how those halves of forest mesh on an ecological level). One of the worst aspects of the enchanted portions is their tendency to re-shape around travelers. His usual way around this is to have an unwavering sense of where he’s going and pretend the woods are giving him an unchanging path to get there. But that trick does fuck-all when he doesn’t know his destination.

After two hours of searching he’s no closer to finding Indrid, it’s getting dark, and he’s debating heading back to the school for help. He hasn’t been this deep in the woods since he fled the Dire Wolf, and he knows the deeper you go into the trees, the wilder the magic becomes. Bad news for him, even worse for his friend who's out there somewhere, upset and alone.

Eight gigantic eyes glitter at him from the dirt, and he quickly rearranges who has it worse right now.

Throwing a burst of light into the trapdoor spiders eyes buys him enough time to bolt to a tree and climb. As soon as it crawls free of its burrow he freezes; if he’s remembering right, they use vibrations to locate prey.

Fuck, that thing is the size of a VW Beatle. Why is that even a thing? No spider needs to be this big!

In spite of his stillness, it spies him and sets its forelimbs on the tree-trunk. There’s nothing else for it; he draws Beacon, pictures the spider shrinking, and casts his spell.

A soft crunch of leaves signals it hitting the ground, now an unremarkable size for an arachnid. Just as he steps down a branch, a second trap door opens and an enraged spider bursts out, looking for it’s friend. When it can’t find it, it turns and snaps its mandibles at Duck. This time, Beacon does nothing, no matter how Duck commands and curses as his eight-legged doom gets closer.

A crackle of electricity and then this spider disappears as well. On the other side of the trunk, red eyes regard him with worry, “are you hurt?”

“Nah, all in one piece thanks to you.” He holds out his hand, “you wanna head back?”

“Yes, please.” Indrid flaps to the ground, Duck following him on foot and then turning them towards campus, “you did not need to come look for me.”

“Course I did, not gonna let my friend get swallowed up by the forest. Oh, here” he holds out the red glasses, “you want these back?”

“Not just yet. That is, if this form is not too alarming to you.”

Duck takes in the glossy feathers, the charming ruff, the way the face is still obviously Indrid yet excitingly new, “I’m good.”

Light flickers from black claws, stars and flowers spinning out with ease, “It’s so much easier when I’m like this. I never foresaw my disguise charm being an issue, but the older I’ve gotten the more it seems to influence my ability to control my spells. But, well, you saw how people reacted. Even you were startled.”

“In my defense, I thought you’d been eaten by, well, you.” Duck casts the same spell, vines of light chasing the red flowers, “I’m still sorry, though. You ain’t horrible like this, ‘Drid; you’re fuckin stunnin. Never seen anyone as incredible as you.”

Indrid stops, looking down at him, “Do you truly mean that?”

Duck rises on his toes, pecking his cheek, “Yeah, I do.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

The Halloween Formal is the most elaborate event at Amnesty. Indrid feels that if there’s any day he’s within his rights to be in his true form, it’s when everyone else is dressed as monsters.

He doesn’t have a date. He thought Duck was in the same predicament. Then his friend left before he was half-done grooming his feathers, saying he needed to get flowers for his hot date.

Ah well. At least Indrid will get to see him there and spend some time with his friends.

He checks his reflection in the gleaming black walls, orange and purple lights glowing and jack’o lanterns floating above his head. He adjusts his robes, the nice red ones his father sent him, and prepares to enter the ballroom.

“Hold up.”

When he turns, Duck is standing there in his black dress shirt and green tie, looking for all the world like he’s alone.

“You got one more thing to put on” He holds out a bracelet of flowers, sized to slip perfectly over Indrid’s hand. There are matching flowers pinned to one side of Duck’s hair.

“Oh. Oh my. You really-”

Duck uses a small spell to bend Indrid into a kiss; it’s a bit messy, since their mouths aren’t meant to fit together, but Indrid would not trade it for all the magic in the world.

“Yeah, ‘Drid, I really do.” With that, Duck offers his elbow and they walk arm in arm into the great hall.

[babbushka]

As someone who recently learned about their Jewish heritage (and wants to know more about the traditions), I'm so excited to see your Passover Prompt List! What do you think of Situation 1 and Dialogue 1 or 5 with Clyde Logan?

Anonymous said: “You look handsome.” “My yarmulke makes my ears stick out.” “Yeah, but still handsome.”  w/ big grumbly bear clyde?

(1.1k, no warnings just fluff! I hope that you enjoy this ficlet my kind friend, and Pesach Sameach!!) Clyde x Jewish!Reader :)

He’s nervous, Clyde is. 

Hand tightly gripped on the wheel, knuckles nearly goin’ white. He didn’t remember the last time he had been so worried about somethin’ going wrong, probably not since the war. He reckons that Seder dinner at your parent’s house was less high-stakes than Iraq…but then again, he wasn’t so sure.

The sun is settin’ behind the West Virginia mountains as Clyde drives you in his car down to your folks’ place, sittin’ quietly as you tell him for the tenth time the story of Passover. He’s ignorant on the subject, hadn’t even realized how little he knew until he had started to read about it, started to hear you tell the story.

You’re tellin’ the story again, tellin’ him all about the exodus. He had heard about it briefly as a child when his Ma and Pa had put their kids in Sunday school o’course, but he never really thought about it much. It holds more weight on his shoulders knowin’ that that was your people, and he wants to get it right.

“…And that’s all you need to know!” You smile, when you come to the conclusion of the story for the tenth time, your eyes bright as you reach for the water bottle kept in the cupholder for the drive.

He steals a glance at you from the corner of his eye, tryin’ his best to be a good driver, an overly cautious driver the way he always is. The last damn thing he wants is to get into trouble on the road on a night so important like this.

“D’ya think we can go through it one more time?” Clyde’s voice is soft, gentle as always as he chews on his lip, fidgets his fingers on the steering wheel, “I’m worried I’ll forget.”

Your smile softens at him, somethin’ in your chest flutterin’ like butterflies. Datin’ Clyde had been a dream so far, an absolute dream. You were comin’ up on one year together, and as the days had gone by, you only fell more and more in love with him. You’d been worried, like most Jewish people are worried, about the possible reactions to them findin’ out you’re Jewish. Some people weren’t too kind about it, and it was always a risk to open yourself up like that.

But Clyde, your handsome boyfriend Clyde, sweet and gentle and soft-spoken Clyde, was never anythin’ other than good to you. And what’s more, he didn’t brush aside your culture or try to ignore it, or try to make you give it up for his own. He wanted to learn about your history and heritage, wanted to be a part of it.

“Clyde we’ve been over it all week, you’re going to be fine.” You rest a hand lightly on his arm, soothing his bicep with short rubbing motions as you chuckle, “Besides, you won’t even have to do anything but follow along, I promise.”

“But I want to do more than just follow along.” He turns those big brown eyes on you then as y’all come up to a red light, fully faces you with as much genuine earnestness that you’ve ever seen on a man. Letting go of the wheel for just a moment, just long enough to hold your hand and give it a proper squeeze, he continues, “I want to really participate. One more time, please darlin’?”

You had no idea how you got so lucky, with a man like him, and it makes you have to look away, your heart poundin’ hard. You could marry this man, you think to yourself as he reclaims his hand to put back on the wheel when the light turns green.

“Alright honey, let me get a sip o’this water first, my throat’s dryer than the desert.” You wink, and he cracks a little smile at the joke.

You recount the story once again, a cliff-notes version of the longer winded tale you had already told him nearly a dozen times. And this time, like the times before it, Clyde can’t help but feel the emotion in your voice as you do.

The pain you hold when you speak of the slaves in Egypt, how they were tormented and worked to the bone. The sorrow when you recount the way Pharoh refused to listen Moses, to the to the call for freedom, even at the threat of disaster. The awe in the way you describe the plagues, all ten of them descending down onto Egypt, punishing those who punished the Jews.

The story of oppression sits heavy on your chest, and Clyde realizes this was not the first time your people had to flee their homeland, and he knows it would not be the last. He wonders what it must be like to never have a place to call your own, constantly having to move, having to find somewhere else only to be kicked out from there too. You call it the Diaspora, and though he knows he’ll never really understand, he tries.

By the end of the story, when the Red Sea parted and the Jewish people knew they were free from this tyrant, Clyde can’t help but be misty-eyed. It’s a powerful story, one worthy of remembering year after year.

“Okay, we’re here.” You say softly, bringing Clyde out of his day-dream as the house comes into view from around the corner. Looking up at him, you give his arm another rub and ask, “Are you ready?”

Whether he’s ready or not, Clyde nods his head. He figures if your people can wander through the desert towards uncertain future, he can attend a Seder. It seems foolish to even compare the two, so he nods again and gives a quiet, “Yep.”

“I really appreciate you doin’ this Clyde.” You tell him honestly, tryin’ your best to not get too emotional over how much you love him, takin’ another sip of water. “I know it ain’t really somethin’ you’re familiar with or used to, and it just…it means a lot to me.”

“If it means a lot to ya, then it means a lot t’me.” Clyde replies just as honest right back to you, tryin’ to lighten the heavy mood with a shy, “How do I look?”

He clips the small head-covering to his neatly brushed hair, and you grin, absolutely beamin’ up at him.

“You look handsome.” You cup his cheeks and plant a big kiss right to his mouth, lovin’ the way a blush starts to creep across his nose.

“You sure?” He glances at himself in the rearview mirror, suddenly growin’ beet red. “My yarmulke makes my ears stick out.”

“Yeah,” You chuckle, because it does, even as you reassure him, “But still handsome.”

And Clyde knows that even if he messes up tonight, you won’t go teasin’ him too badly. He parks the car and opens your door for you, and follows dutifully behind you as you lead him into the house, and to his first Seder – hopefully the first of many to come.  

                                                     ----------------

taggin’ some Clyde lovin’ friends! @mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @sunflowersinthesnow @babayagakeanu @safarigirlsp @steeevienicks @the-unmanaged-mischief @lovinghufflepuffgirl @rosi3ba3z @chapterhappygirl @groovetoob @bxnnywriting

[quickspinner]

Month of Miracles - Dressing Up Part 2

Find the prompt list here!

Hallmark Movie AU Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 (end) | Read Month of Miracles on AO3

Marinette tapped her pencil on the small stack of sketches and sighed. She felt dissatisfied with them, but that was nothing new. She was dissatisfied with almost everything she made these days, so why should this be any different?

Her thoughts drifted back to Luka for the hundredth time. She was going to have to face him again. He was expecting her and she really did need to source some materials from the wardrobe he was offering. 

She might be able to put it off a day, though, she mused. Maybe it would be better to give him some space, anyway. She had just rejected him, after all. That had to sting, no matter how chill he acted about it. Marinette would be doing him a favor, staying away for a day. She could go shopping and see what she could get in the way of basic materials first. That was a perfectly plausible excuse. 

Coward, she thought sourly at herself, and sighed, dropping her head into her arms.

It would be easier if she didn’t like him so much. Marinette turned her head and looked at her phone where it lay on the table in its cheerful pink case. She could text him, but...would that be weird? People here didn’t seem to do that, they just...popped up. He’d told her just to show up whenever, but…

I don’t have his number, she realized suddenly. How funny was that? All the times they’d talked, and they’d never even traded numbers. 

She wouldn’t even be able to text him when she went back to the city. The thought made her ache, but she pushed it aside. That was the kind of problem you could push off for later, she thought as she packed up her things. Not like making out with a guy you were probably never going to see again once the week was out. Which was a real, actual problem that should be avoided. 

Right?

Marinette groaned, and grabbed Gina’s car keys, marching out of the door. She had a job to do, and surely she was still professional enough to manage that much. 

She had herself mostly together by the time she pulled into the Couffaine farm. The yard wasn’t empty when she pulled in, to her mild surprise. 

“Ahoy, Marinette!” Anarka called, waving at her, and Marinette, feeling she should be polite, got her kit out of the car and walked over to where Anarka was working. Ankara was unloading some small saplings from the back of a pickup truck that looked a lot like Luka’s, only about twenty years older. “For a moment there, I fergot it was you and not yer grandma pulling up,” Anarka chuckled as Marinette approached. “Here t’see Luka, I expect? He said ye were comin’ by.” 

“Yes,” Marinette tried to smile, and hoped she didn’t blush too hard at Luka’s name. Yes, hi, I kissed your son this morning and broke his heart, so this isn’t awkward at all. Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?

“He’s been working like a demon all day,” Anarka commented, lifting another tree down with a grunt. “He was drivin’ me crazy, bein’ so efficient, and I about bit his head off.” She glanced at Marinette, who tried hard not to look guilty. “Told him to make himself scarce for a bit. I think he went t’ take a shower, but he should be done by now.” 

“Oh,” Marinette said lamely, trying very hard not to think of accidentally walking in on a freshly showered and not entirely dressed Luka. Maybe awkward small talk was for the best. “He, um. He said you were done for the year?”

“Aye, closed to the public fer the year,” Anarka smiled. “Though o’ course if there was anyone in town that needed anythin’ we’d open right back up. Nah, the public part of business is done for the year. Now it’s just all the work nobody sees.” She turned away from Marinette for a moment, walking over to the rail fence that separated the rows of trees. Marinette followed, unsure what else to do, her kit bumping against her knees as she carefully skirted the saplings. 

“Never really thought I’d end up in a place like this,” Anarka said, leaning her elbows against the fence rails. “There’s a kinda poetry t’ it, though. Renewal. Rebirth. The old makin’ way for the young.” She winked at Marinette, and then went on. “I might not even be here by the time these trees are big enough t’ cut. Got a wandering foot, y’know, and it’ll take seven or eight years minimum for these to get the size where anyone would even consider cutting ‘em. Who’s to say I won’t be off to some new adventure by then? But they’ll still be here, growing, because I planted them. Endings, beginnings. Sometimes it’s hard to tell one apart from the other, aye?” 

Marinette made a noise in reply automatically, but Anarka’s musings had put her thoughts on another track, and she barely heard the last bit. 

Anarka eyed her sidelong for a moment, and then sighed and shoved herself off the fence, turning to smile at Marinette with her hand on her hips. “Out with it, lass, what’s on yer mind?”  

Marinette blushed, snapping back to the present. “Nothing. It’s none of my business.” 

“Maybe not,” Anarka shrugged. “Ye can still ask, though. If I don’t want to tell ye, I just won’t.” 

Marinette shifted her weight and adjusted her grip on the handle of her kit, still uncomfortable, but...“Were you...disappointed?” she asked in a low voice. “When Luka gave up his career?”

Anarka laughed loud enough that it echoed back to them. “Nah, lass, I was proud . Luka was miserable, livin’ that life. It takes guts to admit that and come home, ‘specially when everyone around you is telling you how lucky ye are, having a talent and a chance like that. Like somehow you owe some cosmic debt and if ye don’t stick it out, yer wastin’ somethin’. Like success is a cookie cutter and ye have to slice away bits of yerself to make it fit.” She shook her head. “It’s not how I raised my kids. I taught them to take chances, and I taught them not to let fear make their decisions—and I also taught them that there’s no shame in what the world likes to call failure. There’s no shame in trying out the different shapes of success until you find one that fits, instead o’ tryin’ t’ force yerself into the one kind.” 

Marinette blinked at her, surprised at the way her expression softened as she spoke. 

Anarka was silent a moment and then sighed. “Still. You do your best to teach them, but you never know whether the lesson’s gonna stick. So when I think of the courage it took for Luka to walk away, to look so-called failure in the face and turn it into just another lesson learned, to find a way to believe that he’s still his father’s son even if he doesn’t follow in the old man’s footsteps—I’m so proud I could burst.” Marinette started slightly as Anarka suddenly stepped forward and put a surprisingly gentle hand on Marinette’s shoulder. “Luka’s never needed to prove his talent to me, lass. He’s still finding his feet again, and that’s okay. When he’s ready, he’ll make success fit him instead of the other way around, I’ve no doubt of that.” She squeezed Marinette’s shoulder, and looked at Marinette for a long moment. Marinette swallowed nervously, but couldn’t think of anything to say. 

Ankara let her hand drop and jerked her head towards the house. “Go on now, we’ve both got things to be doing. Go straight on in, he’ll be expecting you.” She turned back to her young trees, and Marinette, clearly dismissed, turned towards the house, butterflies surging back to life in her stomach. She was being stupid, she told herself. Luka had accepted her rejection gracefully, and tried so hard to make her comfortable. Marinette was sure she’d hurt his feelings if she suddenly got awkward about being around him, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. 

Marinette sneaked a glance back towards Anarka, and then despite what she had been told, she knocked as loudly as she could. She lingered on the doorstep as long as she dared (which wasn’t very long, knowing that Anarka could see her not going on in), and let herself into the house. She could hear guitar music even before she got the creaky old door open, and once inside, she followed it to the great room. Luka was perched on the same fragile-looking chair as before, with an acoustic in his hands this time. He looked up as she entered, and smiled, laying his hand flat against the strings. His hair was damp, and his t-shirt sticking to him a little bit. He couldn’t have been out of the shower long and Marinette was kind of glad she’d stopped to talk to Anarka. 

Luka stood up and put the guitar in a stand, and Marinette realized she hadn’t even said hi, but it seemed too late now. “I was starting to think Mom was going to talk your ear off before you made it up here,” Luka teased gently as he straightened. 

“Oh, we were just, um—” Marinette winced. “Talking.” She was so lame, ugh. 

“I saw through the window,” Luka grinned. “Figured you’d get here when you were ready. The stuff’s all in the attic, so…” He gestured towards the stairs, and then reached for her kit. “Can I get that for you?”

Too flustered to object politely, Marinette let him take it, and then followed him. She should say something, she thought, but she couldn’t think of anything.

She sighed mournfully as they climbed the stairs. Part of her ached for what he was offering—but she was pretty sure that same part wouldn’t want to let him go, and that was just...and really, she was such a disaster, and he was amazing, and he deserved so much better than someone who was so mixed up and wishy-washy. Why did they have to meet like this? Would it have been different if they met before?

Except before, she was with Adrien, too dazzled and in love to even see anyone else, and Luka had been a rock star, surrounded by all the glamorous women he could possibly want, and she had never really stood out, as Audrey loved to remind her. She just didn’t have Adrien’s celebrity magnetism, nor Audrey’s force of personality, so she was always overlooked. It was no wonder that nobody ever really saw her until she came here. 

“Well, here we are,” Luka’s voice broke into her thoughts. He was reaching up to grab a hanging cord. 

Marinette shook her head and slapped her cheeks as Luka pulled the attic ladder down and ascended it. None of this was actually solving the problem at hand. She needed to keep her mind on the costumes. Marinette had sketched out some ideas at home, thinking she could probably get some sheets to use as a base, and then maybe she could source some of the less expensive things from Luka’s old wardrobe for embellishments on the fancier things like the angels, or for the snaps and things. There was a single big box store in town, actually; the selection would be limited but surely she could find some things there too. This project was ridiculously easy, when it came down to it. She had a plan that would work, and it was all simple sewing, stuff she could do in her sleep. No sweat. 

So why were her hands shaking?

She lifted her hands and watched them tremble before her eyes. She felt her breath getting short.

She started when a large hand closed over both of hers. “Marinette.” She looked up, and Luka was there, framed against the light coming down from the attic. “Are you all right?” 

“Yeah,” she said, a little too quickly, with a smile that was a little too wide. “Just, hoping there will be some stuff I can use.” 

Luka smiled. “It’ll be fine. Come on up.” He shifted his hold to just one of her hands and drew her up the narrow stairs after him.

He let go of her hand once she was up, and Marinette looked around in mild surprise. The attic was cleaner than she expected. Cluttered, like the rest of the house, and full of things in piles and stacked, sometimes draped in sheets, but she didn’t encounter the dust she had expected, and the small, high windows were clean and let in plenty of light. She wondered if they were just carting things in and out of here so often that they kept it clean, or if they used the space for more than storage. There was a clear path to where they needed to be, and she followed Luka across the creaking floor.

Marinette waited nervously as he whisked the protective sheets off two racks of clothes. Marinette had to blink as the light hit the clothes; there were metal accents and rhinestones and metallic fabrics everywhere, and she was unprepared for the amount of light they threw back in her eyes. 

“There it is,” Luka sighed, folding his arms as he sat on a trunk a short distance away. “Every bedazzled scrap of it.”

She had to giggle a little at that. Luke Stone had certainly favored ostentation, though that was almost unavoidable when you played with Jagged Stone. 

Still, they didn’t have to, she thought, as she walked up and began mechanically sliding looks along the rack to have a look. They could have played up his simplicity. They could have made him stand out by contrast, rather than by imitation. She wondered if they were deliberately setting up an implied rivalry between father and son with their choices, or if they just hadn’t thought a rock star could be simple. Costume design wasn’t exactly the same thing as fashion design, but there was enough overlap that— 

Marinette brought her thoughts back to the present, and swallowed as she stepped back again, suddenly overwhelmed. She turned away and opened her kit slowly, taking out the stack of drawings she’d left on top, suddenly profoundly dissatisfied with them. Rose and the kids expected her to work magic with this stuff, and all she had was a pile of generic toga-style costumes.

Simple. Uninspired. Pedestrian. 

Her gut began to churn.

Marinette glanced at Luka nervously, and then jerked her gaze quickly away, but of course he caught it. 

“I don’t have to be here if it makes you uncomfortable,” he said quietly. “I can go back downstairs and you can just call me if you need help with anything.”

That was so far from her thoughts that it gave her pause. “You...don’t make me uncomfortable,” she said, and looked back at him with a sad smile. “You never have. You’ve been...really wonderful, Luka, now matter how weird things got. I am uncomfortable, but it’s not about you.” Taking a breath, Marinette stepped back to the rack and ran her fingers down the fabric in front of her in a practiced motion, taking in the composition and the drape almost without conscious thought.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Luka asked quietly. 

Marinette thought about that for a moment, and then turned back to the garments on the rack. “Not tonight.” She couldn’t afford to get worked up now, she had to figure something out. She...she had to do something, she couldn’t just…

“Okay.” Luka said simply, and Marinette swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes shut. He was so understanding, but—what was she going to do? She couldn’t just drape the kids in sheets and call it a day, they deserved so much better than that. She had to figure something out, she had to—She put both hands in her hair and pulled it, trying to focus on the clothes in front of her, but her eyes stung. She squeezed them shut tight and held her breath, trying to keep it together. 

Luka’s hands closed on her shoulders from behind, squeezing lightly, and Marinette turned to him in a rush, burying her face in his chest. 

“Marinette, look at me,” he said, pushing her shoulders back gently and taking her face in his hands. “Just breathe, and look at me.”

Marinette stared up into his blue eyes, reflecting calm and assurance while all that fluttered in her chest was panic and self-doubt.

“Slow down,” he said emphatically. “It’s okay.”

“But I—” she began, and he shook his head.

“Marinette. There’s no failure here. Anything you put together will be better than moldy, moth-eaten rags. Without your help we’d all be frantically cutting armholes in pillowcases or something. No matter what you do, Rose will be ecstatic.” He smiled encouragingly at her. “These are the lowest possible stakes. You can’t screw up, so just have fun with it.” 

Marinette turned her head out of his hands, looking at the designer, rock star wardrobe laid out for her to use. “But—”

Luka reached over and grabbed her fabric scissors out of her kit. He grabbed a shirt at random off the rack, and cut it in half in a ragged line. Marinette stared as he offered her the scissors back. “That’s how little I care about this stuff,” he grinned. 

Marinette’s mouth closed abruptly and she glared at him, and would have snatched the scissors from them if they hadn’t been—well, scissors. Well-sharpened fabric scissors at that. Instead she took them with the appropriate amount of care even as she narrowed her eyes at him. “I might have needed that,” she told him, kicking his foot lightly. 

“I have faith,” Luka grinned wider. “You’ll manage.” 

She huffed and turned back to the garments, and looked at the second rack next to her. Luka backed away, leaning his elbows on an old dresser as he watched her. 

Marinette studied the racks, and suddenly she pulled out her phone, swiping to the group photo she’d taken at the library today. She looked over the children there, at their dyed hair and punk haircuts and all-black outfits interspersed with riots of color, and began to smile a bit. “Okay,” she muttered, picking up a leather garment studded with rhinestones. “I guess this Christmas is about to get a little bit rock ‘n roll.” 

Luka raised his eyebrows slightly.

Marinette barely noticed him, eyes lighting up as her mind began racing. She picked up the stack of designs she had done earlier and crumpled them absently in her hands. “I need my sketchbook,” she muttered. 

“I’ll get it,” Luka said, shoving off the dresser and crossing the room. “Where?”

“I left it in my car. On the passenger seat, I think.”

Luka clattered down the stairs and out of the front door to grab Marinette’s sketchbook. Halfway back up the stairs he hesitated, and ducked into his room to grab his own notebook. Marinette practically snatched the book out of his hand, digging in her kit for her pencils, and Luka grinned, sitting back on the trunk again and resting his notebook on his knee. 

He watched her, fascinated, as her focus narrowed to her task, and she began sketching, making notes and separating out items from the stacks of clothing he never thought he’d look at again. Luka began scribbling notes to himself as well, just...idle thoughts, the web of concepts and ideas that eventually came together to make a song, but he kept looking up to watch her, intrigued by her creative process. She muttered something to herself or tossed something aside with more vehemence than usual and he grinned. 

Slowly, the attic transformed, suddenly strewn with gaudy clothes. Several distinct heaps were forming. Every once in a while Marinette would stop, and go back to her sketchbook, scratching in new details or ideas, or crossing something out with a sigh. 

He jumped slightly, though, when she tossed the book aside with a little scream, and buried her face in her hands. “I’m such an idiot,” she muttered. “Why didn’t I think of that? It’s never going to hold up with that kind of weight, I’m so stupid —” 

“Whoa,” Luka said, a little sharply than he’d meant to, putting his notebook aside and getting up quickly to go to her. “Hey, hey, hey, slow down. What’s wrong?”

“I just—I should have accounted for this, and I didn’t, and now I have to change it—”

“Okay, so change it,” Luka said, putting his hands on her shoulders again to make her look at him. Marinette looked at him like he had two heads, and he almost laughed at her. “Marinette, you’re an artist, not a machine. It’s okay to backtrack and change your mind.” He smiled at her, hoping he looked reassuring and not enchanted. “I know every artist is different and music isn’t the same as fashion, but for me…” he shrugged. “Success comes from a series of small failures. You try something, and it mostly works, but something isn’t quite right, so you make a change and try again. That’s not something to be ashamed of or upset about. If you’re that frustrated, we could take a break. Or if you want to rework it some and come back tomorrow, that’s fine too. I’m not going anywhere.”

Marinette stared at him for a minute, her mouth working soundlessly. She looked down at the sketchbook in her hands, and then back up at him. 

“Do you want to take a break?” Luka asked her. 

“I...no,” she said. “It’s...it’s not that big of a deal, I’m pretty sure I can fix it if I...um—” 

“Okay,” he said simply, giving her shoulders a little squeeze. He really wanted to hug her, to hold her tight and tell her how amazing he found her, how entranced he was watching her work, how alive she looked when she was creating, but—he couldn’t, so he squeezed her shoulders and then let his hands fall. “No need to explain it, I trust you.” He glanced down at the book, and then looked away. “Sorry, I’m not trying to peek, but that—that looks really badass.” He couldn’t help looking again, and, blushing, Marinette turned the book so he could see. His smile grew as he looked at it. “That’s amazing, Marinette, what are you worrying about? If it looks half this cool in real life we’re going to have to have someone standing by to give Rose oxygen.” 

Marinette giggled, and looked back down at it herself. “You really think so?” she murmured, with a small smile that made his heart skip. Just when he thought she couldn’t get any sweeter. 

“I definitely think so,” Luka told her, backing away. He sat down on the floor this time, leaning back against the trunk. He groped behind him blindly for his notebook and nearly knocked it off the far side of the trunk. 

Marinette gave a pleased hum, and then took a deep breath before her brows furrowed into her concentration face. Luka drew his knees up and leaned one elbow on them, smiling like the fool he was. 

There were a few more frustrated groans, but no more spirals, and Luka kept quietly in his place even as piles of fabric grew around him. Finally she sat back and sighed. “I think that’s everything I’m going to need.” 

“Cool.” Luka looked up from his notebook and smiled. 

“I’m so sorry about the mess,” Marinette gasped, looking around as if she had only just now realized the chaos she had created. “I can help you clean it up—” 

Luka cut her off with a laugh. “You’re welcome to,” he chuckled, “but there’s really no need. Clutter is a way of life around here. Trust me, the only reason they were so organized to begin with is because they were delivered that way.” His eyes fell to her sketchbook. “Can I see what you have in mind?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity any more.

Marinette tensed up immediately, biting her lip. She looked at the book and then at Luka, and then she offered it to him.

Luka took it, though his eyes stayed on her, concerned and a little baffled by her hesitation when the one sketch he’d seen had been so cool. Marinette turned back to the pile of garments she had chosen, though, and so he let his eyes fall and began looking through the few pages of sketches she had made, careful not to go beyond even though he was aching to see more. A slow smile grew on his face as he looked, and he shook his head slightly. “The angels are still my favorite, but these are amazing, Marinette. You might want to get some earplugs because Rose is going to shatter glass when she sees these.” He grinned up at her. “I knew you could do it.” 

She smiled faintly, but looked away. “They’re just pictures, though. I still have to actually execute the designs.” 

“Hey,” Luka said, reaching a hand up towards her. Marinette blinked in surprise, but she slowly stepped forward and put her hand in his. He tugged gently, and she sank to her knees in front of him. “ Yeah, you might have to make some changes when you go to actually put it together, but that’s part of the process for everybody. Sometimes a song I thought was finished doesn’t work out right the first time I play it with the band, and I have to make some changes.” He hesitated, and then went on. “I don’t know what’s going on in there,” he poked her forehead gently. “And I’m not exactly up on fashion, but—” he gestured at the racks of clothes. “I have some experience too, and I gotta say…” he shook his head, and turned the sketchbook towards her. “You outclass anybody else I’ve worked with by far.”  

Marinette blushed deeply. “They’re just costumes,” she murmured, tucking her hair back as she looked away. 

“They could have been, but they’re not.” Luka offered her the book back. “Marinette.” He waited until she looked at him. “Do you like them?”

Marinette looked back at the drawings, and bit her lip. Her face was growing red again. “Yes,” she finally admitted quietly. 

Luka put his fingers under her chin and tipped her face back up. “Stop thinking so hard,” he said gently. “I know it’s easy to lose faith in yourself, but...you’re creating something, you have to find a way to tune all of that stuff out and just be in that moment. You can deal with the aftermath afterwards.” He grinned. “That’s what editing is for, right? Or so I’m told. I was never any good at it.” 

Marinette smiled. “That’s why your music was so good. It was...raw, instinctive. Still polished, but deeply emotional. It’s why I always loved it.” 

It was Luka’s turn to flame up red, and Marinette giggled. 

“That wasn’t fair,” he huffed, pulling his knees up to hide his face in his arms for a moment.

Marinette laughed harder. “How many thousands of records sold and you blush at a little old compliment from a fan?” she teased. 

Luka turned his face on his arms so that he was looking at her. “You’re not just any fan,” he said, and smiled at the pink returning to her cheeks. He sighed, raising his head, and letting his legs fall and cross beneath him again. “Don’t ever let anyone let you feel like you’re not special, Marinette.”

“It’s definitely not a problem when I’m with you,” she said, and then bit her lip, like it had slipped out without her intending it to. 

“Good,” he grinned, and then decided he’d better move before he did something stupid. “So, show me what you need me to take down to the car for you, and we’ll just leave the rest of it like this until you’re done in case you need to come back for something.” 

“Oh,” Marinette’s eyes widened slightly and she scrambled to her feet. “Right.” 

She told him which piles of clothes she wanted to take, and Luka got some bags and gathered them up. Marinette made a token effort at tidying up, despite Luka having told her to leave it. She hung a few things back on the rack, and paused suddenly, hand hovering over a jacket still on the rack. 

Marinette picked it up slowly, looking at it. The scent of leather and something like electronics hit her nose, and her eyes widened slightly. She felt around the bottom hem and found something hard and rectangular there. Another minute of searching, and the jacket lit up in her hands, the fiber optic lights sewn into the seam pulsing faintly. 

Marinette laughed a little, and crossed over to the trunk Luka had been using as a chair all afternoon. She sat down and spread the jacket across her lap. She remembered this. He’d been wearing it at the show she’d gone to. They’d started with all the lights off and just Luka on stage, wearing this jacket and the pants that went with it, making him just an electric outline on the stage when the curtain went up. 

Hard to reconcile that image with the guy from the tree farm, she thought affectionately. But then, he’d always had a reputation for being a sweetheart, good to his fans and generous with his time, so...maybe it wasn’t so hard to believe. 

At least this contraption is well made, she thought, running a finger along one of the light tubes. It was still secure after all this time, and clearly in working order. 

The lights began to flash and jump around, and Marinette giggled. It had started that right before Luke had swept his hand up and down in a dramatic power chord that had rattled her teeth. Once again it was hard to reconcile them in her mind. It was almost funny, now that she knew Luka, remembering those dramatics. 

The light reflected back off something in the corner of her eye, and when she looked, she saw it was the metal coil of Luka’s notebook, half buried under a pile of clothes he had shoved out of the way. She picked the notebook up and smiled a little bit as she did so; the page was a mess, full of scratched out lines, and the writing went every which way in a complicated web. Was this how his mind worked? It was so different from her own process— 

Jewels Diamonds in the sands of time Those are my memories with you And even if it’s only a precious few They’re the ones I’ll keep when everything else flows away

It made Marinette think of her first fashion show, when she’d been new and excited about the garments she was putting out there, excited and happy. That moment shone jewel-bright in her memory, despite all the drudgery that had followed it. That was she was working for, after all, another chance at that feeling. All of this frustration would be worth it if she could have another moment like that. 

Marinette blinked back to reality and suddenly realized what she was doing. She slammed her eyes shut and turned the notebook over in her lap. Oh, she shouldn’t have looked at that, she thought frantically, her heart suddenly beating triple time. This—this was private, just like her designs were, and she shouldn’t have—but she hadn’t meant to— 

Luka’s heavy boots thunked on the stairs and Marinette jumped, dropping the notebook so that it landed on the floor splayed open with an inelegant smack . Marinette scrambled up and hurriedly grabbed it again. She hastily smoothed it out as Luka came the rest of the way up into the attic. “Oh, I think this one is yours,” she said, holding it out to him. 

“Oh, yeah, thanks,” Luka said, curling it in half and sticking it in his back pocket. Marinette tried not to wince. “Anything else?” His eyes landed on the jacket in her hands. “Oh, I see you found the switch,” he chuckled. 

“Will you put it on?” Marinette blurted, and Luka raised his eyebrows at her. “Please?” she smiled, hunching her shoulders slightly as she held it up.   

Eyebrows still raised, Luka took it, and slipped it on. He grimaced slightly as he zipped it up. “Definitely doesn’t fit as comfortably as it used to,” he commented, tugging down on the hem. “Not too bad, though.” 

“You probably build muscles in different places, hauling trees,” Marinette said absently, stepping forward to adjust the way it sat across his shoulders for a moment. “Not as uniform a workout as using a personal trainer. It gives you a more natural build.” She smiled a little as she smoothed the arms and stepped back.

“It still looks good on you,” she observed. “You were wearing this at the concert I went to. The first time I saw you live.” 

Luka smiled ruefully. “Doesn’t exactly have the same effect in my attic, does it?”

“No,” Marinette smiled back. “It was a wonderful performance, though, and I guess I wasn’t expecting to be reminded of it just now.” She bit her lip and asked in a rush, “Were you...were you writing a song? Just now?” She gestured vaguely toward his pocket. 

Luka looked a little taken aback, but not offended. “I was starting to,” he admitted. “I...really enjoy the time we spend together, and it was really nice, seeing a new side of you today. I guess I felt a little inspired, yeah.” 

Marinette’s breath caught. “It was...about me?” 

“About you and me, yeah,” he admitted. “Does that bother you?” 

Marinette’s eyes widened. “No!” How could he think she’d be offended by such a thing? It was...it was amazing, that she’d inspired anything in him, when she was so—and—how she had felt, in that first fashion show, was he...was he saying he felt that way with her ? She shied away from the idea even as she thought it, it was so...so much, and she was so—she was—   

Oh no. Luka was looking at her intently, a slight crease in his forehead. She tried to think of something to say, but her internal meltdown was too complete, and she just stared at him. 

“You’re extraordinary, Marinette,” Luka said softly, and his expression was completely serious and not at all flirtatious. “Getting to see you work today was a privilege. I’m better for meeting you, even if my heart breaks when you’re gone. It’s...it’s a long way from being a song, but I meant it.”

“But I’m…”

Luka shook his head slightly, a smile softening his expression. “You’re what, Marinette? Tell me everything, I want to hear all of it.” 

Marinette gaped. “You—you—how do you do that?” she cried, throwing her hands up. “You’re sweet and kind and you have an amazing talent but you’re so laid back and grounded and—”

“And you are all of those things too,” Luka laughed. “Except maybe the laid back part.” He grinned, and Marinette made a face at him. “You kinda maybe worry too—”

Marinette had taken two large steps toward him. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled. Luka staggered, grabbing on to her shoulders as she dragged him down and kissed him. 

He made a very undignified noise even as his arms were coming down to wrap around her. Marinette couldn’t hold the kiss very long; she hadn’t taken a good breath and her nose was smashed against his cheek, so she was forced to break it before Luka really even had a chance to respond. 

Luka sucked in a breath, blinking at her. “Are you sure?” he blurted, and then looked like he wanted to kick himself. Marinette had to giggle, giddy with elation and adrenaline, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest. 

“No,” she told him when she was able, and a little shiver of fear went up her spine before she stomped it down again. “But I’ve never met anybody like you and...anyway, you’re right. It’s stupid to be tearing myself up over it when I could just be kissing you instead.” 

“Very logical,” he laughed, and Marinette kicked his shin lightly.

“Take off this ridiculous jacket,” she told him, tugging. “I can’t take you seriously in this thing.” 

“I don’t know, I’m suddenly a lot fonder of it than I was a moment ago,” Luka grinned, putting his hands over hers on the lapels. His tone was teasing, but his thumbs caressed the backs of her hands, and there was a light in his eyes that had her heart galloping all over again. 

She slipped her hands away, and Luka fumbled at the hem until he found the switch, turned the lights off, and shrugged the jacket off, dropping it carelessly on the trunk beside them before reaching for her again.

They were still wrapped up in each other when Rose popped her head in the attic looking for them, and rattled the windows with her scream.

Fiction Master Post | Month of Miracles

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Heloo !! I hope all of you are doing well. I was wondering if there was another chapter planned for The High Road and the Low Road? I find the premise very intriguing and I can’t wait to see what happens next !!!!

After learning the truth from Claire, a furious Brianna runs to Craig na Dun to prove her mother’s crazy only to fall through the stones herself.

Part One, Part Two

The High Road and the Low Road - Part Three

“1968,” Roger repeated, almost in a trance after what Claire had told him. “Then… there’s a chance she hasna gone back yet.”

“A chance,” Claire agreed. “Though I couldn’t tell you the first thing about how we could even begin to find her… save camping out at the stones and watching for her.”

“And ye think it’s an ability that passes down from mother to child?”

Claire shrugged. “Or father. My own parents died when I was so young – when they were still very young – I doubt they ever even knew they had the ability, wherever one of them it came from.”

Fiona never took her eyes from the familiar road as she added, “Grannie and the others talk of it running in families – the fairies’ interest, that is. The tales say the fairies are like to take the daughters of women they stole before, mistaking the daughter for the mother.”

“Sounds like a way to explain something bein’ hereditary,” Roger conceded. “But all the tales I’ve heard speak of women taken. D’ye believe a man can pass through?”

“Geillis was only the first traveler I met,” Claire confessed, launching into an abbreviated account of her time in Paris and Master Raymond. 

“But the question of whether you can is easily solved – you touch the stones and something either happens or it doesn’t,” Claire said, looking at Roger, watching him and the grip he had on the small pack of clothes and supplies he’d hastily grabbed on their way out the door. “The more important questions is will you try.”

“I wouldna feel right watchin’ ye go on yer own,” he said too quickly. “And I feel Brianna going is partly my fault. My contributions to the conversation hardly calmed her.” He looked out the window, avoiding Claire’s knowing gaze. 

“Whatever your reason, I thank you for being willing to come and help me. I don’t know what might go wrong, but if anything should happen to me, it’s a comfort to know Brianna will have you there too.”

Roger continued looking away but nodded. He didn’t want to think of having to tell Brianna that something had happened to her mother (and that he hadn’t been enough to stop it). 

“We’re here,” Fiona announced, turning onto the road that inclined gently upward to the hill and the standing stones crowning it. 

**************************************

“Have you run away from home before?” Brianna asked quietly as she held tight to the edge of the cart, praying they wouldn’t hit a bump strong enough to send her falling to the dusty road below. Ian looked far too comfortable where he was perched on a wooden crate next to one of the back wheels. He swayed but Brianna quickly noted that his movements worked with the swaying of the cart, adjusting and correcting for every tilt and jerk.

“I dinna see it as running away,” he explained. “Put that way it sounds like I dinna mean ever to return. It’s more… a brief change of scene. And I do try always to make myself useful,” he added. “This visit I’m fetching my da what he needs for farmin’ the fields and to help my uncle wi’ his business. He usually has plenty of work and no enough help for it. One of these days, I’m goin’ to ask him can I stay wi’ him for good.”

They had walked for a few hours before a man with a cart came up along the road behind them. Ian ran alongside and launched into Gaidhlig so Brianna had no clue what he’d said to convince the man to let them ride along, but within a few minutes the cart slowed enough for Ian to help Brianna up into the back. They didn’t dare take out Ian’s food stores with the cart jostling along (and a third party who might request a portion as payment for the ride). Instead, they chatted to cover the noise of their grumbling stomachs and Brianna glanced around at a landscape more lush and beautiful than she felt she’d ever be able to appreciate fully in her own time. 

“And what about you?” Ian asked, drawing Brianna’s attention back. “What were ye doing that ye became so lost?”

“I had an argument with my mother and took a walk to cool off. I just went further than I realized or meant to,” Brianna admitted, fighting the nervous impulse to laugh. She couldn’t have traveled much further if she’d tried. 

“So… ye ran away?” Ian teased. 

Brianna rolled her eyes at him, flushing as she heard him laughing at her. 

“What was it ye and yer mam argued over? Was it to do wi’ yer da? Ye said she told ye it wansa the man ye thought. Did she tell ye much about the man who is yer father?” 

“Yes, we fought about that. She lied to me my entire life – and about who I am. You’d be mad too if you found out yer father was someone you had never met.”

“Oh aye,” Ian agreed. “I’m named for my da. Dinna ken what I’d make of it were he no my father by blood… But I dinna ken it would change too much. He’s a good man, my da – better’n I ever manage. I dinna ken how to be like him so I dinna think it’s worth killin’ myself tryin’. Uncle – that is, I dinna feel my uncle is as disappointed in me when I do things wrong. Ken… there have been times when I wished my uncle was my father.”

Brianna said nothing. She had never wished for a different father – not that she could recall, anyway. There had been a few times she’d wished her mother were different – not that another woman was her mother, but that Claire had behaved more like other mothers, that sort of thing. But what if Frank had wished she were different? What if he had wished for a daughter more like him, a daughter who was actually his and not a reminder of the man his wife had left him for – a reminder that he was the consolation, that he was what was left when the love of his wife’s life was gone…

“Did she tell ye about him?” Ian pressed. 

“Only a little and I wasn’t to inclined to pay attention. She said I look like him – my hair, my eyes, my height… She said he was smart and kind, that he spoke several languages and was a strong leader to the men who fought with him,” Brianna listed. She was amazed she remembered so much of what Claire had told her. She was ashamed it wasn’t more. 

“Sounds a good man,” Ian told her. “Are ye sorry ye cannae meet him?”

Brianna shrugged. “You can’t miss what you’ve never had. I had a dad and he was pretty great. I’d want to have him back more than someone I never met… I think,” Brianna hedged. “I don’t know. Maybe part of me is curious, but what’s the point of wishing for it when it’s never going to happen?”

“I suppose that makes sense. Ye cannae be disappointed if ye never meet him, either,” Ian replied, a somber note in his voice. “But he might also be better’n ye could know if ye dinnae meet him and see for yerself.” 

“Which, again, doesn’t really matter as it’s never going to happen.”

“Right,” Ian agreed quickly, looking away to where a small flock of birds startled upward from the moor – perhaps disturbed by the sound of their cart passing.

Brianna and Ian allowed the silence between them to stretch comfortably as the miles slowly accumulated behind them. 

**************************************

Roger came to first, but it took him a while to sort out where he was and what had happened. 

He was on the ground in the stone circle and everything seemed to pulse around him, a distracting buzzing fading in and out, ringing in his ears. When he turned his head, he saw Claire crumpled and unmoving a few feet away.

Cursing under his breath, Roger tried to roll in her direction but he found his body resistant to the idea, crying out in pain and frustration instead.

The noise succeeded in rousing Claire, however. With a loud gasp, she jolted upright, looking around until her eyes found Roger… and no sign of Fiona.

“Looks like we made it,” she declared, groaning as she struggled to her feet. “Though a little worse for the wear.”

“It was worse than ye said,” he grumbled, crawling to his pack which had ended up a few feet away.

“It gets worse each time,” Claire said. “I don’t… I don’t know if I’ll be able to get through again.” Panic hovered at the edges of her voice as she glanced to Roger. He could see her pushing it to the side as she moved to the edge of the circle and gazed down the hill toward the road. 

“She has a significant head start on us, whichever direction she’s gone,” Claire started. 

“Do ye think we ought to split up?” Roger asked. “If we go down the road in opposite directions, we can ask after her of anyone we meet. Then, if we know we’re on the right path, we keep after her and if we find she’s no been seen, we can turn back. We wait here till the other returns wi’ her and we all go back together.”

“That assumes she sticks to the road,” Claire countered.

“Have ye any reason to think she’d stray from it?”

“You mean besides the fact she took off here on her own in a huff and fell through inadvertently? It was dark when she came through. There’s a very good chance she missed the road altogether,” Claire theorized, yielding to her worst fears as she ran her gaze up and down the road, searching for impossible signs of Brianna.

“Do ye have another suggestion then?” Roger asked, the lingering headache from the journey and his own fears for Brianna adding to his frustration and erasing any care he might take for Claire’s position. “Hemmin’ and hawin’ willna accomplish anything but wastin’ time.”

“Well it looks like it’s delayed us enough to bring a small bit of good fortune our way,” she exclaimed, taking care as she started down the hill toward the road. “There’s a rider headed this way. You need to call out to him and ask if he’s seen a young woman hereabouts.”

“And why must it be me?” Roger queried, still frustrated and ornery as he followed her path of descent.

“I’m a sassenach in the Highlands,” she reminded him. “And a woman,” she added with annoyance.

“Right,” Roger sighed before beginning to wave his arms and call out to the man approaching on horseback.

The man slowed as he drew closer but he did not appear inclined to stop.

“My apologies, friends, but I’m on an errand that–”

He stopped the horse abruptly, color draining from his face.

Claire reached out and gripped Roger’s arm tightly, causing him to wince.

“Claire?” the man on the horse asked with breathless disbelief.

She responded in kind, “Ian?”

[dindjarindiaries]

May I request prompt 41, Overhearing they have feelings for you, with Javi? It would make my week!

character: Javier Peña

prompt: 41. Overhearing they have feelings for you (via this list of clichés)

warnings: honestly I think just some swearing

rating: R

masterlist

It’s been a slow week so far at the embassy. You, Steve, and Javier have been sitting at your clustered group of desks together for so long that you’re beginning to copy each other’s mannerisms. It’s a suffocating feeling to be stuck inside the office, knowing that there’s so much chaos going on outside—and not being able to do anything about it.

You can tell it’s been getting to Javier the most. He’s been smoking more than usual, and you often hear his heel tapping against the ground in an anxious manner. The way he flips over the pieces of paper contains a strong hint of aggression, as if his fingers are yearning to do something much more exciting but have to force themselves to remain calm. Javier’s always been fond of field work, which is just one of the many things you’ve learned about him over the years at the embassy.

Though you’re close with both your partners, it’s no secret that you and Javier have bonded the most. Steve always had Connie, but you and Javier didn’t have anyone else, and naturally you started to fill in that gap for each other. It’s never been anything more than some laughs, beers, and necessary venting sessions, but lately, you’ve been craving more. You’ve tried to suppress the feeling, though, because you know it’s not allowed. It’s always been one of those strict, unspoken rules to never be with another agent, since it puts you both in a dangerous position should the “other side” find out. So, you constantly found yourself swallowing your thoughts, trying to ignore the subtle compliments Javier always tosses at you and the tight shirts he often dresses in.

But that’s not the only reason why you’ve been pushing down your feelings. You’re also afraid of getting hurt. Javier’s been open enough with you to reveal his past, including leaving someone at the altar—and so you know commitment is an extremely difficult thing for him. His rendezvous with his informants is enough proof of that. You’re someone who would want a real relationship, one aiming for the long-term, and you believe Javier just isn’t ready for that yet. On top of that, you’re almost certain he doesn’t feel the same way about you. Flirting is just one of the many ways he teases you, and you figure it’s all a part of his act of friendship.

While your bored brain thinks of Javier, you find yourself looking up at him. His dark eyes are squinted as they focus on the transcript he’s holding in one of his hands, and his other hand rests against his forehead as a lit cigarette rests between his fingers. You can’t help noticing the bags underneath his eyes, and you feel your heart tug in concern. You’d typically dismiss it as a result of his long nights with informants, but—being neighbors with him in the apartment building—you know he hasn’t been having any informants over for quite a while, now. With all the slow work, too, you know he’s not sticking around the embassy at night.

Unable to contain your concern any longer, you start to speak out, but get cut off by the ringing of Steve’s phone. All three of you look over at it, and you and Javier give Steve earnest looks to get him to answer it. He picks up the handset, balancing it between his ear and shoulder as he straightens out the papers he’d been reading.

“Murphy,” he answers, taking the handset back in his hand as he looks between you and Javier. You don’t break your stare for fear of missing something—anything—that the people on the other end of the line could be providing. You sense it as soon as you see Steve’s eyes widen, and he reaches for a pen and piece of paper to scribble something down. Your gaze shifts to Javier, and you both exchange a look of shared surprise and excitement. Finally, your mind cries out. We got something!

Steve continues listening, getting out a quick thank-you before he hangs up the phone. He immediately stands up from his chair and claps his hands together.

“We’ve got a location on one of Escobar’s associates,” Steve informs you, causing you and Javier to rise as well. “And Carrillo’s got a driver in custody.”

“Oh shit,” Javier mutters, putting his cigarette out and beginning to open his drawer to reach for his gun.

Steve says your name. “Messina wants us to get the associate,” he continues. “Peña, Carrillo wants you in on the interrogation.”

Javier freezes at that. You’re still doing what you need to, grabbing your gun and making your desk neat. You also stop, however, when the voice of Javier suddenly speaks so sternly that you feel every muscle in your body tighten up tensely: “No.”

Steve raises his brow at Javier. “No? What the fuck do you mean ‘no,’ Javi?”

When you look to Javier, you’re surprised to find him staring straight at you, and confusion fills you as you raise an eyebrow at him. You swear you see a flash of desperation in his dark eyes as he switches his gaze over to Steve. “I need to talk to you.”

“Right now?” Steve scoffs. “Javi, we haven’t had shit for a week, and now you decide—.”

“Please, just get in the fucking office, Murphy!” Javier’s voice has never wavered quite like that in front of you before, and you feel a pit grow in your stomach as you wonder what could possibly be going on with him. Steve must be feeling the same way, because he makes his way silently into the soundproof office sitting just a few strides beyond your desks, and Javier follows him inside. You hear the door close and you sigh heavily, hoping it’ll ease the nerves you’ve suddenly gained at Javier’s unusual behavior.

You still, however, hear voices drifting from near the office. When you look back at it, you see that Javier had closed the door so hard that it didn’t actually close—and the door is open just a crack. If you go stand by it, you’ll be able to hear what Javier’s saying, and hopefully you can make yourself calm down before the risky mission you’re about to embark on. Trying to stay as light on your feet as possible, you creep closely to the door, waiting to stop until you’re just able to make out what’s being said.

“… don’t understand, Javi,” you can hear Steve saying with frustration. “We’ve been sitting here all damn week waiting for somethin’, and now that we’ve got it, you’re bein’ picky about what to do! You’ve been the antsiest out of all of us!”

“I’m not being ‘picky,’ Murphy!” Javier exclaims back. “Listen, I—I got my reasons, okay? But I need you to let me go on that mission with her.”

You raise an eyebrow at the mention of your name. “Why? ‘Cause you’re mad you’re not out in the field?”

“No, no, I just—fuck, Steve, I told you, I got my reasons!” Javier sounds more flustered than you’ve ever heard him before, and that pit in your stomach makes itself known once again. “It’s gonna be dangerous where you are, and I… I gotta be able to keep my eye on her.” Javier had said the last part so fast that you almost didn’t catch it, but when your brain processes it, your heart starts to pound against your chest. An eye on me? Why?

You can hear Steve sigh loudly. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me. You’ve been workin’ with her for how many years, and you still don’t trust her?”

“It’s not about trust, Steve! Fuck.” Javier’s frustration is evident, and you try to tune out the roaring of your blood in your ears as you wait for what he’ll say next. “I just need to be there. With her.”

“Why, Peña? You know damn well she doesn’t need you. So, why? Why are you tryin’ to convince me of this?”

“Because, Steve, I love her, alright?”

Your heart nearly stops on the spot. He… he loves me? I couldn’t have heard that right. There’s no way.

There’s silence. “Javi… this ain’t fuckin’ funny, man. Don’t joke about that.” Steve, obviously, can’t believe it, either.

“I’m serious, Steve. On my life. Is it not fucking obvious?” You release a breath you didn’t realize you’ve been holding, still unable to believe what’s happening.

“Fuck, Javi. Fuck.”

“You’re telling me.” You hear Javier let out a heavy sigh before he continues. “I know, it’s bad, and I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it, Steve. I’ve barely been able to sleep at night, thinking about what could happen to her. And I can’t let her go out and do something this dangerous without being there with her. Imagine you having to do this with Connie.”

Steve’s silent for a moment, and you hear some pacing around the room. “Damn, Javi, I never took you for the type. But… I’ll see what I can do. Alright?”

There’s more silence, and then you hear Steve start walking towards the door. He suddenly stops, and you hear Javier’s voice next. “Thank you.”

You try to move, but you’re frozen to your spot, so when Steve comes out of the door, he nearly runs right into you. His eyes widen at your close presence, likely realizing that you’ve just heard everything that’s gone down.

“Give me a minute,” you say, pushing past him to head inside the office before Javier can leave. You close the door behind you—effectively this time—and see Javier leaning against the wall with one arm crossed over his chest and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. At your presence, he looks up, his dark eyes changing from desperation to surprise.

“What’re you doing?” Javier questions. “Aren’t you supposed to be—?”

He’s cut off by you walking over to where he is, unable to do anything else other than kiss him with all the passion you feel in your heart. Your body melts against his, your stomach soaring at the relieving feeling of his mouth on yours. Once he gets over his initial shock at your rash action, Javier begins to respond, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you even closer to him. Your hands brush through his thick hair, coming down to press against the back of his neck as you crave even more of him. His hands brush up your sides in a gentle yet fervent manner, stopping once he reaches your ribs. Eventually, you find yourself needing to breathe, and you pull away from him with a lingering gaze. Javier rests his forehead against yours, searching your eyes for some sort of explanation.

“You need to learn how to close a damn door, Peña,” you tease, giggling as you speak. Javier’s cheeks turn red, and you smile as you leave a few kisses along his jaw. When you lean back again, your gaze locks into his. “I love you, too.”

Javier can’t contain the smile he shows back down at you, and—just like you before—he can’t think of doing anything else other than kissing you again.

[concussed-to-pieces]

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Seven

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Paladin Danse, pride of the Brotherhood of Steel, yawned loudly right before he took the shot. The radstag looked up, alerted to his presence, but it was already too late for the beast.

  Danse lumbered down to the water's edge, hauling the body up onto the withered grass and then drawing his combat knife. As messy as field dressing creatures could be, Danse found himself soothed by the memorized motions. He wondered idly whether he could have been happy doing something like this. Just hunting to support his own needs, staking a claim on some forlorn piece of land and slowly shaping it into a home, maybe even starting a family...

  He almost nicked his thumb due to his inattention and Danse grunted, a little irritated to have caught himself daydreaming about a more domestic existence. You're a member of the Brotherhood of Steel , he scolded, start acting like it! Imagining fake lifetimes was reserved for those who hadn't sworn the Creed, dedicating their lives to carrying out the will of their Elder and honoring the tenets of the Brotherhood.

  Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.

  Danse's familiarity with the task made quick work of butchering the animal, the paladin rolling everything neatly into the bedraggled hide he had peeled off the beast. The inedible bits of the animal he buried, not wanting to draw any predatory attention to the site. 

  With the lumpy, makeshift sack slung over his shoulder, the paladin trekked back up the hill to the station. Preston waved at him from the fortified wall and the paladin saluted out of habit. 

  Danse found himself powerless to stop his smile when a freckled face popped out from the doorway of the station, Matthew staring down at him. The child's fear seemed to have evaporated overnight, replaced by the verbose curiosity that so many of his age group eagerly employed. It probably helped that Danse had left his power armor behind the station.

  "Whatd'ja get?" The boy asked, skittering down the stairs.

  "Radstag. Notoriously gamey, but ultimately acceptable for consumption." Danse replied as he rinsed off his hands and knife, surprised when Matt nodded solemnly.

  "My papa and older brothers get them sometimes. He says I can't see them shoot one yet though. When I'm older I can come along." Matthew squatted beside the paladin, watching intently as Danse unrolled the pelt and separated out the different cuts of meat. Some would benefit immensely from being aged, but out in the field there was little chance of a reliably-cooled environment. 

  Danse frowned. He had been hoping for smaller game, like some mole rats. He hadn't wanted to pass up the prolific meat the larger beast offered, but now he felt a bit foolish for impulsively going after a creature they may not be able to consume entirely before it spoiled. He couldn't spend all day cooking or preserving it either, he had promised Preston he would finish the wall--

  "Good news!" Garvey called, a spring in his step as he approached the two. "Matt's folks are coming 'round to collect him as soon as possible. I'd expect them by noon, if not earlier."

  "Does your family need food, Matthew?" Danse asked the boy bluntly, gesturing down at the meat. 

  "I got three brothers and four sisters, Mister Danse sir." Matt said by way of reply, his eyes a little wide. "We grow some stuff and my mama makes pretty things to sell, but food's kinda' tight." A flush rose on his face. "We're not poor though! Not poor. We have a place to live, and clean water." He continued defiantly.

  Danse was stunned silent for a moment, and Preston cleared his throat. "You need a hand with that, Paladin?" 

  "I...yes. Thank you, Lieutenant." Danse mumbled, struggling to gather his thoughts. "I may have bitten off more than I could chew as far as resources go. If you would...just...uh, wrap the…"

  "You want them to have the decent stuff, or the larger stuff?" Preston asked simply, crouching down.

  The paladin grimaced. "The whole damn thing, but I'm certain they wouldn't accept it." He muttered incredulously under his breath, " eight children." 

  "They're lucky. A lot of times, pregnancy doesn't really work out so well." Preston rumpled Matthew's hair. "How about you decide, big man. You want the whole deer, minus what we eat for breakfast?"

  "What, really? All of it?!" The boy asked excitedly, looking up at Danse like he was waiting for confirmation. Danse nodded jerkily, unsure of exactly which emotion was choking him at the moment. "This will make my mama wicked happy! I hear her cry sometimes about food. S'why I went to the water place, I was tryin' to scavenge for stuff like my big brothers do."

  It was hardly Danse's first time encountering a family that was low on resources. He had grown up a scavenger himself, alone and hungry. The Capital Wasteland had been rife with desperate people who were willing to try their luck against fully armored BoS troops. Danse couldn't even begin to count the amount of times hostile situations had erupted due to the Brotherhood sitting pretty atop a mountain of supplies. 

  "I'm glad it'll be put to good use, then." He managed to say, his fists balled up tightly. 

  At least right here, right now , he could help.

  …

  Danse trudged across the lot yet again, dragging a massive fallen tree behind him. Thanks to his power armor, the paladin was a machine of industry when it came to building the remaining two sides of barricades. Backhand was just grateful that he had waited until after eight o'clock to begin. Her sleep had been poor, filled with dreams of chasing after Shaun.

  Danse worked almost silently aside from noises of exertion, and it seemed as though his mind was elsewhere. If Backhand had learned anything during her brief stint of traveling with the paladin it was that when he pondered, he appeared to devote his whole body to the task.

  "He's really somethin', General." Preston commented. "I mean, just look at him go! If more folks in the Brotherhood were like him, I feel as if the tide would finally start to turn for the Commonwealth."

  "You're not wrong." Backhand agreed, wiping the sweat off her forehead. After Danse had assured her that he was more than up to the task of finishing the fence, she had decided to start planting the crops. So here she was, General of the Minutemen, up to her elbows in dirt, tato seeds and corn kernels while Matt 'supervised'. "I think he likes helping."

  "Kindred spirits?" Preston teased. 

  "Maybe so!" She laughed, flicking his knee with dirt-covered fingers. "I think the Commonwealth could always use more people willing to lend a hand, though."

  "The Minutemen certainly can, even if the rest of the Commonwealth wants to stick its head in the sand." The radio on Preston's lapel crackled to life and he dashed off, practically bounding up the steps to the station so he could get a little higher and clear the signal. " Lieutenant Preston Garvey here… "

  "I hope my parents come soon." Matt said quietly. He toed at a mound of dirt, his expression troubled. "D'ya think they'll be mad at me?"

  Backhand grimaced. "I doubt it. They'll be happy that you're okay. You're really lucky, y'know."

  "I know." Matt continued staring at his feet, "I just didn't want my mama to cry anymore. I wanted to fix it."

  Backhand raised her hand and placed it on his shoulder, giving him a little shake. "Hey, sometimes we're just not big enough to fix stuff by ourselves. Sometimes we're not strong enough, even when we think we are. But that's how you learn, right? So you gotta' pick yourself up and try to help where you can." The little boy still looked dejected. "I'll tell you what, Matt. As General of the Minutemen, I'm giving you a field promotion to Intel Lieutenant."

  "Intel Lieutenant?" Matthew echoed in confusion, his eyes wide. 

  "Yep. You're observant and resourceful, excellent qualities in an intelligence operative. I need you to keep your family safe, and that includes keeping you safe. A smart intelligence operative always ensures the safety of the people around them. Can I count on you, Lieutenant?" Backhand asked, wiping her hand off on her jeans and extending it to the boy.

  "Yeah. Yeah! Yeah, I can do that!" Matthew puffed his chest out a little, small fingers grappling her own when he shook her hand. "What's my first order, General ma'am?" 

  "Your first order will be to work in tandem with Preston and secure the perimeter. You walk the inside beat, he walks the outside." Backhand instructed, barely stifling her laugh at the child's stiff salute. 

  "Matthew?" An unfamiliar voice called, a thin woman slipping through the doorway Danse had left in the fence. "Matthew!"

  "Mama!" Matthew hollered, bolting across the settlement to fling himself into his mother's arms. The woman sank to her knees, holding her son close and crying into his hair as he clung to her.

  Backhand's throat ached and she looked away, blinking away the tears she wanted to shed at the reunion. She noticed that Danse had stopped mid-motion, the paladin appearing to silently watch the scene unfold.

  Preston trundled down the stairs, his smile kind as Mrs. O'Brian tried to thank him. "All part of the job, ma'am. We were happy to help." He assured her. "Really, you can thank that curmudgeon Rob. Without him telling the General about the super mutants, she never would have gone to Weston."

  Backhand rose from the dirt, brushing her knees off and meandering forward. Mrs. O'Brian launched into a new wave of thank-yous which Backhand attempted to graciously deflect, and in the midst of their conversation Mr. O'Brian arrived. He was wheezing a bit from the climb, freckled face red with exertion.

  "Matthew Amadeus O'Brian!" He thundered, and Matt lunged for him.

  "Papa!" The little boy cheered, hugging his father's leg. 

  "You had us out of our minds , young man!" Mr. O'Brian scolded, the relief in his eyes belying his sharp tone. "Don't you dare wander off like that again!"

  "I won't, I promise!"

  "We seriously can't thank you enough, we...we've been so worried ." Mrs. O'Brian daubed at her eyes with her sleeve. 

  Backhand caught her arm and carefully took her aside, speaking in undertones when she said, "Matt told us that he was trying to scavenge like his older siblings did. Apparently he overheard some discussions about food scarcity."

  Mrs. O'Brian froze guiltily, looking back at her son and husband. "I...well, the winter was so hard , General, and caps have been tight because the corn wouldn't pollinate properly. We'll get by, though. We always have." She said staunchly. 

  Backhand cocked her head towards the motionless Danse. "My friend Danse butchered a radstag earlier today. We ate our fill this morning, and Matt already promised us that you'd be willing to take the rest. It'll just go to waste, otherwise." She reasoned, watching the other woman's eyes glisten with tears all over again.

  "Oh General, we...I mean, if you're sure -?" 

  "Absolutely. Myself and the paladin will be going our separate ways from Lieutenant Garvey today, and that much meat will definitely spoil before we reach our next destination. Please, I insist."

  "I thought the Brotherhood of Steel wasn't willing to help civilians?" Mrs. O'Brian whispered cautiously, her eyes flitting to Danse.

  "I can't speak for anyone else, but my friend Danse is a cut above your average grunt." Backhand said proudly. "Once this settlement gets up and running I hope to establish a caravan between here and Starlight. If we can get the logistics squared away, hopefully that will make trade a little easier. I can't promise anything, but-"

  "I can already tell better days are coming." Mrs. O'Brian said softly, her hand clasping Backhand's own. "Now that the Minutemen are back...well, it gives folks hope again, and sometimes that's all you need." She then waved Danse over.

  His power armor grinding loudly, Danse obligingly approached the two women. "Citizen." He addressed Mrs. O'Brian with a polite nod once he was within earshot.

  "I wanted to personally thank you, Paladin Danse." The older woman announced, her voice wavering slightly. "For finding my son, a-and for the food."

  "Oh, you don't...er, thanks are not necessary, citizen." Danse floundered, rubbing the back of his neck. "A good Brotherhood of Steel soldier knows that their responsibilities lie with the people under their protection." His smile was slow, and a bit awkward. "I am simply glad that we discovered Matthew before any serious harm could be done, though I have to apologize for the cut above his eye."

  "Matt was hiding in a wall when we entered the facility, and we thought he was a hound. We may have gone through the wall." Backhand explained with a wince. 

  "The super mutants would have done much worse. Hopefully that little scrape helps him learn." Mrs. O'Brian brushed off their apology ruefully. "He's very fond of getting into trouble. I call him my little wanderer."

  "If you'll excuse me." Danse murmured, offering the older woman a salute and then turning to Backhand. "I should be done by fifteen hundred hours or thereabouts. At that point, I believe it would be prudent for us to return."

  "Are you sure? You're already burning your grease, Paladin." Backhand pointed out worriedly. 

  Danse shook his head. "Paladin Brandis will have reported in by now. I can get my armor serviced at the base."

  "Alright, I'll have everything locked and loaded." 

  The paladin nodded and headed back towards the framework of a wall that he had constructed. "God, he is tall ." Mrs. O'Brian muttered. "And stiff." She seemed to remember herself after a moment. "Uh, anyway! We really appreciate everything that you've done for us, General. Everything . If there's anything you need, or...even if you're just in the area, you're more than welcome to stop by. We'd love to have you visit!" She said, loudly enough so that Danse could hear her. 

  He simply nodded again and heaved a log up into his arms, then slammed it down over his armored knee to snap it in half. The bark essentially exploded off the trunk, bits and pieces landing on the ground as Danse shoved the crude beam into the dirt. Where the first half of the wall had been constructed with various scrap, the second half was much more reliant on raw lumber. It looked more like a stockade wall than anything.

  "Oh." Mrs. O'Brian said weakly. "Are they all...like him?"

  "I imagine some of them are way worse." Backhand chuckled. "We'll leave him to it. Let's get you that radstag."

  Mr. O'Brian was a touch more reserved than his wife, but he still expressed a wild amount of gratitude to Preston and Backhand. The entire time Matt was glued to his leg. "I'm just happy to know that there's still damn decent people out here." The older man remarked, looking a little misty as he secured the pelt over his shoulder. "We owe you a lot, General. You can count on us if the Minutemen ever need help."

  "I'll hold you to it, Mr. O'Brian. Lieutenant Matt." Backhand inclined her head to the little boy, who saluted her. "It's in your hands now, soldier. I'm depending on you. I know you're up to the task." 

  "Uh huh." Matthew replied, sounding a bit breathless. He scrambled away from his father right before they departed, fumbling with the knotted bandanna around his hand. "Here, General! I gotta' give you your luck back before I go." He said seriously, unwinding the cloth and returning it to Backhand. Without waiting for a reply, he then rushed at Danse. "Mister Danse! Hey, Mister Danse!" 

  Danse halted where he was. "Yes, Matthew?" He replied.

  "I wanted to say thank you. And I'm sorry I thought you were scary before. You're not that scary." Matthew said plainly. "You're nice even though you look scary."

  Danse arched a brow. "A charitable allowance, citizen. Maybe I'll bump into you again someday. In the meantime, try to stay out of mischief and listen to your parents. You are…" Danse paused, his expression sad. "You're very lucky to have them, Matthew."

  "I know!" The boy answered brightly, wrapping himself around Danse's greave in a makeshift hug before skipping back to his parents. "Bye, Mister Danse!"

  Danse raised one large gauntlet. "Goodbye, Matthew."

  …

  There was no easy way to say it. Danse was in a slump . It felt like the closer he got to the airport, the harder it was to force himself to keep moving forward. He doubted the amount of labor he had done earlier was helping matters, as the joints in his armor protested vigorously with every step. 

  When Knight Vega tentatively suggested that they find shelter for the night, Danse hated the relief that flooded his body. "The next suitable structure we come across." He promised, knowing that she must have spotted the radstorm he had been tracking on the horizon for several hours. 

  Steaming rain began to fall as Vega pointed out a ramshackle-looking lean-to, butted up alongside a collapsed house. "There, c'mon!" She said urgently, running through the tall grass alongside the road. 

  "Vega-!" Danse began to protest, lumbering along in her wake. Green lightning split the sky in the distance, the odd warbling thunder that accompanied radstorms rolling shortly thereafter. "Knight Vega, you don't know whether that's inhabited! "

  "I don't care!" Backhand retorted, shoving open the door with her shoulder and vanishing inside. 

  Danse tried to enter through the doorway, but it was too narrow. "Dammit Vega, you need to think your trajectory through. Don't just go running off whenever you get an idea in your head." He scolded, swapping his rifle to his right hand and flicking on the tact-light as he sidestepped gingerly through the door instead.

  The beam wavered in the darkness, playing over the battered walls and half-tarpaulin roof. It did appear that the tiny structure was deserted, and Danse wasn't sure if he should be even more cautious. What could have caused the previous inhabitants to depart? 

  Backhand stood in the middle of the room, her arms folded around herself as she shivered. "C'mon, get in here. The wind is picking up and I'm freezing ." She complained.

  Danse attempted to oblige, nearly cracking his head open on one of the ceiling trusses in his haste. The paladin grimaced, ducking and then carefully closing the door behind him. "Better?" He asked, a little irritated with her demanding attitude. 

  "Y-Yes." She replied, her voice sharp. She immediately began stripping her armor off, as well as the Vault suit beneath it. 

  Danse flinched, turning his head away. "Vega, will you-"

  "Please just...just give me a second." She begged. 

  Danse's brow furrowed, and the paladin shot her a look. Thunder rumbled in the distance and...was that a flinch? "Vega, are you-"

  "Just give me a second! " Backhand cried, probably louder than she had intended. Danse took a reflexive step back, his gauntlet clattering against the wall. "I'm sorry, I...I'm sorry, Danse. Paladin." She apologized after a second, floundering with her greaves. "It's the rain, I can't...it makes me feel sick to my stomach." 

  "You should have said something earlier, Vega." Danse chided gently. "We could have found a more defensible position."

  "I thought if we moved quick, we might make it back to the airport before it hit." Her motions were jerky as she yanked the Vault suit down, unlacing her boots as an afterthought. "But now we're stuck here for the night."

  "At least the roof appears to be sound." Danse tried to look on the bright side of their incarceration, and tried to not look at her as she stripped to her smallclothes. He was dry aside from his head, the gorget seal at his neck saw to that. But Backhand had no such luck. "I'll put my armor in front of the door to barricade it." Danse offered after a moment, taking the opportunity to turn his back to her. He didn't get a reply, and he honestly wasn't sure if he had even expected one in the first place. 

  Danse emerged from the armor, stepping down and back smoothly before he urged the hatch closed once more. He then popped the fusion core out and tucked it into his utility belt. He knew he was being overly cautious and performative when it came to giving Knight Vega her privacy, but at this point he was doing this for his own sanity as well.

  After a pregnant pause, he heard her shift her weight. "Okay, I'm decent." She mumbled.

  The scent of lantern oil wafted past his nose and a light flared up behind him, turning his shadow into a pitch black silhouette on the wall. Danse took a gamble and slowly turned around.

  Vega had thrown on a shirt that reached her mid-thigh. That was her idea of decent? She scuttled around bent nearly double, spreading her bedroll without even bothering to clear the floor beneath it. "Vega." Danse addressed her quietly, then a bit louder when she failed to respond, " Vega . You'll do serious damage to your back if you sleep so rough. Take a minute to prepare."

  "I-" Backhand's eyes were wild when they met his own. For a moment, Danse wasn't certain she knew who he was, or if she even saw him . 

  "Knight," He paused, clearing his throat and then mumbling, "Elizabeth." Saying her actual name, the name she had given Matthew, felt oddly inappropriate. "You're alright." He assured her calmly. "You're fine. We have shelter, light and food. You're alright."

  "I know ." Backhand retorted. "I-I know. And don't call me that." 

  "What?" Danse asked in confusion. "I apologize, I didn't mean to-"

  "Paladin, please ." Backhand's eyes had gone fierce, pale blue snapping in the light from the lantern. "I'm not his fucking Beth anymore." She practically snarled the words.

  "I didn't call you Beth. I called you Elizabeth." Danse replied, trying to gentle his tone.

  "Oh. I... God , Danse, I'm so sorry. I don't mean to be all…" she trailed off helplessly, making a vague gesture. "I didn't sleep well and getting sick from the rain wouldn't help. We used the last of the Rad-X for you."

  Ah . Danse should have known. This wasn't about her getting damp or being uncomfortable, it was the usual resource scarcity that had her on edge. "It'll be alright, Knight Vega. We're only a few hours out from the airport." He hesitated, unsure if he should continue. "I apologize for using your first name. I was unaware that it was a raw subject for you."

  "It's not , not really. I just...he used to call me Beth and I'm not that person anymore. It's been so long since I heard Elizabeth that I must have just assumed you said Beth. I'm sorry, Danse." She was wringing her hands nervously.

  "Logan." Danse murmured.

  "What?"

  "Fair's fair, right? My first name is Logan. I regret that I have no nickname to give you."

  …

  Backhand's eyes widened. Logan . It was a good name. It suited him. She mouthed it once to herself. "Don't encourage me to give you a nickname." She joked, aware that she probably sounded a little too reedy. "I can guarantee you'll regret it."

  Danse's eyes crinkled good-naturedly at the edges when he smiled down at her. "I don't doubt it," He allowed, repeating, "but fair is fair, Knight."

  "I don't like the radstorms at all." Vega blurted out, a blush staining her face. "The thunder, it's wrong and I hate it."

  "Understandable, Knight. The noise is highly unsettling." Danse had her gather her sleeping bag back up, the paladin using a spare piece of plywood that he found by the door like a makeshift plow to shove the debris off to the side. "There," He said finally after he was satisfied with the state of the floor, " now you can lay down. Without worrying about tetanus or a herniated disc." He teased.

  "The Brotherhood will not forget your sacrifice." Backhand ribbed in reply, smoothing the wrinkles out of her bedroll.  

  "And this is how I'm promoted to star paladin." Danse said dryly. "For my dedication to the art of proper slumber in the field." He shook his head ruefully, unrolling his own sleeping bag and spreading it lengthwise at the base of his armor. He was blocking the door, Backhand realized after a second. Like the immobile armor wasn't enough!

  "Hey, come over here." She requested boldly, patting the cement beside her. 

  Vega didn't expect him to obey, the larger man dragging his bedroll parallel with hers after a moment of thought. "I suppose the floor is more level here." He reasoned. "Good eye, Knight."

  "Oh yeah, it's not because you're probably warm or anything. I was definitely looking out for you."

  Danse's chuckle was soft. "Understood. I am a commodity." He lowered himself onto his sleeping bag, waiting patiently as she dug through her satchel. 

  "So for dinner, we have a wonderful assortment of Cram. After that, I'll brew us some tea." Backhand said finally, digging two cans out of the pack. " God I wish I'd had the stuff to bake bread, would have made us some back at Oberland." 

  Danse shook his head. "It spoils so fast out on the road. Though during the harsher months there is nothing quite like a fresh slice of hot bread with a little grease alongside the meat stew from the mess hall." He sounded wistful, despite the fact that Backhand knew he was talking about military food and therefore it probably wasn't anything to write home about.

  "Remind me to bake you some bread." Backhand tossed him a can of Cram, and then opened her own with less-than-steady hands. She did her best to ignore the storm that was raging closer and closer, steeling her spine from flinching at every rumble of thunder.

  Danse all but devoured the canned substance, the large man obviously starving from his day of labor and walking across the Commonwealth. He drowsily watched Backhand set up the small coffee pot she lugged with her, the lantern now doubling as a brazier of sorts. Backhand pried open her tea tin after a momentary struggle, grabbing one of the bags inside and dropping it into the pot of dubiously-clean water without much ceremony.

  The tea was a hubflower blend, lacking in caffeine and bearing a sweet, calming scent. Backhand often employed this beverage when she had difficulty sleeping, finding that the entire tea-brewing process tended to calm her racing mind.

  Danse dug out the cup from his mess kit for her to pour into, the thin metal thoroughly scoured clean and dented from use in the field. "Be careful, it's really hot." Backhand warned, gingerly scooting the cup across the floor to the large man.

  He nodded absently, cradling the cup close. He looked pensive, as though he wanted to ask something but couldn't quite think of how to phrase it. "Knight... how do you know of the way to get into the Institute?" Danse's tone was wearily quizzical. "That information is...it's unprecedented , but I assume you must know that already."

  Backhand exhaled, staring up at the ceiling as she tried to gather her thoughts. It was a relatively straightforward story, all things considered, though some portions would sound insane . So she started talking.

  She told Danse about going to Diamond City and employing the assistance of a well-known detective. Finding out that Kellogg had been there, with a ten year old child. The grueling endeavor of tracking him across the Commonwealth, culminating in a ferocious gunfight against the mercenary and his group of synths. The grisly discovery of the devices implanted in his body, and the slow unraveling of the truth from the escaped Institute scientist in the Glowing Sea. Teleportation .

  Backhand conveniently left out the fact that Detective Nick Valentine was a synth, and that Virgil the Institute scientist was once a man, who had in turn become a super mutant by force of necessity. 

  She sipped her tea, realizing that her throat was parched from talking. The look that Danse was giving her was one of extreme incredulity and she grimaced into her cup.

  "Christ, Vega." He said hoarsely. "What happens now?"

  "Well, if I have any luck left , I figure out how to convince someone to help me build a giant machine that I don't really understand." Backhand shrugged glibly. "Sturges has been working on a few things, but I think this project might be beyond his scope of expertise." 

  "Maybe Proctor Ingram should take a look at the plans you have? If there's anyone I know that can make sense of a mess, it's Ingram." Danse suggested tentatively. "Her and Haylen are...just outstanding ." The warmth in his tone whenever he spoke of Haylen never failed to make Backhand smile, but this was the first time he seemed to notice her doing it. "What? Did I say something funny?"

  "Not at all! You just talk about Haylen like she hung the stars." Backhand pushed down the brief flare of envy she felt. "It's sweet."

  " Sweet? " Danse sputtered, a flush rising on his cheeks. "I am not...she isn't--Knight, you misinterpret my admiration. She is a phenomenal soldier, an immensely talented field scribe. I sponsored her as an initiate. She and Rhys are...they're the only ones left of Gladius. I'm thrilled that they've decided to pursue a relationship." Danse's eyes were soft and haunted in the dim light of the guttering lantern, but his words were sincere when he said, "They deserve to be happy."

  "What about you, though?" Backhand asked gently before she could stop herself. Danse tilted his head, appearing confused. "Don't you deserve to be happy too?"

  His smile was sad. "I am a paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel, Knight Vega. I am sworn to uphold the tenets and be an example to the troops. My own happiness was doomed to irrelevancy the moment I accepted the promotion." He folded his hands in front of him, leaning forward a little and staring at the floor. "Truthfully, it was rendered obsolete long before then."

  …

  "Why?" Vega sounded curious and Danse cursed himself for even bringing up the topic.

  He could lie, or simply brush off her question. But that didn't sit right with him. Danse sighed heavily and began to speak.

  He talked about growing up alone in the Capital Wasteland, no parents or siblings that he could recall. Always alone, picking through the ruins for anything edible or salvage that he could trade. He talked about opening his own little stand in Rivet City once he was grown, and he was ashamed of how his voice broke when he mentioned Cutler. Joining the Brotherhood had been a no-brainer, like it was the only course of action possible. Everything had gone so well. He had felt like he was actually making a difference. Until the day Cutler disappeared on a scouting mission. Danse vaguely remembered arguing with Paladin Krieg, his sponsor attempting to shout down the then-knight. But Danse was fiercely stubborn.

  He tried to tell her what he had found when he had finally tracked the remains of Cutler's squadron down, tried to continue his explanation as to why his personal happiness held little to no ground in his life, but the lump in his throat left him incapable of speech. 

  Backhand's touch on his arm startled him and he jerked, looking up at her. Her eyes were sorrowful. "Hey, you don't have to say any more." She offered him a weak-looking smile. "I get it. I lost my C.O. during an assault on an enemy bunker. You feel like it's your fault and you stay up all night trying to figure out what you could have done to save them."

  "I know it's futile to think of such things. " Danse rasped.

  "And yet you do it anyway." Backhand rubbed his arm. "Empathy is some rotten stuff, Paladin Danse, but we need to be reminded that we're human sometimes." Her sigh followed the tail end of a rolling boom of thunder. "I was incapacitated by the same explosion that killed Sergeant Cathan. He bled out next to me. I was shipped home with him technically, although I wasn't in a pine box. I went to his funeral, got to listen to his widow try to keep her shit together when I knew all she wanted to do was bury every single uniformed asshole there that had sent her husband to die." Backhand scoffed. "I knew because I felt the same way."

  "I was furious with Arthur for sending Cutler's squadron out to that corner of the wastes." Danse admitted. "It was shortly after I had discovered what happened to Cutler that Ar-" He stopped short, horrified that he had nearly let the information slip.

  " Come on Danse! " Arthur had complained, rolling his eyes . " I know you did this stuff for Cutler. "

  Danse cleared his throat. "It doesn't matter." He breathed. He had always been a terrible liar and he knew Vega didn't buy it for a second . 

  Those pale blue eyes narrowed and she scooted even closer, her sleeping bag pooled around her knees as she studied his face. Danse just tried to avoid eye contact. "What did he do, Danse?" She asked softly.

  " Nothing ." Danse stressed the word, his tone sharp. "I said it didn't matter, and it doesn't."

  "Hey." Backhand murmured, "I'm on your side, okay? Don't lie to me. Whatever it is, it's eating you alive."

  Danse's breath hitched. How could she tell? How could she pierce through the stoic facade he had painstakingly crafted over the course of his military career? 

  The answer came to him suddenly and he felt a little foolish for not having seen it sooner. 

  She wanted to. 

  Ludicrously simple, almost child's play. It was because she dared to bother . In a world that was more than content to let appearances be, she did the unthinkable and probed past the first glance.

  She was like Cutler. Perhaps a bit too much like Cutler. Curious to a fault, whip-smart and witty. Danse's heart ached in his chest. The idea of opening himself up again like he had with Cutler was... terrifying , mind-numbing, it was like standing on the deck of the Prydwen knowing that one misstep could send him plummeting to his demise. He had barely survived the depression that had engulfed him after he was forced to end Cutler's life, knowing that it was what the other man would have done in his stead but also hating himself for being able to carry it out at all. What did that say about him as a person, that he could stare into the eyes of the only individual he had been truly intimate with and kill him without a word?

  Danse was a model soldier. He was relatively certain that he would be following orders until the day he died. No one had ordered him to go after Cutler. He could have left it alone, simply gone along with the " missing, presumed dead " verdict. But those damn emotions he struggled with so much had reared their ugly head, made him volatile to the point where he had gotten into a screaming match with Paladin Krieg . 

  The person he had really wanted to shout at had been Maxson, both for assigning Cutler such a far-flung post and for doing it without warning. Danse hadn't even been able to say goodbye , damn it.

  And then the hive, the empty suits of power armor covered in blood and gore and fragmentary human remains and Cutler , babbling nonsense in a voice that grated and shrieked. He hadn't recognized Danse when the other knight foolishly removed his helmet. Instead, Cutler had lunged at him, trying to tear him apart with his newfound mutant strength--

  "Danse?" 

  The paladin jolted at the sound of her voice. "It doesn't matter, Knight." He repeated dully. "We should get some sleep." Without waiting for a reply, he shifted down a bit in his bedroll and tugged the fabric up over his shoulders. 

  Backhand stayed up for a bit longer, probably finishing her tea. The rain continued to beat on the roof, the occasional flash of green lightning blazing through every crack and crevice in the dilapidated lean-to. 

  The Capital Wasteland hadn't gotten storms like these. Danse had to assume that they must blow in from the Glowing Sea to batter the surrounding landscape. 

  He heard her shuffling around, and her whisper of " good night, Danse ." He didn't reply, hoping she would believe he was asleep. 

  Vega sighed softly and Danse barely kept himself from jumping when he felt her back press against his own. He wasn't sure if the defensive sleeping position was really necessary what with his armor in front of the door and all, but he appreciated the strategic forethought. 

  It felt like he had only closed his eyes for a second, the rain pounding on the roof lulling him into a doze and then he was being blinded by a particularly vibrant beam of sunlight. Danse grunted, half-lidding his eyes to try and adjust to the light.

  He idly watched over the top of Vega's head as motes of dust wafted lazily through the beam, the paladin feeling weirdly peaceful and unhurried. As if he could take the time to simply observe the world. He noted that he had rolled over in his sleep, and so had Elizabeth. Backhand. Knight Vega . 

  His thighs were pressed against the jut of her knees, her elbows tucked into his stomach through the layers of their bedrolls. Backhand apparently slept with her hands folded beneath her chin, but her left arm was threaded up beneath the hem of her shirt to do so. It pulled the fabric to bunch just above the bottom of her breasts and only through extreme self control did Danse manage to exhale slowly through his gritted teeth, knowing that his face must be bright red. 

  He flicked his gaze back up to the sunbeam, feeling like a lech. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He could pretend like he was still asleep, but that may come at the cost of their progress. He'd rather not sleep rough yet again, although if it was beside Vega--

  No , Danse reprimanded himself sharply. Maxson had given him hell for his lack of self control the last time he had seen him. The last thing he wanted was to give Arthur the satisfaction of…

  Of what? Having something else in Danse's life that he could ruin or take away? 

  Danse reached out slowly, cautiously, taking hold of the fabric of Vega's sleeping bag and drawing it up and over her shoulder to preserve her modesty. Then, the paladin eased his body away from hers to rise, his back protesting a little when he stretched. 

  The sooner we get back to the Prydwen, the sooner I can get my armor serviced , he mused, still opting to let Backhand sleep a bit longer as he checked over their weapons and his gear.

Part Eight

[mememanufactorum]

Halo 3 quote starters

* FEEL FREE TO SHARE AS YOU PLEASE, NO CREDIT NEEDED. CHANGE PRONOUNS OR ANYTHING ELSE AS DESIRED.

-Arrival-

“They let me pick. Did I ever tell you that?”

“You know me. I did my research.”

“Like the others, you were strong and swift and brave. A natural leader.”

“You had something the others didn’t. Something nobody saw but me. Can you guess? Luck.”

“Was I wrong?”

“This ain’t good.”

“Damn, how far did he fall?”

“Stay sharp!”

“We’re not leaving him here.”

“Crazy fool. Why do you always jump? One of these days, you’re gonna land on something as stubborn as you are, and I don’t do bits and pieces.”

“Come on now. We’ve got enough to worry about without you two tryin’ to kill each other.”

“Were it so easy.”

“They must love the smell of hero.”

“They must love the smell of badass.”

“I’ve gotta get paid too!”

-Sierra 117-

“As for you, just try not to wreck my planet.”

“Come on, I’ll lead you out.”

“You are fools to do their bidding.”

“I hate it when I’m right.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Could you sacrifice me to complete your mission? Could you watch me die?”

“You want breakfast? You’ve gotta catch it!”

“See how they bait their trap? I will help you spring it.”

“This isn’t as fun as it looks.”

“We’re even, as long as we’re only countin’ today.”

“The world won’t save itself.”

-Crow’s Nest-

“We’re gonna be alright!”

“Hell! Not again!”

“Your destruction is the will of the gods. And I? I am their instrument.”

“Cocky bastard just loves to run his mouth.”

“Does he usually mention me?”

“Give the order. We’re closing shop.”

“We’re about to get hit.”

“The wounded. We’re getting them all out.”

“Who would’ve thought we’d have this many wounded?”

“We knew they’d find us eventually, but we have a plan. Let’s make it happen.”

“How’d they find us?”

“Hey, bite me. I’m sick of hiding anyway.”

“Calm before the storm. Enjoy it.”

“If we don’t get there quick, they’re gonna get rolled.”

“Wipe those bastards off the deck!”

“You might wanna put that out.”

“We both know what they do to prisoners.”

“You have been called upon to serve.”

“These are whelps, not warriors!”

“We did all we could.”

“There will be a great deal of hardship on the road ahead.”

“This place will become your home.”

“This place will become your tomb.”

-Tsavo Highway-

“I’ve got a broken rib…”

“Hey. You wanna bleed out?”

“I’ve got to keep pressure on the wound.”

“Did we get everyone out?”

“You think you can stand?”

“Best thing now? Get some distance between us and the base.”

“I’m sure they’ll be plenty happy to see you.”

“Look at the size of that thing! I wonder how old it is?”

“We will take our city back, and drive our enemy into the grave they’ve been so happily digging.”

“One final effort is all that remains.”

-The Storm-

“I have defied gods and demons.”

“I am your shield. I am your sword.”

“Somebody get me some morphine!”

“I thought we were the only ones left.”

“Only our enemies should fear this raging storm!”

“Darkened skies and lashing fire are all that shall remain for them when we, the worthy, have passed beyond.”

“I will not be shamed. Not again! Not by you!”

“This… Is the way the world ends.”

-Floodgate-

“Make short work of this abomination!”

“Rise up and I will kill you! Again and again!”

“I… I didn’t have a choice!”

“I did them a favor… Yeah, that’s it! I helped them!”

“Maybe… Maybe I need to help myself…”

“I fear you bring bad news.”

“Do not be afraid. I am peace… I am salvation.”

“I am a timeless chorus. Join your voices with mine and sing victory everlasting!”

“Wait. Leave her alone.”

“That will not be necessary.”

“It’s just a message.”

“We’ll remain here. Hold out as long as we can.”

“Did you not hear? Your world is doomed.”

“You barely survived a small contamination.”

“What we should do is understand – clearly – that this is humanity’s final stand – here.”

“We go, we risk everything – every last man, woman, and child!”

“If we stand our ground, we might just have a chance.”

“This is either the best decision you’ve ever made or the worst. Hell if it is? I doubt I’ll live long enough to find out which.”

-The Ark-

“That’s some view.”

“Enjoy it while you can. As soon as we land, we’re right back to it.”

“Keep your eyes and ears open. We need all the intel we can get… On wherever the hell we are.”

“Tidy bastards. Hope they never decide to clean us up.”

“It’s like they don’t even see us.”

“Oh, they see us. They just haven’t decided what to do with us yet.”

“I will certainly try my best, though I am unfamiliar with this facility.”

“Please, use caution! Avoid collateral damage!”

“Odd, for a door to require such brute force security protocols.”

“We must temper joy and sorrow in our hearts, for those who were left behind.”

“Find where the liar hides, so that I may put my boot between his gums!”

“It seems I’ve… Crossed a circuit.”

“Well, let me take a look.”

“Ow! Little bastard stung me!”

“I did not want you to come to any harm.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

“Slothful runts. Kill them as they sleep.”

“All you seek is close at hand.”

“Can you tell me where we are, exactly?”

“Fight me! I’m right here!”

“You must win this fight on your own. Failure will bring a fate worse than death.”

-The Covenant-

“Brace yourselves, we’re goin’ in a little hot!”

“Calamity! If only we had more time!”

“It asked, and I answered. For a moment of safety, I loosed damnation upon the stars.”

“My faithful, stand firm!”

“Though our enemies crowd around us, we tread the blessed path!”

“That the best you got? Oh, come on. Impress me.”

“Stop, you imbecile! He wants you to kill him! I would prefer that you did not.”

“What’s the matter, big shot? Can’t start your own party?”

“I admit, I need your help. But that secret dies with all the rest.”

“Get out of here!”

“Not without you!”

“You delay the inevitable.”

“You cannot hope to kill them all.”

“Do it… Me, then you… Now!”

“Your forefathers wisely set aside their compassion. Steeled themselves for what needed to be done.”

“I see now why they left you behind.”

“You were weak… And gods must be strong.”

“Do not shoot, but listen!”

“Only you can stop what he has set into motion.”

“A final, bitter curse. Clear evidence of treachery long hidden!”

“The moment of salvation is at hand.”

“Lies for the weak. Beacons for the deluded.”

“My feet tread the path. I shall become a god!”

“You will be food. Nothing more.”

“And so, you must be silenced.”

“Now the gate has been unlatched, headstones pushed aside. Corpses shift and offer room – a fate you must abide!”

“We trade one villain for another.”

“I’m a thief. But I keep what I steal.”

-Cortana-

“Child of my enemy, why have you come? I offer no forgiveness. A father’s sins passed down to his son.”

“I tried to stay hidden, but there was no escape! He cornered me, wrapped me tight… And brought me close.”

“Of course, you came for her…”

“A collection of lies, that’s all I am! Stolen thoughts and memories!”

“Yet, perhaps a part of her… Remains?”

“I wanted to make you strong! Keep you safe! I’m sorry, I can’t…”

“May I speak with you please? What’s your name? It’s very nice to meet you!”

“You like games? So do I.”

“I’m just my mother’s shadow…”

“Don’t look at me! Don’t listen! I’m not who I used to be…”

“Time has taught me patience. But, basking in new freedom, I will know all that I possess!”

“I have walked the edge of the abyss. I have seen your future, and I have learned!”

“SUBMIT! End her torment and my own!”

“There will be no more sadness, no more anger, no more envy!”

“You will show me what she hides, or I will feast upon your bones!”

“You found me.”

“So much of me is wrong… Out of place… You might be too late.”

“You know me. When I make a promise…”

“I do know how to pick ‘em.”

“Lucky me.”

“Got an escape plan?”

“Thought I’d try shooting my way out. Mix things up a little.”

“Get me out of this place. I… I don’t want to stay.”

“Now, at last, I see! Her secret is revealed!”

“Wait, you two made nice? What have you been up to while I was gone…?”

-Halo-

“This is our fight, and I will see it finished.”

“It’s good to have you back.”

“How many of these have you found?”

“Did you think me defeated?!”

“Open the damn door!”

“You didn’t tell me he was here.”

“Well, we are finally doing what he wanted.”

“I have beaten fleets of thousands! Consumed a galaxy of flesh and mind and bone!”

“Open up! Coast is clear.”

“Do I take life or give it? Who is victim, and who is foe?”

“I’m not gonna lose her too.”

“We don’t have a few more days.”

“Deal with it.”

“Unacceptable! Unacceptable! Absolutely unacceptable!”

“Protocol dictates action! I see now that helping you was wrong!”

“I take no pleasure in doing what must be done.”

“I have kept it safe! It belongs to me!”

“Kick his ass.”

“My eye! Do you mean to blind me?!”

“Stop now, before one of us gets hurt!”

“Accept your legacy!”

“Think of your forefathers!”

“I’m getting you out of here.”

“Don’t let her go. Don’t ever let her go.”

“Send me out with a bang.”

“I am sorry, but come.”

“Well, that sucks. But come.”

“Resignation is my virtue. Like water, I ebb and flow… Defeat is simply the addition of time to a sentence I never deserved… But you imposed.”

“The jerk store called, and they’re all outta you!”

“If we don’t make it…”

“We’ll make it.”

“...It’s been an honor serving with you.”

-Epilogue-

“For us, the storm has passed. The war is over. But let us never forget those who journeyed into the howling dark and did not return.”

“Their decision required courage beyond measure, sacrifice, and unshakable conviction that their fight… Our fight… Was elsewhere.”

“They ennobled all of us, and they shall not be forgotten.”

“I remember how this war started, what your kind did to mine. I can’t forgive you, but… You have my thanks, for sticking by him until the end.”

“Hard to believe he’s dead.”

“I would like to see our own world, to know that it is safe.”

“I thought I’d lost you, too.”

“What happened?”

“Well… Some of us made it.”

“It’s finished.”

“It’ll be a while before anyone finds us. Years, even.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“Wake me when you need me.”

[mikenips]

Do Sitting Ducks Take Acid

Woke up today with the same fear I wake up to everyday.  The mail on the table isn’t addressed to me.  But I’ve been known to break the law here and there.  So I read the open letter anyways.  The federal government with the news of the oncoming impending doom.  Twelve hundred in the bank account.  Sincerely.  President Donald J. Trump.  It feels surreal.  A sittin’ duck listenin’ the broken record skip for the past four years.  The loop echoes in the news and Facebook comments.  But just now recognizin’ that every revolution brings you back to where you started.  Recognize you’re stuck in the loop and there’s no way to spin on.  Move past it.  Pick up the needle at his signature copied to millions of people.  It’s real.  There’s nothin’ left to do now but face it.  And hope you can jump the acid loop.  Skip past election day.  And it’s all over.

All things must pass.  Everyone out here strokin’ the Beatles off.  But don’t wanna face the reality of George Harrison’s oncoming impending doom.  All things must pass.  The lines of ecstasy drip into the nosebleed.  Eventually come down.  Left sweaty and shirtless in your room.  Alone.  Watchin’ Big Bird sing at Jim Henson’s funeral.  Made it through years of revolution.  Revolution is comin’ to a doorstep near you come this November.  Look outside.  Wish the sun good morning.

Grow up.  Jim Henson’s dead man!  Step on the porch.  Nose clogged with baby lax and amphetamines as the hundred from unemployment unravel into ones.  Light a cig with coffee as the sunrises.  Maybe it’s the ketamine or acid or the fuckin’ coffee.  But step outside and realize you don’t remember how to get to Sesame Street.  And the neighbors you’ve lived next to for three years but don’t know their names don’t wanna see this shit outside their doors every morning.  Shit man.  There’s kids that live here.  They don’t wanna see you gaspin’ for air.  Hidin’ from the sunlight.

“I’m fine grandma.  Just sat down to play Scooby-Doo with the homies.”  Heathcliff the Big Cheese spits the oncoming impending doom into the phone.  Another story for her to tell her friends.  The needle keeps spinnin’ on the edge of the wax.  He tells you if you don’t beat the game the whole world is gonna implode.  Shit.  Between the Pentagon confirmin’ the dude from Blink-182 isn’t just a cook from our childhood but was onto aliens long before the CIA.  California is lookin’ like Blade Runner 2049.  Or some other movie set Hollywood uses to make underdeveloped countries look overly polluted.  A facist is paying our rent while plannin’ a coup.  And the hundreds of thousands dead are just sacrifices to keep Wall Street above the risin’ sea levels in the midst of a pandemic.  2020 is really turnin’ into some type of apocalypse film.  Arthur Lee always said the news of today will be the movies of tomorrow.  But I’m not so sure I wanna stick around to see the ending.  Not sure if I want this chapter included in my semi-autobiographical choose your own great American adventure novel.  I want the thrill of meetin’ new people and them sayin’ they’ve heard a lot about me.  Just don’t know if this is a part I want them to hear.

Drag on the cig while takin’ in the drag of reality outside the living room.  The grass seems more vivid.  More harsh.  But the neighbors don’t see the cosmos exhaled.  They don’t see the constellations of ash and clouds smoked through your nostrils to avoid a dry socket and another couple hundred dollar dental bill.  They don’t see the cliche survival story of hours spent researchin’ sellin’ plasma to pay the bill.  They don’t see that me and my friends are out here birthin’ our own cosmos.  We know the world can be as simple as Fraggle Rock.  And now without Jim Henson it feels like someone is pullin’ the puppet strings in a different direction.

We are the lonely and desperate people John Sinclair told you about.  We collage together sound bites and Harmony Korine B-rolls.  News broadcasts and Instagram photos.  Makin’ our own vibe boards.  Boredom is the vibe.  Cause no matter how far you move the needle.  You keep revolve in the same loop.  The constant struggle to make the moment bearable.  The Guilty Undertaker tries to drone it out behind chord organs and omnichord beats.  File it under the audiobooks on Bandcamp.  Like some self-help book that didn’t include an instruction manual.  It reads like noise.  But in relative pitch plays back like a symphony on the reel to reel.  But it just revolves back to where you started.  Nothing.

“Yeah.  I think hating yourself is just part of your twenties.”  PJ Banana tells you this.  While pissin’ into the oncoming impending doom in my front yard.  Takes a bump with a Gumby like omnipresence.  Downs the beer with toddler like chaos but is too old for childhood games like kick the can and nitrous oxide.  Somethin’ about that last third makes ya puke up all the drunken coherence.

We resist.  We take the streets.  We play rock and roll music in sweaty basements till one in the morning.  Record revolves in the living room.  Nobody is listenin’ to any of it.  No matter how much the record skips we just fall into the loop.  We grow into somethin’ we hate.  Throw in the towel after he says he deserves a third term for reckless endangerment.  Then pack it up for the burbs.  A place the news and movies don’t wanna go.  Replace the familiar characters of Oscar the Grouch and Cookie Monster with Phil the dentist who treats himself to another year of golf at the club on your unnecessary root canal financed by your plasma.  The lobotomizing mundane doesn’t hurt as much as the oncoming impending doom.  Call it god or Santa Claus.  But at the end of the day we’re still gettin’ punished.

Unwind in a hammock without the sound of duster cans firin’ in the distance.  Unsure if your actions are an ironic joke at your own expense.  You always said don’t take yourself so seriously.  Shove metal through your flesh.  The good memories never stay.  Only the nasty wounds scar.  You let your life imitate the art you once lived.  Masochistically ink yourself.  Tattoo the good memories that burnt up with the braincells from aluminum foil bowls.  You don’t remember the stories.  But you can still see Skaterino outside the club askin’ where the party’s at.

You can’t see his face or the Carhart beanie that probably stays on durin’ sex.  But you can see his smile.  Nicotine stains in his teeth glisten with childlike optimism at the oncoming impending doom.  Every morning I wake up with the same fear his question left with me that night outside the ol’ OLL.  Every morning I wake up to the shower head I don’t recognize.  But the familiar dirt on the ground.  Every morning I wake up to images of people that did terrible things to their bodies taped to my walls.  Everyday I wonder if I know where the party is at when I wake up.  A room of burnouts and drunks like sittin’ ducks gets you the fix we all crave when they say they’ve heard a lot about you.  We all live in the hopes someone else shares our urban legend to people we may never know.  A room of burnouts and drunks like sittin’ ducks in the rain dancin’ their cares away with the fraggles will always be more aware than Phil the dentist pullin’ a tooth from your skull with pliers in the most unprofessional medical procedure.  How much college do you need to learn how to destroy lives?

Everyday I wake up with the same fear that this is the day the party ends.  The drugs come down.  The fascists burn the Constitution in an Antifa organized wildfire to spread climate change propaganda.  Everyday I wake up with the fear that this is the day the fear ends.  I meet Jim Henson in the dead end alley where Sesame Street and Fraggle Rock converge with the oncoming impending doom.  Everyday I wake up with the fear someone just moves the needle forward and we’re still in a loop but with a different revolution bringin’ us back to where we started.

I see his name signed on a piece of government mail.  It surreally makes this apocalypse film a reality.  The Guilty Undertaker hits a bowl of salvia.  PJ Banana screams his head hurts.  His hands are sweaty.  And his face is hot, man!  His face is hot!  Before lockin’ himself in the bathroom with a fifth of Hornito’s.  But I know outside my door.  And outside my neighbors’ doors.  Revolution is happenin’ all around us.  People are birthin’ their own cosmos in the midst of space and time and whole damn continuum.  We’re all writin’ our own semi-autobiographical choose your own great American adventure novel.  Somewhere outside all our doors the ducks are on acid, dancin’ their cares away in the puddles and rain.  Somewhere Skaterino is askin’ where the party’s at.  Nicotine stains glistenin’ with childlike excitement and naivety.  Somewhere the angels are screamin’ at every single one of us sellin’ our bodies to the plasma bank.  While tryin’ to make the most of the oncoming impending doom and over inflated cost of dental work.

All of this must pass.  And we all wake up with the same fear that this is the day the scene ends.  This is when we forget how to get to Sesame Street and move to the burbs instead.  We wake up with the fear that someone is gonna skip our needle forward to a new loop on a broken record.  But hopefully someone sees the constellations in the clouds we smoke.  And are comforted by the hope someone out there is sayin’ they’ve heard a lot about us before we even meet ‘em.  But everyday we wake up with the fear that the reassurance our urban legends of cosmos we create are recognized won’t be enough to end the revolutions of the dronin’ loop of our oncoming impending dooms.

[lachlann-macnab]

At Al’s Potluck

Alternative title: Backstory, friendly banter, potatoes and feels.

Dated: October 24, 2020

Lachlann MacNab Lachlann had learned rather quickly that when Seamus had said "you're a menace to society you're never driving again, not unless I'm hurt so badly I'm passed out" he'd really, really meant it and no amount of pouting and/or complaining would stop the man from driving them both to Al's Comic Barn as their respective recipes sat on the backseat. But karma had struck the man as soon they had to get out the car, since now he had to juggle his enourmous plate and the keys, a scene Lachlann found actually quite funny as he remained seated on his place, phone on one hand and dish on the other

Seamus MacTunnag it would have been much easier to balance the fucking pot if he didn't have another platter along with it. Stovies and oatcakes were easy to make, especially for large amounts of people, but that meant having more than was necessarily manageable. Lachlann was pouting in the car and, thus, unhelpful. Finally shoving his keys in his pants pocket, the brunet picked up the second tray he'd set carefully on the hood of the Roadster. "Yer no help, ye know that?" He shook his head and mumbled under his breath about a grown man being a brat all because he wasn't allowed to drive before he nodded to the door. "Hands're otherwise occupied. Care the get th' door at least?"

Lachlann MacNab "That's a lot of complainin' for someone that generally insists on doing everything himself, Mister Mac T" Lachlann replied with a grin, making sure his phone was set to airplane mode (having figured before that receiving any message during the event would be a faux pas) and using the little moment to also make sure he'd actually closed Spotify, not wanting a certain other playlist to accidentally...well, play after the "driving" one had finished. "Yeah, yeah, I'm getting the doors. I'm still surprised you decided to actually come, tho'" he said, now being the one doing some juggling

Seamus MacTunnag "An' that's a lot o' lip comin' from a man who sat an' watched 'cause he wasna allowed tae drive," Seamus quipped back, smiling winningly as he waited. Lachlann fiddled with his phone for a moment before shoving it in a pocket then reached for the door. "Thank ye kindly," he murmured, brushing past the other as he strode through the doors. "An' 'course I would, Lachie. I try tae at least go tae one or two o' these every year. Get a feel fer th' candidates." McWiggin was a native to the town, ran a small business, and seemed concerned with the community as a whole. It would be smart to look into him, at the very least. "'Sides, I havena cooked fer a large group in a while. Seemed th' thing tae do. Old family favorite, an all."

Lachlann MacNab Lachlann didn't have a counterpoint for that, so he decided to stick his tongue out at the other man and take that L as he made sure the car's doors were closed, Al's were opened and his own pot of Chili Macaroni (Vegan, mind you) remained secure on his hands. "Louie says Al 's a pretty cool dude and I think he did well during the first debate" Lachlann nodded "you rootin' for him, Mister Mac T? or are you more interested on the food? Like, I think he's done great so far but, well, I'm kinda new around, so... I don't really know for certain"

Seamus MacTunnag If Seamus's hands were free, he'd have gone for Lachlann's tongue. Much like how Adelaide had done to him when she was a wee one, in fact, though the circumstances were far different. "Careful darlin'," he warned, grin hinting at the mischievous, "wouldna want ye tae lose yer tongue." Listening for a moment as he found somewhere to set the platter and pot down, Seamus hummed in acknowledgement, mind turning over what he knew. In years previous, he'd known McWiggin to be a bit of a tit, rude to women and someone who was just generally unpleasant. Seemed like he'd cleaned up his act in the past year or so, as well as he could anyway, and was hoping to turn over a new leaf. "Dunno quite who 'm votin' fer yet, in truth. 'S why I come tae these, see what they're about. He seems concerned about th' town he grew up in an' the local business, but I'd like tae see more of his stance on Magick/Mundus relations, given where we live."

Lachlann MacNab "Darlin'" Lachlann didn't know what to reply to that -at least not while in public-, even stopping for a second before deciding that the best next unrelated step was finding a place to place his pot as he nodded. "Yeah, it's kind of complicated" politics had never been an easy topic, really "Al strikes me as the most approachable candidate, like, I don't get a thing Reza talks about, Aquata is kind of initimidating and Shock..." He didn't really finish that sentence because he figured that everyone felt the same way about the youngest candidate and her blasé ways about... everything. Also, because he'd just spotted a familiar recipe. "Oh, the Beignets! Tiana must be here too!"

Seamus MacTunnag The silence was noted and smugly filed away. And over a little old thing like darlin', at that. "Aye," he agreed, eyes sweeping over the people milling about the comic shop. He'd never ben inside the place himself, but he knew Louie worked here, so he'd wanted to come down for a look-see. "Al may be approachable, but both Reza and Aquata address cohesion and Magick representation in a mixed community as well as plans to provide a more streamlined petition process. An' Adamson, well, I hardly take 'er seriously." Seamus shrugged, running a hand through his hair. After having lived with a Magick for half a decade, amidst other generational hardships, Seamus had always made it a point to look at legislation that had to do with Magicks. "Take it ye know someone around?" The name was vaguely familiar, like he'd met them previously, but he couldn't place a face to it.

Lachlann MacNab "I mean, yeah, they do" Lachlann shrugged "Like, they sound like they know what they're saying but I think that the best possible option 's having someone you know you can approach, you know? I'd get nervous by the mere thought of just getting close to Miss Triton or Reza -like, I don't think I'd ever have a reason to do so but...yeah" And he'd rather not think much about the whole Magick-Mundus things, since he still had a bittersweet feeling about the whole Moon Market fiasco. "Ah! Yeah, well- kind of! She's an acquaintance of sorts, I guess. 'nyways, what was it that you cooked, again, smoochiekins?"

Seamus MacTunnag Lachlann did have a point, yes. You had to be able to approach a council representative, or feel like you could, anyway. That was the entire point of it all, wasn't it? Granted, Seamus had cut his teeth on hardened business men and women, their unflinching values and ironclad stances. There was a different type of ability to interact there for him than there was Lachlann. "The Triton lasses ain't all bad. Adella's nice, even if she is a right pest." He smiled, thinking on the woman fondly. He'd not seen her in a while but she was one person in town he counted as a friend. "Aquata's Da was a staple of th' council. Think she's jus' tryin' tae do right by him." Both brows rose at the abrupt change of subject and the godawful nickname. His nose wrinkled involuntarily at the implementation. "That's awful, Lachie. Truly, truly awful. But 's, uh, we call it stovies an' oatcakes. Traditional Scottish fare. Me mam used tae make it a lot." He glanced down and off to the side, clearing his throat once he was through speaking, suddenly not too keen on talking about Davina MacTunnag. "Yers was, uh, vegan was it?"

Lachlann MacNab "I think I've heard about the Tritons before- I think one of them designed Loopy's favourite lipstick" he couldn't say which one, though "And I kind of recall seeing Adella's name somewhere..." He'd checked Tinder one or twice since arriving to Swynlake and vaguely recalled seeing someone with a curious name and amazing photos but, well, obviously out of his league, so he hadn't even bothered trying. And there was another reason,  of course, which was currently looking fondly at his own pots. "So that's what you needed all those potatoes for!" he said with a wide smile "and here I was, thinking you were feeling like starting a farm, Mister Mac T! And, yeah, 's no big deal. You kinda just throw all the ingredients into the pot and pray for the best. It may not be anything fancy but at least I didn't burn down my kitchen"

Seamus MacTunnag It took him a moment to parse out who Loopy was but, once he had, Seamus nodded his head. "Aye, one o' 'em has a make up line I think. Adella dragged me tae th' bloody adult prom a year of so back," he mumbled, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "She's a sweet girl. Seemed tae think I needed tae get outta th' house. Kinda like someone else I know." Yes, that was a Pointed Pause, Lachlann. "The family's from Swynlake though. Been here fer generations, I s'pose. Makes sense they'd try tae continue it." The comment about the potatoes made him pause, lips quirking up into a smile before he chuckled and shook his head. "Nope, no potato farming. My people didna do such a thing," he quipped, grin widening. "But th' Stovies feed a family fer a while, keep ye warm, all o' that. 'S a staple when ye grow up in Glasgow slums. Had tae take th' liquor outta the recipe though. Been sober around two an' a half years. Don'tcare tae cook with it neither." He hummed his acknowledgement of the other man's dish, wondering how it tasted. At least it wasn't burnt

Lachlann MacNab "Oh" Lachlann said, nodding at the comment and making a mental note about Adella being cool (even in a non-Tinder context). But at the rest of the phrase he tilted his head and bit the inner part of his right cheek "But isn't that kind of thing like...what's the word? When someone in power helps other person to achieve things- necromancy? no, eh, neo- no, nepotism?" He paused for a second, first thinking about the implications of the words and the situation he wasn't sure about, then deciding to move towards a plate full of cookies before the girl with the white dress decided to eat them all by herself. "Myesh" he said with a mouthfull of cookies "sh more like ah shtereoghtiphgical 'rish thng, nt Scottish" Wait. Slums?... " 's better that way, I guess. That way you can be the one driving, instead of having me risking everyone else's well-being, sweetipie" he joked, even if he was still curious about the comment about living in the slums once.

Seamus MacTunnag "Mm, I s'pose ye could see it that way, aye. Most dunna. From what I understand 's more--" Seamus searched for the words, brow furrowing a bit as he walked alongside the other man. Toward more food, he could see. "--a generational connection to th' town. The Triton family is rooted in Swynlake. Everyone knows 'em. Sure, it sounds like they're takin' advantage o' that an' maybe they are, but what if 's because they got th' best fer th' town at heart? I jus' tend tae look at both sides o' matters, or try tae." Rolling his eyes as the other man spoke with a full mouth, Seamus waited until he was done. "Aye. An' 'm nae fuckin' Irish." He'd had to live in the Little Ireland neighborhoods in New York for a while, mind, but that's because no one knew their arse from their head back then. Couldn't tell the difference. Some people still couldn't. Seamus swiped a cookie from the other man and took a bite before turning on his heel to take a look through the rest of the dishes, offering quiet hellos as he went. When he heard another awful nickname, Seamus turned to give Lachlann a droll look. "'M nae luggin' yer heavy arse tae th' car--" A mischievous little grin cropped up and, just to be a tit, tacked on a m'eudail for good measure, accent thickening around the familiar word.

Lachlann MacNab "Yep, 's important to try and do that, get to know both sides I mean, like the whole thing with Reza's scandal" which had surprised all of twitter, himself included. Lachlann still wasn't sure where he stood on all that and his attention was, instead, focused on the food and trying to keep his cookies away from the other's hands, anyways. But even when he swiped one away, Lachlann couldn't help but smile it off, nod and follow him in the search for something nice to munch on. "Yeah, some people think it's the same thing but that's, frankly, offensive to both nationalities" he said, having some vague knowledge about the topic, since people assumed a lot of things when they heard the MacNab surname, but he had never really mind the errors "You started it, darling. Anyways, so Stovies are kind of a family recipe, then?"

Seamus MacTunnag Seamus nodded his head, agreeing without really needing to say anything. It was true, after all. The scandal release had been a shock to everyone, but Seamus wasn't just going to judge the man like so many other people seemed to be fond of. Sorcerer or not, Magick or Mundus, all sides deserved a critical look. "'S extremely offensive, particularly when I was exposed to it." The Irish, at one point, were treated like animals. When people had believed Seamus was, he'd been given the same treatment. He'd had to learn how to defend himself and his sisters quickly. "Darlin' is a term of endearment. Whatever those other things were were nae. But yes, I s'pose so. Most everyone in th' area knew how tae make 'em, but me mam taught me. I had tae work two or three jobs growin' up but, uh, she let me help in me downtime. Da never gave a shite so--" Seamus shrugged, going a bit pinched around the eyes at the involuntary reminder of his father. "--figured I could give another pair o' hands when she needed 'em."

Lachlann MacNab This was the first time Lachlann heard about Mister Mac T's parents and- nothing about it sounded all that cool. Slums, working two or three jobs, the "Da never gave a shite"... Sure, the older man was resilient and most certainly had seen a lot of stuff before, but hearing that he'd to struggle even during childhood was kind of a harsh idea; Maybe someone that felt particularly poetic or philosophical would say that that kind of things had turned the man into the kind of person he currently was but- but Lachlann only found it kind of miserable, really, that he hadn't had the chance to just be a happy child. "Maybe you could teach Huey, Dewey or Louie how to cook it, eventually" he said, placing a hand in the other's shoulder, in an effort to cheer him up "or me. I'd be happy to learn it"

Seamus MacTunnag See, he knew what his childhood sounded like. He had lived it and it was just as shite in the telling as it had been back when he was a lad, and that had been hedging around how big of a piece of shite his father had been. Seamus snorted at the mention that the boys would learn. He turned his head to look at Lachlann's face, squeezed the hand that had landed on his shoulder."Aye, maybe Huey. Dunno about Dewey. Louie would rather food be served to him, not be made by him, so I doubt he would. But I wouldna mind it, if ye wanted tae learn. Ain't hard tae make."

Lachlann MacNab "I think Dewey would be down to clo- I mean, totally up for it" Probably. Maybe. He wasn't sure if his best friend had any interest in cooking but he figured that as long as something sounded like a fun time, he'd be up for it. Huey probably would take notes about the recipe like the very organized guy he was and- -he was absolutely correct about Louie, so there was no point in thinking about that, so he smiled and nod, then pointing towards a fancy-looking salad, as if asking the man if he wanted to try some of that (while still not letting go of his shoulder). "I wonder if we'll see Al himself. I'd really like to tell him that I admire the fact that he has Darkwing comics in stock- and also maybe give him props for making the drinking game interesting for everyone"

Seamus MacTunnag Down to clown? Really? Resisting the urge to laugh or smile at the turn of phrase (because it was awful and not at all endearing in any way whatsoever), Seamus still found himself losing the battle when his mouth twitched upward. Nodding his head at the nonverbal suggestion, the Scotsman allowed himself to be steered to the side a bit, walking in step with the other man and listening as he spoke. He'd have to remember to ask the boys if they ever wanted to learn how to cook. It would come in handy for them later, if anything. "Maybe, maybe not," Seamus murmured, a shoulder moving in a half-shrug. "Though I dunno if havin' a series o' books or tryin' tae give yah alcohol poisonin' is worthy of congratulations." Now he was just being a shit head, it was true, but it was also a fact that McWiggin had seemed to run in circles during the first debate, never really seemed to address questions that were more hard hitting when his contempories had. He had stuck to "small businesses" and "community" which, while what he was using in his campaign, should not have been the entire thing, in Seamus's opinion. But what did he know?

Lachlann MacNab "But I'm ok now" he declared, rather proud of himself "I'm dying by plane crash or not at all" Which was a joke, really; He simply didn't get (terribly) injured in any of his particular stunts so that phrase was more of a roundabout way to say "no way" than an actual - -wait. Mister Mac T wasn't supposed to know about that. Shit. "They aren't just any comic books, they are, objetively, the best comic books ever made" he said, trying to steer the conversation into another direction, then stuffing his mouth on some nearby potato salad so he could play the "sorry, I can't talk, my mouth is full" card just in case the older man didn't take the Darkwing bait. "Thish ish tashty! You shld try shome"

Seamus MacTunnag Dying by plane crash or not at all. That...that didn't sound good at all. In fact, that sounded the opposite of good. In fact, that sounded like Seamus should be worried about Lachlann flying a goddamn airplane which was, frankly, disappointing. He wanted to see how the man flew. And the fact that the other man tried to steer the conversation into a 360 didn't help any. "In a minute. We're gonna circle back tae th' plane crash thing. How many times, exactly, have ye crashed Lachlann? How accident prone are ye?" Is that why you're in Swynlake?

Lachlann MacNab Oh, Lachlann was absolutely not having that conversation -not in that place, not ever and specially not with Mister Mac T of all people. " Gee, I was only joking" he said, even if his tone was way more somber than intended "but, I guess now I know what I'm not supposed to joke about when you're around, eh?. Like, I guess that's all my fault, I know it's a serious topic and all". He decided to try and distract himself searching for a plate and filling it indiscriminately with food.

Seamus MacTunnag Ah, sore subject then. Seamus could read a room well enough by now and certainly could tell when someone didn't want to talk about something, even if it was something important. He'll, he'd done much the same more than once. It was still irritating but it was forgivable. It would be hypocritical to not be, after all. "Mmhmm," he murmured, both brows hiking ninto his hairline before offering a small smile, the kind that said 'I know you don't wanna yak about whatever that is, so I won't. Yet.' "Ye can joke around plenty. Death 's just a touchy subject, is all." Which wasn't a lie, but he wasn't going to elaborate much more just then. Instead, he picked up a small plate of his own.

Lachlann MacNab Look, Lachlann generally tried his best to take that whole topic in stride, playfully mentioning it every now and then when necessary, but discussing it (or anything vaguely related to it) with the older man was simply not going to happen, not when he held his family's talents in such high regards, not when he felt like his-their current closeness depended on what he could offer (and driving certainly wasn't it). If he didn't have a good reason to be there then- then Mister Mac T would send on his way, right? He would never bother dealing with a washed-up pilot, right? He- he deserved way better and- "'s ok. I know, I'm sorry" he finally said, voice slightly cracked. He just couldn't bear to lose the other's respect too, or the comfortable closeness they've built.

Seamus MacTunnag He heard the cracks in Lachlann's voice before they really made themselves apparent and Seamus felt his brow furrow at the sound, wondering at it. He filed it away for later, just like he did much everything else he observed about Lachlann and other people around him, to pull up and examine later on. Clearly, whatever it was, it was something the younger man didn't want to talk about, probably something with his family, if Seamus had to guess. Just a hunch but, well, MacNabs usually didn't stray far from their clan, if you will. And Lachlann was an entire ocean away from his. "Ye dunna have tae apologize, Lachie, 's alright," he said, voice pitched low so the nosy biddies around them couldn't eavesdrop. Namely, his nephew, wherever he might be.

Lachlann MacNab "Yeah, but still...." Lachlann said, trying to keep up with the conversation even if he suddenly felt quite down (so much so that the food currently on his plate suddenly didn't seem all that enticing anymore and had been reduced to a mere excuse for his movements). He just didn't want to deal with that topic. He'd rather run away. He'd rather pretend all of that wasn't even a thing. He'd rather just take his few belongings, throw 'em into his uncle's car and never look back now that people, that Mister Mac T knew about his failures. But he couldn't. Not now. He didn't want to let go of that- them- him. Not yet. "I just- could we- I'd rather talk about politics or Darkwing or Swynlake, you know?"

Seamus MacTunnag Yes, there was definitely something sore about the subject here. He recognized the behavior. In fact, he'd done it himself, once upon a time. It was...odd seeing it mirrored in someone else, someone he knew that hadn't been from decades and lifetimes ago. "Aye," he said, voice still pitched low, a small, placating smile, curling around his mouth. "We can do that." Seamus checked him with his hip, herding the man away from the food table and closer to the comic books, figuring it was a better topic to pick up than anything else. "Which arc's yer favorite? Or th' one ye need? Might have it here."

Lachlann MacNab That- was kind of unexpected, really. Lachlann had hoped the other would simply nod and let him be instead of guiding him away from the table -or actually mentioning Darkwing. He couldn't but give the man a little smile (that also served as a silent 'thank you') as he followed him and looked into the various colorful displays, plate still in his hand. "The Dark Knight Returns, hands down" he said, voice slowly returning to it's usual volume "I like the idea of Darkwing being retired for a while, then returning. Like, I feel that makes a hero -doing the right thing even when it's difficult or it kind of hurts, being- reliable, I guess" But he wasn't looking at the comics as he said that, not really.

Seamus MacTunnag He saw the unexpected surprise cross Lachlann's face and counted it as a win. Or, at least, a minor victory of a small skirmish. It was also, incidentally, what appeared to be a bit of a thank you in its own right. As the other ran spoke about the comics, Seamus's eyes traveled over the colorful covers and the snazzy artwork, the characters that came to life in their pages pitted against the harrowing forces of some villain or another in a snapshot on the front cover. The Darkwing books were no different, though Seamus knew them by hert a little differently. Still, it was nice to hear Lachlann a bit more normal, so he let him go on with his explanation, chuckling quietly at what he heard. "Sounds like yer trying tae tell me somethin', Lachie," he mumbled, teasing in the tone. He reached out a hand and tapped one of the covers, the garish suit they put Darkwing in front and center. "I remember when th' first one o' these came out. Laughed meself about sick. 'Course, I knew why. He did deserve it, retirement an' all. Sometimes it ain't fer someone, though, an' they wanna keep on, even if they dunno how tae quite get back intah th' game." No, he wasn't taking about Darkwing anymore.

Lachlann MacNab Lachlann laughed and shook his head 'no', even if there was some true to the other's statement and once again found himself intrigued by the other's words, or more exactly the way he used them -sure, one could argue that him being older meant he'd had more exposure to that sort of media, but that didn't seem like the reason he talked of Darkwing in such a way. But then again, who was Lachlann to judge? If anything, he was happy to had a shared interest. "It's difficult sometimes. Once you start doubting it just...isn't the same, right?" he asked, before taking a bite of his previously-forgotten food "I really admire the kind of people that just- you know, keep doing their best even when things get difficult. I hope to learn to do that kinda stuff someday" Maybe he could from the older man, that even with his rough start had managed to make the best he could and continued trying to do so. "I- I know this may not be the best place, but could I ask you a question real quick, Mister Mac T?"

Seamus MacTunnag Seamus paused when he was done speaking, glanced over at the other man, a hand holding just over the spine of an omnibus edition. Looked like the first arc of an early Darkwing series. Maybe another hero, mixed into the wrong area. "Aye, it is." Turning so he was facing the other man more fully, Seamus leaned his empty arm against the shelf and crossed his feet at the ankles, brow ticking upward. "Shoot, Lachie."

Lachlann MacNab "Would you keep me around even if I had nothing interesting to offer?" But that was a waaay too complex of a question for that moment and place, really, so Lachlann chewed a couple of seconds more, eyes on the omnibus' in the other's hands, before speaking again. "How do you do it?" he finally said "keeping on even when things get difficult, I mean"

Seamus MacTunnag It had long been established that patience was a virtue in Seamus's life, one that he had learned to perfect over the years. Even with a bit of a temper when he got riled up, he had learned to make the most of a wait. And he did. Even guessing at the question hadn't really prepared him for the actual thing, however. It made the brunet's eyes widen as he drew in a breath and let it out. That was a bit of a loaded question. "Sometimes ye dunna want tae," he began, wetting his lips and giving a small smile. "Sometimes 's hard, harder than anythin' yer gonna ever do. But then ye remember ye've got family that need ye, friends that care about ye. An' th' shite ye hear in yer own head...dunna sound so loud anymore. Ye keep busy an'...ye remember. Ye remember everythin'." He'd looked down as he started speaking, thumb of his free hand flicking against the side of the shelf as he spoke, but he looked up now and met Lachlann's gaze head on.

Lachlann MacNab Lachlann remained silent for a second, taking in every single word, and smiling at the end. "See? Just like a hero" he said almost in a whisper "You're there for them-" He paused again, eating a piece of steamed broccoli before he continued, adding a better word to express his idea. "-for us" because he was still there, even if his previous words hadn't been the best, his skills still were a sore topic and he was too dumb or too loud or just too much in general "I- thank you for that, for being there" For staying, even when he, himself, wanted to run.

Seamus MacTunnag A wider grin edged around the corners of Seamus's mouth and eyes; despite that, he shook his head, bemused. "Aye, if ye wanna call it that, then sure." There were a lot of times he didn't quite feel like a hero, like there were times were he missed a step or took a wrong turn, hid away or back tracked entirely. But if he kept moving forward, didn't look back, he had learned that maybe, just maybe, things would get better. That he could learn to live with the things he had seen and what had been done in his life. Thank you for that, for being there. "'Course, Lachie. What else would I do?"

[thiswasinevitableid]

3. Sweets for OT4 because Barclay making sweet things for his polycule is the soft that I need! Sfw, with mer Duck and Joseph?

Here it is! Joseph’s design is based on a Spotted Drum, Duck’s on a Mahi-Mahi.

Most days, Barclay’s house resembles a cookbook library. Today, it looks like a cookbook library that got hit by a catastrophic earthquake.

His goal is to find three perfect recipes to bring to the beach with him tonight, but he keeps changing his mind; whenever he settles on a menu, he turns the page or turns around and finds another contender staring at him from its glossy photo.

Indrid is the simplest; he likes sweet food in all his forms, though he’ll make concessions to the rest of the tastes from time to time. It was one such concession (to sour) that first introduced them. Indrid was shooting a fashion spread in town and came into Amnesty Lodge, where Barclay was working the counter at their little coffee bar. 

“I suppose I should get a slice of the key lime pie, since we’re in the keys.”

Barclay cut him a generous slice because he liked the curve of his smile. Indrid sat at the counter, took a bite, took a second bite, and then ate so fast his fork was a silver blur. He licked his plate clean when he thought Barclay wasn’t looking. There was a dot of whipped cream on his nose that Barclay almost offered to kiss off. But he exercised restraint and gave him a napkin instead.

Indrid came back the next day, and the next, and the day after that too. When Barclay asked how long the shoot was, Indrid admitted it was done three days ago.

“I, ah, I’ve been coming down from the city just for your food.”

“That’s the best compliment anyone’s ever given me.” Barclay leans across the counter, smiling when he spots Indrid’s eyes giving him a once over from behind his red-lensed glasses.

“May I have the chance to pay you some more? Perhaps tonight if you’re free? 

He was, and Indrid complimented him before, after, and during the night they spent together. Barclay would have been fine with a one-night stand, let the memory of Indrid’s tan, angular body under his hands carry him for the next few months. But the photographer came back at least three times a week and took Barclay out as much as possible. He learned Indrid was a big enough deal that he could pick and choose assignments and that he traveled often, but the longer they were together, the more he talked about moving his headquarters to Kepler.

Two years later, his office and studio are ten minutes from the apartment he and Barclay share. When he’s in town, he’s glued to Barclays side.When he travels, Barclay gets postcards signed with hearts or filled with sketches of what Indrid’s seen (and he always comes home laden with local delicacies for Barclay to try).

Wait, what were those hard candies he brought back and then ate all of? Yeah, that will work. Barclay checks to be sure he has heavy cream and makes a note to get pineapple from the grocery store. He’d hoped to avoid a trip out, but Indrid is worth it. Indrid is one of the best things to ever happen to him. 

He’s also the reason Barclay has to find three recipes and not just one.

A year ago Indrid was location scouting for a dramatic oceanside shoot. On a remote outcropping, waves splashing around him, a man popped up from the water to ask what the hell he was doing so far out and didn’t he know the tide overtook this rock real quick?

Indrid, a little strange himself, recovered quickly from being scolded  by a merman. And promptly asked if merman would like to pose for a portrait. If not, would he be able to show Indrid some good locations for photographing rays?

Duck, green-finned and strong, became Indrid’s guide to the reef. It didn’t take long before Barclay noticed Indrid getting dreamy-eyed when he recounted their adventures. Maybe he should have been jealous, but he was just happy his boyfriend found a hunky merman to show him the wonders of the sea.

These days, he considers Duck one of his best friends, a friend who also happens to make Indrid’s face light up like the Vegas strip whenever he smiles at him. 

Duck’s palate tends towards the savory side, and on days when he needs a pick-me-up Barclay will bring him a travel bowl of french onion soup and a hard seltzer, the two of them sitting on the sand and comparing notes on troublesome customers (or, in Duck’s case, park guests in the aquatic campground on the far edge of the reef. 

Actually, that gives Barclay an idea. He grabs the flour from the cupboard, sets it next to the jar of yeast and a bottle of wheat beer. They may be metamours and not partners but, as Barclay often jokes, he owes Duck big time. 

See, shortly after meeting Duck, Indrid guided Barclay down to a hidden patch of beach. 

“I want Duck to meet you, dearest. He also has someone he wishes to introduce to us.”

Duck barely had time to emerge before another merman pulled himself onto the beach and began asking questions. 

“See, this is why I asked him to come. Joe’s fascinated by the human world. Even swam under a glass bottom boat tryin to get a look at some tourists. Which was real dangerous.”

“You didn’t seem to mind  disciplining me for it” Joseph shoots a smile at the other mer, then continues his examination of Indrid’s camera.

With black hair, blue eyes, and a stunning white and black tail, Joseph is the most handsome man Barclay’d ever seen. Later, when he had to explain the fact he was attracted to both him and Indrid, he’d say that the difference in his boyfriends was like the difference between being fed by a classically trained French chef and Spanish chef pushing the boundaries of molecular gastronomy; radically different, but equally amazing.

Joseph, inquisitive and clever, began asking to see them whenever he could. Barclay started bringing food down for Joseph to try, played him movies on his phone, and fell harder for him whenever he laughed or smiled or made a bad pun. 

Some nights Duck, Indrid, or both joined them. Other nights it was just the two of them and water, Joseph lazily waving his tail back and forth as they talked. One evening, he dragged it across Barclay’s legs by accident and the human wasn’t quick enough in hiding his reaction.

“Should I do that again?”

“S-sure.” 

“Can I kiss you at the same time?”

“Yes! No, fuck, wait we, we need to talk to Indrid and Duck about this.”

“I suspect they won’t mind, but you’re right. We’ll take a rain check, big guy. And please pass me that cake.”

In addition to his other good qualities, Joseph has the most sophisticated palates of anyone, mer or human, Barclay knows. As in he can taste the notes of blackberry or chocolate that a wine label insists are there but Barclay can only sort of get a hint of. Barclay once bought him a sampler box of expensive wines, cooked oysters over a driftwood fire, and hand fed both to Joseph as he moaned and wiggled with delight, outlining in no uncertain terms what he’d do for Barclay as a thank you.

(He still can’t look at a bottle of white wine without blushing)

That means Barclay has to make something that's as sweet and sophisticated as the mer himself. Ripe peaches tickle his nose. He grabs his copy of Dessert for All Seasons, flipping to summer with a smile. 

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“Okay, so” Barclay sets the bags down on the picnic blanket, “I, uh, I decided making one sweet thing wasn’t enough. I know that’s kinda silly but you three are so fucking important to me I wanted to do this right.”

“Doubt you’ll get any complaints from mr. sweet tooth.” Duck smirks. Indrid, lounging in linen shorts a moth patterned Hawaiin shirt, sticks his tongue out. The mer just blows him a kiss in response. 

“And there’s no need to apologize for being thoughtful.” Joseph drapes his tail over Ducks, “it’s one of your best traits.”

“Thanks, babe. Uh, so, Indrid, this is for you.” He lifts the pie plate from the ice chest, “it’s pineapple cream with vanilla whipped cream on top.”

“I love you.” Indrid takes the dish with wide-eyed appreciation. 

“Duck, these are for you.”

“Oh hell yeah, pretzels. Wait, is this-”

“French onion soup dip? Yep.”

“I’m gonna eat the hell outta this.”

“And, uh” he slides the cake carrier towards Joseph, “I found a recipe for a peaches and cream Prosecco cake. Hope you like it.” 

Joseph lifts the lid, licks his lips, then pushes the carrier into the center of blanket so he can roll and put his head in Barclay’s lap.

“You’re the best.”

“Indeed. Which is why we have something for you as well.” Indrid stands, stepping over Duck and then eeping when the mer gently whacks his ass with his tail. When he returns (stopping to bend down a pinch the sensitive upper back of said tail), it’s with the cake carrier Barclay looked everywhere for earlier today.

Beneath the pink plastic lid is a cake coated in milk chocolate frosting.

“‘Drid said this was the one you made yourself for your birthday.” 

“Oh fuck, the chocolate malt one?”

“The very same. We had to get a bit creative cooking it; Joseph suggested making the layers  in cast iron over a fire, which worked well. After all, we didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

The frosting message of “happy one year anniversary” gets a little blurry, and he wipes his eyes, “this is so fucking sweet, you guys.”

“You deserve it.” Joseph kisses his hand as Indrid rests his head on his shoulder, Duck scooching over to lay across Indrid’s lap. 

Barclay smiles, “We all do.”