#i need to update this bag i have more charms + his id card and lanyard + i still wanna try to fit in

[lupato]

do we see the vision

[chimswae]

BTS Caretaker CH5

Summary: She may think she has Bangtan Sonyeondan wrapped around her fingers. She may think it is easy to love the members equally without hurting any soul. She may think the boys wont fall head over heels for her. She assumes it is okay to show a little love and affection towards the boys, what if she gets it all wrong? What if it only brings more complication to her already complicated life? Can she survive their charms? Will she be able to resist them? What if they just wont let her go?

- Pairing: BTS x Oc ( Yoongi x OC, Jungkook x OC)

- Genre: Fluff, Slight Angst, Romance, Idol!au

- Word Count: 2,590

- Author Note: I suppose im late posting the new chapter because was too tired yesterday, therefore im changing my days of update. From now on i would do update every Saturday/Sunday weekly or biweekly. This is to avoid me forgetting hahah

Previous | Next

Chapter 5

“Who…the.. fuck… are.. you?” Yoongi lurched forwards trapping Seul between the kitchen counter. Every word came from his mouth were dangerously low and disturbing. He cursed something low beneath his breath, something that she couldn’t understand. It sounded like a thick accent from Busan or Daegu to her. Whatever it was, she felt small in front of him.

The breath caught in her throat and her heart twisted at the stunned tone of his voice.

“Stay away from me…” she clutched onto the counter trying to escape from his gaze.

Shit, am I getting caught? She mentally slapped herself for her stupidity.

The corner of his lips twitched into a smirk “Who the fuck are you?” he inquired again this time the tone of his voice was harsher than a minute ago.

Seul bit her lower lips trying to make up excuses, but what else could she say. Her mind went blank for a second and it was not good at all considering how Yoongi’s eyes piercing through her deepest soul. It paralyzed her body.

Getting annoyed, Yoongi leaned closer to her face minimizing the gap that they had earlier “Are you even listening? WHO. ARE. YOU?” he pressed.

She scowled at the proximity as she could literally feel the rate of his heartbeat increases against hers. Why would his heart react crazily like this? Plus, the smell from his hair is driving her crazy. Not that she wanted to creep the hell out of him, it is just he smelled too good. Way too manly, that a woman’s heart like her could melt instantly. Shrugging the thought off, her eyes darted to the guy in front of her. She mentally scanned Yoongi’s feature started with his small and thin lips which still appeared luscious to his nose and eyes. Crap, not this weird thought again.

His eyelashes batted perfectly matching that milky skin of his, how could a man be this flawless? It made sense since he’s an idol, yet heck he is still a man! Metrosexual guy like him really put all his heart into his appearance.

The hell, is she going to play dumb. Yoongi hissed frustrated of Seul’s silence.

“All right, since you are keeping your mouth shut. I am calling the cops” the corner of his lips was tugged into a meaningful smirk, causing Seul to flinch at the sudden threat. She let an unknowing gasp under her breath making the man slamming both hands on the marble counter trapping her body in between “Why? Are you scared?” his brows flinched together showing off the gaze that could kill million Armys.

“Because you are a sasaeng?”

“What did you do to ahjumma?”

“Did you make her give up her job today, so you can stalk me?” accusations after accusations were bombarded right on her face that triggered Seul’s anger in the end. She was still thinking of reasonable stories without uncovering the whole truth. Unsure of the consequences that her mother might receive in the future for bringing her in illegally made Seul became more cautious of everything surround him. First, she must deal with this grumpy monster in front of her.

Wait a minute, why should i? I am working here legally well technically illegally but still I have the staff identification card. Who is he to look down on me? Seul finally got back to her sense after spazzing over Yoongi’s visuals.

Her eyes landed on the bandage near his ears, as bad as this might sound but she found his weakest point. This guy in front of her was invading her personal space, didn’t he realize it was a serious offence. On top of all, none of Bangtan’s members should be around. Referring to their schedule today, they had an award show to attend as early as 6 in the morning.

Mustering up every ounce of her strength one of her hand reached out to his injured ears to give a small squish over there causing Yoongi to yelp in pain.  He cursed reflecting the pain that he experienced at the moment, as his body staggered backwards finally leaving a space for Seul to breathe.

“WHAT THE HELL WOMAN?” Yoongi touched his pulsing ears sending death glare at her way.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, bewildered of his presence at an odd hour like this. “NO ONE TOLD ME ABOUT ANYONE BAILING ON THE AWARDS?” Seul continued before Yoongi could even give her the answers.

Yoongi let out a sarcastic chuckle a hint of annoyance and anger “Fuck this. You even know our schedule? ARE YOU INSANE.. THAT IS IT IM CALLING THE COPS NOW!” his face grimaced due to the pain he experienced. He left dumbfounded Seul behind making his way stealthily to his room. As she finally registered what was going to happen next, her eyes widened in pure horror.

“WAIT WAIT WAIT!!!!” she skipped as fast as lightning to reach the older guy realizing what he planned to do. A single phone call would ruin everything for her especially her mother. That need to be stopped.

Despite being in the same size as Yoongi except Seul is much shorter than him, she grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking him with all her might putting his step at halt. Yoongi inhaled a deep breath, as his body stumbled backwards crashing the girl against the wall.

“WHAT THE HELL? ARE YOU INSANE” the same thing came out from his mouth as if he was chanting a curse.

“WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE GOING? I am about to answer your questions!” she grumbled lowly, pushing Yoongi body off from touching her body. Lies was the last thing she wanted to do, or more like adding more lies to their existing lies. Yet, what choice did she has?

Yoongi clucked his tongue inside as he spun his body facing the worried Seul “Speak. If you don’t speak in 5 seconds, I swear to god I will make the phone call” he rolled his eyes scanning Seul from top to bottom.  Even though she looked pretty decent to be a sasaeng fan, but her face told him she was far from those title. Was he overreacting?

“Jeez, alright. I am your caretaker for now or at least until my mother got better” his brow ceased into a deep frown.

“What kind of bullshits you are trying to tell now?” Yoongi backfired with a nasty scoff.

“Not bullshits but truth” she heaved a deep sigh as her hand went to rummaged through her bags, finding her mother work ids. “Here..Mrs Hwang is my mother so digest it” she tossed the cards for Yoongi to catch it on time.

He was displeased with the way she acted but played along since this privacy invasion was severe than her attitude. Being in the condition whereby he wanted to believe or denying the fact that Seul was saying the right thing, Yoongi chose not to give in so easily.

“You don’t look like her, are you sure this is your mother? Anyone can claim to be Mrs Hwang’s daughter at this rate considering how crazy a fan like you can be!” Seul gritted her teeth feeling the anger built inside her slowly took over her mind.

Seul crossed her arms “That wont change the fact that I am her daughter you little piece of shit. For a record, I AM NOT YOUR FAN!” he was startled by her choice of foul words making him feel more irritable than before.

“Why would I trust a girl with foul mouth like you? That makes you make even suspicious. I demand the truth now”

“That is the truth. You are just too stupid to realize it”

“Excuse me? Do you think I would buy your ‘Mrs Hwang is my mother’ story? I am much better than that thank you”

“Gosh, as expected idols like you are nothing but pretty faces. A total asshole and dumb some more”

Yoongi shot her a bewildered glare “ First of all, thank you for stating the fact. Oh, secondly, we are bunch of genius. The only idiot in this room is you” he knew the banter was pointless and childish. However, Seul was driving him up the wall with all the nonsense coming from that pretty little lips of her.

“Whoever you are mister, I don’t think I need to explain everything to you. You are not even my employer” Seul grabbed her mother card from his hand harshly, shoving it inside her bags.

“I mean my mother’s employer” she corrected before grabbing the rest of her stuff getting ready to leave.

He took the chance to yank her hoodie with a strong tug, pulling Seul to face him again “Where do you think you are going?” for an odd reason he enjoyed seeing her flushed face. Seul was struggling like cute kitty wanting to escape from his owner’s grasp.

Feisty. He mentally laughed at her silliness.

“You are not allowed to leave. Let’s wait until my manager come back, we must deal with crazy girl like you. That is if you really are Mrs Hwang’s daughter” every word coming out from him was a total psycho. It irked Seul to the core.

“LET ME GO! DON’T MAKE ME DO SOMETHING THAT YOU WILL REGRET, I SWEAR I AM CAPABLE OF ANYTHING!” she yelled.

“Oh really? How crazy does it sound, I AM INTRIGUED BY THAT MISS MRS HWANG’S DAUGHTER” he challenged with a playful smug.

Seul pressed both of her lips into a thin line. Her eyes aimed for his injured ear again, yet she put a stop of that devil thought upon seeing a small red stain on the bandage. Her tummy churned in sheer fear, he was bleeding.

Shit Seul, think of something. You must leave now. A lot of crazy ideas were attacking her at once but the after effect of her action would bring more harm than good. Whatever it was, she needed to leave now. The guy in front of her would not spare her life so easily.

Should I aim for his crotch..She was about to sway her knee to give a little kick on Yoongi’s private area and as expected he was quick to catch that obvious gaze of her. As if her eyes were telling him the plan inside her head. Interesting.

“Got you” he lifted his leg blocking Seul from kneeing that fragile area.

Seul snorted in annoyance which later turned into a devilish smirk “Oh really?” she was contemplating to do this one thing which would end this bicker between them, so she could flee with ease. Seul thought it was a horrible idea, but slowly let her anger took over her sane mind, Yes.. I will make this little piece of shit shut up.

Snapping her head up meeting his deep gaze, Yoongi raised his eyebrow in confusion “Lower your gaze wom-“ his eyes popped out upon feeling a wet and moist friction against his lips. Seul was kissing him on his lips not cheeks, but his lips. What on earth just happened?

She cupped his cheeks, tiptoeing a little ‘Screw this Ji Seul, just do it and go. You will have to quit from now on’ Seul tilted her head a little ignoring stiff Yoongi as she was now kissing him for real. No more hanky panky.

Seul did not even care if he wasn’t kissing her back even though she could feel his lips quivered beneath hers slowly giving in.Yoongi froze in his spot staring straight into her dark brown eyes. He had no idea how to react neither did he knew what to do. This was a total madness.

Seul cussed regretting her stupid action but she could feel his grip start to loosen up, which meant her plan worked in the end. Because after all, Yoongi was too noisy. Seul calmed her racing heart due to her rash actions but decided to ignore all the stupid butterflies inside her tummy.

It can’t be undone. Screw this.

After for good two minutes locking lips, Seul pulled away quickly with a deep taint blush visible on both of her cheeks leaving shocked Min Yoongi behind. Taking off her aprons, she tossed it away and decided to make a run before Yoongi came back to his sense.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Seul smacked her lips, scolding it like it could respond her back afterwards.

Yoongi watched Seul’s figure disappeared from his vicinity as he bellowed his frustration loudly “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!” he raked fingers in his messy hair angrily. He squeezed his eyes shut trying to register earlier incident, she was kissing him on the lips. He was too taken aback that he stood there like a clown and a second later she flees leaving no trace behind.

“MIN YOONGI YOU IDIOT” he hissed pacing around the living room calming down his aching nerve. His heart beating furiously as if he would jump out from it by anytime soon. This was an invasion of privacy and sexual harassment. Would anyone even trust a guy being sexually harassed because after all the world is prejudiced when it came to man being sexually harassed.

Crazy. Clenching his fist, he was determined to find Seul again.

 ----------------

“Min Yoongi that sound insane” said Seokjin with a frown.

Yoongi had been convincing Jin about his encounter with Seul but to his dismay, the older guy would never trust him and assumed he was high with drugs. Heck, he wished he could turn back the time and changed that one scene which kept lingering in his mind.

The kiss was the stupidest thing that ever happened. How could he forget that?

“YAH ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME? SOMEONE TOOK OVER AHJUMMA’S JOB TODAY AND INVADED OUR DORM!” Yoongi facepalmed in frustration. He really wanted to punch Jin handsome face to let out all the frustration inside him now.

“As much as I want to trust you my friend, but I think that is impossible. The security here is pretty tight, how can she enter this building without an access card?  Can you take a chill pill. You must have seen it wrong” Jin sighed.

“The problem is I know what I saw. A girl around our age is here, in our kitchen! And for pete’s sake she is not even an ahjumma in fact.. far far away from being an ahjumma. YOU ARE FRUSTATING HYUNG” he rose from his feet, pacing back and forth with a grimace.

Jin shrugged while his hand massaging his tense muscle “Yoongi I am too tired to listen to your nonsense. Let’s talk about this tomorrow alright? And don’t talk about this to manager hyung. You will cause unnecessary worries” he mumbled. Yoongi watched the older boy lied down on the bed looking dead tired after their hectic schedule.

Sitting at the end of his bed, he ran his finger in his soft hair feeling a little glum after his failed attempt in convincing his own roommate. He decided to call it a day and talked it out with others tomorrow. Maybe, someone would trust him unlike traitor Kim Seokjin.

He threw his body heavy on the bed with a loud grunt. Reaching his finger to his lips, he found his heart felt giddy over the brief kiss that he shared with Seul few hours ago.

Groaning in his head, he buried his face in his pillow ‘DON’T YOU EVER DARE MIN SUGA..’ he huffed.

This work belongs to  Chimswae © 2020. All Rights Reserved.

[lxveille]

For the valentines prompt, 23) charm me + woozi + vampire au (for a little bloody valentines day lmao) thank you!! 💖

title: charmed, unsurewc: ~ 1530 a/n: this came out longer than i thought it would inside my head. but !!! i’ve kind of always wanted to try writing some kind of au with vampires where they aren’t a hush hush hidden part of the world, so i hope you don’t mind me taking this prompt as a chance to play with that idea a little !

The first time you showed up at Lee Jihoon’s place, it didn’t surprise you to see all the curtains drawn, nor to have him answer the door practically swallowed whole inside a sweatshirt with a cap sitting low over his face. It’s practically routine for you to be looked over like you might be a hallucination or an enemy by new clients – so that was hardly a shock either. What caught your attention first, really, was how uncertain he sounded when he invited you inside.

“I don’t really know how this thing works,” he admitted once the door was shut behind you.

You smiled politely. “Well, I need to see your documentation first. Since this is your first booking with our clinic.”

Jihoon’s face remained unchanged by your pleasant tones and attempt at a friendly demeanor. Without saying anything, he went over to a table by the door to pick up a wallet of faded leather. While his back was turned, you glanced around the darkened house, searching silently for something that could be a point of conversation. Before you managed to find anything substantial, he was in front of you again and handing over his ID.

Sure enough, in the bottom right hand corner was the dark red teardrop symbol of registered vampires. You glanced over the other details of his identification, and noted that it was issued recently. Being newly turned might explain some of his air of uncertainty, you supposed.

“Great.” You passed the card back to him and smiled once again before adding, “I do also need to see the paperwork that you’re up to date on your suppressants.” A sound left him that you were tempted to call a whine. With his head ducked down, though, you couldn’t make out his expression. “I know it’s kind of a pain, but I can’t provide any services to a client who could go into bloodlust or use compulsion, you know. It’s safety protocol.”

As he turned, you could have sworn you saw a scowl on his face. He disappeared into another room, providing you another opportunity to glance around the room. That time, you spotted an upright piano tucked against one wall, and a vase without any flowers sitting on the low table in front of his couch. He came back quickly enough, offering the medical document you’d requested. With that, you nodded and asked where exactly you could sit down.

Jihoon gestured towards the couch vaguely in reply. You folded your jacket and set it down over one of the arm’s of the sofa before sitting down and pulling up one sleeve of your turtleneck to expose your forearm. After a brief explanation, you offered your bare arm out to him, underside up.

He took a moment to even sit down beside you, even longer to take ahold of your arm. His touch was unsurprisingly cold, but more than that – it was barely there,  like his hands could be pushed away from you by a light breeze. By this point, though, most vampires you’ve met have been done with any more delays. With Jihoon, you found yourself quietly saying “it’s okay” before he allowed himself to bite into the soft flesh of your arm.

When the timer sounded, he sat up slowly and avoided looking at you. You pulled bandaging from your bag and set about applying pressure over the fresh puncture marks in your arm. “I’ll be out of your way shortly,” you told him. Also not uncommon was for your clients to want you gone as quickly as possible once they’d fed.

Which is where the last oddity of your first encounter with Lee Jihoon came into play. He cleared his throat and asked, eyes still on the floor rather than you, “Do you want orange juice? Or anything?”

You considered telling him it was fine, that you actually had a small bottle full already tucked away in your back for your commute back to the clinic. For a reason you couldn’t name, you instead answered, “Sure, that’d be nice.”

He became a regular on your work cycle after that day.

The fifth time you showed up at his place, you asked about the piano in his living room. He told you, while pouring juice into a glass for you, that music was the closest thing to sunshine he could still tolerate.

The eleventh, he paused with his hands already around your forearm, and asked, “Why do you choose to do this?”

His a eyes stayed locked upon yours as you stared back, uncertain at first how to answer a question none of your clients had ever asked before. “I don’t know. I guess there were always people  who did this kind of thing, though. We just didn’t know about it before. ”

“That’s not a reason,” Jihoon pointed out. “And people weren’t always offering themselves up.”

“Like you’d know? Your ID was only issued earlier this year.”

His lips curled up in amusement. You’d started seeing more smiled from him for the weeks. This one in particular, though, had something to it that nearly made your heart hiccup. You wondered if he could hear it, even. “That only tells you when I actually registered, doesn’t it?” he pointed out.

For a moment, you debated whether to ask how long he’s been around, then. Considered asking, even, why he’d wait nearly a century after vampirism became a public matter to actually register his condition with the government. In the end, you decided to ask, “Well, surely things are better now than they were before you had these resources, right?”

Jihoon looked you over. Then shrugged his shoulders, a slanted smile still on his face as he answered, “Yeah. I guess they are.”

Today, you realize it’s been a little over a year since you first started having appointments with Jihoon.

It occurs to you as you’re bandaging your arm. As he’s already slipped off to the kitchen to get some kind of refreshment for you, and you find yourself smiling at the thought of him coming back into the room and getting to talk with him for a while.

It’s an unusual thought to have about a client, it dawns upon you. While being rushed out is certainly no delight, either, you’ve been losing track of how long you linger at Jihoon’s after his feedings. You’ve been looking forward to when he shows up your schedule more lately. You’ve even found yourself wishing you could see him on days when you weren’t even meant to be working at all.

Why?

Jihoon returns with a full cup for you and smiles fully when he hands it over.

You don’t smile back. “You’ve been keeping up with your suppressants, right?” you asked him. The look on his face shifts, lips falling into a line and brows bending in puzzlement at your sudden inquiry.

“Do you need to see the updated paperwork?” he asks.

Technically, yes. The fact you hadn’t even thought to ask when the dates came around was all the more reason to ask, as far as you could see. Something stubborn rises inside you, though, and has you saying, “I do. But tell me first. Being honest, Jihoon.”

“I have,” he answers without hesitation. If anything – with something like hurt or worry. “Did I drink too much,  or…?” he asks, searching out a reason why you might suddenly suspect him of anything less.

“Can you go get the papers then?” you insist, pulling your sleeve back down over your skin and bandaging.

He disappears and is back again too quickly for you to think up any other explanation than vampiric charm for why you’d be feeling so eager just to be around him. The form he hands you is stamped and signed by a proper clinician, and dated only three weeks ago for his most recent round of suppressants.

Somewhere around the fifth time of reading over the document, it dawns on you that it might possible to be charmed by him without the help of anything supernatural.

Your fingers tense on the paper, enough to add a few wrinkles to its pristine surface. You let out a breath and hold it out for Jihoon to take back.

“Are you okay?” he asks, putting the paper down on the coffee table without a second glance at it. Your eyes track the paper, if only to avoid looking at Jihoon. And you notice, then, that there are flowers in the vase for the first time in a year.

“That depends.” You let your gaze lift to his again.

There must be something about the tone in those words, or the look on your face, because Jihoon’s concern shifts to intrigue. He sits down on the couch again. It manages to feel like he’s  moving in slow motion, though you’re uncertain why, but you keep your eyes on his the whole time. He lets your vague answer hang in the air for a while, with nothing but the quiet and matched stares between the two of you.

Finally, he breaks the silence with something simple, and entirely too full of possibilities.

“On what, exactly?”

[qqueenofhades]

the tangled web of fate we weave

This is highly self-indulgent because I, an extremely stressed-out final-year history PhD student, needed extremely stressed out final-year history PhD student Lucy Preston and also Garcy, because I always need that. 

This is an unofficial sequel to this, where Flynn was the one to save Lucy from the car accident in her sophomore year. 

March 19, 2010

It’s Friday, and it’s the first time all week that Lucy Preston has seen the sunset. Possibly in two weeks, for that matter, or more. She has been shut up in the library since what feels like the start of the new year, buried in her carrel among an endless stack of books, articles, notes, photocopied primary sources, her overworked laptop, her three thumb drives (someone else in the department has a horror story about their computer dying five days before submission, and Lucy isn’t taking any chances), a rotation of takeout cups and sandwich wrappers from the library café, and whatever other sustenance she needs to keep going. She’s rented a campus studio apartment, otherwise she would probably be sleeping in the stacks in the basement. Be way too much hassle to try to commute back and forth to Mom’s house in Mountain View otherwise.

The Stanford campus is cool and blue and quiet, and Lucy leans against the outside library wall, rubbing her eyes and trying to get them to focus. They don’t seem to want to. She turned twenty-seven two months ago, and feels about eighty-one. It’s been a nonstop grind of work, from that moment she nearly died seven years ago, almost exactly to the day – that was the twenty-first of March, 2003, she’s never forgotten. Dumped Jake, abandoned her plans of joining a band, enrolled for junior year of history, finished, graduated, went straight onto her master’s degree that fall, and now, the fact that the end might actually be in sight is one Lucy cannot wrap her head around. It feels surreal and dreamlike.

Overachiever that she is, her PhD is being conferred jointly by two departments, history and anthropology, which means her dissertation is at least one and a half times longer than everyone else’s. She’s teaching HIST1210 on the Civil War and HIST1300 on primary sources, she still has papers to mark from both, and she needs to update her CV and apply for research funding for the conferences she submitted paper prospectuses to. And think, again, about the future. Even having a mother who basically invented the Stanford women’s studies department isn’t a guarantee that she’ll get a job, even if it does pitch her odds a lot better than most people’s. Lucy has already had most of her tuition paid by Carol Preston’s institutional pull, and she can’t help but wonder where the gravy train stops. She likes to think that she’s smart enough that she’d have earned scholarships on her own merit anywhere, but why go anywhere else, when it’s Stanford, for God’s sake? Not Jim Bob Jones Community College.

After a long pause, Lucy straightens up, swings her bag to her shoulder (she leaves most of her stuff in her carrel overnight) and starts down the path. She’s wondered if now might be an opportune moment to develop a drinking habit, but her anxious mind won’t let her. One near-fatal car crash was bad enough, after all. No need to push her luck with a second.

(She thinks again of the man who rescued her. Just dove in, no hesitation at all, and fished her out, told her not to quit history for a boy, and vanished. She never got a name.)

(Is he pleased, then, that she threw herself in headfirst? Is that what he wanted? Not that it matters. Not that that is the reason she’s doing this.)

Lucy comes to a halt in front of the beige-stucco residence halls and digs for her keys, wondering how obnoxious her neighbors feel like being tonight. This is postgrad housing, supposedly quiet, but the way they go at it, you’d think it was undergraduate party central. Lucy has been over to bang on their door at 1AM a few times, and she could complain to the office, but – again, Lucy Good Girl Preston – she shirks from the idea of actually getting anyone in trouble. She’ll be out of here soon anyway, moving on. She can endure it, she can –

“Good evening, Lucy.”

She almost has a heart attack. Drops her keys and fumbles for them madly in the dimness, having some panicky idea that it’s someone jumping out of the bushes to put a bag over her head and drag her off behind a dumpster. Yes, it seems odd to politely address her by her first name beforehand, but who knows? It’s a man’s voice, gravelly and accented, almost familiar. But it’s been at least two years between boyfriends, it’s not any of her professors (and it would be more than a little creepy to follow her home) and –

She whirls around, gets a good look at his face in the portico light, and feels momentarily faint. She was, of course, just thinking about him, and wonders half-seriously if she’s charmed up him up like a djinni. He looks exactly how she remembers: tall, dark hair, sharp-nosed profile, though this time he is not dripping wet, having not had to dramatically dive into the Bay to save her from her sinking car. He’s wearing the leather bomber jacket and a nice pair of jeans, has his thumbs linked casually through his belt like a Grease extra, but it comes off casually competent and slightly chilling. She also remembers what she thought about him last time, that instant response to high-pressure situations might be something he deals with a lot. What the –

“You,” she says at last, having managed to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “What are you doing here? How did you – how did you know where to find me?”

He has apparently been prepared to remind her how they know each other, but sees at once that he doesn’t have to. He shrugs. “I know people.”

That’s not exactly a reassuring answer. Lucy clutches her bag closer, as if he’s really come here for the $3.20 in her wallet and her backup thumb drives. “Have you been stalking me?”

He looks amused, but only briefly. “We should get inside.”

Lucy goggles at him, not least at his apparent presumption that she’s going to ask him into her house, but something makes her do as told. Hands trembling for no good reason, she taps her key card, buzzes them in, and climbs the stairs to her second-story apartment. She can hear the thumping of rap music before she even reaches the hallway – yep, her neighbors are at it again. Trying to ignore it, not least because she suddenly has bigger problems, she reaches into her bag for her phone, trying to dial a 9 and 1 without him noticing. But why would the man who saved her life want to kill her?

His eyes flick to her hand. “You don’t need to call the police, Lucy.”

“Don’t need to, or you would prefer that I didn’t?” Lucy refuses to budge. “There’s a difference.”

He looks admiring of her bravery, if irritated at the timing. “Don’t need to. Go inside, I’ll be along.”

Lucy debates dialing the last 1 with her thumb. Or campus security, they could probably get here faster. But – weird as this is, and as he is – something stops her. He slowly removes his hands from his belt and holds them up, then opens his jacket to show her that he isn’t packing heat inside. There is, however, a holster as if he usually does, and he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a slim black case, and flips it open, holding it out. It’s a U.S. government ID. Gives his name as Garcia Flynn.

“Okay,” Lucy says, a little weakly. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

Garcia Flynn doesn’t bother to answer this perfectly reasonable question, making another gesture at her apartment. Lucy goes inside, puts down her bag on the couch, and feels like collapsing onto it. Next door, the music continues unabated for a few more moments, until it abruptly cuts off. The silence is blessed, but suspicious. She hears voices, but can’t make out what they’re saying. Then her front door opens again, she jumps, and Flynn enters, looking smug. “That’s better.”

“You didn’t kill my neighbors, did you?” Lucy isn’t sure they wouldn’t deserve it, but that is obviously not a man she wants to be alone with. Not that she knows how he would kill three people in thirty seconds with no noise, but. . . it’s the sort of thing that doesn’t seem out of his ability. “Or – ”

“I didn’t kill anyone.” He seems somewhat aggravated that she keeps harping on this point. “I’m not here to hurt you, Lucy.”

Lucy remains looking at him tensely, but he returns her gaze forthrightly, and she finally lets out a whisper of a breath. “What’s going on?”

“That’s complicated.” Flynn is prowling around her living room, tapping and shaking things, picking them up and turning them over, in a way that seems – to say the least – out of line in a perfect stranger’s house. Maybe Lucy’s watched too many spy movies recently, switches on whatever looks halfway interesting on Netflix and vegs out, but it looks a lot like sweeping for bugs. He takes a small silver thing that looks like a coin out of his pocket and sets it on her bookshelf. “I’m not sure you’d understand.”

“I’m a PhD student,” Lucy says, voice brittle. “I’m pretty sure I’d understand.”

Flynn glances up at her, one eyebrow raised, but doesn’t answer. He presses something on the silver thing, which hums as if to disrupt any nearby listening equipment, and finally seems satisfied that her shithole student flat is in the clear. “So you kept up with history?”

“Yes. And I’m due to submit my dissertation in about two weeks, my supervisor is supposed to email me by Monday with my oral exam date, half the committee is from Harvard, and I just spent thirteen hours reading nineteenth-century handwriting. So you better make this quick.”

Flynn half-grins, seemingly despite himself. “A PhD at – what, twenty-seven,” he says. “That’s very impressive. You’ve worked hard.”

Lucy doesn’t want to accept the praise of a possibly crazy government operative, but it makes her glow, a little. Her mom always wants to know how much more she still has to do, as if keeping a timetable in her head and marking her off, and of course Amy is encouraging, but Lucy has kept her nose to the grindstone so long that she’s barely picked it up to look at the rest of the world. She doesn’t even know what she’s doing, other than that she has to do it. She does love history. She really does. You don’t get this far without it, and you have to enjoy the tedious parts (well, mostly), even if you’re re-reading your draft and shouting at your first-year self because they didn’t put in page numbers, thus obliging you to go grumbling to hunt them down. She is damn and justifiably proud of this accomplishment, and she doesn’t need anyone, much less FBI Freddy here, to tell her that. But still.

“Never mind that,” she says. “Why are you here?”

Flynn regards her for a long moment. Then he says, “Scientia potentia est. You’ve heard that?”

“It’s Latin,” Lucy says, a little shortly. She is not up for having a fright, and her time wasted, for something he could have typed into Google Translate. “It means knowledge is power.”

“Yes, I know that.” Flynn sits across from her, looking too big for her secondhand armchair. “It’s also a motto. Have you seen it anywhere?”

“No.” A phrase as banal as that could be a motto for dozens of private schools. “Mr. Flynn, I’m afraid I can’t – ”

“Very well.” He sits forward, gripping his knees. “Rittenhouse, Lucy. Have you ever heard of that?”

“Rittenhou – David Rittenhouse?” Lucy is vaguely familiar with him, a leading intellectual of the eighteenth century, polymath and professor of astronomy at the University of Pennsylvania, and correspondent and cohort of the Founding Fathers. Has Flynn come here to ask for help with some research project, some kind of sponsorship some historical society is doing to raise awareness of his life? That at least might make more sense. “Is that what we’re talking about?”

The expression on Flynn’s face seems to say that he momentarily isn’t sure. “So he founded it?”

“What?” Lucy gets up, not entirely sure that she isn’t asleep atop a stack of books back at her carrel, drooling on her notes. “Founded what?”

“The society in his name. Rittenhouse. Scientia potentia est. That’s their motto.”

“There is no society in his name. Unless you mean the astronomy club?”

“I don’t mean the astronomy club. The other one.”

“Is this a – ” Lucy isn’t sure what it would be, some extended performance-art practical joke, perhaps, but he doesn’t look like he’s trying to prank her. Besides, why would an eighteenth-century astronomer have anything to do with why Flynn wanted to sweep her apartment for bugs? “I work more on the nineteenth century than late colonial-early federal America, but if you have some kind of question about him, I can recommend someone in the department to – ”

“I’m not asking anyone else,” Flynn says brusquely. “I’m asking you.”

“Well then. You’re in the wrong place, I can’t help. I don’t have time.” Lucy gets up, pacing toward the kitchen. Flynn remains seated, but she can feel his eyes following her. She runs a glass under the tap and takes a drink, then returns to the living room, as if this will somehow have fixed the problem. “What do you want to know about him for? There’s Wikipedia, there’s whatever else, there’s – ”

“Nothing of what I want is available online.” He says this with the tone of somebody who’s looked – and NSA Nicky probably has. “You, though – I thought there was a chance you might. Given who your father is – ”

“What?” Lucy’s father died almost nine years ago. Lung cancer. The reason she won’t take up smoking either, that and the way her mother’s been coughing a lot and she’s urged her to get it checked out. She feels slapped. “My father’s dead.”

“Henry Wallace?” Flynn shakes his head. “No, not him. I meant your biological father.”

“What?”

He pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket and holds it out to her, but Lucy does not budge to take it. In a savage whisper, she says, “You need to leave.”

Flynn belatedly seems to realize that it might not have been the best time to bring this up. He opens his hand and lets the paper flutter onto the floor, but doesn’t move to retrieve it. He gets to his feet instead, eyes never wavering from hers. He is just so damn intense in everything he does, it makes Lucy feel like she’s on the inside of a forge, burning, burning. “Very well.”

With that, he starts across the floor, but seems reluctant to go entirely. Any other person would apologize for the intrusion, or tell her to be careful, but he doesn’t. “Ask your mother about your father,” he says. She can’t tell if his eyes are green or brown – in some lights they look one, in some lights the other. He looks at her challengingly. “Ask him if he is who you thought.”

Lucy’s about to respond, but just then, headlights waver on the ceiling through her half-closed curtains, and she looks down to see a car pulling into the parking lot. It’s the sort of nondescript black sedan that screams shady government business, and she might have thought it was Flynn’s ride, but after he strides to the window and looks out, his mouth goes very thin. He jerks the curtains shut, reaches into his jacket, and remembers he’s left his gun off in a bid not to alarm her. He swears in something that sounds Slavic; Lucy can’t be sure exactly what. It fits with the accent and appearance, but he had a U.S. badge – unless that was some kind of forgery and –

Flynn whirls back to the silver gizmo he has, switches it off, and pulls something else out of his jacket that kills the lights. Then he takes hold of Lucy – it feels much too forward, even as she remembers him pulling her out of the water – and tugs her flat on the floor. “Don’t open the door,” he hisses. “You’re not home.”

Lucy is about to struggle, to ask questions, but the look he gives her is so searing that she bites her tongue instead. She can hear footsteps on the stairs, then a knock on her door. “Miss Preston?” a voice calls. “It’s FedEx.”

She’s pretty sure it isn’t FedEx. She and Flynn lie close together on the floor, his arms still around her, the lights off and the apartment dark. Are they going to go look at the library next, or just assume she’s out having a life like an ordinary twenty-seven-year old woman would on Friday night? She tries to concentrate, to slow her breathing, as if they could hear it. The thump of Flynn’s heart seems distractingly loud, though her ear is pressed directly against his chest. He is so tall that if they were standing, her head would tuck easily under his chin. What is it about him and appearing out of nowhere to get her out of – or into – life-threatening situations?

The faux FedEx man knocks again. They don’t budge. Lucy has to admit, it is more than a little freaky that this has happened right after Flynn has turned up talking about secret societies and – whatever else, and it unwillingly makes her think that there might be something to his story. Oddest of all, however, is the fact that it almost feels familiar to lie next to him, not just because he saved her life. Like it’s something else, and she just has to remember what.

After a long pause and one last knock, the fake deliveryman departs. Flynn doesn’t let go of Lucy until several minutes after they’ve heard the car pull out, he’s looked through the window to make sure, and swears again. “That is the last time I leave my gun at home.”

Lucy sits up slowly, rattled. “Are you going to tell me that was Rittenhouse?”

“Might be.” Flynn speaks distractedly, eyes still on the parking lot. “I don’t suppose you carry?”

“I’m a history student.” Lucy has never wanted to touch a gun in her life, especially since she plans on being a professor. “No.”

“Of course.” His brow remains furrowed, as if he’s judging the advisability of leaving her alone long enough to go back and get his own. Finally he says, “I think it’s better for me to stay here tonight.”

Lucy opens her mouth to tell him that he can’t invite himself to stay the night, but the words get stuck. Despite herself, she is scared. Nonstop dissertation anxiety and crushing uncertainty about the academic job market almost seem preferable. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” Flynn turns slowly, the dim light from outside etching the sharp features of his face. “They could have guessed something about what I knew, or. . . I’m not sure. It could blow over, but I’d feel better about it to stay. Just for tonight.”

“And then what?” Lucy demands. “I can’t go into witness protection, just because of whatever stupid thing you got me into! I have to finish my dissertation!”

“You can do that, Lucy.” He looks at her frankly. “I’ll protect you.”

Whatever she is about to say withers on her tongue. After all, isn’t that what he did – the first time, and then now? She doesn’t know what’s going on, he has been an enigma in a bomber jacket ever since she met him – seven years ago, technically, does it count to have known him for seven years, if it’s only been one night and this one? That did freak her out. As strange and unwise as it might be, she would in fact feel better if he stayed. Not that her sagging yellow-plaid couch, older than her, which she picked up at a garage sale for $12, is exactly comfortable to sleep on. She can’t believe she’s thinking about this, but –

Flynn, still clearly ruing his lack of a firearm, makes another check around her apartment, then sits back down on the couch. It’s about half as long as he is, and his legs will clearly be dangling over the end. Lucy has no obligation of hospitality, and in fact is sorely wishing she left the library at her normal time of eleven o’clock PM. Then she wouldn’t have run into him (unless he let himself in to wait for her) and this would not be happening. It’s not that late, and ordinarily she might get into bed and watch something on her laptop, but her concentration is shot. She heads into her bedroom, shuts the door, and changes into her pajamas, then goes to the bathroom and washes her face several times, staring at herself in the mirror. She still appears to be real. Somehow, this is happening. Maybe it will stop doing that.

Lucy brushes her teeth and hair, and mulls a long bath, but it feels awkward with a NSA (she thinks he’s NSA, at any rate) agent sitting in her living room, even one ostensibly there to protect rather than spy on her. She goes out and climbs into bed, tugs the covers up, and lies there for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Every time a car pulls into the parking lot, she tenses. Keeps listening for footsteps on the stairs, a knock on the door, but nothing.

Lucy eventually drifts off, has scattered and turbulent dreams, and wakes with a start sometime past midnight. She gets up in search of a drink of water, and when she peers into the living room, sees that Flynn has dozed off on the couch, still dressed and sitting up. Something wrenches in her heart, she can’t even explain what, and she pads out. Taps on his shoulder, and he wakes instantly, snapping to awareness, in what must be a long-honed reflex. When he sees it’s her, he relaxes, if only slightly. “Is something wrong, Lucy?”

Her name sounds softer in his mouth than it did earlier. Less as if it’s coming from a stranger, and Lucy shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. It’s. . . you just didn’t look very comfortable.”

“I’m all right.” He grimaces, though he tries not to let her see. “It’s not the worst place I’ve slept.”

“Thank you,” Lucy says simply. “For staying.”

He starts to say something, then forgets or stops halfway through. Their eyes meet with a frisson that Lucy is fairly sure both of them feel. There is a touch of destiny about the idea that they’ve run into each other seven years apart almost to the day, that he saved her life the first time and is making sure he does again. Trying to be unobtrusive, she glances down at his left hand. He isn’t wearing a wedding band, but she doesn’t know if there’s someone else in his life anyway. Not that this is remotely her business. She’s not interested in dating him. For Pete’s sake.

(She isn’t altogether sure, however, that she isn’t interested in something else.)

She considers a moment longer. Then she decides that he can take it however he wants, and says, “Come on.”

Flynn looks almost comically startled as she beckons him to his feet. He hangs back, then follows her into the dark bedroom, her covers still tousled and warm with the imprint of her, her sheets glowing soft white in the murk. It’s clear he’s wondering if he’s supposed to climb in with her, and it is equally clear that he isn’t sure if he’ll refuse. “Lucy – ”

“Look, just. . .” This isn’t her style. Lucy Good Girl Preston. She has never had sex on a first date, this does not even qualify as a first date, and similarly, she likes nice men. Genuinely nice ones, that is, the smart and thoughtful ones with a grown-up job who she can talk to and feel supported. Whatever Flynn is, he is not nice. “It’s a queen bed. There’s room.”

Flynn continues to hesitate. Finally, he shucks his shoes, jacket, and belt, and gets on top of the covers next to her. The bedsprings creak under his weight, and even here, his feet extend a few inches past the end of the mattress. Lucy lies there with her eyes closed, well aware that she knew she wasn’t going to get back to sleep with this unfamiliar masculine presence on her bed, fighting herself back and forth. She thought he was here to possibly throw her into the trunk of a car or whatever else, it is – to say the least – concerning that she is now considering, well, the opposite. Her mouth is dry. It has been two years since Noah and as noted, she doesn’t do one-night stands. She doesn’t think Flynn is horrified or repelled by her. Oh God, this is stupid.

After fifteen minutes of increasingly excruciating feigned-sleep, Lucy gives up the ghost. Sits up fast enough to startle him, and she feels guilty, as if she’s somehow the one jerking him around by all this. They stare at each other, faces close in the dark. She can feel the whisper of his breath on her cheek. In this light, his eyes look almost hazel. His tongue darts out to touch his lips, almost unconsciously, and he shifts as if to ease the fit of his trousers. “Lucy – ”

Slowly, lightly, timidly, Lucy raises her hand and brushes her fingers across his chest, to the unbuttoned neck of his shirt. A shudder runs through him – well, no, he doesn’t look repulsed. It seems to take a great deal of self-control for him not to reach up and grab her hand, but not because he doesn’t want her to touch him. Just that this is a man used to controlling everything, to setting parameters, establishing boundaries. Sweeping for bugs. Making sure it’s clear. He takes the lead by temperament and occupation. That’s just who he is. And yet –

Lucy’s fingers settle in the hollow of his throat. She can feel his pulse bumping against them like a jackhammer, the way both of them have forgotten how to breathe, noses almost brushing. If she kissed him right now, if she actually did that – it would be one way to relieve her stress, an unhelpful little voice whispers in her brain. And then possibly cause any number of other things, but still. If he’s meant to be here somehow, if they’ve been led together again for some greater plan. . . Lucy isn’t religious, exactly, but she finds herself believing in some sort of unity, some kind of intention. Maybe it comes from being a historian. Looking at how everything has fitted together and interlocked, built upon each other like a flowering vine, gone forward and backward. The big picture. That’s how she always looks at it.

This feels like that, but different. Something like design, maybe. If she wants to call it that. But really, a whole lot more like desire.

Flynn doesn’t try to pull away from her, but Lucy can’t tell if that’s just because he’s stunned that she’s the one making a move on him, after the way the night started out. She shifts her weight, absurdly self-conscious, feeling like a nervous, bespectacled seventeen-year-old all over again. Lifts her hand and lays it alongside his face, strokes a thumb over the groove alongside his mouth. Then, when he still doesn’t stop her, she leans closer.

Flynn recovers from his paralysis just enough to lean in himself, and they knock noses painfully, forcing them away with muffled exclamations. It seems to jerk them back to their senses, both of them apologizing at the same moment. Lucy’s cheeks start to flame. “I – we should – shouldn’t.”

If Flynn was feeling as dickish as she gets the sense he might usually be, he could easily point out that she was the one who thought they should. He, however, doesn’t. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, even though they didn’t actually kiss. “I’ll go back out.”

Lucy supposes that, strictly speaking, is a good plan. She doesn’t need to keep making this mistake, having been saved from it the first time around. Her voice is breathy and choked. “Ok – okay.”

Flynn glances back at her, then shifts himself off the bed, standing up and collecting his jacket and shoes. It’s on the tip of her tongue to tell him not to go, but if he stays here on the bed, something else is going to happen, and on the most brutally practical level, Lucy doesn’t have any condoms. They’re not something you need when you’ve been single for two years because your current relationship is with Abraham Lincoln (and in a less weird-cat-lady-way than that sounds). She wishes for once that she wasn’t so confoundedly rational. But still.

Once the door shuts behind him, she falls back on her pillows, flushed and breathing much harder than she should. All that, and she didn’t even get actually kissed for it. This night has been a total bitch.

(Dissertation, she reminds herself. Tomorrow is Saturday, and she needs to go grocery shopping and clean the house, but she can still do a little work.)

(Dissertation.)

Flynn’s face floats in front of hers. She has a hard time thinking that she’ll forget it again.

Out in the living room, the couch creaks as Flynn must sit back down to resume his lonely vigil, and Lucy clenches her fists, reminding herself that she is absolutely under no circumstances going to go out there instead. She rolls over into a more comfortable position, reaches for her phone to check the time – it’s 3:32 AM – and closes her eyes determinedly. Maybe he will be gone when she wakes up, and she will successfully convince herself that it was all a dream.

Finally, slowly, badly, she sleeps.

[imagines-never-die]

While searching through wreckage of a recent war site, Hanzo/McCree/Lucio find a person who begs them not to bring them to a medical place. The stranger somehow persuades them to just go to their home and as they clean up, the man sees that they have huge bird/bat wings and the person has become almost fully healed from being injured in a matter of hours! Thanks! {Angel Anon}

(Oh hello again, AngelAnon~ So nice to hear from you! This kind of sounds like an OC idea? Are youplanning an Angel OC? I can totally help match them for you if you want. This one turned out to be pretty long, though, so I put it under the cut.)

Hanzo

The archer surveyed the wreckage around him,his breaths heavy and his fingers sore from exertion. It had been some fightand he was the last one to leave the war site. He had been told to look for anysupplies to scrounge or any possible survivors, but there were none that hecould find. Sighing, he began the trek home when he saw a meek little head popup from the rubble.

The stranger glanced around nervously andshakily, their [color] eyes darting this way and that. Hanzo watched them for afew moments until they pulled themselves from the rubble and collapsed on thesurface. Now that he could see the rest of them clearly, he saw that their bodywas covered in dried blood and dirt. Beneath all that grime, they wore astrange sort of dress that ran from their neck to their knees, hanging looselyaround their form. It had one large zipper running down the back. Suddenly, herealized they could be survivor he was supposed to be looking for, and herushed over to them.

“Are you alright?” he asked as he knelt downnext to them.

The stranger flinched and sat up, giving him asuspicious glare.

“Do not worry,” he assured them, “I willnot hurt you,”

They just continued to glare at him, theirlips wavering slightly before muttering, “O-ok…”

“You’re hurt badly,” he pointed out, “Iwill take you back to the city and find you–”

“No!” they suddenly gasped, scrambling awayfrom him, “Not the city! I can’t go anywhere where more people might seeme,”

Hanzo cocked his head in confusion, “Whynot?”

“I just can’t! You sh-shouldn’t have seen meeither!” they exclaimed, “J-Just leave and pretend you never saw me!”

“Leave you?” he echoed, “Why would Ileave you? You could die from those injuries,”

“I-I’ll be fine,” they insisted firmly,hugging their knees to their chest.

Hanzo let out a small groan and pinched thebridge of his nose as he stood up. Why was she/he being so difficult?

“At least let me take you back to myapartment,” he offered, “I have medical supplies there that could help. Itwill not be as effective as proper medical attention, but at least I won’t beleaving you out here,”

Glancing around worriedly, they nodded slowly,and got to their feet. They were hesitant to let Hanzo carry them or even touchthem at all, so he merely offered his arm for them to lean on. Even when theyreached his apartment, the stranger continued to look about them nervously,darting like a skittish cat through the door once he let them in.

They insisted they could tend to their ownwounds and asked that he just leave them to get cleaned up. So, Hanzo went backto his room and waited for about an hour and a half. After that time hadpassed, he figured they’d have finished cleaning themselves up. Maybe theycould use some tea; probably an extra calming type for their nerves. 

When he entered main room, tea in hand, he wasastonished to find the medical supplies unused. At first he worried that theyhad just let themselves die, but when his eyes moved to the stranger, he nearlydropped the tea he was carrying. All their wounds were completely gone, leavingtheir skin smooth and unscathed. Even if he had taken them to a hospital, itwould have taken days for them to recover like that!

But that wasn’t even the most shocking part.The large zipper to the back of their baggy dress was open and two giant batwings had unfurled from within it! The wings lay strewn across the carpet,little veins running through the leathery black skin. Meanwhile, the strangerlay on the floor, their lungs slowly rising and falling as they slept.

Hanzo didn’t even know what to make of it! Washe dreaming? Carefully, he set the tea down, and studied the wings. They lookedlike your average, enlarged bat wings…Felt like them too. Smooth yet ruggedlike fake leather; bony in some spots. Then his hands wandered to where theirwings met the back, his hand pushing the dress to the side a little to get abetter view.

Where the wings were implanted didn’t looknatural. It was like someone had dug them into their shoulder-blades thenhaphazardly stitched and spliced them into place. Just as his fingers began torun along where their normal flesh met their wings…

“Augh!” the stranger jumped awake, sending Hanzoflinching backwards.

The whirled around, their face flustered asthey tried to hold up their dress at the front.

“Y-You creep!” they shouted, “What thehell w-were you trying to do?! What, do you have a thing for backs?!”

“I-I…” Hanzo stammered, his face turningred, “Forgive me, I just–the wings were there, and I–well I didn’t evenknow what I was–”

“Wings?” they repeated, then their facesuddenly paled.

Quickly reaching back, they felt their wingsand their mouth formed a little “o” shape.

“They…came out?” they whimpered, “Yousaw?!”

“Y-yes, but that’s not a bad thing, is it?” heasked.

Suddenly they started to flap their wings andwith each flap the wings grew smaller and small until they completely retractedinto their back and disappeared.

“I can’t believe I let them fall out while Iwas sleeping!” they gasped as they frantically zipped up their baggy outfit.

“What…What are you?” he asked.

That question seemed to make themuncomfortable. They slumped their shoulders and hugged their sides, rockingthemselves back and forth gently.

“Y-You shouldn’t have seen me,” they mutteredunder their breath, “You sh-shouldn’t have seen my wings…”

“Why not?”

“I…I’m a geneticexperiment from Talon, but I escaped this morning,” they mumbled without makingeye contact, “I stowed away in one of their ships, but I didn’t know itwould lead me to one of their fights…”

Hanzo sat there, taking all that he/she had told him. So he had been harboring a fugitive that whole time. No wonder they were so jumpy. But at least now he knew what to do.

“Here,” he handed them a cup of tea, “You can stay here and rest for one more day, and then I’ll contact headquarters,”

They opened their mouth to protest, but he raised a hand to stop them.

“Don’t worry. Overwatch will keep you safe; you have my word,” he said, “And you’re knowledge of Talon could prove invaluable to them. But for now, just rest. My name is Hanzo Shimada by the way. I am sorry for not introducing myself sooner,”

“[Name],” they said in response, “Thank you for saving me, H-Hanzo,”

McCree

Jack groaned when he saw Jesse’s caller ID on his cell phone. What did he want now?

“Hello?” 76 grunted into his phone.

“Howdy, Morrison,” McCree said on the other end, “So, uh, I’ve got a bit of a problem and I need your advice…”

“What is it?” he grumbled.

“You know that mission we were just in? Well I was surveying the reamnants like you said, and I found someone,” he explained.

“Then take them to medical like I said,”

“Well I woulda,” McCree grimaced, “But uuuh…they were very insisting that I hide them and it all seemed a little fishy to me,”

Now the story seemed a little more interesting to Jack and he perked up, “So where did you take them?”

“Back to my ranch,”

“You took them to your personal home?!” 76 barked, “Agent, that’s a risky move! They could be undercover!”

Yeah, yeah I know!” Jack could practically feel McCree rolling his eyes on the other end, “But they were beat up pretty bad, and if I didn’t take them back here to get patched up, then there wouldn’t be much else I could do. Besides, that’s why I’m calling. They’re cleaning up right now which leaves a good chance me to go routin’ through their stuff. What kinda stuff would I be looking for if they were undercover?”

“I guess an ID card of sorts or some kind of pendant,” Jack shrugged, “Most Talon agents wear the company logo on them in the form of a charm or necklace, but you might also find a card with it, too. Look for any confidential files with an undercover mission, too, anything that instructs them to infiltrate an Overwatch agent’s personal abode,”

“Huh,” McCree nodded, “Got it,”

“Call me back if you find anything,” was Jack’s last order before hanging up.

That left McCree sitting in his kitchen, glancing down the hall to the bathroom. He knew the stranger was in their cleaning up, and all he needed to do was slip in and grab their bag. With any luck, they wouldn’t see him, so it was time to put some of his old Blackwatch skills to use. Gradually, he moved down the hall to the bathroom where he could hear little water ripples.

Backing himself up against the wall, he slowly edged the door open just enough for him to reach his arm through. So far, it didn’t seem like they had noticed. He could see their black backpack, so he slowly reached out for it, easing through the crack in the door more and more. Sure, he got it, but made the mistake of looking up.

“The hell?” he mumbled then slapped a hand over his mouth.

He almost couldn’t blame himself for saying it out loud. They had fucking angel wings on their back! Big, white, feathery wings hanging off their back and pooling into the tub around them! Of course they heard him and spun around, disturbing the water around them.

“W-W-What do you th-think–” they stammered, flapping their wings angrily, “G-Get out!”

Jesse yelped and ducked out, totally abandoning the pack he was supposed to have grabbed. He tried calling Morrison back to update him on the…odd situation, but he wouldn’t pick up. When the stranger finally emerged, wearing the same pants and backless shirt from before, their face was red and they looked pissed.

“What is wrong with you!” they shouted, “Can’t a guy/girl get some privacy?!”

“S-Sorry, really, I-I just wanted to–um…” he stuttered as the stranger waited impatiently for an answer, “Well…truth is I was gonna go through yer things and check if you had any evidence for being an undercover agent from Talon,”

They scoffed, “Do I really look like an undercover agent to you?”

“Well I dunno, you had those big ol’ wings on yer back!” he retorted.

Their face turned a darker red and they averted their eyes.

“So…you saw…” they snarled.

“Of course I did! The big white feathers hangin’ off yer back? Duh,”

Sighing in annoyance, they grabbed their backpack and slammed it down on the kitchen table. They unloaded all its contents, even shaking the bag upside-down a few times. There was a passport, snacks, money in the form of a variety of currencies, a silenced pistol, a guidebook to America, and some spare clothes. But nothing that Soldier: 76 had warned him about.

“See? Nothing that points to Talon,” they snapped, “So why would my wings of all things point to them?”

“Ok, ok,” he eased off a bit, “Just uh…wasn’t expectin’ you to be half bird,”

“Half angel,” they corrected him.

“Yeah, alright,”

“Well I am. Don’t you work with people with special powers in Overwatch?” they pointed out, “Aren’t you used to that?”

“So yer sayin’ you were born with this?” he asked.

“I’m saying that you should mind your own business, McCree,” they ordered, “Look, I’m grateful for you hiding me while I regenerate–”

“Wait what?”

“–But I’ve got to fly now, literally. Can’t stick around here much longer,”

With that, they grabbed their backpack and put it on backwards so that it hung off the front of their shoulders. Then they headed for the door with Jesse hot on their heels.

“That’s it? Not even an explanation for why your here?” he whined, “Not even a thank you?”

They stopped just short of the door and took a deep breath. Then they turned to him and looked him in the eyes with a heartfelt sincerity.

“Thank you, McCree,” they gave him a small bow, “I know I haven’t told you much yet–not even my name–but trust me, things will start to make sense very soon,”

“What do ya mean?” Jesse asked.

“I can’t explain that now,” they shrugged as they opened the door.

They walked outside, standing in the ranch’s driveway, and their ivory wings erupted from their back again. They looked so pretty and plush, it almost made him want to run his hands through them.

Looking back at him, the stranger said, “But I will explain soon. You play a bigger part in this war than you think, Jesse,”

They knew his first name?

“Wait, how you know my–” he started to ask.

But in one flap of their wings, they took off from the ground, leaving behind a cloud of dust. Just like that, they were gone, but he was sure they’d be back.

Lucio

Lucio didn’t question in much at first when the stranger requested to be hidden. They seemed so jumpy and afraid that he just wanted to calm them down, so he took them back to his place for the time being. He figured he’d just call the hospital in a bit anyways. If this person needed some time to settle down, he’d give it to them. After all, he found them in the wreckage of the Numbani Museum, where a big fight had just gone down. They had probably seen some shit in there.

He left them in the living room his Sonic Amplifier switched to the healing setting. Last he saw them, they were sitting criss-cross next to the speaker, allowing the light tunes to slowly cure their wounds. But when he came back with some water and blankets, he was surprised to hear that the music was switched off.

“Hey, you should keep that on if you…” he started to say when his voice suddenly died in his throat.

Well for starters, their cuts had totally closed up and they looked totally healthy. But what was weirder was that he had walked in on them changing shirts. But what was weirder than that were the chestnut-colored bird wings sprouting from their back and falling gently to the floor.

“U-uh sorry!” he felt his face heat up and he turned around, trying to hide the oncoming blush.

“It’s alright,” was their calm response.

At least they had chilled and weren’t stuttering and shrieking anymore.

“You can look now,”

They were wearing a shirt now, but a small part of the back was open for their bird’s wings to come out. The stranger fluttered them gently and smiled.

“You like ‘em?” they asked sweetly.

“Uuuuuuuuh…” was the only thing that came out of his mouth.

The stranger just giggled at him and stretched their wings out as big as they could make them, “Go on, you can look at them all you like until you get used to them,”

Lucio just placed a hand under his chin and leaned against the wall, his eyes still unable to move from the wings.

“I’m…not entirely sure I will,” he mumbled.

They just laughed at him again and folded the wings at their sides, “I always get the funniest responses from these. But listen, you can’t tell anyone you saw these. It’s a secret.”

They put a finger to their lips and went “shhh.” Lucio could only nod along.

“Got it. Um, w-why exactly do you have those?” he asked nervously.

“Born with ‘em,” they shrugged, picking at some of the feathers at the ends, “I’ve been looking for my biological parents–or creators–to find out why I’m like this. I came to the Numbani Heritage Museum for answers, thinking my wings resembled a bird native to here, but…”

Their cheery exterior suddenly dropped, and their body shuddered upon remembering their museum experience. Lucio grew worried and approached them.

“Hey, it’s ok now, you’re away from them now,” he comforted them.

“Who were they?” they breathed.

“Talon,” he sighed as he took a seat next to them, “They cause trouble everywhere they go,”

“What were they after?”

“Doomfist’s gauntlet,” he answered bluntly, “Those grunts just won’t take no for an answer. They just keep comin’ and comin’ to take it,”

“That sounds troublesome…” they mumbled.

“Yeah,” he droned, before perking up, “But you can stay here as long as you need to recover, of course.”

“That’s very kind of you,” their smile returned, “But I should be going soon. After all, my wings also somehow heal me, and I’m all better now. I’ll probably spend the night on the couch, but I’ll be gone in the morning. My past isn’t going to discover itself,”

“Heh, yeah I guess,” Lucio shrugged before getting up again, “But listen, if you need anything, just let me know. Food, tunes, birdseed–”

“Heeey…” they pouted.

“Sorry, sorry,” he chuckled.

[kivaqblog-blog]

Migraines, Chelsea, and Class Privilege

tl;dr: I went to Callen-Lorde Clinic yesterday, and they gave me something that fixed my migraines! But quite by accident, I got a close look at some class differences among queers which I normally don't see in person. Details below.

I’d thrown up twice at 2 or 3 am over the last week, and after the second time I’d had enough, as in I couldn’t take another night like that. It turned out that I had a low-grade fever, about 99.7 F. (37.6 C.). Pat, whom I was referred to — hi, Pat! thx! — gave me a pill I’ve never heard of and it worked, finally stopped the pain. I should’ve gone sooner, but I kept trying the tools in my allergy kit. I even went to my acupuncturist. Nothing worked for long.

After she evaluated me, Pat said that I probably have a virus too. Plus allergies, which trigger migraines: she has the same problem and said the warm-cold-warm-freezing weather we're having just makes it worse. I'm glad I went, even though I'll see my doctor, Eunmee, on Monday. Everyone’s on a first-name basis at C-L, which in itself takes away some of the tension around having to go to the doctor. They’re considerate of things that other clinics don't even think of.

A lot of the patients at C-L don’t have private insurance. There was a table out front to help people with it, and a nice young man who seemed mostly bored did ask if I needed insurance help. I smiled and said no, I’m fine, and he smiled and nodded like he knew I’d say that.

There was a big poster saying injectible estrogen is finally available again (some kind of corporate nonsense left thousands without E shots for nearly a year; I use patches, I was lucky). They have pronoun stickers for patients, and put their own pronouns on their ID badges. It’s a nice place, even when the pharmacy gets crowded. Some of us are regulars because we’re trans and are just having our health monitored as we transition. I look forward to my visits, usually, unless I have a migraine. But most people who come there do need medical help because they’re sick, like I did yesterday, and aren’t happy to have to be there.

_______

They said I could see Pat at 1 pm, so I went out to have lunch. I went to the first place I could find, a Le Pain Quotidien (Fr., “daily bread”). Usually I go into an LPQ for a cheese danish. This time I asked for chai and three mini-madeleines. I tried four times to get the young woman behind the counter to call me “ma’am,” but every time I tried, I just got this tilted-head non-response with silly-grin thing, really overdone, by way of a response, as if she not only couldn’t understand wtf I was saying, but was moreover momentarily rendered mute by it. “It’s ‘ma’am,’ actually.” Tilt, grin. “It’s ‘ma’am,’ not ‘sir.’” Tilt, grin.

So finally I directly told her, but she still acted like I was speaking Martian, unless I was ordering or paying for madeleines and chai, ffs. On reflection (I was eating madeleines, after all, and thinking about the past, there’s a Proust reference for French lit fans), I decided she was actually treating me as if I were stupid, and hoping I’d just go away.

I assume she must’ve had some personal reason which overrode all other considerations of courtesy and tact and required her to play dumb about transgender people. Like she’d never even seen one on tv. Which, I understand, has become more and more unlikely in recent years.

At least she stopped ‘sirring' me after the first four times. Which made it clear, on reflection, that she did hear me, and understood me, and knew exactly what I was and what I wanted. Yet she seemed physically unable to either use my proper honorific or explain why she wouldn’t or couldn’t. As if she’d never heard of such a thing. Even though I had long silver hair, was wearing earrings, two pendants, and a shoulder bag.

Which is sort of odd, really, because once they appeared every customer there looked queer, or at least were having lunch with someone queer. As my son said recently of a webcomic about college students, “Assume everyone is gay unless otherwise noted.” This is Chelsea after all, Ninth Avenue and West 16th. It’s where you live if you’re queer and rich.

I took my chai, mini-madeleines, and honorific and sat in the back. I began trying to use my phone’s keyboard to send Kathleen an update, and cursing at it, quietly, as is my wont. I had a migraine, and they come with a bad mood. At least it’s quiet in here, I thought. It was noon.

When I looked up again, there were flowers and condiments on the tables. People were streaming in and were being seated by a waiter. Suddenly the coffee joint turned into a charming little French resto with lots of vegetarian and lactose-free options. I had no idea this would happen, and it looked like they were going to let me finish my chai at my own pace.

But I asked for a menu anyway, on a hunch, and found what I wanted: a croque-monsieur on sourdough. It’s a French ham and cheese sandwich, more or less, toasted, and they served it with three kinds of mustard, one of them a lot like the mustard found on every single table in every café in Paris. I was so happy.

Soon I realized the people to my left were speaking French. The two on my right with MacBooks open were speaking German. There was a sharp corner I sat next to with no room for a table, so I had space to leave my coat and bags where they were on the bench. I wasn’t in anyone’s way.

Then I realized that, except for the one guy in the back with a laptop who looked like a wifi regular, everyone else had poured into this place at high noon. They were lunch regulars.

I was quite surprised. But the croque was great. And of course, I could afford it.

The others, one and all, looked like they could afford this and then some, if you know what I mean. They were there for the French food, and probably considered it a bargain; my croque was $12 plus tip, but it was worth it to me.

I overheard snippets of creativity-related convos, like, “so do you still want to dance?” (as in, do you still want to be a dancer?) They were all well-dressed. They all appeared to be cis. They all appeared to be white.

They mostly appeared to be male, too. I’m not very good at spotting transfolx who are trying to pass and are good at it, but I didn’t see anyone else in there who was overtly gender-variant.

They were all young, or nearly so, cute, fashionable, that sort of thing. I hate to generalize, but I looked around and, jeez Louise, I was surrounded by New York A-List types. People who keep summer houses at The Pines on Fire Island. This is not a world I’ve ever been part of.

Looking back now, it felt like the kind of place that, before transgender rights were added to the city anti-discrimination ordinance, would’ve turned away someone dressed like me, claiming that they were full, or that you needed a reservation, or would’ve made me leave once lunch started. I used to hear stories.

______

And that’s how I accidentally got a close-up look at a self-selected sample of contemporary Chelsea. I felt scruffy, because I hadn’t shaved, and felt generally out of place . No one here had exotic haircuts or lots of tattoos, which tbph are the kind of queers I feel more comfortable around these days. I stopped arguing with my phone over whether “transfolx” is a word and focussed on eating my croque, trying the different mustards. Then I paid with my AmEx gold card and left.

When I got back to the clinic I paid more attention to who appeared to be in which socioeconomic classes, at least visibly, especially people waiting to get a prescription filled or have lab work done. Since it seemed to take the pharmacy a solid hour to put ten pills in a bottle and give them to me — I saw six or eight people called ahead of me, wtf? — I got a chance to consider this at length, pausing to check the time on my phone every three minutes.

By the time it was ready, the school rush had started back in Brooklyn. I was so sick I did something I try to never do: call a Lyft and take a car home from Manhattan. $28 plus tunnel toll = $36, I think. Sitting there in the lobby, fiddling with the pickup location, I realized I was edging back into that other world, the world of queer people who can afford shit like lunch at French restaurants, really nice clothes, and a whiff of attitude, and who take cabs everywhere. I can only afford lunch and cabs occasionally, but it’s still another world, the one I spend most of my time in.

_______

There’s a good chance that none of us would’ve been in that restaurant if there hadn’t been a Stonewall Riot 48 years ago, a gay liberation movement composed of scruffy argumentative activists who would’ve been horrified if you could go back in time and tell them that one result is prosperous queers eating lunch at a place like this. It looked like they were all members or aspired to membership of the most privileged classes in the NYC queer community, all creative types or professionals of some kind, either talking business or taking a break from it. This is Chelsea in 2017: Le Pain Q. is two blocks from Callen-Lorde, but it’s a world away.

It was cold as fuck outside, with high winds, which was my other excuse for calling a car. I watched it approach on the phone, then I left a clinic always full of patients who could never afford to call a car on the spur of the moment, no matter how sick they were, and who would probably never go to LPQ, even to buy a coffee and danish. I got in my little bit of wheeled privilege, paid with my thumbprint, and went back to Brooklyn.

[shine4u]

Zuluk – The silent valley:

I never see a silent valley like Zuluk or Dzuluk. The calmness of this valley is so still that you can even hear your own heartbeats. The coldness dipped into the deep mist and the silence of the valley create an enigmatic ambiance that attracted me the most to explore it more intensely. The valley has its own charm that is devoid of modern civilizations like the connectivity of the internet,  phone calls, and television. The only sound you can hear is the music of the cool mountain breeze complemented by dangling off the leaves, the flapping of the wings of the birds in harmony, and the melancholic tune of the afternoon mist.

Enigmatic Zuluk.

Location:

This mysterious valley is the virgin destination of the old silk route of the East Sikkim. This is situated in the Eastern Himalaya at an altitude of 10,000ft from the sea level. The hamlet is surrounded by the deep green Himalayan forest enriched with varieties type of flora and fauna.  Zuluk or Dzuluk or Jhuluk is the transit camp of the old silk route that connects Kalimpong of the India to Lassa of the Tibet. In the past, the people, come from the Tibet and China for trade, halted their night at Zuluk. Now, it is the transit camp of the Indian army of Indo-China border. The jarring noise of the military trucks only breaks the tranquillity of the village.

The cloud going to mask over the valley based on the army camps.

Please read my previous blog posts of “Along the Old Silk Route” series to connect with the mesmerizing trip to Sikkim.

Along the Old Silk Route #1: Trip Plan

Along the Old Silk Route #2: Romantic Rishikhola

Along the Old Silk Route #3:  A day at Aritar

Along the Old Silk Route #4: Mankhim

How to reach Zuluk?

It is a small village of East Sikkim, close to the town Rangoli. It takes approx. 4 hrs (91km) from Gangtok.  If you want to come from Siliguri, you can get the cabs from New Jalpaiguri (NJP) station and the Bagdogra airport as well. In such cases, you have to prebook your car at 3000-4500Rs/per day charge. It takes 6-7 hours as the road condition is seriously bad. It’s better to choose travel agency or the tour operator who can arrange the silk route trip according to your interest for the first time traveler. There are various types of packages from 1-day hurricane trip to 4 days leisure trip. Please, follow my earlier post on the Old silk route trip plan to get the contacts of the various tour operators or to arrange the cabs for the trip.

A journey from Mankhim to Zuluk :

We came to Zuluk from Mankhim.  This is the 3rd destination of our old silk route trip. The journey from Mankhim to Zuluk is an amazing experience. The land around the Zuluk is still in a pristine condition and immersed with the alpine vegetations with numerous waterfalls.  Kuekhola falls is the biggest waterfalls among them.

Kuekhola Fall

Water fall.

We crossed a big forest territory just before the army area of Zuluk. The zig-zag roads of the silk route pass through this forest.We started to feel the deep jerk of frequent turning of the hairpin bend from here.

  Permit:

As Dzuluk or Jhuluk is an army protected the area, you need to take Govt. permit to enter this valley. And the restricted zone continues throughout the silk route. You can get the permit from Rongoli town by the spending of 300Rs for two persons. Another permit you have to take by the spending of another 200 buck (Camera charges is 110Rs extra)  for entering that forest territory. 4 copies of passport size photos and 2 photocopies of the Id proof (Not the  PAN card) are mandatory to get the permit for the old silk route. Our driver Bhutia bhai took all the initiatives to issue the permit.

Where to stay?

You cannot find any luxurious and traditional hotels in Zuluk. The people of the village offer simple and eco-friendly Homestays, which are very close to nature.  Our Homestay was very simple with the basic amenities, but the hospitability of the owners (we call her aunty) was amazing. We just felt that we were in our home and close to our mother. Aunty and her daughter-in-law always took care of our needs. Even, her daughter-in-law carried our two big trollies alone from the uphill to their home. That time, the temperature was very low and we felt very cold. Aunty always served us hot water (for washing and drinking) and warm dishes. Even she scolded my 5 years old son when he started nagging on eating foods and fed him the foods by her own hand. The dishes were awesome and very nicely cooked. I’ll never forget the warmth I got from her. I told her when I’ll come next time to see the snow in the winter, I’ll definitely stay in her Homestay. Here is the contact info for our Homestay.

Zuluk Tibetan Villa:  Namgyal Bhutia, Phone- 9832043666/8391971993/9734955289

Food and lodging charge: 800-900 per head per day

P.S: If you cannot reach him over the phone, you can contact our driver, Bhutia bhai. He can arrange this homestay for your stay if you book his car. You can blindly trust in his driving skill.

Phone – 8116923004

Zuluk in my Eyes:

It around 2’Oclock of the afternoon, we arrived in Zuluk. After keeping luggage in the room of our Homestay, I just roamed around its campus. The area in front of our room was amazing. It was on the top of the hill and I found the panoramic views of the Eastern Himalayas with its green vegetations and other valleys and villages. The Zuluk Hallypad and the military transit camp was clearly visible from that area. But, rest of the places were covered with the deep mask of the cloud. Aunty came to me and told that when the clouds disappear, the places like Darjeeling, Kalimpong, Lava, Lolegaion, Gangtok can be seen clearly from this place. But, I missed it as the clouds conspired against me and never left its place during my stay.

Top view of the valley-Zuluk.

  The melancholic tune of the Afternoon:

The zig-zag roads of Zuluk.

After having lunch, I went outside and walked around the valley. The economic conditions of the people of this hamlet are not so well. The land is not good for plantation and farming. Tourism is the only source of their earning. The kids of the villages take their educations from Padamchen and stay at the school hostel as there are no transport services from the schools. Even there is no Monastery in the area around Zuluk. The population of the villages enriched with the Tibetan race and they have to go the Monasteries of Gangtok for performing their religious rituals and festivals.

I came back to our place in the evening and met other co-travelers, who were staying just beside our room. After chatting sometime we came to know that they are residing very close to our home in Kolkata. It was really great during traveling to find someone who is your native. We spent a cheerful evening with them.

A bright sunny morning:

After passing a cold night, we get up in the early morning.  We had a plan to see the Sunrise on the Kanchenjunga from the Lungthung that was 4 km uphill from the Zuluk. But, my husband was not well that time. Hence, we dropped the plan for watching Sunrise at 4.30 am.  But, early morning, we went for the sightseeing and reached the Thambi viewpoint of Lungthung. It was a clear morning and we saw a breathtaking beauty of the zig-zag roads ( Locally called “Bhulbhulaia) of the old silk route.

The old silk route of Sikkim.

Some Important Tips:

The car takes extra 1000Rs to show the sunrise from the Lungthung viewpoint. Hence, I think it’s better to stay at the homestays near the viewpoints of Lungthung instead of Zuluk. You can see the splendid sunrise over the Mt. Kanchenjunga from your window.

Keep all the necessary medicines in your bag as there are no medicine shops and hospitals in the nearby area.

You have to carry cash in your wallet because you cannot find any bank or ATM in the surrounding places.

Don’t expect any internet connectivity and Phone calls. By any chance, if you get a signal on your phone, you are damn lucky.

The Woollens are necessary for any of the time over the years. Hence, you need to carry it.

If you want to see snow, visit Zuluk from December to March.

  Towards The Gangtok along the old silk route:

We came to Gangtok from the Zuluk along the old silk route. The journey was amazing and adventurous as well. I’ll write on this journey at my next post. Stay tuned and get updated with the posts.

    Along the Old Silk Route #5: Enigmatic Zuluk Zuluk - The silent valley: I never see a silent valley like Zuluk or Dzuluk.