#i will never let anyone forget about the bullhorns

[iamscarychuckecheese]

dubba dubba dubba

[keeper-of-the-lost-dadwin]

The pain of remembering is worth the danger of forgetting

@creetchure I was your secret Santa

Elwin was forgetful. He had been since he was born and would continue to be until his wanderling had sprouted. He could forget just about anything.

He would forget whether or not he had grabbed his schoolbooks. He could misplace things resting in his hand. He would repeat actions over and over again, caught in an endless cycle. He had tried to overcome it; little scribbled notes had once surrounded him. Alas, they weren’t much help when he ended up putting off and consequently forgetting to write down his reminders.

So, he went on being as forgetful as ever, gradually adjusting to it. He resolved to look on the bright side, there was no harm in double checking after all. He had an eternity to live, five minutes searching for a tunic was merely a blink of an eye.

When moving to splendor plains, it was easier to manage. His official doctor stuff was organized throughout the manor. His personal belongings were kept in a separated, homier wing. This meant nothing traveled too far.

One thing he still forgot about was food. He forgot to eat most nights, usually spent refining some remedy or other. This habit was quite enabled by the arrival of one Sophie foster. Even if he ate three meals a day, his food would spoil long before he had reached the end of it.

Food wasn’t sold to be eaten occasionally by questionably healthy bachelors. It was sold to be eaten by families with many stomachs to fill. So he let it rot, only getting rid of it once the odor became unbearable. As neglected as anything else in his home.

Then came a certain Keefe Sencen. He was just a kid, no more than a baby really. His seventeen years were nothing compared to Elwin’s centuries. Yet those 17 years had been filled with so much pain.

None of which he deserved. He was a great kid, as full of mischief as he was. He was kind and smart, despite what his parents had told him. He deserved the world, but Elwin couldn’t give him that, despite how much he wanted to. What Elwin could give him was a gentle, loving home.

And so he did. A home filled with soft words of praise, filled with love and safety. A home where Keefe wouldn’t need to worry about being good enough, where he could just be himself.

Part of that included giving him good food. Fresh fruits and pastries that would fill him up. There would be no more days of forgetting to eat, not with a kid to take care of.

He had come home early one evening, not having to tempt bullhorn from anyone that day. It was the least stressed he’d felt in a while, without the looming threat of death hanging over one of his kids.

He passed keefe getting a snack as he went to his room to change. He glanced at his plate and immediately knew something was off. He ignored it, thinking it was nothing urgent.

He took off his work clothes and put on comfy pajamas. He had no expectation of going to bed anytime soon but getting comfortable a bit early never hurt anyone.

He went to the kitchen to make himself a snack, willing to put off making dinner that much longer. He sat down with his food and greeted his son.

He took a better look at what he was eating. There were bits of mold on the edges of his food. Keefe wasn’t eating with his eyes closed, so he had to have known it was there.

Elwin felt queasy. How long had keefe been eating rotten food? How much had he eaten? Even if he hadn’t gotten sick didn’t mean there wasn’t a risk now. How horrible of a parent did he have to be not to notice it? Why would Keefe be eating rotten food even after Elwin had made sure there was always fresh food in the house?

He realized he had zoned out for too long. He shook himself out of his stupor to actually fix the problem. Worrying wouldn’t help Keefe, wouldn’t make him stop.

“There’s mold on that, darling,” Keefe finally looked up from his plate, startled by the sudden breaking of the comfortable silence. 

“You’ll get sick if you eat that”

He looked like a cornered animal, a guilty expression painted on his face. “I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to eat the rest of the food in the pantry. The kind that wasn’t rotten. I thought you would get mad,”. He looked sheepish, as if this was in any way his fault.

Elwin couldn’t believe it. Keefe thought that Elwin would get mad at him for eating. Eating the food Elwin had specifically gotten for him. How could Keefe believe that? Who had made him believe that taking care of himself was something bad? 

He knew the answer to that of course. He knew all too well how Keefe’s “parents” had treated him. It sickened him to even think of anyone willing to do that, especially to their own son. 

“Did Cassius and Gisela make you eat spoiled food?” He spat out the names, as if that would fix all that they’d done. 

“Yes,” Keefe whispered, as if to keep Elwin from hearing. He curled in on himself, as if trying to hide himself from Elwin’s fury. That only made him angrier, how could Keefe believe he was the one Elwin was mad at? As if Elwin could ever actually be mad at him.

“My dad made it clear that whenever I was grounded, I wasn’t allowed to take food from the pantry. I would keep a small stash of food hidden under my bed. I didn’t know if you would be okay with me taking your food, I figured you wouldn’t care about what you couldn’t eat.” 

Elwin was horrified. “Your parents let you starve?”

“Well, not really. I was smart enough to learn how to get food anyways. Besides, I was only ever grounded for a couple weeks at a time.” He blurted it out so quickly he almost tripped over his words. Whether he wanted to explain it to defend his parents, or just to make Elwin less angry, he didn’t know.

“That’s not okay honey, no matter how easily you were able to actually get food. Your parents can’t starve you. They can’t just not let you have food.”

Keefe nodded, apparently finally understanding. "I’m sorry for worrying you”. 

And back to square one. 

“You have nothing to be sorry about. I should have made it clear that you were welcome to everything in my house, what’s mine is yours.”

Elwin invited Keefe to join him on the couch to watch a cheesy human movie and eat some popcorn. Once the movie finished, they went to bed, having forgotten what had transpired just a few hours earlier. 

That was the end of their food struggles, they managed to fix one of the kinks that came with building your own family. And if Elwin made sure to throw out any food that had gone bad from then on, well, it never hurt anyone to be on the safe side.

@song-tam

[purekesseltrash]

Chapter 12 of Bury Them Deep, the final chapter, is out!

Fave Excerpt:

Mezou jammed his hands inside of his coat pockets, unsure of what to say or even do besides grin like an idiot.  Tokoyami came to a stop finally and stared at Mezou, mouth open as if he was about to speak.  He gaped for a moment more before a distinctly annoyed look came across his features.  “Fuck,” he hissed, “I had a whole speech that I was thinking up on the way here and suddenly I have found my mind to be a blank slate.”

Mezou laughed, unable to help himself, “I don’t need speeches.”

Tokoyami stepped forward to grab at Mezou’s coat, his grip firm and his face honest, “You deserve them.  I fear I am an incurable romantic and this is simply how I function.  But my words have fled like cowards and the only part of the speech that I can remember is this, but it is the important part.  Let me take you on a date.  A real one.”

“I’d like that,” Mezou said softly.

Fun Facts:

- Hand to god, I had not decided on names for all of Shouji’s siblings until I had to write them.  Thank you, Japanese Name Generator.  Though Makoto is another Sailor Moon reference.  I also had not know that Shouji’s mom was where he got his artistic eye from, though I am glad for it.

- My favorite Hip song is ‘Lake Fever’ or ‘Scared’.  I thought that the lyric in Lake Fever was ‘You whispered Courage’ for the longest time, legitimately until I checked the lyrics to write the pivotal fucking scene only to find out that no, it was ‘hurry’.  It all worked out, thank GOD.

- IDK if anyone noticed, but I ship them as Tokoshouji, as opposed to Shoutoko.  I like the idea of Tokoyami being one taking the initiative better and it seems to fit his character anyway.  I don’t see this dynamic often and it drives me nuts because I could write an ESSAY on why it works so well.  Idk.

- Not even gonna lie, the last Mic segment made me cry.  It was like my final good bye to everyone reading, it’s personal.  And it’s basically me peeking out there, as opposed to just Mic.  For all of hockey’s shitty aspects, it’s the best game in the world.  I love it and I want it to be good and I will do what I can to make it be good.

More stuff under the read more about my future plans with this universe:

- So I have written a chapter and a half of an Erasermic prequel, basically telling the story of what happened when Shouta retired and ended up drugged to the gills and numb to the world at Hizashi’s doorstep, despite the two of them not having seen each other in legitimately over 10 years.

- I also have a side story of Kirishima and Bakugou, both with an idea of how they got together as well as what happens to them when they get to the NHL.  (Spoilers:  Kirishima does not have a good time as the first out and gay NHLer.  He basically gets buried in the minors despite being legitimately good.  Eventually he finally quits hockey way too young.  Bakugou meanwhile is a generational talent and is legit too good to bury in the minors.  When Kirishima retires, Bakugou flies to Tokoyami and Shouji’s house, where Kirishima is licking his wounds, and is like ‘Marry me.’  Kirishima tells him that he’s only going to say yes if Bakugou proposes with a Cup ring and Bakugou is like ‘Bet’.

- I also have one in mind on Ojiro and Shinsou.  They had an amicable breakup when they graduated, both understanding that the life of a hockey wife wasn’t gonna work for Ojiro.  Ojiro went on to meet a super cool alt girl through the info sec community and they got married and had a daughter.  They end up splitting up amicably when their daughter is around 7 and split custody without much of an issue.  Ojiro works remotely and lives in what is basically a lake cabin up in northern Minnesota.  He and Shinsou have kept in touch and when Shinsou finally retires, he comes to visit Ojiro.  The fic would go over them meeting up again.

- And then, of course, there’s Shouji and Tokoyami.

They get their shitty apartment in Atlanta.  Kenta helps them with the deposit and also goes with Shouji as he tries to find one.  Shouji ends up getting taken on by Orca, a buddy of Loder’s who generally doesn’t take Midwestern farm boys on as apprentices but he makes an exception, despite the fact that his work very afro centric.  Shouji is a nice guy though and a damned hard worker and has a good eye so Orca keeps him on for a long while.  Shouji still ends up picking up a bunch of odd jobs here and there, mostly grunt work like putting up drywall, but it gets him and Tokoyami through the absolute agony that is legal school.

Tokoyami goes into intellectual property law.  He knows how much work goes in to art and creative stuff and he wants to protect people like Shouji.  He ends up making a pretty nice living and they’re able to pay off the credit card debt that they accumulated during Tokoyami going through law school.  Shouji actually starts doing pretty well for himself too, mostly with his pottery but still with some sculpture.  Eventually Tokoyami proposes that they move to Raleigh, both because it makes sense for both of them and their jobs and well... because they have a hockey team.

Shouji never gave up hockey.  He had some years right after college where he did struggle to even look at his gear.  He had told his parents that he was gay and not going to the NHL over the phone as they were planning to come to his graduation, because he just couldn’t take them wasting money when he knew that they would never want to talk to him again.  Unfortunately, he was right.  Kenta still came to his graduation though and had two bullhorns that he slammed the entire time that Shouji was accepting his diploma.  He even brought Shouji his own pride flag and insisted on taking a picture with him holding it.  He posted the picture on his facebook with a very bold pronouncement that he was very proud of the first Shouji to get a college degree and how anyone that had a problem with his little brother could take it up with Kenta.  Still, Shouji went through some real mourning with the loss of his family and he took a small break.

But then he came back to it, once they started to get a little extra spending money.  He found a beer league group in Atlanta and started to really get back into the game, researching ways to improve in his downtime.  It got a little weird sometimes at the beer league games because sometimes Shouji would forget that he’d decided to wear eyeshadow or would forget that he had on entirely wrong undergarments but everyone accepts that goalies are weird so it was accepted.  Eventually he ends up having people ask him to coach for their kids, which he is loathe to do until Tokoyami points out that it’s better than Shouji do it, as someone who knows how damaging expectations and pressure can be, than anyone else.  So that becomes a little part time job of his.

Everything isn’t perfect for Shouji and Tokoyami.  Nothing is perfect.  Tokoyami is a borderline hoarder and Shouji can’t stand mess and that causes them to fight enough that they wisely seek counselling. But they’re happy.  Tokoyami eases up on the goth stuff and accepts his accent a bit more, though he still dresses in dark colors, especially for court.  Shouji actually gets to play around a little with the whole genderqueer thing and makes up for the time that he spent avoiding anything that would make him seem too gay.  And they still work really well together, becoming the pair that everyone from college kind of groans at, because they’re so ridiculously in love, but also envies.

They get season tickets to the Carolina Hurricaines.  You’ll see them with Tokoyami in a Devils jersey and Shouji with one of many from his massive collection.  Tokoyami will make comments here and there during the game, showing that he does actually listen when Shouji talks about goalie stuff and they only ever miss a game for gallery openings or work events.  Otherwise, they are there in their seats, holding hands and watching the game.

Feel free to ask me any questions!  I’m more than happy to talk about this, if you couldn’t tell.  (Also, I do have some half written smut so uh.... yeah.)

[faveficarchive]

The Secret Histories: Part 2

An Archaeologist, High and Low

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Set soon after All the Colors of the World, an old flame wanders back into Mel’s life, and threatens a relationship already wrought with unspoken problems. Janice is sent off to Bavaria to work with the Monuments Men, and Mel isn’t far behind. Will their shaky relationship withstand the test of distance, violence, and ancient obsession?

September 1945

Sergeant Sally Phillips stared anxiously at the pair of khaki legs that emanated from under the car she usually drove. Grunting sounds came from the partially hidden body. "Janice, can you fix it?" she said.

"I don't know yet, Sal. Cars other than Fords...I don't know much about," Janice replied from under the vehicle. They were in a driveway outside the U.S. Embassy; Sally, with whom she became friends during basic training at Fort Oglethorpe, was a driver for the U.S. Ambassador's Office. She had called Janice in a panic, remembering that her friend knew something about cars...and she, hardly Rosie the Riveter, knew nothing about them, except how to drive one.

Sally despaired. "I know. But I can't take it back to the garage. They'll kick my ass. This is about the third time this thing has died on me, and Murtlock'll kill me..."

"It's not your fault. They should know that," Janice said, her voice muffled.

"You know how that bastard is. If anything goes wrong, he blames one of us."

Janice chuckled. "Yeah, you're right. Murtlock is a real prick."

Unfortunately, Sally felt his presence before she could warn Janice. She snapped to attention. Major Murtlock, their commanding officer, was standing right behind her. There was no telling how much of the conversation he heard, but the last statement alone was more than enough to...she sighed inwardly. She knew that Janice would get the worst of whatever shit Murtlock would ladle out; her friend was too outspoken and too indiscreet about her affair with the beautiful black-haired woman that Sally had met only once...whatever her name was...she was a looker, though, almost enough to make me switch teams...

"Stupid foreign cars...ACKPHLT!" Suddenly Janice slid from under the car, covered in oil. "God, I think I swallowed some..." Janice tried to wipe the oil off her face with an equally black hand, which made it worse.

Then she noticed Murtlock.

From her position on the ground he looked even bigger than usual. And he was a big man, probably six and half feet in his stocking feet. This was one of those moments when she envied Mel her height; if she were as tall as her beloved companion, she might feel a little less intimidated, even sitting down. The Major scowled at her, his heavy black brows crashing in consternation. "Don't get up, Covington," he rumbled. "I have something for you." He pulled a packet of papers out of his jacket, and tossed them down to her. They landed in her lap. "I'm very pleased to say you have new orders. You're shipping out in two days. The information"—he nodded at the papers—"is all there. I hope you have a pleasant trip," he grunted sarcastically.

"Yes, sir," Janice replied perfunctorily. Her lips shifted nervously in a frantic attempt to dissuade a smart-ass smirk off her face.

"Oh, and by the way, you've been promoted. To Lieutenant." He glared at her in disgust while she raised both eyebrows in surprise; the idea that such a woman could be an officer was simply too much for him to bear. "Congratulations, you little dyke."

He turned on his heel and left.

Sally exhaled with relief. "He sure knows how to sweet-talk a girl," she cracked, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket. She handed it to Janice, who took it gratefully and proceeded to wipe oil off her face. Sally peered at the papers in her friend's lap. "Hey, where do you think you're going?"

Janice handed them to her gingerly, clasping them between greasy thumb and forefinger. "You tell me," she replied. "I'm too sullied to touch them. At least Murtlock thinks so."

She was also too nervous to read them, and didn't give a rat's ass about Army protocol—at this point in my so-called military career, I'd announce my orders with a bullhorn to anyone who would listen, she thought.

Sally unfolded the papers and scanned them quickly. "You're going to...Bavaria? Some place called New—what—stein? Fucking Krauts and their mile-long names."

Sally watched as Janice scratched her cheek thoughtfully; her friend did not seem too surprised at the news—in fact, her green eyes narrowed knowingly. "Huh, I'll be damned." So I'm the bait. Good. At least I'll be there to keep an eye on that blonde bitch.

"Why?"

"Long story. Wanna get some lunch?"

"Sure, Lieutenant Covington."

"Now that was a surprise." Janice hoisted herself up from the ground.

"Yeah." Sally grinned, and poked her friend in the ribs. "Congratulations, you little dyke."

***

June, 1937

"You're amazing," Catherine said. She laid on the floor of her room, gazing up at Mel, sprawled in her divan. The Southerner's feet dangled pleasantly over the edge and she hummed "Oh Susannah" in her rich, pleasant voice. Her dark hair cascaded over one arm. She was quite drunk, having consumed five gin and tonics. Catherine had thought it would only take two; but she is a big girl...a very big, beautiful girl. "I can't believe you've never been drunk before."

"No...once I got just a little tipsy on some sherry, at a Daughters of the American Revolution benefit..." Mel suddenly found the ceiling very fascinating, as her head lolled back of its own accord.

"What the bloody hell is that?"

Mel burst into laughter. "I don't want to tell you...it's so stupid."

"Then don't." Catherine wiggled the empty bottle. "Wish we had more."

"Me too."

"I bet we could get some from Daphne."

"Oh dear. Daphne doesn't like me. You better ask her yourself."

"She's merely jealous of you, my darling." Catherine stood up. "Come on, let's go."

"Jealous?"

"Of course. Don't play Miss Modesty with me, Melinda. You're both incredibly beautiful and smart."

Mel giggled. "Oh, thank God someone said it. I really wanted a compliment."

"Really? I couldn't tell at all." The blonde held out a hand to Mel, who hadn't moved from the couch. "Come along."

"Must I?"

Catherine smirked sadistically. "You must."

Reluctantly Mel took the proffered hand and hauled herself up. Trailing behind Catherine, she was amazed at her own ability to walk in such a state, and quietly marveled at herself as they navigated the stairs to a lower floor, where Daphne's room was located.

They were giggling quite loudly when they crashed against Daphne's door simultaneously. Catherine pounded upon it. "Come on, Daph, open it," she roared.

Another minute of pounding, plus the threat that Mel would sing "Swanee River," finally persuaded the reluctant Daphne open the door. Like in a Keystone cops film, the two lovers spilled through the doorway. Catherine was on the floor, with Mel atop her, laughing like children.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," said a voice above them. Daphne, of course.

"Hallo, darling," Catherine trilled. "Melinda and I seem to be having a crisis."

"Yes, you're both in my room, uninvited."

"What, I thought we had an invitation!" Mel burbled. She and Catherine began a new round of giggling as they stood up.

"Don't be a bad hostess, Daph. There's a quite simple way to get rid of us."

"I know. All I have to do is let you continue to make a ruckus here, and they'll expel you."

"No, dammit. I want a bottle. Of scotch."

"Or gin. That's my favorite," Mel interjected.

"I don't have any fucking alcohol, Cat. It's all gone." Daphne drummed her fingers on her desk.

A dead giveaway, Catherine thought, watching the spidery fingers drum their distress signal. She always does that when she's nervous...or lying. "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

"I had guests over yesterday. We drank everything here."

Catherine's dark eyes narrowed, and the mood of the room seemed to alter with it; it was one of those sudden shifts that occur deep in the night, and/or deep into drunkenness. "You bloody little mooch. All the time I've paid for your drinks, bought you things...you won't even give me a damn bottle of booze?"

Daphne returned the angry glare, a fire blazing across her cheeks. But she said nothing.

Mel rolled her eyes. She didn't know why Catherine had insisted on coming down here in the first place. "Let's forget it, Catherine," she said. "I'm tired anyway. Let's just go back upstairs and go to bed."

Daphne's cold eyes did not leave Catherine's. "Go on, then. Listen to your little tart. Get out."

Mel wanted to laugh out loud. She had never been called a tart before, or anything even close to hinting at sexual promiscuity. Usually she was called "cold," "aloof," "frigid" (by a Freudian acolyte at Vanderbilt who had stuck his hand up her skirt within 20 minutes of their first date), or a "tease." It was an amusing change of pace.

"You should mind your manners, darling," Catherine threatened in a low voice.

"Or what?"

Mel gripped Catherine's arm. "Leave it," she said quietly. "Let's go."

"Look, you cow, will you just shut up?" Daphne spat at Mel. "Everything was fine until you came along, you miserable twat. Do you think she really loves you?"

"Shut up," Catherine growled between gritted teeth.

Daphne was on a roll. She inserted herself between Catherine and Mel. She was not as tall as either one of them, but stood her ground menacingly, her angry, contorted face near the Southerner's, the curls of her marcelled hair shaking and threatening to unfurl into Medusan tresses...or so it appeared to Mel's gin-addled mind. "Come on. You don't really think Catherine feels anything for you, do you, you little fool? She only wanted to bed you because you're supposedly so damned beautiful." She paused, grinning triumphantly, before delivering the coup de grace. "And because she wanted to deflower you."

Catherine opened her mouth to file the obligatory protest (true enough, but...), but she saw something that intrigued her. It was like a translucent film were covering Mel's face, darkening her features and her cerulean blue eyes. It was an anger that transformed her entire being. She had never seen her lover so angry. And it excited her. She watched, fascinated.

Daphne had noticed the transformation too, but bravery—or, more accurately, stupidity—caused her to fling one final insult in Mel's face. "You're just another notch on her belt," she drawled.

When Mel swung her arm, it was in a wide, lazy arc, as if hitting Daphne were barely worth expending energy. But this belied the force of the backhanded blow which sent the woman hurling through the air, across the room.

Mel blinked. Jesus Christ, did I just do that? She looked down at her hand, which trembled. It had been like a splash, a blot of black ink, that had spread within her, into a terrible rage. She clenched the shaking hand.

The few seconds that they stood there seemed like hours. Catherine’s look was one of amused amazement as she turned her eyes from the body slumped in the corner to Mel’s confused face. Then she slowly made her way over to the body. She felt around for broken bones, checked Daphne's breathing and pulse, and returned to Mel. "I think she'll be fine," she remarked airily. "Let's go."

Mel blinked. "What? We can't leave her here. We should take her to the infirmary. We need to tell someone...the dean..."

The blonde laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. We'll both be sent down if that happens. And she's fine, trust me. She's a stupid girl with a thick skull. She'll live. And she'll know better next time." She placed her hands on Mel's warm cheeks and kissed her soundly. "You're magnificent. I love your strength. Your power. You think you don't have it, but you do. You really do."

Blue eyes narrowed at her in disbelief. "You're crazy," Mel retorted bluntly. Or maybe I am the one who’s crazy. What did I just do? What's wrong with me?

Catherine's lips twitched a little, biting back a dozen different retorts. "I'm crazy, but I'm all yours." And you don't know how true that is, my dear Melinda.

She was on a black horse, chasing a group of men who ran away from her on foot. There was a dull pain traveling through her legs, which were twisted and crippled; when she looked at them, she wanted to scream. A rage in her was so thick and bitter she could bite into it. With each stroke of the sword it seethed, then cooled, until the need struck again: the black urge to lash out, to kill, to obliterate. Man after man fell under her. The last one begged for his life, and then a man on horseback, his dark hair pulled into a ponytail, shouted at her not to kill the last one. But she did it anyway. It felt...so good. Better than anything in her miserable life up to that point. Better than the money. Better than the fucking. Better than the power.

It felt so good. It feels so good. Doesn’t it?

The question burned in her mind as she woke up. And she woke Catherine as her body jerked forward, out of the blonde's loose yet possessive grasp.

"What is this?" Catherine murmured a sleepy protest.

"Nothing," Mel replied perfunctorily, Southern manners always at the ready. I could be bleeding, I could be dying...yet I'd still say "Oh please, don't mind me, I'm fine." Her voice felt so hoarse that she hardly recognized it.

"Bad dream?" The tone was casual.

"Yes." She sat up, on the edge of the bed, and groped for the glass of water that she knew would be on the night stand.

"Tell me." An edgy hint of command in the voice.

"I don't want to."

"Come on," Catherine cooed gently. She let her fingers trail along Mel's bare back. A shudder—desire, disgust, perhaps both—shimmied along her skin.

The tepid water felt good as it soothed her ragged throat. "All right," she murmured. Cautiously she settled back on the bed, as if sleep itself would reach up and claim her again, and the nightmare replay itself. But it didn’t. And so she told Catherine about the dream.

The blonde's legs had wrapped around Mel's as she told the dream, and contracted, almost painfully, then relaxed. "Very interesting," Catherine commented. "Why do you think you're having these dreams?" Well, at least those sessions with Freud were somewhat helpful—I get to steal his inane questions.

"I'm not sure...when I was little my Daddy always told me these stories, about some ancient warrior woman—we're supposed to be her descendants somehow. They were scary sometimes, but she—my ancestor—always wore the white hat. But in this dream, it's like I am her, but she is...not a good person."

"Hmmm. Funny how things get twisted around like that." This time Catherine sounded amused. She let her fingers run along Mel's smooth shoulders.

"I think...I'm just feeling bad about what happened the other day." Mel alluded to the Daphne Incident, which had occurred a scant three days prior. But this morning, in the courtyard, she had encountered Daphne as she and Catherine left the quad. Instead of entering the building, as she obviously intended to do, the girl bolted like a prized race horse, in the other direction. Mel had never seen anyone look at her with such abject fear.

And Catherine had laughed. This time, her laughter seemed brutal as it echoed through the air. And so familiar.

"Oh darling, just let it go." The fingers skittered along her skin.

There was something about the way Catherine touched her...it was stimulating, yet there always a threat — implicit in the curl of her hands, in the way she held back, in the way she pulled back when her touches grew too wild or passionate — of anger, as if that tactile contact would erupt into violence...if they were not careful.

And the funny thing is...I sometimes think I feel it too. Am I just projecting it onto her? Mel slid her arm out of Catherine's grasp easily. She stood up and threw on a deep blue robe. "I think...I'll read for a while."

Catherine laughed derisively. "Do you still remember how? I don't think you've picked up a book in at least a month."

Mel rubbed her aching head. She did not know how she could possibly read with such throbbing in her skull—another hangover contributed to her dissonant state of mind, already troubled by the dream—but she wanted to try. "I know," she replied grimly, and left the bedroom.

***

1945

"Guess what."

"What?"

"I'm a lieutenant."

"Have they gone mad?"

"I think so. But guess what else."

"What?"

"I have orders to go to Bavaria."

Mel stared at Janice in shock. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she demanded.

"Sorry, sweetheart, your needs seemed more...pressing." Janice had been sprawled out in the wing chair—her favorite seat—in Mel's hotel room, her legs flung comfortably over an arm of the chair, when Mel arrived. Before she had a chance to say anything, she felt Mel's mouth on her own, and the delicious combination of kisses and caresses made her forget about the promotion, about Germany, about everything.

"Damn it all," Mel muttered. She stood up from her kneeling position in front of the chair, impatiently shoving locks of her loosened black hair behind her ears and straightening her skirt.

"Hmmm, Miss Pappas is swearing. Never a good sign," Janice teased gently. She sat up in the chair and buttoned her shirt, which had become undone in their proceedings.

"If Catherine had anything to do with this, I'll..." Weeks ago, she had officially turned down the offer. She had thought the matter closed. And every day, she hoped for Janice to be discharged, so they could get on with their lives. It all seems like some sinister plot. And if Catherine is involved, it probably is.

"Of course she had something to do with it," Janice retorted gently. "You were the one who said point-blank that you wouldn't go without me. She obviously wants you to be there, Mel. So she ships me there, you follow. I should be grateful I'm not being sent somewhere else."

"I don't trust her."

"Neither do I. But I can't refuse orders." As much as I’d like to.

"This is ridiculous! They should be discharging you. We should be going home." The tall Southerner paced a little, hands riding on her hips. It was rare that Janice saw her so agitated.

Janice smiled. "You look like you’re gonna bust me out of the Army, like Jimmy Cagney busting out of jail."

Mel scowled and hung on stubbornly to her bad mood.

"Mel, we will go home soon. I promise you," Janice replied soothingly. Wherever that was, she thought sarcastically. But I do know...my home is wherever you are, baby. She watched as Mel scanned the room disconcertingly, as if searching for something. She chuckled a little, then withdrew the scholar's glasses from her breast-pocket and held them out to her. "Here."

How did she...? Mel smiled. "Thanks."

"You know," Janice began quietly, "it's not as if we haven't done dangerous things before." She watched as Mel slipped on the glasses. Much as Xena was transformed by the sword in her grasp, the armor on her body, the chakram at her side, so Mel was transformed with glasses. They were a shield, and a weapon: her well-honed intelligence glinted in her magnificent blue eyes, refracted by the glasses. Her scholarly demeanor, self-effacing at times yet always rigorous and keen, was firmly in place. "Battling Ares was a pretty impressive stunt," the archaeologist added.

"That was Xena, not me."

"Well, it was you and not Xena who went to Macedonia in the first place. Pretty risky for a Southern belle in high heels."

Mel conceded this with a hum. She rubbed her neck. "I just...want some time with you. We nearly lost each other, do you know that? You've spent over a year getting in and out of dangerous situations. You got shot. Your friend died. You...almost died." Her voice wavered. "It's all too soon to risk losing you again."

"My life has been pretty dangerous in general," Janice smiled bitterly. "That's probably not going to change...much." Will it change? Also, did she want it to change? She loved the danger of what she did, thought little of risking her own life, but now...looking at Mel, she found a very good reason to keep herself in one piece. A very good reason for telling the Army to go to hell. Which I'd very much like to do at this point, she thought.

Mel sighed in exasperation. "Don't patronize me, Janice Covington. I'm not totally naive. I know what you do is sometimes risky. And I know it's worth it, for the scrolls. That is a risk I'm happy to take. But this was a war. In a way...it's not really over yet. And that is a totally different ballgame, as you would put it." She looked at Janice, who had raised an amused eyebrow. "I did use that word correctly, didn't I?"

***

September, 1938

When she was a child the sight of Manhattan from the sky was exciting. She could forget her fear of flying as they sailed over the toy city. It felt as if she could reach out and touch the tip of the Empire State Building—if only because she wanted to.

Now, as the plane descended toward Idlewild, she did not look out the window at the glorious city. Indeed, she had not looked out the window in hours. She had fallen into a light sleep; a stupor, almost, where she kept the conscious world at bay. The plane was not crowded, fortunately, and she sat alone.

She opened her eyes at the stewardess's touch upon her sleeve. "Miss, we're landing in five minutes...please fasten your — oh, I see it is fastened! Good girl!" She smiled at Mel (a blonde, a damned blonde just like Catherine, thought the irritated Mel) and moved on to another passenger.

Good girl.

She turned her brooding gaze to the window. Her father was supposed to meet her at the airport; they had a suite at the Plaza. He thought that staying in New York for a few days might cheer her up before they headed home. He informed her that he had bought a new house, in North Carolina, where they would live. But...why? she had wailed on the phone, immediately thinking of their home in South Carolina, where she grew up, where she could still look at a chair, or a curtain, and still recall her mother being there, inhabiting that particular physical space.

She could practically hear his shrug over the transatlantic connection. I think we both need something new in our lives, don't you?

She had not told him what happened, why she suddenly decided to leave Cambridge. She used the increasing conflict between the English and the Germans as an excuse, but she knew he wasn't entirely fooled by that. What could she possibly say, how could she possibly phrase it? (Even though he knew her nature...) Sorry Daddy, I fell terribly in love with this debauched girl who dumped me after six months...who made my body come alive, who did things to me I couldn't even imagine, yet who made me see the darkness in myself...I never hated myself so much as when I loved her.

If this is what love is about, I'll have no more of it. This is what happened when I stopped being a "good girl." No more love. No more desire.

She glared at the stewardess.

No more blondes.

Her father had a taxi waiting at the airport. She had to admit that it felt good to be really taken care of again; he had hugged her fiercely when she came through the terminal, after her passport and luggage had been checked.

The minute they entered the cab her head fell back against the seat, as if a lead weight had burrowed itself in the bun of her hair. She closed her eyes.

He squeezed her arm affectionately. "You haven't been sleeping." His tone challenged her to contradict the obvious.

"Not...very well." She scrunched her eyes as if in pain, then opened them with an effort. "Daddy, I've been having dreams...they're very odd."

"About Xena," he said flatly.

She seemed surprised. "Yes. You've had them?"

He nodded. "I used to have dreams about her...oh, all the time it seems, when I was young. Rather horrible at times. Violent. She wasn't always a great heroine, you know."

Mel frowned. Yes, he had always said that—that Xena had been "bad" but then she turned "good." But Mel had pictured Xena, her wicked past, and her ultimate redemption in terms of, say, Bette Davis in Jezebel. Not hacking people into bloody little bits. "But you don't anymore?"

He smiled wistfully, and rubbed his chin with his thumb in a thoughtful manner. "No, I don't. It's strange...I stopped having the bad ones, not long after I met your mother."

The following day at the office, Mel informed Frobisher of her decision.

He did not seem surprised. "So you're going?"

She nodded.

"I assume Janice is being transferred there."

She nodded again.

"That's the only reason why you're going, isn't it?"

She paused, looking guilty. A slight smile creased her face. And she nodded again.

He returned the smile wearily. Again, she felt bad; his office was busier than ever, and she hated leaving him in the lurch like this. But as busy as he was, he gave her top priority. "Then let's get cracking on the paperwork, shall we?"

The day seemed to pass quickly, once she made the decision, as if a burden had been lifted. When she arrived back at the room she found Janice already there, sitting comfortably in her favorite chair, a few envelopes scattered on her lap.

"The Army has finally seen fit to deliver my mail," she growled. "All of these are about six months old."

"What did you get?"

"A letter from Dan's mom...which was nice," she added cautiously. She had written to Blaylock's mother after his death, and now she had received a kind letter in return. I thank you for all that you did, his mother had written. But I didn’t do a goddamn thing, she thought. And it called forth that feeling again, the empty burning sensation...of failure. It was easier to get it under control now, but there was no doubt it still existed within her. She continued. "And, um, something from Harvard—they want me to teach a class in the fall. I think they figure that since they can't get any alumni donations out of me, they might as well put me to work. And this." Amused, she held up a pink envelope.

"Janice, darling, I think you better inform your army of ex-girlfriends that you are quite unavailable now."

"Look at the return address."

Mel peered at the upper left corner of the envelope. "Jack Kleinman?"

"I always wondered if he was a nancy boy," Janice said idly, as she tore open the letter.

Mel smirked, recalling Jack's puppy-like attentions to Janice. "I don't think so."

"Let's see what he says here....He apologizes for the stationery, says it belongs to his sister...says our cousins are fine..."

"Cousins?" Mel blurted in alarm. Good God, she can't be related to Jack.

"He means the scrolls. That's his 'code' for it."

"Oh." Mel was impressed. "I didn't know you two had worked out a 'code.' "

"Actually, we haven't...it just says right here in the letter, in parentheses, 'you know I mean the scrolls when I say cousins, right?' "

Mel laughed as Janice continued to scan the letter. A strange look came over the archaeologist's face. "What is it?"

"He asks...about you, how you're feeling...if you've fully recovered from your..." The deep green eyes turned up from the letter and stared at her. "...influenza."

It hung in the air between them. Oh...damn, Mel thought, surrendering to an obscenity. She couldn't think of what to say.

"He...misspelled it, of course." Janice tapped the paper with a finger. "I know Jack exaggerates things sometimes, but..." Her hard, inquisitive eyes caught her lover's guilty look. "He's not making this up, is he?" she demanded quietly.

Mel closed her eyes for a moment to regain herself. "I...no, Janice. He's not. I was...very ill."

The lithe young woman stood up so quickly that it startled Mel. She paced, something she loved to do when angry or frustrated. "Why didn't you tell me?" Janice spat out. "You...you could've died." Now you know how I felt, Mel thought. "Why did you keep that from me?"

"It wasn't important at the time." Mel was surprised at her calmness. "Finding you was."

Janice continued to fume. "Goddammit! Well, you found me, and you still didn't tell me!" she shouted.

"I'm telling you now." It had been a long time, it seemed, since she had encountered Janice's temper. Probably not since they first met in Macedonia. It threw her a bit, but she hoped that by remaining calm, she could get her companion's blood pressure to decrease.

"Only because you had to. You got caught." Is that a sneer on her face?

"I...I didn't think it was important," Mel responded helplessly. The Southerner felt as if she were in emotional quicksand.

"Bullshit! It's more than important. You withheld the truth from me."

Whatever thread of patience Mel possessed snapped. So she wants to be honest here, eh? She couldn't fight the dark impulse to lash out. Hello, darkness...hello, Xena. "Since we're discussing the truth here, Janice, there is something I must ask you." The tone was low, the accent almost gone under the burden of the deepening voice. The eyes were icy. "Would you care to tell me if you've made an acquaintance with an Englishwoman named Meg? During the war?"

The look of shock on Janice's face was simultaneously satisfying and sickening to Mel. So it's true. Janice's jaw shifted. "How did you know...about that?"

"I was mistaken for her in a pub. The gentleman who did the mistaking told me a little tale he heard, about Meg's amorous encounter on a ship with, I believe he said, 'A little American WAC.'" She let her eyes run over Janice's figure in a mocking appraisal. Even in her anger and pain she felt a flicker of desire. And love. "I believe you fit the bill."

"Christ," Janice swore softly. "How did—"

"Everyone on the ship knew. You're fooling yourself if you thought otherwise."

And I thought I had been so...discreet. Everyone hid it well, I must say. No one acted different, no one said a damn thing. But they sure as hell didn't keep it to themselves. Janice rubbed her temple. "You? You were in a pub?" she asked distractedly. The dizzying revelation of events left her disoriented. And picturing Mel in a smelly pub seemed the height of this surrealism. Yet it seems anything—everything—is possible these days. The whole fucking world has been possessed by madness, why not us as well?

Mel shook her head in disbelief; she did not know if she would laugh or cry. "I was looking for you," she retorted angrily.

A silence stretched out for a few seconds, as they took it all in. "I never thought I'd see you again," Janice whispered.

The tall Southerner slammed her hands down on the table that separated them, and left them there, spread out before her. "Did you think I'd let you go so easily?" Mel growled fiercely. "Couldn't you tell how much I loved you?"

Frankly, no, Janice thought. "I didn't know...I thought...I meant very little to you." She saw the pained look on Mel's face. And instantly felt sorry. "Why? You know why, Mel. You did since the day we met. Since the day we recognized who we truly are. You were the noble heroine and I was your sidekick, never measuring up to you. I know now...that's not the way it was for them. But I didn't know—I still don't—if that's the way it would be for us."

Mel walked away and sat down for a moment. She felt...very tired, and her voice was edged with resignation. "I suppose...I had no claim on you at the time." Tell me otherwise, Janice. Please.

Janice leaned uneasily against the table, unable to say the words that sprang instantly to her mind. Actually you did. You already had my heart. I just didn't know it, really. Before she could get past the shame, the anger, the hurt, and say the words, she heard the door slam.

***

Mel entered Hyde Park. The sky was already darkening and a fine rainy mist descended from the sky and drizzled her hair and face. Good....she thought. That means I can cry and no one will notice. The rain came down harder, and it felt good, even strangely comforting. She sought shelter under a large tree for a few minutes, then realized that wandering around in the rain was doing little good, for the same thoughts circled around in her mind. Confounding woman! She cursed the skies. Why do I love her? It's probably some sort of karmic debt. She walked back to the hotel, her coat wet, heavy, like armor. Probably not as heavy as armor, but if Xena had to wander around the hot sticky ancient world saddled with such weight, then my respect for her has risen even higher.

As she entered the lobby she encountered a strange sight: Sergeant McKay was standing awkwardly in the lobby, nervously twisting his cap. The big ruddy Irishman looked rather incongruous within the ostentatious elegance of the hotel. His stricken look told her all she needed to know.

McKay did not hate Janice, but he did possess an irrational fear of the beautiful young woman. No doubt it stemmed from his belief that she was somewhat unnatural: the attire (even off duty, she never changed out of khakis), the smoking, the swearing...she was, he thought, everything a woman shouldn't be. Melinda, on the other hand, met with his approval. He suspected the nature of their relationship, and didn't really want to know any more but, he thought, a woman should act like a woman, and not—he concluded, watching Janice pace the hospital corridor like an expectant father, cursing under her breath—like that.

He was the first to see Mel emerge from the room down the hall. When he jumped up from his seat Janice glared at him in alarm, then stopped as she saw Mel's approach. Still damp from the rain, she pushed rain-curled hair out of her face with an absent-minded air.

They looked at her expectantly.

"He's had a stroke," she said, as calmly as she could.

Approximately two hours ago McKay had entered his superior's office, to see if the old man needed anything before he left for the day, and he found Frobisher slumped over the desk, unconscious.

"Will he...?" whispered Janice.

"They don't know. It's rather touch and go right now." Wearily she sat down.

"Bloody hell," murmured the Sergeant. "I've got to get back to HQ, then. Have to let everyone know..." he sighed. He already felt exhausted. Mel touched his sleeve gently; despite his gruffness, she knew McKay was quite devoted to and fond of his commanding officer. "If you need anything, Sergeant, let me know. I'll probably be here most of the night."

"Miss, you should go home," McKay insisted. "You're all wet—your coat, your hair...don't want you to get the flu, you know."

At the word flu she felt Janice's hard gaze on her again. And she returned the glare. "I'll be fine, Sergeant." McKay nodded, yet squirmed as he sensed the discord between the two women. I don't want to know, he thought.

Her eyelids fluttered, and the blue eyes emerged like butterflies from a chrysalis. The clock at the end of the corridor read 6:35. Morning, she realized, and stretched her long, aching limbs. The doctor would be around soon, she remembered, and would update her on Anton's condition.

Her sleepy eyes blinked in disbelief

Janice was curled up fetally in a chair across from her, sleeping. She clutched her cap as if it were a teddy bear. She stayed here with me. Last night, Janice had left with McKay, and returned a half-hour later with clothes for Mel. Wordlessly she had placed them beside Mel and walked away, down the corridor, without a word. Mel never knew that she had returned; when she drifted off to sleep around 2 (or was it 3?) she was alone.

She felt relief. When she watched Janice walk away from her last night, she wondered when she might see her lover next. Will she run off and join the Foreign Legion this time? Disappear on a dig? Go on a bender? She sat and studied the sleeping woman, as she had done on many an occasion: the brows, darker than the red-gold hair (which was pulled back in a pony tail), were pressed together, as if the archaeologist were deep in thought, even unconsciously; the cheeks were slightly flushed, the full lips parted sensually, the breathing deep and regular. I think you tamed her, Anton had said to her about Janice a few weeks ago. Was this proof of that, the fact that this woman was back at her side? I like her a little wild, Mel conceded, but I'm also glad she's here.

She was so engrossed in her study of Janice that she did not notice the nurse who had crept up to her on little cat feet and gently touched her shoulder. "The doctor's here," she told Mel.

The doctor, waiting for her at the end of the corridor, was young. Yet like so many young men of his generation, he carried around a sense of permanent fatigue, as if the rest of his life would not be long enough to recover from the war. And it probably wouldn't. "You're Colonel Frobisher's...wife?" he asked, with uncertainty.

She almost laughed. "No, just...his family."

He looked confused for a moment, then continued. "I see. He's had a rather nasty stroke, as you've been told. His chances for survival are good, since he made it through the night. As for a full recovery, I can't say. Only time will tell. I'd like to keep an eye on him for a few days, then we'll send him home. He's a bit groggy, but you can see him in a few minutes."

"Thank you," she replied quietly.

Later she entered his room. He looked smaller, paler, fragile. As did her father, when he was dying. It was more dramatic with Daddy, she thought, since her father had been a big, strapping man. It had been agony to see him waste away. And it was almost as horrible to see this. Not again, she vowed. I don't want to go through this again.

Janice could smell coffee. Coffee...I need to get Mel some coffee, her foggy brain registered the imperative. Her body jerked awake. The first thing she saw was a cup of coffee in front of her face, held by a familiar, beautiful hand.

"Good morning," Mel said softly.

"Oh Mel," groaned the archaeologist, as she stretched out the kinks in her back and legs.

"Hmmm?"

"Goddammit, I was going to wake up before you and get you some...coffee" She took the proffered cup. "I fucked up again."

"You didn't." She said it gently. But she knew it would not convince Janice—or even herself, she was ashamed to admit—of that fact.

"Thanks." Janice stared into the black liquid, as if she had never seen coffee before. "How is he?"

"He's...better. They think he'll pull through. How much damage has been inflicted to his body, and to his mind...well, they just don’t know yet. We have to wait and see."

An uneasy silence passed between them.

I should apologize, Janice thought. I should tell her I didn't mean to hurt her, I didn't mean for it to happen...it meant nothing, I love her, I really do.

I should apologize, Mel thought. I did lie to her. And I really don't care about what happened. She could sleep with everyone in England right now, and I wouldn't care...would I? Okay, maybe everyone is pushing it...but it doesn’t matter as long as she loves me. Right?

But what Mel thought—and what she said—were quite different. A deeply imbedded impulse to hurt, something she scarcely acknowledged, something she was afraid of, reared its head and bared its ugly truth.

"I can't go with you," Mel blurted. I'm such an idiot, Mel sighed. I could have said it...in a better way. "You know that."

The words were like a hammer. "Uh...yeah," Janice acknowledged in a husky voice, while blinking like a punch-drunk boxer. "I know that. You should be here. For him."

"Janice, I'm sorry."

The newly promoted lieutenant stood up and stretched quickly. "You know something? I've got to go. I need to be briefed before I leave tomorrow."

Mel felt helpless. "I...will I...?" God, you can't leave like this. She reached out to touch Janice's arm, but she skittered easily out of Mel's grasp.

"I'll...see you later. Okay?" Janice managed to force the words out. Before Mel could respond, she was gone, striding quickly down the bleak corridor.

She had reached her threshold of exhaustion. She finally left the hospital in the afternoon, returned to the hotel, and collapsed. When she awoke several hours later, she was contorted on the bed, in her slip, and the wild colors of the sunset were flooding the room. She chastised herself for not closing the curtains earlier, and was debating getting dressed merely to go over and close them, or to dash over, scantily clad, and risk having someone see her. Propriety strikes again, she thought heavily.

Then she heard the key in the door.

The door swung open, and Janice swayed in. Drunk. Her rolling gait managed to carry her over to the bed, where she plopped down on the edge. Mel slid over to where she sat, and gasped. Blood dribbled from the archaeologist's nose, and had coated her lips. "Oh, God," whispered Mel.

"Fight," Janice supplied.

I thought so, otherwise that was one very rough debriefing you got, Mel thought. She stood up with the intention of going to the bathroom and procuring a washcloth to clean off the blood. Janice grasped her arm. "No," she moaned the protest. "Stay here for a minute."

Mel sat down on the bed and touched the bloodied lips with her fingers, wiping away some of the blood. "What?" she whispered urgently.

"Kiss me."

She did not. Instead, she pressed a cool hand to Janice's warm forehead. "Why, why do you always insist on hurting yourself?"

"Do you think I punched myself in the face?" Janice was angry, but did not pull away.

"No, that's not what I meant." But I can probably guess what happened to you, darling. You went into a pub, and you picked a fight with the biggest, nastiest piece of work you could find. If beating yourself up isn't sufficient enough, you find someone else to do it for you.

"Don't say anything else. Please."

"But—"

"I need you." Janice's lips, saturated red, claimed Mel's. The bitter, coppery tang of blood seeped into the scholar's mouth. It did not bother her. I know you so well, your blood has mingled with mine since our beginning. How many times has your touch burned through me and quenched itself within my blood, my heart? Could anything you give to me, could anything you do, be so horrible? Nothing, except leaving me. She felt Janice's hands tangle carelessly within her hair, and she slid a hand inside a khaki shirt, her touch gliding over the smooth neck and rippling shoulders. She felt guilty, thinking that perhaps they should be talking about everything that happened. But the desire was a way of coping with the imminent loss, the easiest way of doing so. It was a way of saying goodbye. As she stripped away the clothes, so she hoped someday she would be able to strip away all the layers of defenses, the bravado, the insecurities of this...complicated woman.

And I’m not complicated? she asked herself.

She gently pulled Janice back on the bed, and covered her with her own long body. Then her mind stilled and she listened as their bodies spoke to one another.

Later in the night Janice had awakened. Another nightmare. Mel held her as her breathing slowed, and until the sweat on her brow cooled. Janice never really talked in detail about the dreams, or what happened in them...all she knew was that they were somehow connected to what happened in France, to her friend's death—Janice somehow felt guilty about it. She gently traced the small scars on Janice's strong thigh, where she had been shot. She felt a muscle twitch under her fingertips. As the scars intersected each other, like pieces of a puzzle fitting together, so did something formulate in her mind.

"You've never killed anyone before, have you?" Mel probed gently.

Janice's head, buried in her chest, shook from side to side. No.

The gun she always carried, the Smith & Wesson...she knew that Harry had given it to Janice, and, from seeing her in action with a gatling gun, she knew the woman could shoot. But she hadn't really thought it through—in a way, didn't want to know—if Janice had ever really shot anyone. Or killed anyone. She didn't want to know if the rumors about "Mad Dog" Covington were true, didn't want to know if Xena's bloody legacy tainted them both. But one afternoon in Macedonia—after Ares, just before they returned to the States—she recalled the Smith and Wesson flashing in the sun as Janice twirled it around, like Jesse James. It was a romantic image. And she had felt the first glimmer of desire for Janice at that moment: her quick hands, her wide grin, her tanned, lithe body, the golden hair that rivaled the sun in its luster....Janice had caught her fearful yet fascinated look at the gun, and laughed. Usually I just wave it around, fire off a few shots maybe, and people leave me alone, the archaeologist had assured her.

***

Alexandria, 1933

A wooden ramp lead down into the excavation pit. The crew of a dozen young men watched as a bloodied, unconscious body rolled unceremoniously down the ramp, staining the pale wood on its journey. Dust swirled around the body, as it thudded to a halt in the dirt.

Fayed, the foreman of the group, looked at the body unsympathetically. He clucked and pushed back a lock of his unruly black hair. He had known that the man who lay at his feet would not last long here: He had seen the way Cherif had eyed Harry Covington's daughter. And since Cherif was his wife's cousin, he felt an obligation to warn him that it wasn't worth it—that Covington would beat him within an inch of his life if he tried to seduce her, and would definitely kill him if he succeeded in bedding the girl. And he had been right.

He turned his attention to Covington, who loomed above them at the edge of the pit. He was short yet powerfully muscular, built like a wrestler. Shouting in Arabic, hands on hips, he informed them all that the next man who laid a hand on his daughter would die. Then he ordered them back to work.

Reluctantly, the group of men walked away from the body. Except Fayed, who awaited Harry's instructions.

"Fayed..." Harry began wearily.

"Yes, Harry?" Fayed was the only one in the crew who was bold enough to call the archaeologist by his first name.

"Get that bastard out of here. Drive him home. Get someone to help you if you need to."

Fayed nodded.

"And Fayed?"

"Yes?"

"Tell your wife I'm sorry."

The Arab nodded again, a smile tugging at his lips. He couldn't wait to tell his wife I told you so.

Harry walked back to his tent. He hesitated in front of the flap, and took a deep breath. He pushed back the flap and entered.

Janice was curled on the cot, her legs tucked up against her chest, and her arms wrapped around them. Her head was pressed against her knees. She did not look at him as he came over to her. He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. "Janie?" he whispered.

Almost a minute passed. then finally she raised her head. Her lip was bleeding and, he noticed for the first time, there were violent bruises around her neck. His anger flared anew, and he recalled the scene he had found just a half-hour ago, when he came back from the marketplace ahead of schedule: Cherif in the tent, one hand pinning Janice down by the throat, she half-naked and squirming under him, his other hand fumbling with the buttons on his trousers.

The guilt hit him. Dammit, I shouldn't have left her here. In fact, she shouldn't even be here at all. This is no place for a girl. But where would she go—willingly, for that matter? She'd follow me here every time. I know her. Gingerly he reached out and touched her hair. she did not pull away, but he felt the shudder travel down her body. "I'm sorry, Dad," she said hoarsely.

"It's not your fault," he said emphatically. "If that man knew the proper way to behave, it wouldn't have happened." He sighed. "Honey, let me take care of that lip for you. Then I'm gonna show you how to take care of yourself. It's been a long time coming."

Intrigued, the girl looked at him quizzically.

He stood up and walked over to the other cot in the tent. He threw off the thin blanket and reached under the pillow. Grinning, he pulled out a Smith & Wesson revolver. "I'm gonna show you how to use this. Between that and some boxing lessons, kid..." his smile faded, and he concluded darkly, "...no one's ever gonna hurt you again."

***

A jeep sailed across the runway. Catherine, watching from the hangar, half-expected the thing to rise off the ground, as if it were a plane too. As the vehicle drew nearer she recognized the red-gold hair flying in the air, the eyes hidden by sunglasses. The jeep stopped at the other end of the hangar. Covington climbed out of the vehicle, exchanging a few words and a quick hug with the driver, another WAC. Interesting. Is the little bitch capable of cheating on her lover? I couldn't be so lucky. It would make things too easy.

With her rucksack slung over a shoulder, Covington swaggered over to her. She wasn't in full uniform, Catherine noted with disapproval. A leather jacket covered the white t-shirt she wore, which showed off her taut physique quite nicely—and Catherine did approve of the flat stomach and the full, rounded breasts that were available for her viewing pleasure. They probably fucked like rabbits last night. In fact, I hope they did. For it will be the last time, I swear.

"Lieutenant," she drawled in greeting. "Glad you could make it." Upon a closer view, she saw that Covington’s nose looked a little red, a little bruised. Oh dear...did she make Melinda lose her temper? It takes a lot...but it is possible, and this one is just as annoying as Daphne ever was.

"Sorry about the delay. I woke up late."

"Of course," replied the OSS operative archly. "I won't ask what detained you. That wouldn't be terribly lady-like, would it? Not that either of us are ladies." She let a grin curl her face. Let the torture begin.

To Covington's credit, the young lieutenant did not rise to the bait. She smirked in return. "I agree, neither one of us are ladies. But that shouldn't keep us from our mission, should it? Are we ready to go?"

Catherine nodded toward the bomber that sat on the runway. "Yes. Over there. Shall we?" together they walked toward the plane. Catherine pulled a silver cigarette case out of a pocket and opened it with one smooth gesture. "Cigarette, Lieutenant?"

Janice hesitated for a nanosecond, then accepted. No point in antagonizing the woman. Sometimes a cigarette is just a cigarette, no? And besides, I could use it. When she left in the morning Mel had still been asleep. She had not the heart to wake the slumbering scholar, nor had the time to leave a note. She only hoped that Mel understood somehow. But I ditched her again. Maybe now she'll ditch me...for good. I guess I deserve it.

"Thanks," she said to Catherine, as the blonde agent lit her cigarette.

"Who knows, Lieutenant...this may be the beginning of a beau-ti-ful friendship," the OSS agent declared in a sing-song voice.

Janice let the angrily spewed smoke speak for itself.

***

October, 1945

"Thank bloody Christ," Sergeant McKay said, as he opened the door of Frobisher's home, and saw Mel standing on the doorstep.

"Hello to you too, Sergeant." She strode into the townhouse, bringing with her a gust of crisp autumn air. Once again he felt like a troll next to her, and cleared his throat anxiously.

"Er, sorry, Miss Pappas. But the Colonel's been acting funny today...and I'm just glad you're here."

"What's happening?" Mel asked, as they mounted the stairs to Frobisher's bedroom.

"He won't stay in bed, and he's been wandering around everywhere. It's like he's lookin' for something, but he won't tell me what."

He probably can't, thought Mel. Since his release from the hospital almost three weeks ago, the Colonel had been unable to speak, and barely able to move. Usually when he did speak, it was nonsense, although the notes he handed to Mel yesterday made more sense than usual. Every day since he left the hospital she would come by and spend the better part of the day with him and the nurse. Usually she read to him. Her unconscious selection of reading material — Trollope's Can You Forgive Her? — irked her, the title wailing its insistent question, immediately bringing to mind her errant lover.

Yesterday, however, he had seized the notepad she had bought for him, and a pen, and rather laboriously scrawled out the following message:

I hate Trollope, it said.

She nodded sympathetically. "How about Austen?"

He made a face.

"Balzac?" I'll go through the alphabet if I have to, she thought.

He shrugged. Then nodded. Then, as if he suddenly remembered something, started to write on the pad again. After a few minutes of watching him grimace and scowl with the effort, the pad was thrust at her.

Go to Germany.

"I can't...not now," she replied firmly, mentally begging him to change the subject.

He shook his head vigorously, like a wet dog trying to get dry. "Oh!" he cried softly, in frustration, which startled her. Again he set to work on the pad. Beads of perspiration popped against his forehead.

"Take it easy," she cautioned him gently, laying a hand on his arm, which trembled under her touch. He handed another message to her:

You don't understand. It's danger.

It hit a nerve. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. "I know it's dangerous. I know. But she's a grown woman. She can take care of herself." And she better...because when I get my hands on her, I'm going to kill her, Mel had thought angrily. And while that had been the day prior, her anger still lingered, of course. She leaves without so much as a word, not even a "goodbye"...what am I supposed to think? It's my own fault too, I should've said something, I should've said so much...she is driving me insane...this whole situation is driving me insane. Mel was agonizing over this in her mind for what seemed like the millionth time when she and McKay entered the Colonel's bedroom.

The old man stood in the center of the room. His bathrobe hung limply around his thinning frame, as did his fleur-de-lis pajamas. His gray hair, uncombed, stood out in wild tufts here and there. He looked utterly confused.

"Uncle Anton, I never thought I'd ever be saying this to you, but...get into bed right now!" Mel chastised.

"Nonsense," the old man muttered. "I need..." he trailed off with a sigh.

McKay looked at her, concerned. She tapped her shoulder bag, hoping to distract him. "I did bring some Balzac," she said. It was an old leather-bound volume that she bought at a bookseller's on Portobello Road earlier in the day: A Harlot High and Low. Another title that prompted her mind to wallow in all sorts of scathing commentary concerning Janice Covington. None of which she said, of course.

He sighed and looked around the room.

"Are you looking for something?" she asked.

"Love in all the wrong places," he replied.

McKay rolled his eyes. "If you could tell me what you're looking for, I can help you," she offered. "Maybe if you try to write it down."

He shook his head. "My...bag," he said emphatically. "Leather!" he cried.

"Your briefcase!" she clarified.

He nodded vigorously.

"What d'ya need that for?" McKay asked impatiently.

Frobisher growled.

"Just...look for it, Sergeant. Please?" Mel asked.

It took him half an hour, but finally McKay found the old leather briefcase. It was in a broom closet downstairs, where McKay had shoved it weeks ago after bringing home the Colonel's clothes from the hospital. The Sergeant had apparently mistaken it for a real clothes closet.

He brought it up to Frobisher, who snatched it from him and proceeded to rummage through it with great speed. He sat on the edge of his bed, Mel beside him. Papers fell at his feet as he dug through the briefcase. Finally he was staring at a black leather binder. He thrust it at Mel.

She took it and opened it. The first word she saw, screaming out to her in blood-red letters, was CLASSIFIED.

"Anton," she protested, "I can't read this!" She shoved it at him.

He shoved it back.

She exchanged a look with McKay, who appeared just as confused—and nervous—as she.

Anton's eyes were pleading as he held out the binder to her. Reluctantly, she turned her head to the document, and started reading in her usual brisk manner. But as she progressed her mouth dropped open in quiet shock. "Oh...God," she whispered.

The classified report—it was not directed to Anton but the London head of OSS, and she had no idea how he had got a hold of it—detailed Catherine Stoller's activities in Berlin during the war. She and a fellow agent had been posing as an SS official and his wife: Hans and Lotte Steiner. Three months before the end of the war, her fellow operative was dead, an apparent suicide — an encoded radio message sent by Catherine indicated that their mission had been found out. She had escaped capture, but he did not; rather than risk revealing anything to the enemy, he took his own life. Catherine had then disappeared until resurfacing in London just after Germany's surrender.

An additional document, attached to the report, was a deposition from an SS soldier, a prisoner of war. This man claimed that, indeed, the Germans had discovered — indeed, had known for quite some time — that the officer known as Hans Steiner was a British agent. They monitored his movements for some time before arresting him. After a unsuccessful attempt at extracting information from him, he had been executed by one of their agents. A double agent. Catherine Stoller.

She let the sheaf of papers fall to floor. History repeats itself. Even the history you do not know, even the history you are not aware of.

Anton's hand sought hers, and squeezed it with more strength than she imagined he had. "Go," he said simply, his voice ravaged.

She nodded mutely. Didn’t I say I had a bad feeling about this?

[vore-yeol]

Sehun’s Comfort (Gt)

Warning: There is size difference within this story of moderate proportion so if you are not comfortable with this please do not read on and blacklist some of the tags.

“Oh come on you’re adorable,” Sehun’s voice was quivering as he tried to hold back his laughter. His large hand rested above your head emphasizing the height difference between you two.

You felt your cheeks flare with heat and your heart weigh down a bit at the taunt. You knew deep down that it was just that, a simple taunt and it was completely normal for him to joke about how small you are in comparison to you; after all, he was twenty feet tall and you are small even by normal standards.

You felt almost minuscule standing next to him and for some reason today, in particular, it was incredibly noticeable. Every movement he made felt like a strangely isolated earthquake and anytime he spoke it felt like someone was talking through a bullhorn-a little too close to your ear. 

It was like no matter what you couldn’t shake or forget that he was bigger than you and you felt bad for it. He chuckled softly and you stiffened just a bit and he must’ve noticed because his chortle got cut short and he fell into silence. He stopped walking and it took you a moment to even realize that the ground was no longer shaking and that his shadow wasn’t close by you. 

You paused and stopped as well, swallowing your upset and turning to look up at him. The straight and serious set of his brows and mouth was enough to tell you he was no longer in a joking mood. He shifted under your gaze and crossed his arms, eyes narrowing as he examined you further. 

You felt your nerves tighten and knot up under the gaze. He was analyzing you and it was only a matter of time before he realized you were truly upset. His smooth lips twisted up tightly before he sighed out.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, clearly incapable of realizing what the problem is and despite your usual stubborn nature you felt it was pointless to hide the issue. So you inhaled deeply, crossed your own arms and tried standing tall under his shadow and gaze.

“I don’t like being small,” you huff feeling almost pathetic with the sentence.

His eyes widen with the confession and his eyebrows furrow, “You aren’t small, I’m just big!” 

You shake your head feeling a tight fist clench around your heart, “ No! I mean it’s not just you...I’m small in comparison to everyone else!”

You sigh, “I just...I’m tired of being small and your teasing isn’t helping much.”

Sehun frowns a bit and before you know it he’s sitting on the ground before you taking up the whole alleyway and staring right at you. His large hands resting on his knees as he pouts cutely, deep in thought. The ground shakes a bit more than usual with the full impact of his weight. 

You manage to keep yourself stable despite this and his pout is twisted once more into a stoic line, “You know it’s not much fun being big either.” 

This time you lean a bit giving him a pointed look, “Oh really? It must be horrible being so large and in charge!” 

He frowns at your biting sarcasm and you almost feel sorry for the crack...maybe there are some bad things about being so big.

“I don’t appreciate the tone,” he snips, ”it really isn’t all that though.”

“Sorry,” You utter feeling sheepish with the blush that begins to coat your cheeks.

He nods, “I mean like for example mostly everyone is terrified of me and I don’t want to hurt anyone. But it’s really hard to get people to act like I’m a person sometimes or treat me like one at least...it kind of sucks being regarded as a monster.”

Your heart squeezes with the sad confession but he continues on, “ I can’t even fit into most buildings. So I’m basically left out of most things and it's not like people are willing to accommodate to me even though I can’t control my height or size.”

You find your fingers curling into tight little fists, the nails digging into your palm and your heart racing. You always knew it couldn’t be exactly easy to be his size but the way he described it, made it seem as though he was bullied and lonely. Who could be so rude and callous to him??? He was a sweetheart and never cruel...he would never use his size to hurt someone and yet people were acting like he would.

You suddenly felt so silly for being upset about being short, at least your size didn’t impact how everyone viewed you so drastically...at most you might get a little joke here and there but he was outcasted and feared for no reason. You calmly stepped forward and managed to slip into his large lap and cuddle into his torso. You felt the warmth from his body engulf you almost instantly as his big strong arms wrapped around you and tucked you further into the warmth and his sweet smell.

“You don’t deserve that,” You whisper into his shirt still perturbed by the way he spoke.

“I think your height is cool and makes for the world’s best cuddles,” you managed to look up at catch the way his cheeks lit up with a vibrant blush, his lips shifting into a soft smile that made your heart race.

“Thank you,” he shifted getting more comfortable in the open.

“I like your size too, it evens us out,” You found yourself laughing at this comment. You were so short and he was so tall the dynamic was almost laughable when you stared at the two of you from afar, but you fit him perfectly and vice versa.

“I love you,” you press your lips into his torso further feeling embarrassment cling to your throat with the words. 

He chuckled softly letting it vibrate through his chest, “I love you too.” 

[xoleahbeanxo]

Sing! A Side Story: Chapter Four

Alright, here’s the last chapter of my Sing short fanfiction. I know it was all just a pile of mushy mush but I really enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoyed reading it.

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

           “Can I get everyone back on stage, please!”

           The loud blare of the bullhorn jolted Lee awake. How long have I been a sleep? The hyena asked as he fought to blink the sleep out of his eyes. Rosita snorted and lifted her head from his shoulder slowly, immediately embarrassed that she’d fallen asleep.

           “I’m so sorry,” She mumbled getting to her feet in a hurry. “I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

           “Me too,” Lee groaned as fought to get to his feet. His butt throbbed from sitting on the hard steps for so long.

           Before either of them could regain their composure, they were swept away by an onslaught of animals that could hardly wait to hear their fate.

           Once on stage, beneath the hot lights, Lee felt his knees tremble again. He was gathered amongst the other contestants. They were packed all together so tightly that he barely had enough room to move. Nor could he catch his breath but that was more from the ill-smelling flatulence of the buffalo standing next to him. The giraffe on the other side offered no comfort or escape. Every time Lee moved closer to him, he’d either get hip bumped back or get his foot stepped on. The mumbling of the contests sounded like waves crashing against the other side of the wall in a hollow drone.

Everything came to a halt once the koala, Mr. Moon, walked up the stairs with a clip board under his arm. To one side was Miss Crawley and Eddie lingered back a few steps on the other side.

           “Hello everyone, it’s so nice to see you back again.” The koala’s chipper tone was enough to ease anyone anxiety, which was great because Lee was beginning to succumb to his nausea from his own.

           “Alright, just so you know, none of these decisions came easy. If I had it my way, I’d have let all of you into the show.” His laugh was soothing and very believable. “But I had to make the hard choices here.”

           Choices? Lee wondered as if he’d never heard the word before. The word was harmless up until the point. Now that it directly decided something in the hyena’s life, the word instilled fear, causing his heart to hammer heavily against his ribcage and throb into his ears. It was so loud that he could barely hear anything. It felt as if he’d go deaf. Did he say, Lee? There, he said it, no. How about now? No.

           Mr. Moon groaned and lowered the bullhorn. “Oh man, this going to drive me crazy! Johnny, come back here son. You’re in the show.”

           Lee saw the young gorilla halfway up the aisle turn. There was a light in his eyes that couldn’t be missed. Johnny, Lee internalized. Johnny was young; this was definitely a game he was meant to play. There was Gunter, the pig in the gold track suit, who was hungry to spread his ‘piggy power’ to the masses. Ash, the porcupine was walking away for now. She followed behind her ungrateful and delusional front man. She had a fire inside of her that threatened to burn down auditorium.

Lee couldn’t forget Mike, that boisterous mouse with golden pipes, had an urge that could push him to do just about anything to win. The camel, who Lee failed to catch his name, had a beautiful operatic range that he couldn’t hope to attain. It was obvious he loved to sing and had the skills to take him all the way through. Lastly, Rosita, the beautiful house wife pig that had comforted him back stage. She had something to prove, not only to the world but to herself as well. She deserved to win even if that was the role Lee was meant to play. Lee wasn’t an expert on the theater but he knew enough to know that there were only so many roles to be played. An all the roles were filled with the right people. That was just fine with him.

The hyena walked down the steps and started up the center aisle. He’d be lying if he said he wasn't a little disappointed about not getting selected to be in the show but when it boiled right down to it, he wasn’t as good as the rest of them and that wasn’t a bad thing. They all deserved their day to shine in the spotlight. Besides, his spotlight would always be the brightest.

Lee turned to look at his wife who was always shining for him. Ellie stood at the edge of the row with a wad of tissues in her hand. Her eyes were red from crying. He could tell she was on the cusp of it right this very minute. He could ask her why but it wasn’t important right now. What was important was that she was there for him as she promised and he’d sung his heart out, not just for the audition but for her because he knew she was watching. Lee took her hand and pulled her close, letting his lips linger at her cheek for a moment.

“I’m sorry you didn’t win.” She sniffled and pressed a kiss to his jawline.

Lee smiled warmly at her. “That’s alright. This wasn’t my game, to begin with, and it was never about winning because I already won when-”

“You’re going to say something mushy, aren’t you?” She giggled as she tucked her tissues into the pocket of her jeans.

“Well not now, I’m not.” His hyena laugh spiked as they walked out of the old theater house into the streets.

They strolled back to where their car was parked in the side alley. Neither of them spoke. They just enjoyed the closeness of the warm coming evening. It was time to go pick up Ashley and head home to their much more grounded life. It was nice to live the dream for a second, though. It was even nicer to at least try for something, even if it meant failing. There were only a million more clichés Lee could take away from it.

“Think you got one more song in you,” Ellie ran a tender caress up his arm just under the hem of his t-shirt sleeve.

“Why?”

Ellie averted her gaze from him in contemplation. “I never did get my shower song.”

“I think I can make the arrangements,” Lee opened the passenger side door for her. “And I promise, it won’t be anything mushy.”

Ellie slipped into her seat, putting on her seat belt. “You know…If you want to sing something mushy, I might make an exception just this once.”

“Mushy it is then.” Lee laughed before closing her door before rounding the car to get in.

Lee kept one hand on the wheel while letting his other search for Ellie’s hand resting in her lap. He laced their fingers, feeling the nub of the ring on her finger. It brought her gaze up to meet his and they looked away just as quickly. The fresh wave of teasing sent a warm feeling all through him. The only thing better than being young and in love was being old with the one that you love.

           It’s a well-known fact that every competition has to have a winner and a loser. But there are often varying degrees of winning and losing when it comes to life. Lee was unlucky enough to lose often but all of that was so easily forgotten when he took into perspective how big he’d already won.

[thecoroutfitters]

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