#if they won that fight they’d probably be SO thrilled and SO well fed they’d be in good spirits for a week

[starheirxero]

Yk I still firmly believe that Bloodmoon could make a transition of killing random humans to killing random wild animals.…. Like, I know KC is dead now, but could you imagine how well that could’ve work out for both of them??? Bloodmoon satiates their hunger by hunting game and brings it back to KC so he can make the world’s most kickass meat stew. life could be a dream…….

[pippki-writes]

Soupe au Pistou [Chef Andre - Part 3]

NOTES: One of my friends got me to join an e-fed, and even though I know nearly nothing about wrestling, I do feel confident in my ability to write fairly entertaining nonsense. And I’d love to share that nonsense with you lot too!

(Chef Andre Poêlon, Toddrick, and other non-wrestler side characters are mine. The other wrestlers—the Faction, Adam Miller, and Dionysus in this installment—belong to their respective creators.)

(Andre’s appearance is based on Chef Gordon Ramsay. I’m so sorry Chef Ramsay. Here’s your alternate French-American life)

WC: 1.6K

Installments: Part 1 (The Recipe); Part 2 (L’Aperitif)

SOUPE AU PISTOU

Waffle House, it turns out, doesn’t operate along some transitive property where this Waffle House is equivalent to every Waffle House, where Andre could simply walk in to the nearest Waffle House he found and start scrubbing down the grill, and that count as him working his shift. Not that Andre was likely to find a Waffle House any time soon, as he gazed out along the dark desert horizon, stumbling a little. The nearest Waffle House was well over a hundred miles away from the Sonoran Desert, not that Andre had any idea of it, and Andre had just had his ass—and more accurately, his head—quite thoroughly beat throughout the night.

Well, not completely. They’d won the first match, and that still astonished him. The Belgian Blue had been an apt comparison, he thought in retrospect, remembering looking up at the towering form of Isaac as they’d first squared off in the ring. He hadn’t mentioned it ahead of time, but some small part of him worried that actually seeing the human equivalent of a steamroller in striking distance of all his vital organs would have made his small, carefully won collection of wrestling knowledge leap right out of his head and slam him to the mat in fear.

But no. He was out of his shell now, and finding out with satisfaction what he was made of. He really could do this, and when the time came right down to it he found himself rushing in. Embracing the thrill, eager to fight, hopeful to win but ultimately just determined not to make an embarrassment of himself. No. He only thought about the latter outside of the ring, looking back or pondering the future. The truth was, in the moment, all he could hear was his blood singing with the excitement of the challenge. The sizzle of the crowd cheering, chanting for him. It was fun.

Unfortunately, fun and adoration didn’t do much to heal bruises and sore muscles. “A soak in some pasta water might help,” he thought to himself, as if that made any sense. Warm water full of bath salts maybe, but a tub full of actual starchy pasta water, a roiling boil waiting to cook him?

How many times had his head been hit?

“Andre!”

He looked up, shook his head and let the thought drop. There was Toddrick, bounding toward him, waving. Where had he come from?

“Come on dude!” yelled Toddrick. “Let’s get you back to Indy!”

Cooking, to Andre, was like riding a bicycle. He could practically do it in his sleep, which he practically was, later that night on his shift, swaying slightly in front of the flat top under the warm glow of the Waffle House lights. Toddrick hadn’t bothered to explain how he’d smoothed over his own predicament, and they’d flown the accidentally-borrowed-without-owner-permission plane back to Indianapolis to return Andre to the appropriate Waffle House in time for his next shift. More accurately, Toddrick had flown, and Andre had watched out the window as the dark sky gave way to dawn and the time zones rushed along below them.

Andre had foolishly hoped to get a nap in on the way home, but Toddrick couldn’t seem to pick up on how desperately worn-out Andre was.

“That was, seriously, amazing dude. No lie, ok, I know you’ve been training but if you weren’t my guy, I would’ve probably bet against you in the first round, I mean the Faction? They’re HUGE. You’re tall, but you’re not huge.”

“Mm.”

“And oh my GOD, Adam Miller coming back like that, I—“

Andre’s eyes drifted shut, and he was dimly aware of Toddrick recounting some lore or politics or something Andre knew nothing about, and was far too tired to learn. He’d very nearly managed to sneak into the first stage of sleep when Toddrick said his name and snatched him back to consciousness.

“—can’t be too down about the Machines, Andre, I mean what, this was your third real fight really? You’re just getting a feel for it. I think you did great.”

“Mm. Merci.”

The rest of the conversation, for surely there had been nothing but conversation on the way back or Andre would have been able to rest, made little impression on his memory. Though he did remember dimly wondering where this wrestling federation got so many monstrously-sized people from. Was it a coincidence they all seemed to gather here, or some divine intervention that gathered them? Perhaps divine was too benevolent a term. Andre had thought himself a tall man, back in the culinary world. He was the one who helped get spices and spare plates from the top shelves. But tilting his head back to literally size up opponents on multiple occasions? Just one more new thing to get used to, he supposed.

Now Andre stood at the grill, all his motions on autopilot, his mind dragging itself around inside his skull and whining softly for a nap. “No nap,” he thought to himself, methodically scattering a stack of hash browns with mushrooms, “make it through this shift, then sleep, then think about the next match.”

He prayed Toddrick wouldn’t show up that night to make him train. Andre would lay down and sleep on the pavement if he tried.

Andre used to have a life in the daytime. He thought about it sometimes, mostly in the rare moments that the damned blazing sun beat down on the back of his neck as he ran some late afternoon errand before work, and he wondered if he missed it.

What a stupid question to ask himself. Of course he missed it. He missed the haute cuisine. He missed the certainty, knowing the trajectory of his career. Knowing what the hell he was doing. Knowing the path he was on.

Now he was on a road whose map he didn’t know. He didn’t want to let go of cooking, but would he have to eventually? No. Surely he could do both.

In his apartment, the box fans struggled to push the air around. Another blasted hot afternoon. Most people would go for something cold, but Andre knew the secrets of a summer menu. A hot soup would, paradoxically, cool you down, especially the right soup. Nothing heavy, he thought, opening the refrigerator and sticking his head inside, lingering in the cool air as he looked around for ingredients.

At the restaurant, they would be serving soupe au pistou, made with summer vegetables sourced from a local farmer, fresh house-made short pasta, a light and flavorful broth, topped with a generous dollop of pistou, a pesto-like paste of herbs grown at the restaurant itself.

At Andre’s apartment, the pasta was a box of Barilla that had been on sale for the common crime of approaching its best-by date, and the basil he had been trying to grow in the window was nowhere near as robust as it had once been. But the point of soupe au pistou was that you threw in what you had, and you made it work.

Andre put a pot of water on the stove and flipped the burner on. He plucked the best of the sorry-looking basil leaves. His life wasn’t the ideal life he had had, when his trajectory was known, quantified, and assured. But he would make it work.

A grin, a chuckle. Andre turned from the flat top, spatula in hand, to face Toddrick and the cluster of lenses on the back of Toddrick’s phone, unaware that Toddrick was even filming.

“Those donkeys again? Hah. The Faction.” Andre turned back to the grill, poking and shuffling a scrambled egg along the surface, scattering cheese on top and folding it in. “I may have had my head hit around a few times, but from where I remember, it was myself and monsieur Dionysus that bested two of them once already, non? Another Faction donkey, pah! Nothing. We have this Adam Miller, yes? Beat them in the ring, put a stop to their shenanigans after. What challenge will this even be?” Andre laughed and began humming, tapping the spatula against the edge of the grill in time with the song. He slid the eggs onto the proper plate and started singing to the mostly empty diner.

“Be our guest! Be our guest! Put those Faction goons to rest. Bringing victory assuredly because we are the best!”

Toddrick cut the video before Andre could lose the rhythm of the song in trying to cram “Chef Andre,” “Lord of the Vine,” and “The Prodigal Son” all in one line. Only the few Waffle House patrons and Toddrick’s crew got to suffer through the entire disjointed serenade.

Andre handed over the dollar and change and took his purchase out of the Dollar General and back to his apartment kitchen. He washed the plastic repeatedly in hot water and dish soap, glancing at the cardboard packaging. Nothing specifically said the Super Power Water Shooter wasn’t food safe. He’d seen stranger ways of serving food concocted in the world of haute cuisine.

He squeezed the little yellow trigger over and over, until the water came out clean.

It wasn’t exactly a full soupe au pistou, he thought, as he poured the chilled broth into the funnel and the funnel routed it into the sky blue plastic gun. He didn’t think blending the vegetables and noodles until they were liquified would result in the best flavor profile. And the bits of herbs had been strained out. But it was all flavorful, and undeniably delicious.

He hadn’t been able to find the kitchen and leave his improvements on the food at Wrestlestock. So he had the brilliant idea to just bring a bit of culinary wonder with him to impart, quick draw style, to anyone willing.

He pointed the barrel at himself and squeezed experimentally, laughing and nearly choking at the unexpected success of the attempt.

“Finally,” he smiled, “that’s some good fucking food.”

Next Course: Part 4 (Sole Meunière)

[ahlectos]

                                        “ i am clawing myself into negative                                         space, a creature of only absences. ”

cis female / she/her. ┊ if you’re looking for ALECTO CARROW, you’ll probably find HER in the RAVENCLAW dorm with the rest of the SEVENTH years. they’re the TWENTY ONE year old PUREBLOOD who looks kind of like HANDE ERÇEL. they seem POISED, SHARP, & RESOURCEFUL to me, but apparently they’re also OVER-CAUTIOUS, DESIROUS, & PROUD. maybe that’s why they remind me of jeweled daggers tucked into frothy skirts like a secret; gilt edged pages on well worn books; a cold shiver on the cusp of winter, hidden with a smile ( no one can know you feel anything ); a collection of delicate, sharp edged things; beautiful jewelry draped across your throat, as if anything could protect your weak spots. 

WARNINGS:  death of a family member, discussions of war, parental neglect, manipulation, alcohol mention ADDITIONAL MATERIALS:   alecto’s playlist, stats page, & pinterest board  

i.

the carrow family had amycus, so it wasn’t a total let down when alecto ilse carrow was born and was born a girl. but if everyone was being honest, there wasn’t any real thrill there for her either. if they loved her, it was in a rote way and if they cared for her, it was in a rote way. their distance and cool removal from her life spoke more than anything they ever did for her. 

later, there would be attempts to pit brother and sister against each other; and there was at least a passion of feelings in that bloodthirsty desire. alecto imagined that was the closest thing to love she ever got from them. 

the carrows, historically, were not the most refined when it came to the most sacred. sure, they were one of the best families  —  but their machinations never seemed to be the sort that won the hearts of a people; their plans, never the ones put to action. they had wealth and connections enough, bloodlines going as far back as any of the other twenty-eight’s; but they were not half so perfect.

alecto didn’t like people not expecting perfection from her. her parents saw so little when they looked at her, and it grated to see the same lack from the people they were surrounded by. so she made changing that expectation her mission at, in all honesty, too young an age.

they thought carrows weren’t the ones to beat. fine. wasn’t she one to beat all on her own? wasn’t she enough to change the tides of her family’s reputation?

she’d decided this at a precocious eight years old after a particularly disastrous dinner party. her parents, they were darkly amused; let her try, for soon she’d realize that she was a girl, and would always, always fall short of expectations. at the time, this mission of hers started with presenting a flawless front to anyone looking at her expecting another carrow wildcard. she’d always been precocious; she knew what game they were all playing and just how to play it.

( didn’t they all know how easy it was? to become like them? )

ii.

around the same time she reached this decision for the path she’d tackle the rest of her life, her aunt dulcinea died and crushed alecto’s heart.

aunt dulcinea and uncle anatole were distant carrow relatives and in alecto’s weaker, punishable, childish moments   —   she’d wished they’d been her parents. she wished it stupidly, in place of wishing for her own parents to love her.

at the reading of her aunt’s will, alecto received dulcinea’s wand  ( 12 ¼", griffin feather and aspen, quite flexible and carved with a loving hand ).  and though she wasn’t of an age yet to use magic, her uncle practiced dueling with her using sticks found in the gardens on the carrow estate. even before she could legally utter a single spell, alecto was a skilled duelist. she tucked this into her back pocket like a secret; would let out shining peals of false, childish laughter if ever anyone asked about those dueling lessons. her, dueling? no, no, no. she was itty, bitty, and ladylike, faint at the very idea of fighting. her uncle anatole had simply been indulging her silly games of make - believe.

maybe all he thought was that a husband in their circles would like a wife with some use in the war effort. but alecto liked to imagine he thought she was worth teaching as just alecto, not someone’s future betrothed. 

iii.

she made friends greedily as a child; ostensibly so she could have the connections, the network, that was so vital to the lives of adults in pureblood society. but the small truth was that alecto just fed on human connection. she loathed how much liked people to like her and resented that she needed people at all. but it was true, and it could be useful.  

she tried, at times, unthinkingly, to imitate the distance her parents had with her. she loved talking and hated talking all at once, but she did pride herself on being able to fill hours of conversation with no substance at all. and it better cemented the idea that she didn’t actually desire the friends or acquaintances she had   ---   if every interaction was hollow, what could prove she thrived on them? how would anyone know much she relished the meandering words?

she could be very cruel to those around her   —   not necessarily on purpose, but also not not on purpose. there was a threshold, where acquaintances shifted into someone alecto would trust with her life. at that threshold she tended to turn mean, to turn people away, and it was a horrible habit and one she wouldn’t break.

but all the feigned distance in the world couldn’t keep her from finding actual friends, and she would kill for those she cared for. reckless all or nothing thinking like that was just the carrow way. true,

fierce friendship was an earned thing, but a warm-looking smile from dear alecto cost her nothing at all.

iv.

she was sorted into ravenclaw; perhaps it would have disappointed her family, if they’d had expectations high enough to disappoint in the first place. when alecto was fourteen, and wrote home with news of the sorting, she knew she’d lost any chance of being the favorite   ---   slim as the chance had ever been. oh, her parents had indulged her goal of making a name for herself. she was their daughter; clever enough, pretty enough, to indulge. but they’d never seen that indulgence yielding anything, and her sorting only confirmed it for them.

( she suspected they wrote to her brother more, while at school. no, of course she never asked him. she was a ravenclaw, smart enough to know that some doors need not be opened. )

imagine: a little carrow in ravenclaw tower, all alone amongst peers of all blood statuses and backgrounds. she thrived there, much though she hid that fact from her parents. they certainly never imagined her thriving. she had her aunt’s wand and her uncle’s scattered owls, friends she made cautiously and recklessly in equal measure, a feeling of total abandonment gifted to her by her parents’ abandonment. it was heady, and dangerous.

she kissed people her parents would have been scandalized to know she knew at all, linked arms with girls from families her father had long disparaged over breakfast. joined the quidditch team and shared sportsman-like handshakes with any opposing player she could hunt down after matches.

her grins were sharp and wicked and her laughter soft and surprised and she knew   ---   she knew!   ---   that the home she felt in the castle could never last once outside of it.

it was a home, and that word just didn’t mean anything for girls like her.

alecto was just a girl, darling little thing. the carrow daughter with a whip-sharp mind   —   that she made sure to only show in carefully curated fields, that was a problem all the same. she could picture her mother’s disapproving look as she caught alecto reading one evening, told her that the mind on her made it hard for the family to imagine setting up an enviable match. she would never find it easy, being a trophy hanging off someone’s arm. she tried. alecto always tried.

her parents may not have cared for her any more than they had to, but they knew her better than she ever thought they did. she did not bend or bow to anyone for all that she acted like she could, and that would make her life harder than her parents thought it had to be.

the lives of pureblood daughters could be easier than breathing, in the new world they had hopes of cultivating. if only alecto would let things be easy.

v.

her parents might have thought she had an allergy to the simple route. and maybe she did; maybe they were right, and she was wired all wrong. her mind was a tricky place   —   all those forbidden books snuck into her lap, they had an impact. perhaps on a stronger carrow they’d have been nothing when compared to the things her family had told her all her life. perhaps she was weaker than she’d ever cared to admit. but she acted like they were no stronger carrows, and pretended like the act didn’t cost a thing.

when her parents and their cohort went and joined a dark lord who whispered of war, alecto learned to pretend like lots of things cost her nothing at all. after a lifetime of such acts, she could even pretend to herself that pretending cost nothing.

at night, in ravenclaw tower, she dreamed of a world where she didn’t have to pretend.

little alecto, the sweet-talking carrow daughter, blossomed into a young woman who had high hopes of an easy life. she dreamed bigger than that; of a room of her own tucked with books and cauldrons and coin she earned of her own mind, family that consisted of no one but her brother. alecto always dreamed impossible things. 

but she lived in reality. and reality had studying her heart out for a million jobs she’d never apply for. it had her learning to enjoy the refined burn of shots worth more galleons than some would ever see. she learned to love glittering adornments, and tossing her hair, and beguiling with a single flash of her pearly-white fangs like it was all she was good for. she lived as if school would never end, as if the real world wasn’t just about to knock at her door. she was good. except when she was bad. and loathe though she was to admit it, she could still find enough ancient carrow in her to be very, very bad  …  when she so chose.

badness could very easily be written off as youth, except by those who shared alecto’s youth with her. to them, well, it was her typical carrow tendencies coming out to play. it was her growing tired of the never-ending act she’d started years and years ago. it was her doing very reckless things, perhaps unknowingly   —   or perhaps awaiting the mess she’d leave in her wake. she’d have to fix the mess, of course, and in that fixing would lie the cool reminder that while she looked like any of the rest of them, she would always be a carrow. and carrows are too sharp, too much, and so alecto is, too.

( the secret was she was too much alecto to be anything, really )

vi.

she didn’t even like pureblood society that much; up close, it didn’t glitter like she’d imagined as a child, on the outside looking in.

she resented the idea that she’d have to marry some man eventually, who she likely wouldn’t care about and who likely wouldn’t appreciate her for all that she was. but if she wanted to be more than a wife or mother she knew she’d have to show her hand   ---   reveal that she had a mind for strategy, that she knew a thousand wicked things. sign herself away to the war for a side she didn’t believe in. it would surprise no one to learn that both action and inaction held steep consequences.

but alecto didn’t want to fight; and in the meantime, no one was asking her to, not really. she threw herself into her school work and talked about a boring future, gushed of jobs that required little wandwork and received little notice. uncle anatole gave her questioning looks when she continued to act as if battle terrified her, as if she didn’t have ambitions. but the rest of her family continued ignoring her, most of the time; neglecting to see any real usefulness. and there was safety in that   ---   she might yet make it to a disappointing marriage without any blood on her hands.

in a perfect world she could lay down in neutral ground and not move a muscle for either side. not have to enter some loveless future, either. but what would that make of her family loyalty? the last thing she wanted was more disappointment from her parents. more proof that she’d never been what they wanted. for all that she despised them, she couldn’t help but want her parents to love her; and deserting their side would not inspire love.

this was, of course, no perfect world. alecto was not the sort of girl who lived in happy endings. so while she didn’t want to join the war, had no desire to loan her mind to the dark lord’s cause   ---   she knew she would. she would have to. she was a carrow, and so of course she’d join the fight.

the plain and simple fact of the matter was that there was no possible path for her that didn’t beat her heart into bloody submission. so that life, that planned future, was better than nothing at all. right?

vii.

alecto couldn’t be paid to give two shits about blood status. she knew her family fought tooth and nail along with all their peers for the glory and triumph of blood purity   —   and regrettable as it was to dwell on, it was background noise she would ignore because she could afford to ignore it. just because she could care for, or befriend, a muggleborn with no internal struggle didn’t mean she’d ever actively do anything to help them. this was the life she’d chosen.

she didn’t have much exposure to people of other blood statuses as a child and that’s when she set her heart on winning at life in pureblood circles. sometimes goals like that were hard to let go of. so while her stomach curled at the lack of intelligence she saw as inherit in blood purist ideologies she could never actually  …  fight the fact that pureblood circles were run on purist ideologies. life was just easier if she didn’t fight it.

she’d rather break her heart and throw herself into a cause liable to kill her than become her own person separate from the life she’s wasted years building.

viii.

no one needed to know she hated this; softness was worse than wildness, in alecto’s eyes. her wildness couldn’t be helped, but she’d die before anyone saw her weak. let them see a ruthless game-player with a heart carved from crystalline ice. let them see a girl, damnably neutral while she still could be, cards always held close to the chest.

the almost-war for blood purity waged on as it always had, with new challengers rising every day; it was as unchanging and constant as the warmth of ravenclaw tower still was, in her last year in its embrace. as the consequences of adult life began to fall around her, alecto shut her eyes and plugged her ears and imagined a world where she could stay on the sidelines. she shut her eyes and plugged her ears to the whispers of how useless a dainty carrow daughter was, too.

for a little while longer she could pretend she wouldn’t prove them all wrong sooner or later; it was a kind thing to pretend.

but a kind mask was still a mask. and alecto knew masks, could pluck one from her shelves and put it on in her sleep. it was easier, after all, to not think; some part of alecto had always known this, long learned how to turn off her racing thoughts, her conscience, her heart, in order to do what needed to be done. she hated it. but she did it.

sooner or later alecto would give in  ---  in a way that could never be undone. or, perhaps, she’d come to hate feeling her family’s belated pride resting on her head like poisoned laurels. prove even herself wrong and desert them and their pitied crowns.

( she prays for the former and hopes for the latter, with her wicked, traitorous heart. )

[wildroseofarran]

Cry for Help || Luna, Oliver, & Tristan

Luke: To his credit, Luke had managed to wait an entire week before giving in and driving to Edenton. More specifically, to a certain trailer at the edge of the trailer park.

At least this time he had his own car, he thought as he headed for the door. And he had beer. Everyone liked the man who brought beer. He hoped.

He knocked on the door.

Oliver: The gentle rapping of knuckles was answered by a less-than-gentle howl of Humphreys. The warning was also answered by a human.

"Go'on si'down!" Stomps across the trailer. The aluminum door was yanked open. "Yeah? Oh."

Luke: "Oh good, I'm catching him at a good time," Luke muttered to himself.

Oliver was greeted him with as bright a smile as Luke could manage. There was that charm. "Hey, Oliver."

Oliver: After a very unusual weekend, where friends swore up and down he had been with some blond, he had begun to dismiss their claims as nothing more than the equivalent of pink elephants.

But there stood the evidence.

"So you're real. That's a thing. Kay."

Luke: "Uh...yeah." Definitely not the reaction he'd been expecting. "I'm real. Do you...remember what happened?" Do you remember being borrowed? Are you about to punch me?

Oliver: "I musta been, uh, blackout drunk, 'cause I really don't remember shit about you, man. I was told ya walked me home or some shit?"

Luke: Luke nodded. Was this a blessing or a curse? He couldn't tell. Maybe a curse. They'd have to have the ghost conversation again at some point.

But maybe it was a blessing. No memory, no anger. No anger, no fist in his face.

"Yeah, I walked you home. You weren't in any shape to drive. I uh...I brought you some beer." He held out the carton.

Oliver: Oliver looked the beer over. What brand was that?

"Hair of the dog that bit ya, huh? Come on in."

Luke: He hadn't been able to remember what brand Oliver kept, so he'd gone with Blue Moon.

"You could say that. Thanks." He stepped inside and immediately searched out Humphreys.

Oliver: The hound came bounding forward, nearly tripping over his own ears. He remembered this scent. Every part of his hands and face needed licking.

"So, what brings ya?"

Luke: Luke's tension melted away at the onslaught of doggy affection, leaving behind nothing but a delighted smile. "Hey, buddy! How you doin'? You doin' good? Yeah? Such a handsome boy, look at you!" Humphreys was given an onslaught of affection in return before Luke remembered where he was and straightened with a cough.

"I uh, just wanted to see how you were. Been good?"

Oliver: That response felt like a red flag of sorts. He couldn't think of a single friend or associate so honest. He was too considerate.

"...Yeah. Sure. How 'bout ya?"

Luke: "I've been all right." Sort of. "Guess I just kinda....stayed worried after last week."

Oliver: "Why? Did I try to start a fight with ya? If so, why the hell ya here? Round two?" he smirked.

Luke: You could say that. "No, nothing like that. You weren't exactly thrilled that I didn't let you drive home but I don't think that counts as a fight."

Oliver: "Damn sure counts as a fight," he laughed.

Luke: "Disagreement," he countered, braving a smile. "That I ended up winning."

Oliver: "Next time ya won't," he said defiantly.

Luke: "Oh, I think I will. I've won my share of disagreements." Did Oliver remember he was a lawyer? How much had he retained of that night?

Oliver: "I'll just pick ya up and throw ya in the back of the truck and be done with it." Just past twelve in the afternoon and a Blue Moon was cracked open. No, he didn't remember. Despite the man in front of him, clearly he had fabricated the details from thin air.

"That is, if I ever see you again. Doubt it. Ya don't look the O'Charlie’s type."

Luke: "Well if you make it a habit to go around driving after you've been in O'Charlie's for a few hours, you might be seeing a lot more of me in there. For precautionary measures."

Oliver: "What are ya, some goddamn good Samaritan?"

Luke: "Why does everyone always sound so hostile when they ask that?" he wondered aloud. "Honestly? My family's out on those streets and I already came close to losing one of them in a car accident. I don't care to repeat the experience. Also don't want you to end up as a road pancake. So...there you go."

Oliver: "Ya don't even know me, man. What were ya doin' there to begin with? Look at ya. Ya just ran up to me because ya knew I was gonna drive home drunk?"

Luke: "I was in there with a friend and happened to notice you. And 'look at me'? The hell does that mean?"

Oliver: "You're too...too much. Look at them shoes. Your hair. You're not poor. Ya never struggled. Ya probably never had a day off hardship in your life."

Luke: Luke felt his jaw tense. "No, I'm not. I was lucky enough to have parents who busted their asses to keep me clothed and fed and a brother who helped get me a job and put me through college. Now I bust my ass for them, and for my hair, and for my shoes."

Oliver: "Right. It was handed to ya." Another beer downed in a matter of seconds. One trick he and Dana Tolvin shared.

Luke: "Nothing was fucking handed to me. Not my family, not my degree, and sure as hell not my law practice. My law practice. My name isn't on the fucking building and on the fucking stationery by divine intervention."

Oliver: "Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit. Ain't ya something special," Oliver frowned. This wasn't the same optimistic man from the week prior. He had gotten into his own head.

"I've only been blackout drunk once in my entire life. You were the last man I was with. We're nothin' alike. I don't fuckin' get it."

Luke: Luke had to force himself to relax. He wasn't here to argue or to have to defend his success with the ten millionth person for the ten millionth time. He was here to make sure Oliver was okay.

"I walked you home against your will. We don't have to have similar interests for that to happen."

Oliver: "Did ya drug me?" A question with no inflection. A question asked with crow’s feet and locked eyes.

Luke: Now Luke looked properly offended. "No! What the fuck kind of question is that? I did not drug you!"

Oliver: "Ya don't make any sense!"

Luke: "Because I walked you home?!"

Oliver: "Yeah! No one does that!"

Luke: "I realize you're jaded as fuck, but you do know where you live, don't you? People in this town walk each other home. They welcome new neighbors with pie."

Oliver: "This town ain't no paradise. Who are ya kiddin'? This is a fishin' town just as fucked as the next."

Luke: "It's more decent than most. Pardon me for trying to find something wholesome in this fucked up world we live in."

Oliver: "Good luck with that, man. When it don't work out, it's gonna hurt more."

Luke: "At this point in my life dying would hurt less than anything else. This was obviously a bad call on my part so I'm leaving. Enjoy your beer."

Oliver: The man grew silent and impatient for his departure. The world was too heavy to deal with anyone else. He crushed his beer and studied the floor. The wait felt longer than he could hold his breath.

When Luke reached for the door, so too did a bear claw of a hand, holding the aluminum frame in place. Another weathered hand reached forward, gripping onto his shirt, pulling the human into a greeting kiss.

Luke: This is what you get, Luke told himself as he approached the door. This little incident would teach him not to bothering checking on someone who clearly didn't--

The hand suddenly blocking his exit startled a yelp out of him that soon paled in comparison to the one that met the kiss.

Dana: Dana Tolvin chuckled into the kiss.

"Gonna let a little thing like that get you?" came the familiar Australian accent.

Luke: The familiar accent and the dawn of realization that followed immediately had Luke clinging for all he was worth and returning the kiss with grateful relief.

"Hi," he whispered.

Dana: "Hey," he returned. Tolvin bent forward to press their foreheads together. "Playing 'good Samaritan', are you?"

Luke: "Apparently." Luke took a deep breath, trying to stave off the threat of tears. He didn't know where they'd come from or why they were here, he just knew he couldn't give in to them.

Dana: "Hey," Tolvin whispered again, caressing Luke's chin and jaw, "what's that face?" A surprise, needless to say.

Luke: He nuzzled into the touch, kissing Dana's palm. "It's nothing. I'm just really glad you're here. I missed you so much."

Dana: "Bad week?" he asked, removing his hindrance from the door. The arms felt numb today, weakened. Of course, the alcohol.

"Safest place to sit is...the counter. Dog hair all over the couch."

Luke: "Something like that." He gave Dana a squeeze. "I don't mind dog hair. We'll get a lint roller."

Dana: "I've slept in abandoned houses covered in mold better than this shithole."

Luke: "Won't be a shithole when I'm done scrubbing every last inch of it."

Dana: Tolvin let out a hum, head inclining to the side. "What happened to asking permission?"

Luke: "I would've cleaned with or without his permission. I almost came over here to clean a few days ago."

Dana: "I wouldn't have been here to rescue you a few days ago."

Luke: "Rescue me? Was he going to punch me this time?"

Dana: "His fog is so heavy he tried to recreate that night. The shots, the beer, the drugs. Took days, but he makes sense." Two fingers to the temple. "Migraines. Followed him since basic training. He has an indiscriminate weapon to kick me out. Makes him damn near impossible to read. We should get someone else."

Luke: Luke blinked. "He actually managed to rationalize what happened? What kind of person manages to rationalize something like that?! That's not denial fog, that's damn near demonic power of will."

Dana: "Ever had a migraine that makes you see colors that shouldn't exist? Shutting me out is a gift created from torture."

Luke: "Jesus Christ," he sighed. "Well that explains the alcohol and the drugs. Saying proves true."

Dana: "Opioids just made a yellow brick road to the hard shit," Tolvin shrugged, disinterested in the subject. This body was a means to an end. The man in front of him was led to the ugly couch and pushed back.

Luke: "The hard shit can't hide the man behind the curtain. Not forever. It's not the drugs that make the drug addict, it's the need to escape reality."

Dana: "Let's not talk about the skin anymore. Okay?" Both hands cradled Luke's face, pulling him back for another kiss.

Luke: In hopes of avoiding a fight, Luke let it drop for the time being. But he'd never be able to think of Oliver as just a 'skin', just a vessel. Oliver was Oliver, and for better or worse, Luke was invested in him now.

Not because Dana was borrowing his body. Not exclusively. There was another reason, one he couldn't place or name yet.

A reason he'd think on later. For now, his time was limited, and he'd missed those kisses so very much.

Dana: Oliver's soft tongue was warm and inviting. As were his hands, which slipped underneath Luke's tugged shirt. He felt nothing in terms of his host. He was a means to an end. The wraith's only regret was having so much baggage assumed on his companion's shoulders.

Luke: Luke was helpless to keep from whimpering softly. It felt like ages since he'd been touched, and those hands were so warm, so foreign and familiar at the same time. He was helpless to resist them, helpless to resist those lips, that tongue. He practically melted beneath Dana's hands, offering himself up completely as arms circled his hunter's neck.

Dana: His wraith pulled him closer, swept his tongue into his mouth. He felt as though he was tasting for the first time. His mouth was flavorless and yet not. All other realities were pushed to the side as the human was pushed deeper into the couch.

Luke: The soft whimper faded into an even softer moan. it didn't even register that the taste on his tongue interwoven with the faint traces of Blue Moon wasn't really Dana. It felt like Dana, and that was enough to leave him breathless, to draw Dana in, taste his fill, let his hands wander.

He only came up for air when he absolutely needed to, but even then it was only for a few moments. Not a single moment of this time was going to be wasted on something as inconsequential as air.

Dana: Feminine noises represented Luke like poetry. Compatible to his defiance and strength and yet unrelated. Nonsensical grandiloquent thoughts sprung from his old soul as he nuzzled and nibbled young flesh.

"Is that your thighs?" Tolvin swallowed, staring where he felt quiver.

Luke: Luke managed a nod. Truthfully, it wasn't just his thighs quivering. It felt like his entire body was quivering, begging for Dana's touch.

Dana: "...Do you do this with them?" he asked quietly.

Luke: He froze. Tensed.

Dana: Oliver's eyes stared patiently, deep browns of irises a near perfect twin to what used to be.

Luke: If Dana had seen him with Q and Tane, Luke could only assume that Dana he'd seen the answer to his question. Perhaps he wanted confirmation. Perhaps he'd turn from Luke the second he got it.

Fully expecting the worst, Luke nodded.

Dana: "Your thighs the same then?" he asked quietly. The unfortunate truth was that he had no idea what he was supposed to feel. Something other than jealousy; that much he knew, but there was nothing outside of the contrasting low of jealousy and numbness.

Luke: "I don't--" He cleared his throat. The lump that had formed in it was making it hard to speak. When he did it was barely above a whisper. "I don't know."

Dana: "Are you in love with them?"

Luke: Luke shook his head. He did care for Q, and he was growing to care for Tane. It was a balance between romance and friendship, between sex and companionship. In some way, perhaps he did love them. But he wasn't in love with them.

"I'm in love with you."

Dana: "You've never done half of the things you...probably have with them, with me." This time, Tolvin looked away, body sinking into the couch, creating space between them.

Luke: "I've never done a lot of things with you, things that have nothing to do with them. I'd never shared a bed with you until last week, despite knowing and loving you for as long as I have." Luke straightened into a sitting position. "And that meant more to me than you could ever know."

Dana: Something so simple meant so much, and yet he couldn't shake the image of that man and that demon. That selfish creature taking from Luke what never once belonged to him.

"Are you going to continue with them?"

Luke: "That's not entirely my decision anymore."

Dana: "It's not mine."

Luke: "It's both of ours. I don't want to hurt you, Dana."

Dana: "I'm dead, Luke. You're very limited in how you can harm me."

Luke: "You and I know better than anyone that harm doesn't have to be physical to hurt."

Dana: "If you have to say any of that, then the answer is yes."

Luke: "I won't continue the physical aspect with them if you don't want me to. I won't hurt you."

Dana: That wasn't the answer. Saying it was up to him was not good enough. This was not a declaration of love and promise. Then again, a false promise was worth less than nothing.

Oliver's hands curled as though frozen and broken. Brown eyes paled with death and recolored in time with unsightly bruises wrapped around his throat.

"I should - I need to go."

Luke: "Dana, wait." Luke reached for him. "Don't go. It kills me when you go. I don't have all the answers and even if I did I don't know if they'd be the right ones. I want us to work. I want it all to work. Don't leave me, love, please. Please." He didn't want to give false promises or hurt Dana or feel that crippling, cold grip of loneliness anymore.

It wasn't about the sex or the romance. He didn't want to give up the friendship and companionship of two wonderful men, men he cared for. He couldn't abandon them after everything they'd done for him. Despite what Dana claimed, Q wasn't a demon.

Dana: Those words again. Just flowers with thorns. His soul knew better than to trust words alone. Nothing would erase what had tell.

Taking hold of his wrists, Luke was pulled closer, arms held out enough to study his chest, the exposure such position offered. "I don't know if you love me. I think you want comfort. I think they might be enough. Maybe not. What I know is...my soul...doesn't believe..." I don't believe.

Luke: "You're here because I love you." Luke placed his hands over Dana's, squeezed hard. "I finally slept because you were by my side. I see Oliver's face and I know it's Oliver's face and somehow I still see you. I still feel you.  I wish to God there was some way you could reach inside my chest and feel my love for you living inside it, breathing every time I breathe." He took a shaky breath. "If that's what your soul needs in order to believe, then I'll find a way. Better yet, borrow me. Feel what I feel for you."

Dana: "You're - How can you talk so much?" As hateful as his words seemed, there was a stillness in his tone, a genuine concern. Those words were too romantic, too unrealistic to the world he had left behind.

"I'm not," a pause to capture Luke's face with both hands, "going to possess you. Don't ever offer that to me. You leave yourself open and vulnerable to others."

Luke: Once more, Luke placed his hands over Dana's and squeezed, and now that he could, turned his head to kiss each palm. "Angel rules, remember? I'm giving you permission. But if you won't, if you can't, I'll find another way to show you how much I fucking love you, Dana Tolvin. I think I might know one. I'll just need some help."

Dana: Again and again Tolvin shook his head. "Luke, enough! I said no! I'm saying don't! By allowing me, you allow others! Listen to me! Can't you ever just listen?"

Luke: "Fine, fine! I'm listening! No borrowing." Deep breath in, deep breath out. "Will you let me do the other thing? It's a spell. I don't know if I'll be able to do it by myself, I'll need help and that means someone else finding out about you being in Oliver."

Dana: "So you know someone - other than that prostitute - that's unnatural."

Luke: "Not just me. You, too. And Logan."

Dana: "You said you don't know anyone."

Luke: "Officially, I don't. Or I'm not supposed to. I met her twice, in passing. Mind you, I'm not entirely certain and this plan isn't what you'd call solid."

Dana: "I don't care about the plan. I care about you lying to me."

Luke: "All I have is suspicions and hope, Dana, I don't know if she can help or if the spell can help.  I haven't lied to you."

Dana: Tolvin closed his eyes and laid back, hand draped over Oliver's eyes.

Luke: Deep breath. "Logan told me about the time you got injured saving a man with no tongue. She said a woman named Bronwyn healed you with magic against your will. I know a Bronwyn. She's Callum's cousin. I just don't know if it's the same woman. I only met Callum's cousin twice and there was nothing magical in those two meetings."

Dana: "I don't want it," he said quietly. "Whatever your idea is, I don't want it; I don't need it. I don't want you to be around people like that. They might seem nice, but they're dangerous."

Luke: "Dana. It's too late to protect me from the supernatural. I know it exists, and not knowing was--according to Logan--the only thing protecting me. That ship has sailed. You might not need the hope this spell could give you, but your soul does. Your soul needs to believe in the love between us. You said so yourself."

Dana: "I'm fine. It's fine." He wasn't willing to listen. Saying so out loud only made their predicament real.

Luke: "Dana." It was said more softly this time. Pleadingly. "You're not fine, love. You need to believe in us. In me. You won't borrow me because you say it's dangerous and I'm listening. I'm asking you to please listen to me. Help me help us. Please."

Dana: "Can we just drop this for the time being? I've spent so long without you. Just...be here with me, alright?"

Luke: Luke nodded. "Okay. Okay, love."

Dana: "Lay with me."

Luke: He didn't have to be told twice. He sought the solace of Dana's embrace immediately and buried into it.

Dana: Strong tanned arms wrapped around Luke's shoulders and locked him into place. Tolvin stared up at the ceiling, mind blank, which for the moment was bliss.

Luke: Dana's arms felt like the strongest, softest titanium blanket wrapping around Luke, and he relished the relief they brought. Existing was exhausting, these days more so. Sometimes it felt like the only thing keeping him going was Dana.

Luke closed his eyes and sighed softly. Contentedly.

Dana/Oliver: Luke was free to move if he wanted to. He would not. HIs eyes closed, allowing himself to finally sink into his thoughts. The memories would not overwhelm him; they were perspective. What had led them to this moment was reluctantly evaluated. The night he could scarcely remember; the flirtations followed by argument; the moment having first laid eyes on the man in his arms. Somehow they had made it this far. Beautiful as the superficial was, the reality was caustic. Luke had the capability of moving on. Breaking the laws of the Shadowlands only prolonged the inevitable.

Surely, Logan was on her way to healing. Returning had only upset the delicate balance of consequence.

Sunlight poured through the horizontal blinds. Minutes later, the body underneath hissed and groaned.

Luke: What was foggy to Dana was crystal clear to Luke. He'd spent so long recalling every moment of their time together, trying to draw comfort from it in his grief. He saw the bad and felt the bad for what it was but he also saw the good. There was pain, but there was also joy. The good and the joy was why they were here.

He wouldn't move a single inch. This was exactly where he belonged. Every fiber of his being knew that it was so. And he'd do everything in his power to show it to Dana. His Dana.

Luke startled at the groan, instantly alert. "Dana? Are you okay? What's wrong?"

Oliver: Both hands held to his forehead and covered his eyes. The groans escalated. Hisses melted into growls. "The fuck is Dana? What are ya doin' in my house?" The flood of instinct happened in a matter of seconds. A vicious and fearful shove followed by a fist to Luke's left eye. The winner of fight or flight.

Luke: Luke's face drained. Oh, God. Not Dana.

Oliver.

God fucking dammit, how was he going to begin to explain this all again? "Oliv--!" Luke didn't manage to even get the man's name out before he was being thrown back and what felt like a rock hit in square in the eye, prompting a surprised, pained cry out. Already a mean throb following immediately in the wake of the punch,

He felt his back meet the floor as he reached for his face. "Jesus fuck!"

Oliver: Oliver managed to his feet with a brief stumble. His fists and legs were ready but his mind was in shambles. The separation had been too abrupt. The migraine was overwhelming what little sense of calm he had.

Luke: There were groans and bitten off curses coming from the man on the floor. Where the hell had Dana gone? Had he run out of strength?

"Ah, god." He'd yet to let go of his face; the pain seemed to be getting worse with every passing second. He could feel the nasty black eye coming.

Oliver: "What are you doing in my house still?" Oliver managed firmly, as clearly as his accent would allow.

Luke: "You don't believe me," he muttered. "You're goddamn drenched in fog. Think I'm crazy."

Oliver: "I'm drenched in what? What the fuck is in that head of yours? What are ya on? What did ya put in that beer?!"

Luke: "I didn't put anything in the damn beer! Want me to taste test all of them?" He eased himself into a sitting position and immediately felt dizzy.  "Not high, not drunk, didn't fucking drug you. I believe in ghosts, remember? I believe my dead boyfriend is still with me."

Oliver: "How long have I been out? How long have ya been here? Gimmie answers 'fore I call the cops! No. Fuck that. I'll call them any-" No, he couldn't. More likely than not someone would go poking around that shouldn't.

Luke: "Yeah, wouldn't want Parker or Peabody to find the mess of cocaine in there." He attempted to stand. "Under an hour. You gonna listen to any answers I give? Or you just gonna call me crazy and blacken my other eye?"

Oliver: "Fuck you," he spat. "Ya don't know my life. I know one minute ya were headin' for the door and the next you're layin' on top of me!"

Luke: "And I fully intended to leave, except my boyfriend borrowed you so he could hold me for a little bit. My dead boyfriend."

Oliver: "You need fucking help! You need help, man! You're fuckin' with my life! Do you not understand?! Fuck!" Oliver stumbled back against the couch, planted himself on the arm. The trailer was spinning out of his control.

Luke: "I know I am, and believe me, if I could have him back in his own body I would. I know we're fucking with your life. So are you. I know exactly how crazy I sound." He took a deep breath. This wasn't Oliver's fault. He hadn't asked for this. Hadn't asked to be chosen. The choosing was on Luke.

"I'm sorry, Oliver." His voice was softer, calmer. "I am. I deserve the black eye. We are fucking with your life."

Oliver: So are you? Half of his words were drowned by constant throbbing. He couldn't do this. Action meant more than words. This stranger had to leave.

Oliver all but leapt to his feet. He grabbed him by the back of his shirt and yanked him towards the door.

"Out. Get out. Get the fuck out! You're fucking insane!"

The door was shoved open, slamming against the exterior wall with a sharp crack. Four in the afternoon and neighbors watched, mildly entertained.

Luke: There was no time to protest or dodge or try to reason further. There was only a split second when instinct had Luke stepping back from the perceived threat, to no avail.

Oliver was too pissed and fast for Luke to do anything but try to avoid getting hurt on anything in the trailer.

"Oliver, stop, I'm leaving! I'm lea--" A violent flinch cut him off as the door slammed. "Let me go!" An undertone of panic entered his voice.  "I can walk on my own, let me go, stop touching me!"

Oliver: The yelling only caused Oliver to tighten his grip. The shouting, sharp and somehow childlike rang in his ears with ricochet. "Ya leave me alone! I don't wanna ever see ya again! Ya hear me?!"

Luke: Oliver's furious voice sounded so far away. Luke barely heard him, all his focus and all his strength zeroed in on dislodging Oliver's hand. His breathing was speeding up, heart rate following right behind. His blood was becoming a roar in his ears.

"Letmegoletmegoletmego!" he sobbed. "Let me go, Robert! LET ME GO!"

Oliver: The world managed to freeze for precious few seconds. Furious as he was, the name not at all his own pierced through the migraine. He shouldn't fucking bother. Whatever demons this man had were not his problem. Still, Luke was dropped to the floor just inches from the doorframe.

"M'not Robert. M'not your dead boyfriend. M'not anyone. Are ya hearin' me?"

Luke: Luke immediately scrambled away, cowering against the nearest corner or wall or solid piece of furniture he came up against. His breath was coming in short, ragged sobs as he curled into the fetal position, trying to protect himself as best he could.

Oliver's voice didn't reach him this time. Nothing could. He was having a panic attack.

Oliver: Fucking Christ. Goddammit. The fuck was he meant to do in this situation? He wanted to punch the bastard again. The door was left open. The man was left to his tears on the carpet.

Oliver retreated to the bathroom for a handful of ibuprofen and oxy. The kitchen his next stop; two bottles of water were removed, one placed nearby the man on the floor.

Luke: The smallest movement, the smallest sound had Luke retreating even further. It was almost as if he was trying to melt into the couch in his fear.

In his mind, it was a different couch, a leather one. They weren't in a trailer in Edenton at four in the afternoon, they were in a luxury condo in Raleigh in the middle of the night. The door wasn't open, it was locked, and pain was standing in between him and it.

He was screaming for Robert to stop, in his mind and out loud. Begging him not to hurt him anymore. Sobbing for his mama and daddy and Pete and Logan and Dana and Stella. Their names were only glimmer of reality shining through, the only thing muddling his present and his memory.

Oliver: The water by his side, Oliver stumbled back, confounded by the screaming. He could only think of one thing to do. It made perfect sense to him. He disappeared and reappeared with his medication, He took to the floor nearby. This man needed to leave, but they'd already caused enough of a scene. He crawled to the door and shut it. The nosey goddamn neighbors had heard enough.

"Dude. Ya need t'calm the fuck down." What could he do...

"I'm...I'm Dana. Okay? I'm Dana. So just calm the fuck down and breathe. I'm not Robert."

Luke: He was so out of breath and so tired and so strung out. He wanted to go home. He wanted his mom and dad. He wanted his parents and Edenton, he didn't want to be here anymore. It hurt so much, it hurt everywhere. He just wanted his mom and dad.

More movement, more tension and tightness in his position. Another faraway voice, but something familiar in it. Something safe.

Luke fell silent and tried to gather the courage to peek out at the world toward it.

Oliver: He would see Oliver Cole sitting on his knees nearby. A bottle of water and a bottle of medication between them. The man had a hand on his temple, fingers just shy of his eye. He was rocking, in pain of his own.

"Have some water, man. Take these." Two small round white pills were offered. "It'll help ya relax. Kay? I ain't no Robert."

Luke: For a few seconds, there wasn't a single trace of recognition in Luke's eyes as he stole a glance at the man before him. He wasn't Robert; that much his mind could process.

Was this the safe he heard? Could this man help him?

Instead of taking the things offered, a hoarse whisper said, "I wanna go home. I want my mom."

Oliver: The hand slowly lowered, palm remaining open. A difficult decision needed to be made. He looked for his phone. On the charger in his bedroom.

"Kay. Who the hell is - hmm." He didn't want to open that basket of snakes.

"Fuck," he sighed, rubbing his face. Why was he the one having to play nice? Just kick the motherfucker out.

"You're gonna take these and the water and wipe your face and take your whatever ya drove here in n'go see em. Kay, man?"

Luke: The safe was fading and filling his eyes with tears before he hid his face again. The screaming had stopped and he wasn't curled quite so tightly anymore. The panic and adrenaline were blessedly fading, but as much progress as that signified, Luke still wasn't in any condition to drive or even stand. He was getting there, just slowly.

Oliver: Oliver was half-tempted to take even more of his prescription to somehow shut this man out. The migraine had been his fault. If not for his condition, how far would this man have gone with his body? The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He could pity this man, but he was just as criminal as he.

"I ain't a doctor. I can't help ya. This is all I got n'this is all I'm gonna give."

Luke: Luke was closing in on himself again. Was progress really being made? It was hard to tell. Panic had been replaced by a shutting down of sorts, fueled by weariness and sadness and bone-deep loneliness. His body just felt...cold.

Oliver: The man was giving him nothing to go on. He felt as though he were talking to a life-sized doll.

He forced himself to his feet and yet again disappeared into another room. Contacts. Tristan Seger punched in, phone brought to his ear.

"Hey," he greeted. "Look, I can barely explain this shit t'myself, but...I need your help with some shit. I got a guy in my house. He just..."

Luke/Tristan: If the sea was in a mood, the universe was in a mood. Tristan had lived his entire life by that mantra and seen it proved time and time again.

His work day had been just hard enough to be frustrating, the following process of getting it sold even more so. He was considering treating himself to a beer and huge late lunch to try to turn the day around when his phone went off.

"Definitely a weird fuckin' day," he said to himself, brow furrowing. Oliver Cole. That name wasn't often on the display.

"Hey, Oliver. What's...." His voice trailed off as he listened, furrow deepening. "Sit tight, I'll be there in a few."

The beer and huge lunch would have to wait. His gut was making him walk to where he'd parked his truck.

Oliver: That was what made Tristan so reliable. Just a few words and little else was required to see action. This time his phone was pocketed. He didn't want to be in the living room. He glanced, expecting the same curled up mess next to his couch.

Luke/Tristan: The mess was still very much curled up against the couch, shoulders shaking as he cried softly.

Tristan was a few minutes out still. Something in Oliver's voice had given him a hell of a sense of urgency.

Oliver: Inch by painful inch, Oliver forced himself back into the living room. This time he took a seat in a nearby chair, hands squeezed and rubbed over his knees. Just something to do. Anything was better than another conversation with a brick wall.

Tristan: At least there weren't any hitches during the drive. That was absolutely something to give thanks for on this weird damn day.

Tristan pulled into the trailer park a few minutes later, making his way to Oliver's area and pulling up beside a very familiar black car. Was that Luke's?

He got out and jogged toward the door. As he knocked he noticed a few people looking in his direction with great interest. The hell was going on?

Oliver: Thank Christ, he thought, opening the door to the scene. A hand pressed to Tristan's chest, keeping him in place as he was joined on the brick steps. Sluggishly, Oliver began to recap his unusual afternoon from when he had first answered the door to having called the fisherman to his rescue.

"This migraine is killin' me, man. I dunno what t'fuckin' do."

Tristan: A brief greeting was given before focusing in on Oliver's story. His very weird, very confusing story, which was perfectly in line with everything else today.

He'd think on that later. There was a lot to take apart here.

"Sounds like a panic attack. Pretty vicious one from what you described. You said he stopped screaming, right? Calmed down a little? He disoriented at all?"

Oliver: "He ain't talkin' anymore. Ain't movin'. Nothin'. I want him out but for all I know he'll drive into my fuckin' house. Man, I ain't built for this shit anymore. I gotta have my peace. Whatever is goin' on with this dude, he can't - I can't..."

Tristan: "Hey, don't worry. I don't know a whole lot about helping a panic attack but I do something about helping someone who's in a bad way, which I know he is. Right now he's probably drained, mentally and emotionally exhausted. He needs to feel safe and comfortable and I'm going to try to do that for him." Try being the operative word. If he couldn't, then surely his family could. And luckily, he had their numbers. Pete's anyway.

Tristan patted Oliver's shoulder. "You need to go lay down before that migraine gets any worse. Close the blinds, shut the lights off. I'll take care of Luke, take him to his parents' house when he's ready."

Oliver: Again and again he thanked the Lord for gifting him a boss like Tristan Seger. His hand draped over the other's in appreciation. In his final retreat, the stranger was given one last look. Hopefully, this would be the end of their rodeo. He had half a mind on changing the locks to his house.

Get better. Good riddance. Stay away from me. Stay away from Robert. I'm not Dana.

Nothing. To the bedroom he went.

Luke/Tristan: Tristan smiled and followed Oliver inside. He wasn't a bad man, at least from what Tristan knew of him. Just a haunted one.

The sound of sniffling had him turning, and when he saw poor Luke cowering on the ground looking so small and so broken his heart just shattered.

"Oh, honey," he whispered to himself. He took a few steps closer and crouched to his friend's level. "Luke?" His voice became as soft and gentle as if he were talking to an injured baby deer. "Can you hear me? It's Tristan. Tristan Seger. Recognize me?"

It was a few long moments before Luke braved enough to raise his head again. His face was red, cheeks drenched in tears. The eye Oliver had punched was swelling. He was a mess.

Still, there was a glimmer of himself in the look he gave Tristan. "Tristan?" His voice was more hoarse than it had been before.

Tristan nodded, offered a smile. "Yeah, honey. It's Tristan. Remember who I am?"

A slow nod. He knew Tristan. He was a friend. He was kind.

"Good. I'm gonna look after you, all right? You're okay, you'e safe. I promise nothing's gonna hurt you. You're safe with me."

Luke swallowed. Something inside him was slowly beginning to ease, to relax. "Safe?"

Tristan nodded. "Safe. I promise." He came a little bit closer, offered a hand. "It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm gonna take you home."

Another few endless moments passed as Luke looked at the offered hand. He felt more compelled to take it than he had with the water and the pills. Tristan said he was safe. He knew Tristan. He trusted Tristan. Tristan was kind, and his laugh was like a pirate's laugh.

Very carefully, Luke reached out to take his hand.