#it sounds stupid to say but its wild how well the show knows jesse. everything he does perfectly reflects his character

[kylejsugarman]

season 4 jesse pinkman makes me wish i had always been dead. we know he has suffered tremendously and has acted out because of it in a variety of usually emotionally explosive ways, so seeing season 4 jesse literally shut down because he can't cope is so jarring and excruciating. nothing brings him any pleasure. everything is just a way to distract himself, to silence his thoughts. he self harms by detaching, he tries to die by living with no concern for his wellbeing. seeing him fucking sitting there in the middle of his now wrecked childhood home (the purchase of which was a little triumphant story beat for him, something significant), surrounded by strangers and loose cash that he doesnt care about having or spending, body pressed up to a thrumming subwoofer so the deafening music and violent vibrations can physically prevent him from forming a coherent thought or feel Anything. it's "show don't tell" at its absolute best: we dont need an outburst, a diatribe, a breakdown to know that jesse is massively traumatized and depressed. no one needs to point out that he shaved his head or ask why he did it. we Know. all too well

[bidoldaccount]

Erase All The Downsides - TWO

Word Count: 1,545

Warnings: there is a sexual scene between Dean and Lisa wherein Dean does not express his discomfort and ultimately has some negative, potentially triggering feelings. I will out a note before that scene begins. 

Intro ; ONE ;

"Dean!" The shout made him flinch. He looked up from his phone, everything slightly blurry before he focused in on who said his name. Lisa was staring at him, chuckling softly at his disorientation.

"Sorry, what?" He rubbed at his eyes, shutting his phone off.

"I asked what we should do for dinner. Sam and Jess wanted to check out that Italian place downtown, but I know you're a bit wiped from the event and the song writing, so I suggested we just do dinner here," she said.

"Yeah, here sounds good. I'll um, fire up the barbeque? We can cook those hamburgers sitting in the fridge?" He asked.

"Oo, I always love seeing you behind that thing, looking all manly and whatnot," she stood up from the couch and kissed his forehead. "I'll prep the sides like a little housewife, how domestic of us," she laughed. He forced a laugh of his own but his eyes fell shut tiredly. He didn't get up for a few more seconds, just listening to Lisa greeting Jess on the phone as she started pulling things out for a salad. He only knew because she was asking Jess which dressing she should use.

Dean pulled himself up from the couch with a grunt, shuffling his way into the kitchen to get the hamburger meat out of the fridge. He prepped it quickly, seasoning it the way he always does, adding a little less paprika because Lisa had said he put too much last time. She was right, Sam had scrunched his nose too, then again they both think Hot Cheetos are spicy. He puts a dash more then mix it all together to start forming the patties.

Sam and Jess showed up as he was flipping the first batch and popping open his second beer.

"Hey man, Jess insisted on bringing wine even though they're the ones who drink it," Sam said with a sarcastically wide smile as he held up the bottle.

"Yeah, because after two glasses, your jokes start to get funnier," Jess teased as she took the bottle from him. He swatted her as she passed, making her laugh. Sam rolled his eyes fondly as he joined Dean in the backyard.

"What's up, I haven't seen you much since the event. You doing okay?" He asked, leaning against the table as Dean fiddled uselessly with the patties on the tray.

"Yeah, I'm good, why?" He asked casually, even as he refused to meet Sam's eyes.

"Dude, Castiel was onstage for thirty minutes and the entire time you looked like you could actually breathe. I saw the effect she still has on you, so you want to talk about it or do you want me to pretend I didn't see it?" He asked. Dean sighed, swallowing as he turned his body towards Sam, feeling too vulnerable in the fact that he is so easy for the people around him to read.

"What do you want me to say? It doesn't change anything," he said.

"Why not?" Sam pushed. "You were so in love with her and she helped you so much, you're telling me that there is not a single part of you that wants that back?

"Nope," Dean shrugged, keeping his eyes glued to the grill.

"You're bullshitting me, and you know it. Look, man, I love Lisa, okay? She's awesome, but you two are so different. You can't give each other what you both need, and that's okay. I'm sure she'd understand if you just explained it, so why don't you?"

"Because I have a life already. I have a girlfriend inside right now prepping a stupid side salad with a very carefully picked out dressing. I have a house and a dog, and I'm being the dutiful man of the house by cooking burgers. It doesn't change shit, Sam," he said, turning away from Sam and back towards the barbeque. "This is what I'm supposed to be, this is what I'm supposed to do, so, just, leave it alone," he added with a stubborn flare.

"Alright, I'll back off, but I want you to know that there is nothing more important than your well being and your happiness," Sam said. "With that being said, let me take over while you go grab me a beer because I am not stepping into that house again before those girls have at least a full glass of wine. They're mean when they're together," Sam shivers dramatically as he takes the spatula from Dean's hand. Dean chuckled and the tension in his shoulders relaxed with the change in topic.

"Yeah," he relinquishes control of the grill and heads inside, following the sound of laughter. Jess is standing by the counter, cutting olives in half while slowly sipping from a wine glass. Lisa is chopping romaine hearts and tossing them into a strainer to rinse. Dean passes without interrupting their conversation, grabbing two beers from the fridge.

"Don't drink that entire bottle before dinner," Dean teases with a more relaxed smile.

"Or what? You'll spank me?" Lisa grins over her shoulder. Her and Jess erupt in laughter, and Dean forces himself to chuckle as his jaw clenches and his stomach turns itself on its side. He hides his emotions a lot better when he walks outside. He masks the discomfort in his steps and he starts talking about the new show he and Lisa have become invested in due to Sam's suggestion. He started ranting about his own thoughts and theories, and Dean threw himself into the conversation head first.

Lisa and Jess polish off a bottle and a half of wine, giggling and bantering all through dinner. Dean switches to whiskey at one point and manages to smile and laugh after one glass. He's almost proud when Sam stops throwing hidden glances his way. He's almost proud that he has masked his emotions well enough that Sam thinks he's had a great time. He argues when Sam says the hamburgers are too spicy, banters when Lisa agrees, and high fives Jess when she says they're perfect. They wave them away with leftovers and the promise of doing it against soon.

warning: Sexual content and internal trauma 

Lisa sighs happily when they're gone and stretches her arms above her head with a tipsy smile. They clean up listening to music, Lisa dances and brushes up against him as they wash dishes. He smiles lazily at her, trying to lose himself in the swivel of her hips and the taste of wine in her kiss. He puts all of his concentration onto the taste of her skin when they fall into bed, listening to the hitch in her breath and the rasp in her moan when he sucks on her neck. Her legs are tiny under his palm and she scratches against his back when he grinds against her.

The room is cold and Dean wants to get under the covers, maybe take his time, just acquaint himself with her, but Lisa is half drunk and impatient. She undresses herself, wiggling her hips and teasing at the waistband of her panties from beneath him. She's waiting for his approval, he can tell, he knows that she's putting on a show for him, so he obliges. He presses heated compliments into her skin, his fingers pressing down against the silky material of her undergarments. They're so soft and warm that it nearly makes his head fuzzy, then she was tugging him up and flipping him over to straddle him. She kisses him hard and messy as she shoves her panties off, pawing at his boxers until he's kicking them down his legs.

Her fingers bite at his chest as she rides him, her head thrown back in bliss. Then she's looking down at him with something wild and heated in her eyes.

"Spank me." It throws him off, it makes his head reel. She's still bouncing on him, her nails painful on his skin as she repeats herself. Dean closes his eyes as his stomach drops. He swats her ass once and she gasps, a wide, pleased smile taking over her lips. "Harder." He does. He spanks her a handful of times before she's screaming and losing rhythm. She scrambles and her legs shake and she gasps before slumping forward.

"You want me to suck you off?" She asks once her breath returns to her.

"No, I think I drank too much," he said. She nods understandingly, kissing him a few more times before falling onto the bed beside him. He doesn't realize that he is shaking until he turns onto his side and tries to sink into the blankets. His teeth would be chattering if he wasn't clenching his jaw so hard. He curled into himself, clenching his hands hard into the blanket. He sits up enough to slip his boxers back on, everything touching his skin feels like it might tear it off.

"Cuddle me," Lisa sleepily demands, reaching back for him. He rolls over to her, wrapping an arm around her waist. She presses back against him, her bare skin rubbing against his. Before she settles, he slips the blankets between them, barricading his delicate flesh from hers. A tear stains the pillow beneath his head before he finally relaxes enough to sleep.

[xthefxrgxttenx]

@4x0hxnxroll​ said : 🤝 + Beth & Emily

texts the other memes at 3 am: 

Neither girl really does this all too seriously, because Emily puts on a much more serious persona she wishes she had to. And Beth just isn’t funny. And if it does happen, it’s done semi-ironically, or at least so they claim, because, God, who sends each other MEMES at 3 in the morning? Which, to that end, despite not being traditionally funny, Beth is the more likely candidate between the two, especially earlier on until Emily feels able to show her dorkier/nerdier aspects to Beth. And the more Beth grows attached, the less and less ironic (and more and more frequent) the memes become. Such is the way of being a walking fucking paradox. But again, with all that sad, it’s not a hugely integral component of their friendship/relationship. And is more just a “Man, I’m fuckin’ bored, can you believe I’m looking up memes about a fuckin’ llama who kidnapped a child? Help me.’ kind of escape.

tries to convince the other to do an idea that definitely sounds questionable:

Both, but for entirely different reasons. Beth is the more unstable wildchild of the two, digging through her brother’s medicine drawer, using Chris for weed and coke, barhopping, fooling around with strangers etc. And Beth can start to have that Jess-effect on Emily as their relationship progresses, drawing her out of her more cautious bubble and giving her a chance to live a much louder and more adventurous life than she’d have if Beth wasn’t around. Emily, however, has that weird impulsive need to flirt with temptation, and will, entirely on a whim, in a random fit of courage, dare Beth to do something more intimately personal between the two. The kind of adventure that Beth would herself wouldn’t ever be able to initiate. (Like kiss her panties in the living room half naked after texting Sam to come help them.) 

is the designated driver and who always gets wasted:

This depends on the night, to be honest, and often just doesn’t happen at all. Beth can be responsible when she wants. And at times can feel almost COMPELLED to be. So if she knew Emily was gonna be off her face smashed and vulnerable, she’d definitely be a designated driver and stay sober enough to keep her safe. But then, I also kind of feel like once Emily starts to notice how weirdly repressed yet impulsive Beth truly is, she’d actually  want to be a designated driver for Beth once in a while so she can not ONLY get wasted, but also get wasted with SOMEONE WHO CARES. However, absent those exceptions, both girls are likely to just get an uber home because rich and fuck life.

always has to host the impromptu sleepover:

BETH. BETH BETH BETH BETH. BETHBETHBETH. BETHHHH. Emily’s dad is an absolute fucking cunt and while he’s more fond of Beth and Hannah on the surface than their brother, Josh, he’s still a bit of an ABSOLUTE FUCKING CUNT. Emily’s parties are therefore ALWAYS meticulously planned, to make sure her dad isn’t out and that she has MORE than enough time to safely clean up before he gets back. Beth, meanwhile... Sure, Beth’s dad might also be a bit of an absolute fucking cunt, but at least he’s an absolute fucking cunt who DOESN’T FUCKING CARE. Her parents spend more time across the national border than in their home country of Canada. Their house is often vacant, save for Josh and Hannah, who are usually always down for getting shit faced, too. Post-Game, Beth has her own little apartment she lives in that Emily could honestly move into if you needed.

who’s netflix account gets mooched off of:

Actually, in a rare turn of events, its BETH who has her account mooched off of. This is due to Emily’s dad paying for her Netflix and being a lot more strict with what he qualifies as APPROPRIATE for his should-be prodigy of a daughter. Beth’s account, however, is paid for by a dad who could literally give zero shits what Beth watches so long as she stays outta trouble. So Emily can safely watch anything she wants on Beth’s Netflix without being judged or berated by her father. (Though she sometimes has to lie to Hannah and Josh about just exactly WHO is mooching. I mean, come on, when is Beth Freakin’ Washington going to watch CELEBRITY MASTERMIND?) Post-Game, however, might be a different story... (As in, Beth kinda estranges herself from her parents and that sweet free money, and Emily might give Beth her pass and then just blame Beth when Henry wonders who the fuck watched an entire season of Sex and The City overnight.) Once Emily also gets cut off, they find the money for an account between themselves.

brings all the snacks and who supplies the movie:

Emily supplies the movie. With two very specific exceptions. Those exceptions being: 1. When its an early premier or pre-release of one of Beth’s dad’s productions. He’s a bit of a narc and LIKES to have any and all eyes he can to appreciate his psychotic masterpieces. And sometimes Beth genuinely likes some of his films and just wants to watch one once in a while. 2. If Beth is super pushy or passionate about a specific movie, Emily will cave but she won’t hide her feelings. If it’s shit she WILL bitch about it. And if it’s REALLY SHIT, she’ll pull the “I wish Jess was here” card. As for snacks... It’s typically Beth because Emily is full anorexic and unlikely to bring anything “snacky” to begin with, and Beth kind of has this weird obsession with eating with people/people watching her eat. So bringing snacks that Emily might wanna eat with her brings Beth a bizarre sense of joy.

is usually the first one to say sorry after a fight:

Beth. Though only if she genuinely sees that she was in the wrong. Both girls are pretty stubborn and guarded like that, but I do feel like Beth would break first, especially later in the relationship when she’s more obsessed. That being said, Emily also has a pretty quiet GUILTY STREAK that sparks up in game. During the pre-order bonus scene she ends up being pretty apologetic/grateful to Matt for handling her “high-maintenance” self, and she is downright terrified and blaming herself in her better Matt endings. And even if this is sometimes rooted in insecurity, I do think she’d be capable of having those moments with Beth as well, provided Beth had shown extensive enough loyalty through a lot of conflict/drama.

is the ‘ mom friend ‘:

Errrrrrr... Kind of see the bit about the designated driver. It’s kind of the same deal, honestly. Beth is repressed mom having a quiet quarter life crisis. Therefore she sometimes takes care of Emily. Emily is a repressed everything who actually does have a soft side beneath that icy fortress, and would feel bad for Beth and wanna let her be a wild child in safety. But then both are also royally fucked up and might just say fuck it all and get wasted and wake up inside each other panties on a park bench one night. That being said, Emily kind of has the encouraging mother role when it comes to Beth’s insecurities, namely her leg and her eating habits. While Beth is sort of Emily’s tough loving mother when Emily is making stupid mistakes like wanting to call Mike at two in the morning when she can’t even stand without using Beth as a crutch. So it really does just sort of depend on the situation and whether one or both of them are going through psychological bullshit at the times.

calls the other at 12 am to wish the other a happy birthday without fail:

I actually don’t know, to be honest. I feel like it would happen, and both would do it almost ritualistically after the first time, but the first time would either be: 1. Emily because she’s actually secretly super organized in life and might genuinely know certain birthdays of certain friends and just do it on impulse one day. Possibly while drunk. Probably while drunk. 2. Beth would do it out of a need to make Emily feel noticed and special once she learns about the true depths of Emily’s insecurities and need for validation and fear that no one would actually give a shit about her birthday if SHE didn’t make a big deal out of it to begin with. Which really it just depends who does it first. I don’t think either is so romantic or sappy to always do it outright. But once it IS done, if at all, then I feel they’d both do in return for the other doing it. LOYALTY & RECIPROCATION.

is the better wingman to the other:

Ummmm... Emily. Definitely Emily. It has to be Emily. Which, that isn’t to say that Emily is a GOOD wingman. It’s to say that Beth honestly COULDN’T wingman for Emily because Beth could never, ever, EVER be able to overcome her own insecurities to willingly guide attention to someone other than herself. Especially when maybe she herself has a small crush on Emily and wants to fuck her and have Emily’s attention all on HER. (It’s definitely not a SMALL crush.) Emily, meanwhile, would probably deflectively (during) or indifferently (early on) wingwoman for Beth because she’s not allowed to be gay and she spends a lot of time hung up on Mike. THAT BEING SAID: Post-Game, I genuinely don’t think Emily would be able to wingman for Beth either.

‘ the strong must protect the sweet ‘ , who’s the ‘ strong ‘ and who’s the ‘ sweet ‘:

HAVE YOU SEEN THEM?! The bitches protect each other. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. (Maybe literally.) That’s why they’re both designated drivers or moms at different times. That’s why Beth lets Emily use her netflix or stay over. That’s why Emily would at all want to take care of Beth during wild nights out. That being said, I do think, by literal definition, that Emily is physically stronger than Beth (especially post-game due to muscular dystrophy and her fucked up leg post-mine) while Beth might be sweeter than Emily. at least on the surface. But yeah, it’s again SITUATIONAL, based on whether one needs PROTECTING or one needs to be CARED FOR.

pulls the other up for karaoke to sing a duet together:

Oh. It’s Beth. Let’s be real. No fucking way does Emily do karaoke voluntarily. Meanwhile, Beth is a wildchild, as stated, and more importantly she LOVES noise -- ESPECIALLY MUSIC. Hell, it’s her FAVORITE NOISE, even. (Apart from Emily moaning. AHEM.) So Beth would absolutely drag Emily up for karaoke, even if Emily was bitching about it every frictional heel-scrape of the way. The ONLY example possible where Emily takes Beth on stage is out of SPITE. If Jess or Mike or Matt or Hannah has pissed her off sufficiently, maybe peer-pressured her into it, and Emily wants to HURT them. And depending on the specific atmosphere, Beth might just be up for being Emily’s metaphorical blade.

[nancywheelxr]

oooooooo Steve being sick like the sick where you spill all your secrets and the kids find out that Steve is not okay and needs hugs

When Steve doesn't show up for their shift, Robin isn’t necessarily worried. Like, it's a shitty job, she’s not exactly thrilled to be here either.

It’s only when he calls up the store and mumbles his way into calling in sick, which, by the way, involves a whole lot of coughing his lungs out and slurring words that she’s guessing were can’t go, I’m sick, that Robin starts worrying.

When he does this three days in a row, getting less and less coherent each time, Robin officially levels up to what the fuck even, Steven.

So, after her shift, she does what her mother, bless her, always told her not to do: she goes to a boy’s house when she knows his parents aren’t home. And goddamn, she kind of hates that she knows Steve keeps his spare key under a rock on his mother’s stupid rose bushes by the front door. Honestly, what a freaking cliché.

Steve’s house is exactly like he described once– big, cold, and empty– and Robin shivers, tucking her jacket tighter. 

“Steve?” She calls, fidgeting by the stairs. Should she just, invite herself in? Well, she kind of already did that, but–

A coughing fit echoes from what she assumes must be one of the bedrooms. Yup, upstairs it is, nevermind being polite or whatever.

“Just keep coughing,” she tells the empty hallway because holy shit, there’s way too many bedrooms and patience has never been her virtue. 

Obediently, or more likely unconsciously, Steve coughs again. Gotcha. It seriously sounds like he’s racking up a lung, Robin is kind of afraid of what she's going to find there.

“Holy crap, dude,” she says, stopping at the doorway because holy crap, dude, Steve looks awful. His skin is sickly pale and sweaty, his hair is either sticking up or matted to his forehead, there’s a trashcan near his bed that she is so not going to look inside and tissues are piling up on the floor. At any other given day, she would probably make a crack on how boys are so freaking gross, but since he looks like he caught the plague, she’s giving Steve a pass. 

“Robin?” Steve mumbles, blinking his eyes open. Or, at least, Robin thinks he said that; it came out more like an incoherent string of letters. 

“Hey, dingus,” she steps in his room, scrunching her nose at the stuffy smell, and sits carefully at the edge of the bed. The lump under the covers shifts and Steve’s face reappears, looking blearily at her. “Why aren't you in a hospital?”

“Don't need ‘ospital,” he rasps, coughs some more, and tries to smother himself in the blankets. “Just the flu.”

To be fair, it is flu season.

Robin squints, and because she’s like, the world’s bestest friend, she lays a hand on his very gross forehead. “You’re burning up, oh, my God, have you taken anything?”

A hand flops from underneath the blankets and gestures vaguely towards the bedside table, where a couple of cough syrup bottles are lying, nearly empty.

“Jess Christ, did you go through them already?” How's he still alive, holy fuck. “Okay, okay. It’s fine. Let’s take a break on that, though, yeah?”

Steve grumbles some nonsense. Robin is taking that as a yes. Downstairs, the phone starts to ring.

“Lemme die in peace,” he grumbles again.

“I’ll get you some Tylenol,” she replies cheerily.

The medicine cabinet, she figures, can’t be that hard to find. Everyone keeps them in their bathroom, right? 

*

She’s already got a glass of water on her hand and is about to return upstairs when the phone rings again. And rings, and rings, and rings, and it’s going to give both of them a headache, since clearly, whoever’s on the other side is not giving up anytime now.

“Harrington’s residence, you may speak,” she answers with her best fake cheerful telemarket girl voice. It’s a very good impression, Robin truly has a gift. 

“Hello?” A familiar voice says, “who’s this– wait, is that Robin? What are you doing at Steve’s– oh, my god, are you guys hooking up? Why didn’t I know this? What the hell, you guys–”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Robin snaps, wishing to god she didn’t have to deal with heteronormativity today; no good deed goes unpunished, she guesses. “Cool your jets, Dustin. I’m here ‘cause Steve is like, super sick.”

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Dustin sounds slightly panicked now, “is he dying? Where are his parents?”

“Nah, he’s pretty out of it and a total mess, but he’ll live. Maybe. Anyway, that’s why I’m here,” she shrugs even though Dustin can see her. He’ll know though, the kid is smart. “And his parents are… not here? I don’t know, man, that’s all I know. The place was empty when I got here–” there’s a crashing sound from upstair and Robin counts to ten, then, “YOU BETTER NOT BE TRYING TO GET UP, STEVEN– so, yeah. It’s just me trying to keep the idiot alive.”

A beat of silence. “Okay, got it. Stay strong, help is on the way.”

“Sure,” she drawls, eyebrows raising, “because that’s not ominous at– and he hung up, great.”

Maybe, that means Dustin is sending a real, responsible adult here, or like, calling Steve’s parents, or anything normal like that. Maybe the house isn’t about to be swarmed with little kids that are so going to get sick after this. Maybe Robin won’t have to look after Steve’s children and Steve. Maybe, Steve won’t be a whiny bitch about taking the pills.

Who knows, after this summer, Robin is pretty open to miracles.

*

The good news is– Steve only complained mildly before swallowing the Tylenol, and then only groaned about his imminent death a little, low enough that Robin could totally ignore him in order to snoop around his room, and then promptly passed out.

The bad news is– there are currently four children wearing drugstore face masks like that’ll solve everything here. 

“We came as soon as we heard it,” Dustin explains, voice muffled by his white mask.

“Is Steve going to die?” Max asks, and her face is twitching like she’s going to burst into tears but it’s fighting it with all her considerable early-teen-years might, and oh, shit, her brother died in the mall, didn’t he? Robin can hear the unspoken too hanging there at the end of her sentence and packing all her panic and fear.

Fuck, everyone here is way too traumatized for a tiny as fuck town in the middle of goddamn Indiana. 

“No one’s dying,” Robin assures awkwardly, letting them inside Steve’s room and watching as they all crowd around his bed. Oh, god, their parents are so gonna kill Robin if they get sick later. “Hm. Maybe don’t, you know, get too close.”

“Steve is sick, Robin,” Dustin tells her as if, somehow, she hadn’t noticed that before, and as if it explains everything. Kids are so fucking weird, man.

Whatever answer Dustin is expecting from her that had never been coming anyway is cut short by Steve’s suddenly hoarse scream. His face had been smushed against the pillow so it’s pretty muffled, but it still startles everyone, and Steve is now scrambling, twisting under the covers, kicking and shit, he’s gonna fall off the bed like this and get himself a broken nose on top of the worst case of flu Robin’s ever seen– 

“Shit,” Mike says, “he’s got the nightmares again. Nancy said he used to get them all the time last year.”

“Then wake him up, dumbass,” Robin rolls her eyes, thinking of the quick recap Steve had given her at the mall before everything went to shit. He had certainly not said anything about nightmares, but now that there’s no Russian conspiracy looming over their heads to distract her, it seems pretty obvious shit like that stays with you. Freaking evil goo monsters, man. Of course Steve has nightmares, Robin gets them sometimes and she hasn’t been here for half of the shit that he’s been through. She shakes his shoulder carefully, feeling the way he’s shivering under her hand. “Hey, Steve, yo, wake up.”

Behind her, she can feel the kids crowding to peer over her shoulder. 

And Steve wakes up with a start, jolting up in the bed and nearly throwing them all off it. His eyes are wild and wide, and while the Tylenol has got to have kicked in by now, he still looks feverish and high on cough syrup. “What,” he pants, exhales a shuddering breath and lurches to the side to throw up on the trash can. His hands, Robin notices, are shaking.

“It’s okay, Steve,” Dustin says in what he probably thinks it’s a soothing voice but Robin thinks makes him sound like he’s about to murder someone, and reaches to pat him on the back. “There’s no demodogs here or giant melted flesh monsters or demogorgons or–”

“Thank you, Dustin,” she speaks over his list while Lucas and Max help Steve lie back like little nurses, “I think he got it, yeah.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve mumbles, wounded and hoarse, and curls up, eyes darting around the room in a way that makes Robin glad she left the lights on. “Not them. Hey, Robin, ‘member when the Russians tortured us?”

She goes cold. 

That night had been fucked up and she had shoved it down where she doesn't have to think about, and even if she does try to remember, its all a little fuzzy at the edges after they got caught. The last thing she has a clear memory of before the drug left her system is yelling at Dustin and Erica to get the hell out of there and bring help. All she has next are snapshots– a soldier yelling with a gun in her face, the cold cell floor, Steve bloody and bruised to hell, a sharp needle pricking her neck– then, her conversation with Steve is back in sharp focus, the knee-buckling relief that comes after washing away the panic.

But. “Shit, yeah, dude. Why, were you–”

The sentence hangs in the air and maybe they should talk about this to get, like, closure or some shit like that, yeah, but now is probably not the best time, not in front of the kids, because Jesus, they’re just kids they shouldn’t be hearing about this.

“Thought I was back there,” Steve keeps going, apparently too sick or too high to think about how child-friendly this topic is, “the– the soldier guy, he was ripping off my fingernails, man, he almost did it back there, thought he had knocked something loose in my head.”

“Oh my god,” she hears one of the kids whispering in horror and privately agrees. She knew it had been bad, seen his state when they threw them together in the same cell, but she had known it had been this bad– they tried to rip off his fingernail, Christ.

“And then, then like, it kept going on this loop, and I thought you all were dead, and it was my fault, stupid, stupid, why did I have to go snooping and dragged everyone into this, and I thought, shit, I’m gonna die, and–”

Okay, shit, Robin needs to stop him right there because she knows a panic attack when she sees one and Steve is winding up for a big one. “Alright, hey, hey, Steve,” she says slowly, quietly, careful to leave her voice blank, “it’s fine. You’re fine, man. No one’s dead, look,” she gestures the kids and they all scramble up the bed, for once not babbling on and on, and silently decide to go for a group hug. Robin wisely stays out of it. “See, your kids are fine, you’re fine, and the Russians got fucked, okay?”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, eyes wide and round, and he looks a little overwhelmed with all those kids hugging him, and Robin thinks it’s the cutest shit ever. If she had a camera, this would have been prime blackmail material. More importantly, it seems to help ground him, bring him back to Hawkins, Indiana and not those fucked up memories. “Yeah, thanks, I– sorry.”

Shrugging, Robin offers a small smile, relieved to see he’s already drifting again. “Don’t worry about it, dingus,” she claps her hand quietly, getting the kids’ attention, “come along, kiddos, we gotta let your babysitter rest, now. And you’re all helping me make soup.”

There are groans all around, but they all trail behind her down the stairs.

[seeaddywrite]

Prompt: malex phone calls bc sometimes its easier to say the things you need/want to say when its over the phone

I did this in a 3 + 1 format; three times that Malex can’t say what they need to express without a phone line between them, and one time they can.  there’s a happy ending, i swear!

I. The first time Michael hears from Alex after he enlists, he nearly ignores the call. It’s been over a year since the incident in the shed; his hand is healed, and his heart has developed enough callous that he can pretend it has, too. Answering that call isn’t going to feed into that fantasy, because as soon as he hears Alex’s voice, Michael knows every defense he’s put up to contain that heartache is going to crumble. The smart thing to do would be to hit ‘ignore,’ and block the number – but while Michael may have a genius IQ, he’s never been known for doing the smart thing. The desire to hear Alex’s voice, to know he’s safe, overpowers every shred of common sense Michael possesses, and after the fourth ring, right before the call would be diverted to voicemail, he answers. 

“And here I thought you lost my number,” Michael drawls, refusing to let on that he’s as off-balance as he feels. It’s a tactic he’s adopted more and more, lately, as the entire town starts to move on from Rosa Ortecho’s death while he’s left mired in the guilt and consequences of it.  “To what do I owe the pleasure, private?” Alex isn’t the in the Army and Michael knows it, but since he’s done nothing but breathe into the receiver since the call began, Michael’s in the mood to wind him up, to get on the offensive and stay there so that he doesn’t end up letting himself get his hopes up. Again. It’s too damn easy for Alex Manes to get in his head if Michael’s not on guard against it. 

The connection crackles, and Michael stands up from his bed in the newly-purchased second-hand trailer to move toward the door, where there’s usually better reception. “You planning on saying something, or should I just hang up now?” he demands, and his ears pick up the slightest hitch in breathing, a tell-tale sign that Alex is listening, and reacting, no matter what his silence might imply. But no matter how much of an asshole Michael is, he doubts it could cause the rapid breathing that sounds a hell of a lot like someone trying not to freak the fuck out. 

Abruptly, Michael feels his demeanor thaw, and he sighs. “What’s going on, Alex?” he asks, his voice carefully even. “You okay?” 

There’s another pause, and Michael begins to wonder if Manes had seriously called him to just sit on the line until Michael got frustrated enough to hang up. But then, finally, for the first time in over a year, Michael hears Alex speak. 

“I just had a really shit day,” he says, and his voice is rough enough that Michael can tell he’s being vague more because he can’t talk about it than because he doesn’t want to. “And I got back to my bunk, and I saw your number on my phone, and I just –” 

Michael blows a short, hard breath through his nose, a bitter half-smile contorting his expression. It’s a relief that Alex can’t see him, because God knows how he’d take that, but alone in his trailer, Michael doesn’t have to check himself. “And you just what, Alex? Why’d you call me? It’s been more than a year. And when you left, you made it pretty damn clear that you didn’t want to hear from me.” Guilt, Michael’s constant companion, rears its ugly head. Alex is obviously upset about something to have even made this call in the first place, and MIchael’s rehashing ancient history. But he has to know what this call is and why it’s happening. He has to moderate his expectations; otherwise, he’s going to end up thinking it’s something it’s not – and Michael’s all out of optimism. 

A throat clears on the other end of the line, and Michael tries to picture Alex as he would look now, without the eyeliner and piercings, in ABUs with a buzzcut, but he can’t quite manage it. To him, Alex is always going to be the wannabe rebel who gave him a place in out of the cold – the one person who’d known about the chaos in his head and been able to calm it. 

“I called because – because I watched someone die today, Guerin.” This time, it’s Michael’s breath that catches in his throat. He’s aware, obviously, that Alex is in an active fucking warzone, and that he could get hurt at anytime, but the stark reminder that Alex could end up like whatever poor, unlucky soul they’d lost today was enough to jolt him out of the harsh attitude. “And afterward, all I could think about was how much I wished you were here,” Alex continues, his voice a raw whisper. “Because you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe, and I could really, really use that right now. And I know I’m the last person that you want to hear from, but I –”

“You know better than that, Alex.” Michael cuts him off mid-sentence, unable to take anymore of the tremor in the other man’s voice. There’s a lot Michael would do to protect himself, to protect his family, but standing by while Alex is in pain and there’s something he can do about it is a physical impossibility. He can’t even summon anger, at the moment. “And if you don’t, you’re nowhere near as smart as I give you credit for.” 

He’s about to say something he knows he’ll regret later. In person, he’d never manage to get the words out, but in the isolation of the Airstream, with no eyes on him, Michael can’t stop the words from spilling out. “I always want to talk to you. Every damn morning when I wake up, that’s the first thing I think about. Every time something good happens to me, I want to tell you about it. And every fucking night when I’m lying in bed, I wonder what it’d be like if you were laying next to me.” By the time he’s done, his voice is as hoarse as Alex’s, and he knows there’s no hiding it. As always, talking to Alex has left him flayed open and vulnerable, the layer of callous he’d built painstakingly around his heart worn away to nothing. 

“So, yeah. You need me? You call me. I’ll always answer.”

Again, silence reigns on the phone line, and MIchael’s eyes slide closed against the insecurities that bubble up as soon as he realizes that Alex isn’t planning on saying anything. He rests his forehead against the humid metal of the door, staring down at the dirty tile of the entryway, and is about to end the call – and his own misery – when Alex says, so softly he can barely hear it: “That was exactly what I needed to hear.” 

II.  Michael doesn’t get a phone call when Alex is injured in the line of duty. He’s not family – he’s nothing, apparently, and doesn’t even rate a text. So he hears it about it from Maria in the middle of the Wild Pony a couple of weeks later, just dropped into casual conversation that Alex Manes is coming home since loss of limb disqualifies him from serving on the front lines. That night, after he’s drunk enough that he can’t think about it anymore, he punches Kyle Valenti in the parking lot. The adrenaline rush helps keep thoughts of Alex away, but the night in lock-up passes slowly, and  insomnia keeps him awake, worrying and wondering about Alex, and imagining what it’ll be like to see him again. There’s no way they can avoid each other forever in a town this small, even if part of Michael would like to try, and he knows that the urge to be in Alex’s presence would overpower any self-protective instinct, anyway. 

Alex shows up at the ranch where Michael lives and works a few days later, every inch his father’s son, and the bitterness exudes from Michael in waves the entire time they speak. He’s losing a job and a home, technically, but he cares more about the way Alex barely meets his gaze, and when he does, his expression is cool and professional. There’s nothing in this GI Joe of the boy Michael remembers, and he resents the new Alex for so thoroughly destroying the person he loved. 

t’s stupid, and probably unfair to feel that way. For the last eight years, Alex had held him to his word that he could call if he needed Michael. They’ve talked at least once or twice a year, usually when something god-awful happened and Alex needed the reminder that the world was still turning, that he was still alive. Michael wondered, sometimes, if it wouldn’t have been better for Alex to find someone else to give him that – this dynamic they created couldn’t be healthy, and spending every day hoping for a call that rarely came was slowly driving Michael out of his mind. But the point is that they’ve talked. Michael knew, all along, that military service was changing Alex – in the later calls, some of the things he said, all ruthless and aggressive, weren’t words that would have ever been in teenaged Alex’s vocabulary. So this version of the man, aloof and battle-hardened, every inch the Manes man Jesse always wanted, shouldn’t have come as a surprise. But it still did, and fuck, it hurt. 

Michael gets rid of Alex after that encounter, but he keeps showing up at his door, pinning notices and flirting until he catches himself, but it isn’t until the shitty high school reunion that Michael didn’t even want to go to that he finally sees his Alex beneath the uniform. It’s also the first real glimpse he gets of the prosthetic, shiny and artificial, beneath his pant leg. That’s nothing, of course – Alex could be stuck in a suit a la Darth Vader and he’d still be the sexiest man alive in Michael’s eyes. But it’s just another reminder of everything that’s changed, and everything Michael no longer has.

The kiss that night, the sex the following one – all of it is so good, so reminiscent of their time together in high school that Michael forgets, almost, how hard it is to watch Alex walk away. He’s good at putting on rose-colored glasses when it comes to the past, but this time, he’s definitely done too well. This time, when Alex walks away, calling him a criminal and rejecting him thoroughly in the meantime, Michael feels something integral in his chest shut down. There’s no getting back up after someone shoves him that hard, and he’s not sure he even wants to. He goes through the rest of the day on autopilot; he fights with Max and schemes with Isobel to protect their secrets, but internally, he’s a living, breathing open wound. 

When he finally gets an evening to himself, Michael drinks so much acetone-laced whiskey that he barely remembers leaving the voicemail the next day, let alone what it says. He’d never say any of it to Alex’s face; the guilt alone would kill him. But when Alex checks his inbox next, the words are there, heart-rending and painful, even as it’s slurred and difficult to understand: 

“Hi.” There’s a loud thudding noise, and someone yells for Michael to ‘get the fuck out of the way’ in the middle of the recording. “I don’t know what I’m fucking doing, you know? I haven’t known what I’m doing for ten years. I’m just here. In Roswell, and you were halfway across the frickin’ world and I still couldn’t escape you. And then those phone calls –” Michael laughs bitterly, the alcohol granting the sound a borderline hysterical tinge. “I actually thought they meant something, you know? All that stuff about me making you feel safe. About you needing me. Makes you wonder if whoever gave me that IQ test actually knew what the hell they were doing, right?” Another one of those sour laughs distorts the recording. “I got what, two days, maybe, of spending time with you, and that shouldn’t have been enough to fuck me up when you gave up, but God, Manes, I don’t – nothing about how I feel about you makes sense. I want you so bad it hurts. I was literally laying in bed last night, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how it felt to have you there. So yeah, I want you and I miss you, but fuck, Alex, sometimes – right now – I wish I’d never met you.”

III. After he leaves Michael’s alien-tech bunker, Alex doesn’t know whether he wants to get a stiff drink, to go to bed, or to throw a temper tantrum. He ends up at the Wild Pony and ends up doing two out of three when he sits down to talk to Maria. He realizes, looking back, that talking to her right after he found out that she’d slept with Michael, when the hurt was still fresh, was a stupid idea. He hadn’t been cruel, exactly, but he hadn’t handled it very well, either, and he knows he hurt her. He’s been doing that a lot lately – hurting people he loves. Michael’s at the top of the list, obviously, but now Maria is just below, and he doesn’t know how to fix it with either of them. 

Post-deployment, Alex knows he’s a mess. He’s always been some level of fucked up; a father who’s leisure activities included breaking one’s bones would do that to a kid. But at least as a child, he’d had other people to turn to. There’d been Jim Valenti, and Mimi DeLuca, and Liz and Maria, who’d become more like family as they got older. He’d had a support system, and people to talk to when he needed to work through the things that happened to him at home. 

In the desert, though, there’s an ‘every man for himself’ mentality that’s impossible to shake now that he’s home. His unit would’ve died for him, and he for them, but they didn’t talk about harsh realities or fears. That was inviting bad luck, and the had enough as it was. And then, when he was sent back state-side, physical therapy was far more important than the ‘sit in a chair and cry’ kind. He did the required sessions, but when that was done, Alex was left to cope on his own. 

Michael’s born the worst of his behavior changes, he knows, just like he knows that the way he keeps walking back into the man’s life for a few days only to leave again is wrong. But how can he commit to anything permanent with Michael when he can’t even keep his own head on straight? He needs to relearn what it is to be a person without a uniform, and he needs time to do that – but he’s always thought, when he manages to do it, Michael would be there. Waiting. But Michael’s sleeping with other people and building a fucking spaceship to leave the planet, and Alex is running out of time. 

Kyle’s call comes just in time to stop Alex from getting shift-faced in the middle of the afternoon, and he supposes he should be grateful. The code-breaking distraction is nice, but it leaves him with a head full of information he doesn’t know what to do with when he’s back at home in the sparsely-furnished cabin. Alone. The place hasn’t really felt lonely before, but Alex supposes he’s never known Michael hates the world enough to want to leave it permanently, either. That’s bound to make a difference. 

When he’s settled in bed, prosthetic propped against the wall near his crutches, Alex scrolls listlessly through his Facebook feed, knowing he’s not getting any real rest that night. He’d like to say it’s purely accidental when his finger lands on Michael’s number – but the truth is that he’s been the number one speed dial in Alex’s phone for ten years, and the cabin is too quiet, and all Alex wants in that moment is to hear Michael’s voice and get some reassurance that he won’t disappear overnight. And why is it so much fucking easier to say things like that on the phone? 

“If you’ve uncovered another government conspiracy, I don’t want to know about it,” is how Michael answers the phone. There’s no noise in the background, suggesting he’s as alone as Alex. That knowledge shouldn’t make him feel as good as it does, Alex knows, but he can’t help it. “Seriously, man, just keep it to yourself, because I’ve had about all the excitement I can take.” 

Alex snorts, and shakes his head before remembering Michael can’t see him. “Just the one,” he promises. “That’s not why I’m calling, though.” He leans back against the pillow behind him, rubbing absent-mindedly at the indents left by the compression sock around his residual limb. 

There’s a beat of silence, then: “If this is some sort of phone sex proposition, I’m going to have to remind you that today you said you wanted to be friends.” The drawl is full of insinuation, and Alex is infused with the knowledge that if he said that he did want to have phone sex, or the up-close-and-personal kind, Michael wouldn’t say no. Even after everything, Guerin’s still willing to drop everything for him. The realization is both humbling and terrifying. 

“I lied,” Alex admits, swallowing heavily. 

“I know.” 

The response is simple and direct, but Alex wishes Michael would elaborate. He knows? How exactly is Alex supposed to take that? Before he can work himself up into proper frustration, though, Michael finishes, “I don’t think we can ever just be friends, Manes. And the way you took off like a bat outta hell when I showed you the console just proves it.” 

Alex’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?” He thinks he knows the answer, or can at least take a pretty good guess, but he’s not sure he wants to say the words aloud and be told otherwise, so he holds his silence. 

“All this time, you’ve been the one walking away,” Michael says, the words succinct and devoid of accusation – he just sounds exhausted, which is worse than any sharp-edged words Alex can imagine. “You were in control. Now, when I might be the one who does the leaving, you don’t like it.” 

Abruptly, hurt swamps Alex, shoving out every other feeling, and his head spins with the redirection. “You think this is about control?” he demands, each word as quick and sharp as the pinch of a needle. “You think I was upset because I didn’t get to hurt you first this time? Fuck, Guerin, why would you even bother to pick up the phone if that’s what you think of me?” 

“I told you a long time ago that I’d always be here if you needed me,” Michael answers, and finally, instead of that world-weary tone, Alex hears resentment creeping back. It’s probably fucked up that he prefers that, but he doesn’t care. An angry Michael is one who hasn’t given up yet, and that’s what Alex needs from him. “And I’d hate myself if I broke a promise to you.” 

Alex doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know where to even begin, so he just blurts, “It’s not about control,” like Michael hadn’t spoken at all. It’s the coward’s way out, but Alex has always lost his courage when it comes to Michael. “I know I’m the reason we’re not together, Guerin. I know I keep pushing you away and hurting you, but the idea of living on a planet where you don’t exist anymore is the single most terrifying thing that I can imagine.” 

He pulls in a shaky breath, holds it for a moment, and lets it out. It’s one of the few useful things his VA-appointed therapist had taught him, and it centers him enough to let him realize that this is the worst possible way to tell Michael anything important, when he can’t even see his face or kiss him, but Alex can’t stop now. “I’ve been in love with you since I was seventeen, and I’ve always had this picture in my head of what my life would look like, you know? I’d be old and grey and sitting a rocking chair on a front porch somewhere far away from Roswell, somewhere where there’s actual green grass. And when I pictured it, usually on really shit days when my dad had just knocked me down the stairs, or when I was sweating my balls off in the middle of Afghanistan, you were always right there next to me on that porch– still trying to flirt even with bad eyesight and a bum hip.” 

He chuckles, the sound sadder than it should be, and cuts off anything Michael might have said. “And I just wanted you to know that, before I tell you that the last piece of that console is in your truck bed. I left it there, this morning.” Alex struggles to keep talking; it’s hard to push sound through the lump in his throat, but he manages. He always manages. “Jim Valenti left it for me, and I’m – I’m giving it to you. So you can find your home. Because I want you to be happy, Michael. There’s no one who deserves it more than you. So – I hope you find what you’re looking for.” 

Alex doesn’t want to hear him say goodbye, or to stumble through what would be the final, official end of this thing that’s burgeoned between them for a decade. His heart can’t take that. 

He ends the call. 

IV. Less than a month later, Michael hasn’t gone anywhere. 

Alex has seen him, worked with him, and even flirted with him, but they’ve avoided talking about anything personal. There’s too much raw emotion compressed between them; if given the smallest flame, it would explode and devour them both. There’s no time, anyway – Isobel’s husband is an alien serial killer, Jesse Manes is masterminding a government conspiracy that has to be stopped, and Michael’s entirely too distracted by the realization that his home planet may not be somewhere he actually wants to go. (The latter is hopeful thinking on Alex’s part, since they aren’t talking about anything personal, but after hearing what Noah said about a war-torn world, it’s a distinct possibility.) 

Now that things have settled down more, Alex finds himself alone a lot. It’s no more than he was lone before being dragged into the madness that was aliens and government conspiracies, but the constant company and forced camaraderie that developed among the group of them working to keep Michael and his siblings safe had been almost nice – and the absence of it is obvious, now, while he sits alone in his living room, staring mindlessly at the television. 

His enlistment with the Air Force ended that morning. 

Alex still hasn’t wrapped his mind around that fact; the thing that is simultaneously the best and worst thing that ever happened to him is gone, now, and he’s free. There are choices to make, pros and cons to consider, and all he’s managed to do that day is sit around and feel sorry for himself in the dim lighting of his living room. And drink. Can’t forget that last part. 

What is he going to do, now? Aside from continuing to work on taking Jesse Manes down, Alex has no plans. He can live for a while on his retirement stipend, but eventually, he’s going to need to get a job – go back to school, maybe? Get a degree in IT? It would be the expected thing, considering his background, but Alex can’t help but think a job behind a desk sounds like the most boring fate imaginable. He lost a leg, not his sense of adventure, and he want doesn’t to commit himself to something that he’s going to hate. 

So, what then, does he want from his Air Force-less future? 

When the answer comes, it’s the same one as always. Alex wants to be happy. He wants to leave Roswell and move somewhere that he can have a real yard, and see all four seasons. He wants to have a dog and a job doing something that interests him, and a big enough kitchen that his friends can come for dinner without an invitation. But all of that is secondary to the most obvious of Alex’s desires: Michael Guerin. He wants that future he spelled out for him in that last, painful phone call, with rocking chairs and wrinkles and inappropriate flirting, and he wants it so much that his chest physically aches with longing when he thinks about it. 

Maybe it’s the beer, or maybe Alex has just had enough of waiting and hoping that life will just work out the way he wants it to. He’s been a passive observer in his own life for too long, letting his insecurities and anxiety run the show, and for once, Alex is going to take control for himself. 

Before he can talk himself out of it or even second-guess the decision, Alex is behind the wheel of his SUV, headed toward the junkyard where Michael parks his trailer. He has no idea what he’s going to say, or how Michael will react to Alex just showing up like this, but for once, the uncertainty doesn’t scare him. They’ve both managed to be honest before with a phone line between them – it’s time to stop hiding behind his iPhone and admit that he’s in love with Michael Guerin out loud and in person. After that, the ball will be in Michael’s court, and Alex will have at least tried. If it doesn’t work, at least he won’t have to go to his grave wondering what would have happened if he’d been strong enough to do it.

Alex’s heart is racing by the time he pulls up in front of the trailer, and his palms are sweating. He feels like that teenager about to make a move on the boy he likes in the shed again, and it’s astounding, since Alex has been pretty sure that part of him died in Baghdad. 

Michael meets him outside the front door, wearing old jeans and a ratty t-shirt that mean he’s been working on engines all day. Oil streaks his hands and clothing, he’s sweating, and obviously in need of a shower. Sane people wouldn’t be attracted to that.

Alex has never wanted to kiss him so badly. 

“I thought about calling you,” he begins, a small smile playing around the corners of his lips. “Since we only ever seem to be able to actually talk that way. But – I don’t know. I guess this time, I wanted to be able to see your face.” The space between them closes as Alex steps forward. Michael doesn’t come to meet him, but he doesn’t step back, either, which Alex takes as a good sign. 

“The last time I asked you what you wanted to talk about, you got the after-school special version of my childhood,” Michael says dryly, sauntering toward the lawn chairs sitting around the fire pit. “And then you told me Max, Iz, and I were on a government watchlist, and under suspicion of being serial killers. Should I start packing to run, this time?” He’s mostly kidding, Alex thinks, but there’s something in the depths of his eyes that says it would be easier for him to believe that someone else was coming after them than Alex wanting to commit. Alex supposes he deserves that, even if it stings. 

He joins Michael at the cold fire pit and sits, taking a moment to adjust the compression sock where it’s slipped and rubs against his skin. As usual, Michael doesn’t bat an eye at the sight of his prosthetic – he still can’t quite believe that the other man just took the loss of Alex’s leg in stride the way he did. Even when they were having sex, Michael didn’t ask any questions, or treat him any differently than he had before the amputation. That alone is enough to solidify Alex’s certainty that he needs to at least try to convince Michael to give him another chance.

“I don’t have any bad news this time, I swear.” Alex looks over at Michael and smiles nervously, taking a moment to catalogue every curl of his hair and lines on his face. If this goes sideways, he wants to remember Michael just like this when he leaves Roswell – relaxed and content, heathy and at least mostly happy, now that he and his family are safe. 

Michael gives him a moment before raising an expectant eyebrow. “There’s a shower calling my name, Manes, so if you want my attention you better start talking.” The teasing note in the other man’s voice is the same one that has crept in the last few weeks as they danced painstakingly around the giant pink elephant in the room, and Alex hates it. He hates the distance it puts between them, and everything it represents. 

“The last time I called you, I told you that I was in love with you,” he blurts, and immediately wishes he could take it back and dress up the declaration into something better than that bald, blunt truth.  “And I wanted to say it again, in person, because last time it got twisted into a goodbye, and I’m so fucking tired of saying goodbye to you, Guerin.”

Stunned incredulity blossoms over Michael’s face, and Alex sits stiffly in the ensuing silence, waiting for him to say something. He understands needing time to process, but Alex feels like he’s sitting on pins and needs as he waits. 

“What?”  When the response comes, it’s not at all what Alex wants. Michael looks genuinely confused by what he’s said, like he thinks he heard wrong or something ridiculous, and Alex wants to shake him, to say it over and over again until he understands. 

“I love you,” Alex repeats baldly, turning frustration to courage with sheer force of will. He pushes himself out of the flimsy lawn chair and skirts the fire pit, moving to Michael’s side and grabbing his hand to tug him up, out of the chair. To his relief, the other man doesn’t fight it, and stands directly in front of Alex, less than six inches of space separating them. They’re close enough that Alex can feel the heat wafting off of Michael’s body, and the scent of a man who’d spent a long day doing physical labor in the sun shouldn’t electrify his skin, but a shiver runs down Alex’s spine anyway. Sex has never been a problem for the two of them, and even now, Alex is pretty sure he’d want Michael in any form he came. 

“I’m in love with you,” he modifies, in case there was any doubt, and rushes on before Michael can tell him to stop or leave.  “I was sitting at home today trying to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life, now that I’m out of the military, and the only answer I could come up with was that I wanted to be with you. Everything else, I have no fucking clue. Do I go back to school? Do I get a job? How am I going to support myself? I don’t have any idea, but I know that I want to get old with you and make people uncomfortable with how sappy and in love we are in fifty years.” Alex can hear the hopeful longing in his own voice and hopes that Michael can, too, so he knows how serious he is, this time.

Michael opens his mouth to say something, but Alex puts a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “I know what you’re going to say. I’ve shown up like this before, and I’ve always gotten your hopes up and left, and I’ve hurt you so many times that you have absolutely no reason to trust me, but God, Guerin, I feel like I’ve been on pause for a decade of my life, waiting to finally feel like the person you deserve to be with. But I’m never going to be that person. This is who I am – but every part of me is in love with you, and I’m done running. Try one more time. Take a chance; I swear you won’t regret it. I –” 

Anything else Alex might have said is swallowed by Michael’s mouth on his. The movement is so quick Alex can barely track it; suddenly, there is a big, calloused hand at the back of his neck and another at the collar of his flannel, yanking him in. He almost overbalances on his bad leg – and shit, wouldn’t that just ruin the moment? – but Michael’s chest is there, warm and firm and supportive. And then, just like that, they’re kissing. 

Just like every other kiss they’ve shared since they were seventeen, this one is so intense that Alex goes from anxious to turned on in less than a moment. Every brush of Michael’s skin against his feels like static electricity, and he can feel himself flush under the attention. It’s soft, tentative and sweet for a fleeting moment as they get used to each other again, but it turns hard and bruising quickly, as both men lose their patience to pleasure. Alex would have been fine to end the conversation there. This is what he wanted – to touch Michael and be touched in return, to kiss him and hold him whenever he wanted, to know that when he needed him, Michael would be there, and vice versa. They’d been dancing around this for so long that now, standing on the cusp of it, Alex felt like he was diving off of a cliff … and he’d never been happier to be so fucking terrified. 

“You talk too much,” Michael rasps, when their screaming lungs force them to come up for air. Their foreheads are leaned together, sweaty and flushed, but Alex only cares that they’re still fused together. Half of him is afraid that if Michael lets go of him, the magic of the moment will wear off and Alex will find himself back at home, alone again. 

Alex tries to glare at him, but he’s fairly certain the expression is far too sappy to be considered angry. “Excuse me?” 

“You talk too much,” Michael repeats, unrepentant. “If you’d let me get a word in edgewise, we could’ve been kissing like ten minutes earlier, and we could be in bed already.” He nuzzles a kiss alongside Alex’s jaw, just the barest hint of lips against the sensitive skin, and Alex shudders. In return, he slips the fingers of one hand up into Michael’s curls, carding at the matted hair gently in the manner he knows will make the other man melt. To his delight, Michael pushes his head into the contact, urging him to continue. 

“Everything I said was important,” he tells Michael, trying to muster up some indignance – and giving in quickly. He’s too euphoric to feel anything but happiness, and he doesn’t wan to even try. “You have to know that I’m –

Michael huffs, and shakes his head, interrupting Alex’s explanation. “You still don’t get it,” he says, and there’s a fond exasperation in his eyes that makes Alex feel warm all over. “I told you a long time ago that I’d always be here when you needed me, Alex. That wasn’t bullshit. I’ve never given up on you. Even when I wanted to. So it doesn’t matter how many times you’ve walked away, as long as you’re walking back.” He drops a kiss to the corner of Alex’s mouth, then wraps his arms around his waist and hugs him so tightly that Alex gasps a little at the impact. He clutches back just as tight, feeling a little light-headed. This is real. This is happening.

“So, that means –” 

“It means we’re gonna have to figure out where we buy matching old man rocking chairs,” Michael drawls, the fingers of his good hand soft as they slip beneath the hem of Alex’s shirt and rest against his bare back. “Because you’re stuck with me for at least the next hundred years.” He kisses him again, then, and Alex tastes the words he didn’t say on his tongue. 

I love you.

[hazzasgayvodka]

24 * THE LESS I KNOW * 24

Impact: Chapter 24

Chapter title song: The Less I know the Better - Tame Impala 

JESS

I wake up beside him to the sound of his alarm. I groan as I roll over on top of him and reach for the snooze button. I smack at the alarm three times before it finally ceases, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. He laughs from underneath me and I turn to face him, frowning as I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep.

"Come on baby, we've got class in an hour," He coaxes, running his hand through my tangled hair, "And we seriously need a shower."

"I don't want to move." I groan, curling back into his side and pulling the covers up to my chin.

He stands from the bed, stretching his arms above his head before walking around to my side of the bed. He throws a shirt over his head and steps into a pair of pants as he rounds the bed. He slides his arms under me, dragging me to the edge of the bed and hoisting me up into his arms.

"Harry!" I squeal, wrapping my arms around his neck as he carries me to the door.

He pushes past it and kicks it closed with his foot, laughing as he walks to the bathroom and strolls inside. He finally sets my feet on the ground and reaches past me to turn on the shower. I turn to the sink to brush my teeth as he stretches his shirt over his head and slides his pants down his legs. His torso is covered in bruises along with his arms and his knuckles are still beyond roughed up. I rinse my mouth out as he drops his boxers and gets into the shower. I turn to the door, electing to eat breakfast while he showers.

"Jess?" He asks, poking his head out of the curtain.

"Yeah?"

"Are you coming?"

His question makes my cheeks heat, my entire face now the same color as my hair. He grins upon seeing my reaction and beckons me closer to him. He reaches out of the shower and grabs the hem of my shirt, dragging it up my body and tossing it to the ground. I step out of my underwear and grab his hand as he nearly pulls me into the shower, wrapping his arms around me. I giggle as he walks us under the water, it's scorching hot, warming my freezing skin. He leans down, pressing his lips to mine and as I close my eyes. It almost feels like kissing in the rain.

We finish our shower and get out together, both of us wrapping towels around ourselves. He brushes his teeth as I dry my hair and tries to kiss my cheek with his foamy mouth. I swat him away and he rinses his mouth before leaning back into me and covering my cheeks with kisses. Soon, the careful drying of my hair has been forgotten.

We exit the bathroom and come nearly face to face with Niall. He's stood in the kitchen with a bowl of cereal, his eyebrows raised as they land on us. I realize how this must seem, both of us dressed in only towels as we walk out of the bathroom, but I don't have the heart to tell him that it's exactly what it looks like.

"You guys sleep well last night?" He asks, a mischievous grin finding its way onto his face.

"Like a baby." Harry laughs, flicking Niall off as he grabs my hand and pulls me back into his bedroom.

He closes the door behind us and I drop my towel as I step into a pair of underwear and snap on a bra. I slide a pair of jeans up my legs and throw one of his stolen Rolling Stones shirts over my head. He turns around from his closet with his eyebrows pulled together as he turns to his dresser instead, searching for something.

"Baby, have you seen my tour of '94 stones shirt?" He asks over his shoulder, shuffling through his drawers.

I look down at the shirt I'm wearing to see a giant 1994 printed at the bottom. I laugh as I stretch it back over my head and he turns around to see me with it almost half way off. He shakes his head as he walks over to me and pulls it back down.

"I knew I was missing shirts," He grins, leaning down to kiss me before pulling back and looking at me seriously, "It's cute, you wearing my clothes, but don't go anywhere near my Pyromania Tour Def Leppard shirt."

I laugh, nodding my head in understanding and he finally grins, leaning down to me and pressing his lips to mine once again. I pull away to finish getting ready and throw his jacket over my shoulders. He turns back around from the closet in a plain long sleeve shirt and shoves his feet into his vans. He reaches for his leather jacket but it's already over my shoulders. He shakes his head and grabs his denim instead, throwing his arm around me and walking us out to the living room.

He grabs his keys and holds the door for me. I don't even think twice as I walk out the door and climb into his car. I instantly start searching through the CDs, trying to decide what I want to listen to today. He sits next to me, starting the car and blasting the heat as I take out the live Hysteria Def Leppard album and load it into the player.

He grins as the first song starts, nodding his head along to the beat as his fingers drum along on the steering wheel. It makes me think of the first time I ever rode in his car with him. I had never listened to The Rolling Stones or Guns and Roses before him, I couldn't have even told you the difference between Journey and Foreigner. When I look at myself in the rearview mirror, it's crazy to think how different I am. My dyed red hair is natural and curly, my face is free of makeup, and I'm wearing a leather jacket. I never would have been caught dead looking like this going to class a few weeks ago but he loves it when my hair is wild, and I know I don't have to wear eyeliner and mascara for him to think I'm beautiful.

We pull in front of the literature building and he turns off the car, abruptly putting an end to the music and getting out of the car. He grabs my hand and walks us inside confidently. He takes a seat in the second row and kicks his feet up on the chair in front of him. Since the day I met him I've never seen him bring a pencil let alone paper to class and yet somehow, he always seems to absorb the information like a sponge and ace our tests. Except in math, we both suck at math.

It still feels weird to see Jason staring at us in surprise every time we walk in the door hand-in-hand. I wonder if he feels responsible after forcibly putting us together on our character development project. I can't thank him enough for playing matchmaker.

"What are we gonna do after class?" Harry asks, leaning over to me, "We don't have to go in to Lexington today."

"I know," I smile, hoping this goes smoothly, "I'm meeting Miles to study for our stats test next week."

He rolls his eyes, "Of course you are."

"You can join us," I suggest but he only groans, sliding down further in his seat, "I'll take that as a no."

He nods his head and I laugh, leaning over to rest my head on his shoulder and yawn. It's way too early to be awake after everything that happened last night.

"Today's the day you know." He speaks up, wrapping his arm around me.

"What day?" I ask, sitting up.

"The last day of the bet," He smiles weakly, "It's been two weeks."

Two weeks, two full weeks of spending every waking moment with this insane man. Two weeks of late mornings and even later nights, two weeks of fruit loops and mango body wash, two weeks of car rides and music and pizza and the feeling of his lips on mine.

"Too bad I'm not going anywhere." I tease, his smile fully returning as he leans down to me and pecks my lips.

HARRY

Miles picks her up after class and I make a point to lay one on her as soon as he shows up. I know she's aware of exactly what I'm doing but I don't care. I get in the car and my Def Leppard CD starts spinning once again making a stupid grin find its way onto my face.

I drive home and debate going back to bed, my entire body still sore from the past couple days. My knuckles need some serious nursing after bashing Zack last night and every time I rotate my right shoulder I feel a searing pain in my back.

I walk in the door to see Louis on the couch beside Niall, the sight of him being something I haven't seen in at least a week.

"Hey stranger." I laugh as I collapse on the couch next to him.

"Hey Harry." He sighs, turning back to his phone and typing rapidly.

"What's wrong, mate?" I ask, turning to try and read his phone over his shoulder.

"It's Sam," He says nervously, "She's pissed because I haven't asked her to homecoming yet. Apparently, everyone is already putting together their crazy elaborate proposals and posting them everywhere."

Homecoming? I forgot that existed. Jess doesn't want to go to that does she?

"I already asked Katie, I bought like fifty bouquets of roses and put them all over her apartment. She loved it." Niall brags, sitting back against the couch and scrolling through the channels.

"Shut up Niall," Louis huffs, "God I have no idea what I'm gonna do."

My mind starts racing. Maybe Jess does want to go to homecoming. What would I do if she does? I guess I'd have to go. I try to think of anything I could do to ask her, but nothing comes to mind. She wouldn't want one of those huge proposals, would she?

"What are you doing for Jess?" Louis asks, turning to me.

"I um," I stutter, "I don't know, I'm not even sure she wants to go."

"Oh, she wants to go, her and Sam are already planning to go dress shopping this weekend." Louis says blankly.

Dress shopping? She never even mentioned wanting to go to homecoming but she's already going dress shopping?

"Someone's shit out of luck." Niall laughs, nudging my arm with his elbow.

"I am not," I sigh, standing from the couch, "I just have to think of something, some way to ask her," I huff, my brain shuffling through possibilities, "Why can't I just ask her? Why does it have to be such a big deal?"

"It's homecoming, it's just the way it is." Niall shrugs, grabbing the bag of chips beside him and shoving a handful in his mouth.

JESS

Me and Miles ride in near silence to the library. I don't know what I was thinking when I asked if we could study before the stats exam. After everything I've put him through I don't know why he agreed, I suppose it's because he's still my friend despite it all.

We walk up to the front doors to find them locked. We peak inside to see it completely dark inside. As we walk back down to his car I see a flyer taped to one of the lampposts that explains the library is closed for the week for renovations.

"We can go to my house to study." Miles suggests.

"Sounds good to me." I shrug, following him back to the car.

He drives back onto the main road and in a matter of minutes he's pulling into an exceptionally nice neighborhood. The houses all down the row are three times larger than my childhood home and at least six times bigger than Harry's. He pulls into the garage of a giant two story with a round driveway and perfect landscaping. The door is a beautiful red color and all of the masonry detailing on the front columns makes the place look even nicer.

"How do you-"

"I live with my mom, lame, I know," He laughs, "And her fiancé. He works around here so she moved in with him a few years ago and I moved in from the dorms last year."

He opens the door and walks inside, kicking his shoes off as he goes. I look around as I follow him, a huge kitchen to my left and a formal dining room to my left. He keeps walking to the corner around the kitchen where a smaller round table sits across from the breakfast bar. He drops his bag in one of the chairs and sits next to it, beckoning me over to him.

I sit down carefully, worried to death that if I touch anything I'll ruin it somehow. He takes out his stats book and a notebook and gets started on writing out a problem from the review set.

"Before we start studying," I say carefully, the dead silence around the house deafening, "I think we should talk about-"

"There's nothing to talk about," He smiles weakly, "It's okay."

"It's not okay," I say, "What I did to you was not okay."

"Jess," He says seriously, meeting my eyes, "You don't owe me an apology or anything. We weren't exclusive, we went on a few dates. You're happy with him, and as your friend, I'm just glad you're happy."

He smiles again, a real smile and I can't wrap my head around how I got so lucky to have the friends that I have. He finishes writing down the first of the review problems and we work through them easily, the awkward silent air around us fully dissipated. He gets up to grab grapes from the fridge at some point and offers to get me a soda just as the garage door opens and a thin blonde woman walks in carrying grocery bags.

As soon as her bright blue eyes meet mine, I know she's Miles' mom. She has the same blindingly white smile and soft features. She stumbles past me and I rush over to take some of the bags from her hands.

"Oh, thank you," She laughs, setting the bags all down on the counter, "Mind introducing me to your friend, Miles?"

"This is Jess," He grins through a mouth full of grapes, "We're studying for our stats test next week."

"Sure looks like studying." She teases, gesturing to the grapes he was tossing into his mouth when she walked in.

She walks past him to start putting the groceries away and leans over to peck his cheek. He groans, rubbing the red lipstick away and mumbling something about how she always does this. He apologizes as he sits back down, and I laugh, already loving his mom.

"Sorry about that." He huffs, sitting back down next to me.

"Don't say sorry, I love your mom." I laugh, grabbing my pencil and getting to work on the next review problem.

She makes a batch of cookies from scratch in all of about five minutes. Suddenly the entire house smells like vanilla essence and chocolate chips. It all feels so perfect, it even smells perfect. His mom is beautiful, her blonde hair is sleek and shiny, and her blue shirt makes her eyes pop. Her smile might as well be from a Colgate commercial.

There's a feeling in his house, an all-encompassing feeling of home that overwhelms you as soon as you walk in. I've only just met his mom, but I already feel like I've known her forever. We stray from statistics once again and suddenly I'm sitting at the breakfast bar with her as she tells me about her wedding plans with her fiancé. She has an entire notebook filled with the details in the form of neatly written notes and pictures from magazines.

All of that shatters when the garage door opens once again and the last person I could ever expect to enter the house comes strolling in. Vance's eyes meet mine as he drops his bag just inside the kitchen and I can see the instant look of shock on his face.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I ask, my anger boiling as it's my first time I've seen him since Harry told me the horrible story of what he did.

"I live here," He exasperates, "How are you-"

"Wait, you know him?" Miles asks, standing from his seat at the kitchen table.

"Yes, I know him! He's my freaking boss!" I shout, my voice wavering as I start to put the pieces together.

"Wait you work at Lexington? How did, I thought Harry-" Miles stutters, trying to wrap his head around everything.

"You're," I start, my heart racing, "You're her fiancé?" I ask, turning to Miles' mom.

"Eliza, yeah." He says uneasily.

"So, you and Harry are..." I trail off, turning to Miles, my head throbbing.

"Stepbrothers," He confirms, nodding his head, "Not yet anyway, but soon."

My whole head feels stuffed with cotton. Stepbrothers? All this time I've been torn between them going left and right and not knowing which was is up. I've wondered how they knew each other and why Harry seemed to hate him so much and it's all because of this. Eliza, Miles' amazing mom, and the person Harry hates most are together. One small piece of the puzzle no one ever cared to give me, one small piece that makes the entire puzzle come together.

"This whole time you and Harry have been working together?" Miles asks, his eyebrows pulled together.

"Yeah," I sigh, my mind still trying to comprehend everything, "He wouldn't let me tell anyone."

How is Eliza marrying Vance? He's terrible, beyond terrible. Does she know what he's done? Does she know what he's capable of? Is she as nice as she seems, maybe they're both deplorable? I think back to the night Harry told me and my hatred for the man in front of me grows. He said he was an alcoholic then, is he not one now? Has he changed? There's too many questions and nowhere near enough answers.

"I have to go." I breathe out, grabbing my stuff and shoving it into my bag.

I walk to the door and push past it, but a hand grabs my arm, pulling me back into the house. I turn around expecting to see Miles, but I come face to face with Vance instead.

"I don't know what he's told you," He says carefully, grimacing, "But that's not me anymore. I promise you. It was a different time, it was before I met Eliza."  

"You could have killed him!" I scream, surprising myself.

All of my pent-up anger for the sick son of a bitch in front of me explodes as I shove him off of me and storm back out the door, the tears pouring down my cheeks as I picture the ragged scars across the span of his back.

"Jess, listen to me-"

"For what reason? Why should I listen to you? You're a monster!" I shout, flailing to keep his hands away from grabbing me again.

"I told Eliza, she knows everything," He sighs, his voice cracking, "But Miles, I can't, I can't bring myself to tell him, but I won't stop you," He says, his head hanging low, "I love them Jess, and I love Harry too. I've apologized to him so many times and I know there's no amount of confessions that can fix it, but I am sorry, he knows I'm sorry."

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I take it out to see a text from Harry asking when I'm coming home. Just reading his name makes my heart ache. I can't decide if I'm mad at him. It feels like every time things settle, another hurricane comes hurtling through, knocking my life upside down.

"He can't pick me up from here." I breathe, my voice rattling due to the tears running down my cheeks.

"Who?" Vance asks.

"Harry, he can't know I came here, he doesn't want me around you at the office let alone at your house." I huff, hastily wiping the tears from my cheeks and starting to dial Sam's number.

"Can I take you somewhere?" Vance offers, taking his keys out of his pocket.

"No, I just need to get out of here." I breathe, my chest cavity feeling like it's going to cave in.

He reaches out for me again, but I pull away, running down the sidewalk away from him. The tears sting my cheeks as I run with my bag falling from my shoulder and the wind whipping my face. My mind is whirling as my feet pound the concrete with every step. Is he telling the truth? Is he different now? How could he tell Eliza and she stay with him?

I come to the end of the street and my eyes land on a black mustang driving towards me. He stops the car in the middle of the road and gets out, leaving it running as he sprints to me. He takes my face in his hands, but I shove him off. I'm not even sure if I'm angry at him but I am angry, and I won't be sedated this easily.

"How did you find me?" I huff, wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands.

"Vance called me." He sighs, reaching for me again.

I look up to meet his solemn eyes, holding myself away from him. I know his touch will soften my emotions and I can't let him use that power against me.

"How could you not tell me?" I seethe.

"I didn't know how!" He says, raising his voice, "I didn't know how to tell you that my fucking deadbeat dad and Miles' perfect Martha Stuart mom were getting married!"

"Well you did it fine just then, Harry!" I shout back, shoving him.

"This is my life Jess, you don't have to know every fucking detail!"

"This isn't a detail Harry! You let me go back and forth between you two, you let me wonder for weeks why you hated him so much and this is it? This is why you hate him?" I ask, stepping closer to him.

"Yes, this is why I hate him, because he has fucking everything I've ever wanted! He has a mom that loves him and my own fucking father living with him and taking care of his every fucking beck and call! He has a perfect life and a perfect family and I'm living in a shithole apartment taking care of my best friend and working three jobs to pay for his fucking medicine!"

He's breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His face is red, the vein in his neck is throbbing, his eyebrows furrowed together. He's not angry, he's frustrated. Miles took his perfect life and never even apologized for it.

"I don't even remember what my mom looked like some days and he's eating from a silver platter in some gated community bullshit neighborhood," He sighs, "Sure, my dad's all better, he's not slicing people to shreds anymore but does that fix anything for me? No, he gives me a job and thinks everything's all better, but it's not," He huffs, reaching his hand up to rub his neck the way he does when he's stressed, "And this is why I didn't want to tell you, because of the way you're staring at me right now, like I'm fucking broken or something."

He shouts obscenities as he turns around and walks back to his car. I'm worried about him driving when he's wound up like this. I follow him until he gets in the car, gripping the door with my shaking hands.

"Harry, I'm sorry, come on, let's go home." I say quietly, hoping he looks at me and agrees.

"No, I'm not going home, I'll see you tomorrow-"

"Harry, come on, you need to calm down, you need-"

"Don't tell me what I need, I don't need you!" He shouts.

My heart shatters as the words fall from his mouth. He clenches his jaw and pulls away from me, leaving me standing in the street. I feel the tears piercing the corners of my eyes as everything comes crashing down around me. I take out my phone to call Sam to pick me up, but she doesn't answer after three calls. I scroll through my contacts and my eyes land on one I know will always pick up the phone.

"Hey Jess, what's up?" Taylin asks after the second ring.

"Can you come stay with me for the weekend?" I ask, trying to keep my sniffling to a minimum.

I hear her shuffling around in the background and then the sound of a zipper and I realize she's already packing a bag.

"I'll be there in two hours."

[terraisnotonfire-blog]

Erin, Chapter 2

A warm breeze lifted Erin's cloak as the leaves of the nearby copse of tress rustled, the dapples of sunlight intermittently dancing across the pair of lone figures laying prone  on the knoll.  The dark green cloaks combined with the visual cover provided from the shade made them hard to spot from a distance, only the occasional glint from a crossbow gave them away. But none of the guards atop the wooden ramparts were looking in their direction.   Both of the crossbows were trained  on the door of a cabin in the middle of the makeshift fort, and they had been for quite some time.  Long enough for the smaller figure to become restless.

"So, you uh, you ever handled one of these before."  Jess motioned his head towards the crossbow in his hand before looking at the one in her hand.

"Shh, we're supposed to be quiet." Erin  hissed at her mousey companion.

"Oh come on, we've been sitting her quietly all morning, I'm bored.  If we were gonna be spotted, it would have happened by now.  A little bit of whispering isn't going to hurt anyone.  And who the fuck knows how much longer those two will be.  They probably got lost."

"Yeah, you're probably right. . . No, I haven't.  Only ever had what I could make with my own hands. Well, a friend forged the steel for the daggers, but I made the hilts and sheathes.  Same friend forged all my arrowheads too.  But everything else I made myself." "What about that armor, its awfully fancy, where'd you get it?"

"Made it myself too.  Parents were tanners and leatherworkers, they taught me everything I know.  I make little things here and then, coin purses, wine skins, caps, simple stuff I can manage on the road and use the proceeds to purchase supplies."

"Your work is truly incredible, if you're so skilled, why become an adventurer?"

"What is this, an inquisition? Your turn, you first, why did you become an adventurer?"

"Well, I came from a small town. Parents were simple woodworkers.  They taught me the family trade, same as yours.  But it never fulfilled me.  I never really latched on to making furniture.  I could make a chair and it would hold you up like a chair, but I had no passion for it.  Not the way that you do with that armor.  Truly exquisite, I could never pull of something so inspired."

"If you think my lust for leather always runs this deep, you are mistaken.  This armor and these daggers only look as good as they do because they are things I care about.  The bags and hats I churn out are bland as can be.  I make them because I gotta eat."

"Fair enough.  Then you understand why I turned to adventure.  Making furniture would have allowed me to survive, albeit simply due to the basic designs of my work.  But it certainly wouldn't allow me to live.  I need something more.  I want to make a name for myself.  Especially one as bland as mine.  There is a Jess in every city I go.  Jess the baker, Jess the butcher, Jess the barrel maker.  Its time to give average old Jess's like me someone to aspire to."

"You know its not all bad having an average name.  If there a million Jess's in the world, you can be any Jess you want to be and no one will know the difference."

"Interesting idea.  But personally I prefer to stand out, rather than blend in.  So one day shortly after turning 18, I left my parents shop one day, bought a crossbow with the money I saved up, and set out on the road to adventure, in hopes that one day the name of Jess the Mighty will be known across the land.  So what about you?"

"Well you know most of it by now. Even from a very young age, looking to my future and seeing the life of a leatherworker filled me with nothing but dread.  So when I was a kid I would sneak out in to the woods to practice archery with this crude bow I'd constructed.  My mom found out and rather than get mad she helped me.  She started teaching me how to make armor instead of saddles.  She brought me to the town bowyer to teach me how to make a better bow.  She bandaged every cut and scrape I got.  But as supportive as she was, I could tell it worried her.  So I stayed with them for a while.  On her deathbed she urged me to follow my dreams. And since I didn't have any one left to worry, I set out for Innastorm, and well, here I am."

"Oh I'm so sorry for your loss." Jess's brow sunk as he placed a small furry hand on her shoulder

"Its okay, it wasn't sudden or anything, I had already made my peace.  I've more or less moved on already.  But sometimes I still miss her.  And so I write in this journal as a way of telling her what's going on.  She said it had some sort of enchantment on it that would let those important to you hear your words.  I don't really know what that means but I know shes important to me so I hope my words ring out to her wherever she might be."

"Wow, sounds like you had a really great relationship with your family.  Can't say the same.  All they ever wanted was me to take over the family business.  Never cared about my future or ambitions.  Just wanted me to make beds and cabinets and shit.  Ugh.  If I never see another gouge, it'll be too soon."

"That's unfortunate that whatever skill you accrued would just go to waste.  You shouldn't let your contempt for your parents affect other aspects of your life like that.  Maybe your problem with woodworking isn't the work, but what you were making with it.  The times I'm happiest while leatherworking is when I'm making something thats gonna help me in a fight, like this armor or my quiver.  Maybe you could take a crack at something more you?  Your hands are quite deft, I'm sure you could make something beautiful if you set your mind to it."

"An interesting thought.  I suppose it would give me something to do around the campfire at night.  Imagine the irony of becoming a great adventurer while also surpassing my father as a woodcarver.  The look on his face. . . . You have given me much to think about."

"Well don't think too hard, wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

"Wow, Erin, I think you should leave the witty retorts to me.  What are you gonna start mocking me in a silly voice next?"

"what are you gonna start mocking me in a silly voice next?" she replied in a horribly nasal voice.

Jess chuckled slightly.  "I don't know why but that made me laugh.  Good job.  Now about your wolf, how did her eye--"  Jess's query was interrupted by the sound of splintering lumber.  They both turned their attention to the southside of the bandit camp.  The gate had been broken down and a large man stood where it once resided, a couple of bodies at his feet.  Atop the wall lay two dead guards and the garishly decorated figure of Loramir.  The other guards on the north end, as well as those stationed around the camp immediately began to descend on the pair.

"Show time." Jess raised his crossbow and began firing at the guards on top of the wall, a moment later Erin had her's up and was doing the same.  They fired one after another, knocking bandits off the wall like milk bottles in a shooting gallery.  Before long, they were gone, leaving only the swarm of bandits on the ground storming towards Volfram.  Loramir vaulted off the wall and landed with a graceful tumble next to his comrade.  They squared up back to back as Erin turned her crossbow towards the men.  Jess nudged her with an elbow. "Remember the plan.  I'll focus on the front door, you focus on the back."

"Shouldn't we help them though."

"I don't know, looks like they can handle themselves.  I get the distinct impression that they've done this kind of thing before."

Erin watched with equal parts horror and fascination as the pair set to laying waste to the mob surrounding them..  Volfram swung wide with huge cleaving blows, his greataxe rending men asunder with a single swipe.  Loramir, while ducking and weaving out of the way of Volfram's brutal strikes, delivered precision strikes to those nimble enough to avoid the more overhanded tactics of his partner.  It was a symphony.  A bloody gory symphony of violence and symbiosis.  They had already put a sizable chunk in the horde and showed no signs of slowing down.  "Yeah I guess you're right."

"Come on out you coward.  Show us your fucking face.  I hope you make that same stupid expression you have on your wanted poster."  Jess anxiously tapped his fingers on the trigger guard as his gaze kept alternating between the door, and the leaves of the nearby tree, watching the wind, measuring it. This was nothing new to him, he'd done it a million times before. He'd made a hundred trickier shots.  This bandit had made his escape for the last time.  Because now he was dealing with Jess the Mighty, sharpest eye in the land.

Suddenly, the door flew open and a man came rushing out.  Same crazed eyes, same wild hair, same slack jaw, same incredulous expression.  Yep, this was him.  This was Gerald the Yellow.  He frantically looked back over his shoulder as he ran, to make sure the two attackers were unaware of his escape attempt before, asured of his success, he grinned a cocksure smile, and began to sprint towards the woods.

"There he is, what are you doing, shoot him."  Erin frantically turned her attention away from the door and began to point her crossbow torwards Gerald.

"It's okay, it's okay, I've got this.  Believe it or not you're not the only marksman around here." Jess took one last glance at the trees to judge for any last minute wind adjustments, narrowed his focus and steeled his resolve One shot. . . he exhaled as he pulled the trigger.  One-- The slam of wood on wood interrupted his mental one liner as the bolt he fired narrowly missed the target and hit the wall of the fort instead.

"Ugh fine I'll do it."  Erin began to focus on the target

"It's not my fault I missed, you nudged me at the last moment.  Give me some space, I got this."  He threw out his arms in an exasperated manner, a motion to empty his personal bubble.  Erin took the message and scooted over.  The target was farther now.  About 150 yards.  He was free of the fort  and beginning to get in to the trees.  It was now or never, he'd be in too much cover by the time he loaded another bolt.  This was a tricky shot.  One that only a true master could pull off.  The kind of shot he lived for.  He smiled. Once again Jess measured the wind, adjusted his aim, and steadied himself.  One shot, one kill. He exhaled as he pulled the trigger.  This time the bolt soared through the air with grim determination.  Jess watched on with increasing satisfaction, his smile growing wider as mere moments before its impact, Gerald turned his head to see the object soaring directly towards his head, but only quick enough to watch it embed itself several inches deep into his forehead.

With the target dealt with, both Jess and Erin turned their attention back to their party members to see a literal piles of dead bodies at their feet, the pair of warriors seemingly unscathed.  Erin climbed down from the cliff and made her way over to the pair, as Jess headed in the opposite direction to collect the body of their bounty.  Erin arrived to find the duo recapping their fight

Loramir wiped down a dagger as he chuckled to himself.  "Oh man do you see that one dudes face when I stabbed my dagger through his chin and it came out of his mouth.  He was all like 'What's this thing, that's not my tongue, its supposed to be red and soft, not silver and metal.  I'm a dumb bandit who doesn't know how getting stabbed works.'  Ha, what a fucking moron."

"Most of the guys I kill just look sad.  Like they see me and they know that they're going to be one of the countless dead bodies that lies between me and whoever I'm here to fight.  Its like this horrible dread of knowing your fate and not being able to do anything about it.  At least thats what I reckon.  Don't really get to ask em many questions.  I just know if I looked like them, and saw someone like me chop five of my friends in half with a single swing, those are the kinds of thoughts I would have, and thats exactly the face I would make while I was having them."

"Ah maybe, but the tricky ones, the ones that avoid that initial swing, they think they're gonna be the one to get through.  They're so goddamned sure of themselves, they think they can do anything because they dodged one attack.  And then I show up to wipe that smug look off their face when they find themselves with plus two daggers to the hearts, and minus a lot of blood."

"Hey so what took you two so long, you were supposed to be here hours ago, at dawn before the guard change."  Volfram and Loramir broke from their conversation to address Erin, who had now arrived at their scene of unspeakable carnage.

"VOLFRAM RIPPED HIS PANTS!" Loramir barely managed to contain his amusement long enough to get the sentence out before being overcome with racous laughter.

"No I didn't!" Volfram's voiced boomed over Loramir's

"Yes he did!  He farted so hard he ripped his pants."  Loramir barely managed to get the story out between fits of giggles.

"I didn't fart, it was the chair."

"Big boy here was getting up from breakfast, and as he does he lets out this massive blast that knocks over his chair and rips his pants."

"No the sound was coming from the creaking of the wood. When my pants ripped it startled me and I bumped the chair which is why it fell over.

"Then why did your pants rip, oh great Lord of Thunder?"

". . . because I'm big."

Loramir had finally regained his compusure, his cheeks and stomach aching from laughing to hard.  "So long story short, we spent all morning trying to track down pants his size because most stores don't carry Extra Gargantuan."  She was not an empath, she had no mental ability to understand another's mind, and yet somehow Erin could actually feel Volfram's embarrasment.  "So how are things on your end, how did the stakeout go?"

"Everything went well.  We were never spotted. When you came in, they were so focused on you that we were able to handle the lookouts without drawing any attention to ourselves."

Loramir grunted as he planted a foot on the chest of one of the bandits and pulled one of his throwing daggers out of his ribcage.  "And what about the target."

"And what about Jess, is the little guy alright."  A look of worry came over Volfram's face as his eyes darted around for any sign of the Muridian.

"Oh yeah he's fine.  And target is down.  Jess is going to get the body.  But I wanted to talk to you about him.  I think he missed on purpose."

"I thought you said he got him." Loramir looked puzzled.

"Well he did.  But on the second shot.  The first one he fired before Gerald even got outside of the hideout.  It was an easy shot and he missed.  I think he did it on purpose.  I think he wanted to show off.  He claimed I nudged him and he wouldn't let me take the shot.  That's some pretty risky behavior right there."

"What so I'm confused.  Did he shoot the target or didn't he?"

"Well yeah he did, but--"

"Well then who cares.  He got the job down, that's all that matters.  If he wants to have a little fun and challenge himself, more power to him.  He's the batshit one. That's his job.  Keep things interesting."

"I don't know, you elected me the brains of this group, I think that maybe—"  Her concerns were interrupted by Jess's surprisingly deep and booming voice.

"Hey guys, I could use a little help."  The trio looked over to the north end of camp to see an exhausted Jess dragging the body by a foot, its head face down, a narrow rut carved in the dirt where the bolt in his face had scraped along the ground."

"Okay but look, he's also really cute.  He's so tiny and little but he tries so so hard, I just want to pick him up and squeeze him."

"I get the feeling you'd wind up with a crossbow bolt in the face if you tried."  Erin scoffed as she put her reservations aside.  Its clear her worries were falling on deaf ears.  And she did have to admit he was cute.  Maybe cute wasn't the right word.  But looking at him, something about him just made her smile.

"98, 99, 100." Jess finished counting out his gold before placing it back on to the table in front of him and glaring at it dissatisfactorily.  "Ya know, when I joined up with a group called the 'Magnificent Monarchs" I was expecting bigger jobs than this.  This probably won't even cover a week's bar tab."

"Relax Jess, there will be bigger jobs."  Loramir paused from cleaning his fingernails with a dagger just long enough to give his friend a reassuring nod, before returning to his work.  "This was sort of a . . . trial run. Had to see how the two of you would preform in an actual mission. Figured a simple thug like that was as good a place as any to see how you two measure up.  Great work out there by the way."

"Yeah there better be.  One with a bit more action, too.  You and Volfram got to have all the fun."

"Not ALL the fun, I heard you made quite the shot.  Real marksman stuff out there."

Jess cocked an eyebrow and grinned. "Yeah, I reckon I did.  But look, no more of this little baby "My First Quest" bullshit.  Look at my fucking scars.  Look at my aim.  I need something bigger."

Volfram interrupted the long quiet love affair he'd been having with his fourth ale.  "Yeah well we 'ad to try out the new girl, and well, as boring as it mighta been for ya, Erin's plan worked wonderful.  Gerald the Yellow has fled the last twenty times some one 'as tried to apprehend 'im.  So I reckon that’s a job well done.  To the Magnificent Monarchs!"  

Erin raised her glass of cider and clinked it. Before taking a swig.  "Oh you're too kind Volfram."

"Oh its nuffin.  Ya did real good today.  Loramir won't admit it but even 'e wuz impressed.

"Do you mind if I ask a question?"

"Go fer it."

"What's with the team name?"

Volfram turned to face Loramir who had done the same.  They shared a look and a single bemused snort of laughter.  Loramir then turned back to Erin, as Volfram returned to his drink.  "Oh, just an old inside joke between the two of us."

"Well, let's hear it."

"Honestly, its so old, I don't even remember the story that well anymore.  And to be honest, its not really that funny in the first place.  We were just stumped for a name and alliterative names were in at the time."

"why not change it then?  Seems like keeping a fad team name that references a joke that only two members understand and barely laugh at is just weird.

"Yeah, but that's what its always been.  And what would you call us?  Something inspiring and serious I imagine.  Like the Ironheart Brigade or something."

"Nah, I got something better. And I think you'll like it."

"Okay, prove me wrong."

"The B Team."

"Really?"

"Hear me out.  Okay well, last night after coming back from the tryouts, I spent a lot of time asking around about the different adventurers that come through her, the different plaques on the well, all that kind of stuff.  And I realized something.  The teams most likely to die are the ones usually considered the strongest at the time.  Usually at some point along the way, someone will come along with a quest too dangerous. That strongest will come forward believing themselves capable, and then die in the pursuit.  Then a militia gets involved and the problem is solved.  Then before long, some other team starts to get seen as the strongest, the recognition goes to their head, and then the next time someone comes along with a dragon, they've got it in their head that "no actually, we can do this." and they take it on and they die.  And it just keeps happening over and over. On top of that, I was kind of amused about your philosophy on the 4 B's--"

Loramir's face immediately lit up as the cogs began to turn.  "Ah, so The B Team is a reference to my amazing wisdom, while also planting in everyone's mind that we are second best and freeing us from the pressure of ever taking on a job too big."  He grinned, not because of his own words, but someone else's.  Unusual.  He turned to Volfram  "Whattaya think?  The B Team?"

"Works for me."

"I dunno, it really belies my greatness."  Jess mulled it over for a moment as he took a sip.

"Oh hush, there is plenty of glory to be found in second place.  And you can't have glory when you're dead.  Plus, you're outnumbered three to one."

"Fine, The B Team it is."

"TO THE B TEAM" Loramir raised his glass once more and the other joined suit.  But instead of the gentle sound of four glasses clinking, the room was instead filled with the sound of a door being kicked wide open.  The four turned to see a large imposing figure standing in the doorway.  The first thing that was noticeable was her muscly red-skinned body.  This was probably because so much of it was showing.  She was dressed more or less in the traditional garb of a paladin of Nerva, Goddess of War.  Sandals with knee high leather straps, armored skirt, intimidating plumed helmet, and her spear and giant shield were no doubt being held at the door.  The only differences were the fact that on her helm were three holes, two to allow her horns to poke and a third farther back that allowed here to replace the traditional red plume with her own hair, a ponytail of the purest white.  The other odd thing was that her chest was tightly bound in white linen.  Even as undressed as she was, Nerva's follower's weren't known for even this level of modesty.

"Hello, are you the Magnificent Monarchs?"

"We were up until about five seconds ago, how can we be of assistance?"  Loramir took a drink from his glass before finally lowering it, as Jess and Erin followed suit.

"I am a paladin of Nerva, as you can no doubt tell.  I have been tasked on a great mission from my lady.  All I know is that I am supposed to follow a wolf to victory." With that, Princess, who had been occupied with a bowl of various meat chunks all night, perked her head up at the sudden attention she seemed to be receiving.  Erin, taking notice of this scratched her between the ears

"Oh I don't know how liable ol Princess here is to lead you to any sort of victory.  You're more likely to wind up in the trash if you follow her."  Princess whimpered, as if she recognized the insult.  Erin smiled apologetically and began to double down on the head scratches.

Volfram, who had sat stunned the entire time, eyes locked on the new arrival, finally lowered his drink.  "Well, I fink its a great idea.  The merrier the more I always say.  I mean the more the merrier."  He went to take a sip and missed his mouth overcome once again by overwhelming clumsiness.  Women like her always made him feel more self conscious. He kept trying to look away but there was something about their perfect elegant powerful bodies that he couldn't turn away from. And the longer he looked, the smaller he felt.

Jess, poured the last of his drink into his mouth before overturning his cup on the table.  "Two things, One, I need a new drink, and two, how does she fit in to the B Team?'

Loramir sat for a moment, as if flipping through pages of a book in his mind, before his eyes lit up once again.  "Easy, she's our bonus."

Journal Entry 2

I did it!  I completed my first quest!  Well, by I, I mean we.  The B Team, that's what we're calling ourselves now.  Loramir really seemed to like my name suggestion.  He's kinda cute when he realizes I'm right.  So anyway, we took out this thug who's been robbing people.  They said he would camp out in an area and demand the people nearby give him money, lest they be met with violence.  Real basic stuff, we got the fucker no problem.  So anyway, this other woman ended up joining the party today.  Really badass, break you in half type.  Seems to be Volfram's type too.  He couldn't take his eyes off of her.  I thought that maybe he might have a thing for me with the way he came to my defense during tryouts, but maybe he's just a nice person.  Oh well, not that big of a deal.  I didn't become an adventurer to find love, I became an adventurer to become the greatest hero this land has ever known. Well, I guess I'll have to compete with Jess for that title.  He spent all night telling the story of how he singlehandedly eliminated every bandit in the fortress with a single well placed shot each to any bar patron drunk enough to stay and listen.  If he keeps it up, it will be impossible for anyone to not hear about him.