#just stands there frozen for 10 seconds with a thousand yard stare

[catstrophysics-fics]

Been a while since I posted something here. Dean/Cas, 2k, domestic and written in one sitting. Likes, comments, and reblogs WILDLY appreciated! It wasn’t dark at night in the city. Streetlights glowed orange, marking every 100 feet with soldier’s precision—guards never present along backroads and country highways. Buildings adorned with neon signs lined the street, marketing “OPEN” or “VACANCY” or any of the thousand other possibilities for a storefront. Even the horizon shone, light pollution leaching into the night sky unlike anything he’d see among the trees. It wasn’t dark at night, and the Impala’s headlights barely showed against the road.

Sam was home, keeping tabs on Eileen as she hunted down a siren that only targeted men, leaving Dean and Castiel to sort out wrapping up a case in Nowhere, USA. The case was an easy finish: exorcise a demon, salt the doors and windows afterwards, and check the perimeter for anything else dodgy. Then they were alone downtown, and for the first time in too long they had a night to themselves. They started with the basics. Take Baby to a gas station, fill her up and clean the mud (and blood) off of her chrome, then Rain-X the windshields. Stop by the most middle-of-the-road all-night diner they could find, Dean slipping off his overcoat in the car before they went in. He ordered a burger, same as always. Castiel sat across from him in the cramped linoleum booth, same as always. The persistent shake in his leg had slowed to an occasional bounce, and he stretched out both feet under the booth, barely mustering the care to flinch away when he knocked into Castiel’s legs. For a split second he considered apologizing, but when Castiel nabbed a fry off of his plate—he didn’t need to eat, but Dean had long since learned he’d snag bites of food when he felt really happy—he called it even and let his knee rest softly against the side of Castiel’s. Dean ate slowly. Castiel watched. The streetlights outside flickered every handful of minutes, a reminder that time passed even as they sat nearly motionless. He snagged another fry, and this time Dean batted at his thieving fingers with his free hand. That’s mine, his initial look said, but with a cocked eyebrow and half of a sideways smile he relented (as always; so it had been, so it always would be). They finished eating, talking of anything but hunting. I don’t understand why we need to sleep here tonight, Cas had said, met by Dean’s reciprocal I need sleep, and you’re not driving. Never mind that Castiel could drive perfectly well, save for when a truck swerved into his lane and the stereo turned on full blast, or when bouts of road rage would pop tires off of cars in front of him. Aside from incidents like that, he was a good driver, patient in a way Dean assumed came with millennia of watching time come and go. Dean paid, tipping 20% and rounding up to the nearest whole number, some remnant of John and Mary discussing credit card bills and adding them up themselves hanging over from his childhood. They stood, neither acknowledging that they’d been separated only by the fabric of their pants moments before, and Dean held the door on their way out, giving the restaurant one last once-over (for black eyes, glowing blue eyes, and a glance for silver eyes on the monitor over the door). The Impala glistened in the night, chrome freshly wiped and windshields free of the dirt of miles. Absently, Dean checked his watch, more of a habit than anything, and Castiel cocked his head inquiringly. Dean flipped his hand over, showing an upside-down 10:32, and they got in the car with a thunk of the locks shifting. The engine turned over with Dean’s key, and the radio crackled back to life, playing one of Led Zeppelin’s lesser-known songs softly. By some unspoken mutual agreement, they drove aimlessly. The city was nice, Dean thought, small enough to be beneath the notice of big box chain stores and big enough to have infrastructure they didn’t run into most places. A few nice houses scattered around, painted murals on the sides of strip malls, and straggly if well-kept medians. A swath of dark green appeared up the road, and without turning his head he could feel Castiel looking at him hopefully, a question hanging in the air like static electricity. Dean turned on the blinker, and a sense of satisfaction permeated the front seat. The park was nice. The whole city, really, was nice, Dean thought. Well-proportioned. Cas seemed to like it, too, it seemed, as he walked a few feet ahead not by any conscious thought; Dean just preferred to hang back and watch him, sometimes. Turn the tables a little, see him when he’s off guard and full of wonder even after all his years on

Earth. They wandered without direction, taking the first path they saw before breaking off to follow tiny train tracks for a spell, Castiel walking carefully between the ties and Dean balancing haphazardly on the rails themselves. A few dozen yards into their balancing act, Castiel tripped, and without thinking Dean caught him around the forearm, holding him steady until he regained his footing. Unlike back home, when they’d limit touching to necessities such as healing or spellwork, Castiel didn’t seem inclined to shake Dean off, and Dean didn’t let go, sliding his hand down to rest closer to Castiel’s as though it were the most natural thing in the world. They carried on, tracks now running between them The train tracks ended abruptly with a miniature “STOP!” sign before opening up into a paved pavilion with a pool in the middle, bubbling softly. Castiel paused, hand slipping out of Dean’s as he looked around slowly, eyes aglow not from within but from the reflections of the lights around the pavilion off of the water. Dean stepped up beside him, careful not to break whatever spell seemed to have come over him in the pavilion. “Y’know,” he said, hearing his words bounce back off of the white stone, “I could teach you how to dance.” Castiel turned to him slowly, surprised at first before his expression settled into something softer. Dean felt his cheeks heat, conversations late at night in motel rooms slipping back into his mind. “You’d said you wanted to learn, and Sonny made all of us boys go to cotillion at least once.” He cracked a grin, and Castiel’s lips responded reflexively. “I can waltz like nobody’s business.” For a split second it looked like he was going to refuse, carefully place another layer of brick between whatever forbidden hands reached out between them. Then he stepped forward off the end of the track, coat swishing, and waited expectantly. Frankly, Dean had expected him to decline. Angels weren’t known to dance except on the heads of pins. But it was Cas, standing in the center of the pavilion a few feet from the water’s edge, head cocked as he waited. Dean took a moment to remember, thinking back to teenage him in a scratchy shirt and too-tight bowtie and the one-two-three step he’d committed to muscle memory years ago in a school gym, rattly classical music playing over the PA system as he laughed and flirted carelessly with whatever girl he danced with that night. The steps had never left him, though faces and memories did, and he flipped through the songs he’d since learned he could waltz to. Castiel stood waiting, stiff in the shoulders and watching his every move expectantly. Dean stepped closer, feeling the familiar electric hum that came with proximity to him and a matching buzz hum through his veins. Gently—he pegged the emotion pounding in his chest as nervousness, and butterflies fluttered to life in his stomach to accompany—he moved their hands into place, one around Cas’s waist resting low near his hips, Cas’s right hand on Dean’s left shoulder. Just like always, his fingers tingled when they brushed over the raised scar, and Dean smiled quietly to himself as he interlocked their hands, the easiest motion in the world. “It’s just one-two-three,” Dean said, taking tiny steps of his own to demonstrate. “We’re set up like you’re leading”—because I want your hand on my shoulder, because I want to feel you under my fingertips—“because you’ve got two left feet, and it’s a little easier to start going forward first.” He paused, flexing his fingers in the fabric of Castiel’s coat. “I’ll lead, though, just follow me.” Castiel nodded, and Dean couldn’t help the smile that broke through his nerves. Clearing his throat, he started to hum the opening of his favorite waltz song, holding eye contact with Castiel as they started to move. I put a spell on you Because you’re mine Even wordlessly, he saw recognition spark in Castiel’s eyes, and the happy, comforting buzz of his presence turned up a few notches as they began to move, Dean guiding them backwards in

spiralling circles around the fountain as he hummed through the rest of the song, watching enraptured as the light changed and shifted around them, always seeming to glint an otherworldly blue from Cas’s eyes. I just can't stand it, babe Castiel was relaxing, pulling Dean near-imperceptible millimeters closer with each turn, and Dean let himself be drawn in, magnetic until they were nearly pressed up one another in the glow of the fountain. Because you’re mine. Dean held out the last note for a few moments, still staring intently at Castiel who seemed breathless despite needing no air. A surge of joy rushed through his chest, and he leaned in the few inches between their lips and pressed a quick, happy kiss to the corner of his lips. Behind him, the fountain burst out a geyser of water that cleared the treetops as the backlight in the water flickered to black. The water came raining down on them, still holding each other from dancing, drenching Castiel’s coat and plastering Dean’s hair to his head. They stood frozen for moments, the din of traffic in the distance audible for the first time, and Castiel’s eyes got wider and wider, fear creeping in at the edges until Dean burst out laughing, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder. Slowly, the tension dissipated from his shoulders and he breaks into quiet giggles, starting soft and low and escalating in seconds into the same body-shaking laughter Dean trembled with, both of them tapering to the end of a bout before catching it back from the other. The fountain behind them had returned to normal, the only signs anything had happened the puddle of water surrounding it and the broken, dark bulb underneath. They drew apart slightly, aftershocks of laughter still coursing through them in tandem with adrenaline. “To avoid further municipal catastrophes,” Dean began, before collapsing into another bout of giggles as Castiel squeezed his hand, “I’m giving you advance warning this time: I’m going to kiss you again.” Castiel’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and he didn’t give Dean time to lean in before his lips were on Dean’s, wet from fountain water and warm from laughter, and Dean didn’t mind the static shocks passing between their hands and radiating out in all directions from Castiel. They followed the train tracks back to the main path, leaving wet shoe prints behind and a line of drips gathering underneath their joined hands. “Grab the towels from the back,” Dean said as they reached the car. “We’re not dripping all over Baby like this.” It wasn’t dark at all in the city as they drove to the cheapest motel on the edge of town, Dean driving left-handed as he stroked over Cas’s thumb. He parked, got out their only bag (a change of clothes apiece, and a handful of weapons just in case), and his voice didn’t waver at all as he asked for a room with just one bed.

[dumbstoriesandwhatnot]

The Army in White

It all started in the winter of 1916. I was stationed in the trenches in a forest somewhere in the French country side. I don’t recall the name of the forest, but it doesn’t matter much. It was a blistering winter, and we were all freezing our asses off in those godforsaken holes in the ground. At that point, the fighting had been going on for 5 days, and we were all feeling the strain. The snow and rain had been coming down in droves for weeks, coming down so heavily we could hardly see the trenches our mortars were aimed at.

Maybe it was all my imagination, or maybe not, but it all started December 13, 1916. I was alone in the trench, standing guard that night. The fighting had been fairly quiet, a few brief shots volleying across the no-mans land. I was looking out over the field, when suddenly I saw a man in all white, walking across the field. I almost didn’t see him, as my eyes were droopy from lack of sleep, and the snow on the ground had near blinded me from staring at it.

“Halt!” I shouted to the figure. “Who are you?”.

But the figure just stood there, staring at me. After a second, I got to thinking, and realized that the man hadn’t exactly walked up. He’d just kind of... appeared. Like he had walked out of an alternate dimension. I put it down to a lack of sleep. Besides, it didn’t matter much how the man had appeared, as much as simply the fact that they had.

After a minute, I called out to them again.

“Who are you? What is your business?” I called out. Still, no answer. The mysterious stranger wasn’t wearing any real kind of uniform that I could see. They didn’t appear naked, but they weren’t wearing clothes either. All I could really make out was that they had a body. I could make out the vague form of arms and legs, and that they were wearing a gas mask and helmet.

Eventually, a couple minutes passed, and the figure turned, walking off into the snow. They faded off into the white blur, but it seemed to me that they did so too early. Like they were still in sight, until they just... weren’t. Maybe faded isn’t the best word to describe it after all.

After a minute of standing there, staring, I walked back to the small room where we all slept, shook Jack awake, and went to sleep. It was quiet for the rest of the night.

******

The next few days were relatively quiet. We couldn’t hear much, at least not in the way of fighting. There were sounds, but they were indistinct. German, we supposed, as even on a clear day it all sounded gibberish to us. All was quiet on the front. Finally, the night shift for guard circled back to me, and I was out there once again.

It was very late, even later than last time. I had been out there only 30 minutes this time when the mysterious white figure showed up again. Because that's really the only description for it. They didn't walk up, run up, march up, crawl up, sneak up, or anything else "up". They just... showed up. It was definitely the same person or thing, no doubt about it. They had on their gas mask, and their figure was pure white. This time, the soldier stood closer. The thing stood not 5 yards from the trench, and I jumped when I realized they were there. I raised my rifle, loading a round as I did.

"Who the devil are you?" I yelled at the figure, shaking slightly as I did. "What is your business? Who are you, and who's side are you on?". But still, my calls had no answer. The soldier just stared at me, and I stared back. We went on like this for a long time, staring in silence. My rifle still sat at my shoulder, ready for action. This couldn't be an illusion, or a hallucination, or anything like that. I don't know how, but I knew that much.

After a couple more minutes of this, I realized there was more than one. There were tens, hundreds, maybe thousands of soldiers in white, all just standing. Staring. Yet again, there was several minutes of silence. Finally, the one who appeared to be in the lead, the one closest to the trench, slowly raised their hand to point. I looked with horror as I realized that the hand was not covered in skin, nor was it the indistinct white haze of the rest of the body. It was a skeletal hand, bleached white by sun and time. I started to scream, but my cries were drowned out as the army in white opened their mouths, their horrible, gas mask filter mouths, eerily round and blood red, and screamed a terrible battle cry. It was the most atrocious sound I have ever heard, like a thousand tortured animals crying out in unison with a thousand tortured humans, an unearthly and ethereal roar. After a minute of this, I ran screaming into the night, before blacking out. When I awoke the next morning, I was face down in the mud and snow, bruised and scared. What? What on God's green Earth could possibly make that sound? I was terrified, shaking in my boots. I had no sleep that night, or for 5 nights following, for I could not shake the feeling that I was being watched. Always, silently, watched.

*****

It was a week after I started sleeping again that they finally decided to send us over the trenches. There had been no sound or sight of the Germans for a little over a week now, and it was decided we would charge the trenches. Shaking I slowly loaded my rifle, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 rounds. I strapped on my helmet, barely able to close the clasp as my fingers fumbled and quaked. Finally we were all gathered. We waited for the order. 1 minute to go. 30 seconds. 10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. And over we went.

We charged headlong across the field, ducking and dodging around, but something was wrong. We all slowed, first to a jog, then to a walk, and then stopped as we realized what was off: there was no shooting. We were charging across an empty, silent field. We looked around, at each other, and across the field at the German trenches. After a minute, and urging from our commanding officer, we walked the rest of the way across the field, slowly and tensely.

Finally, we reached the trenches. With one last look at each other, we hopped down. What we found will surely haunt me for the rest of my life. I cannot sleep without seeing those faces. God, those horrible faces.

What we found in those trenches was bodies. Hundreds of them, hundreds of dead German soldiers. They were all in various states of dress, from stripped to their undergarments to fully clothed and armed. Yet all of them, every last one, had on a snow-white gas mask. When we checked, there was not a single mark on any man. Despite the fact that several of them had guns, and most had emptied their magazines, there was not a single scratch.

Finally, we could think of nothing else to do, and gingerly removed one soldiers gas mask, but we were met with a fresh horror. The mans face was covered in blood, the stuff was caked, having run from his ears, eyes, mouth, and nose, and the deathly pale face was frozen in a scream of mortal terror. I felt sickened by the sight, and hunched over, retching. What could possibly cause such horrible devastation? Finally, we headed back to our trenches. There was nothing more we could do here.

Though it's been years since that day, it still haunts me. Whatever horrible, ghostly army did that still follows me. At night, I feel watched. Even in the day, as I go about my business, I can still feel eyes on me. They will catch up with me one day, of that I am sure. But for now, I walk free still, and I tell my story here, lest it be forgotten to the dusts of time. And, if in some future war, in some far off land, you see the army in white, give up all hope. You are already dead.

[vankoya]

Silver Linings on Hopeless Nights.

✗ Part of the Across the Multiverse series!

Genre | Guardian Angel AU.

Pairing | Jung Hoseok / Feminine Reader.

Words | 2,744 words.

Conspectus | Every time a bad thing happens, without fail, Hoseok finds a feather. But he has not a single clue about where, or who, they come from.

Warnings | Attempted suicide mentions and depressive thoughts, but I promise this is actually really sweet and nothing bad happens.

Every time a bad thing happens, without fail, Hoseok finds a feather.

This is not something that has occurred since always. In fact, he knows the precise day that they started to appear, for it was no more than six months after he had clutched the railing of a quiet bridge with a terribly long drop onto a very frozen river.

It was the first day of January. The first 24-hours of the brand new year, and he had not prepared himself to witness what the rest of the months may hold.

Hoseok remembers the cold, trying to numb parts of him that had already been numb for months. He remembers the silence, save for the infrequent crackle and groan of the ice that he had doomed himself to fall upon. He remembers the moonlight in the frighteningly clear sky, pooling pale white on the jagged, muddy surface like a guide. An X, marking the spot.

But, above all, he remembers the voice, warmer than anything he has ever known.

“It’s not time, my love,” it had hissed so sweetly in his ear, all angry with love like a mouthful of honey fed by a scalding teaspoon. “It’s not time.”

Then, he remembers the heat wrapping around him like a muggy summer storm enclosing on a small town. And before he could even realise that he had climbed back onto the sensible side of the railing, he was already in his car, heading home. Not to the apartment in the city, but to his parents’ house in the next state over, which he had reached near five in the morning. And if him appearing on their doorstep with nothing but himself nor a single shred of warning was not enough to shake them, then him proceeding to inform them on that very doorstep that he had almost jumped, but did not, certainly was.

Things turned around after that day. Not immediately, but gradually, like the slow glide of plum preserves when poured out of a jar. Hoseok moved back to his hometown; away from the ugly memories that clung like claws to the walls of his scarcely inhabited apartment. Hoseok started working for the community garden; outside in the fresh, country air rather than the stale, unfiltered oxygen of an office as drab as an old man’s fashion sense. And there, beneath the forgiving gaze of the sun, his sickly skin started to brown like a polished bronze coin; his brown hair started to lighten, as if woven with golden thread.

He would never say it was perfect. He would not label it as recovered like a red stamp on a classified document. Somedays, the past would weigh down on him like hooks, dragging him into the depths of the sorrow that he had folded and shoved into a small box in the back of his mind. Though it was only made of cardboard, so nasty things were bound to ooze through.

Still, when those days occurred, Hoseok would remind himself of the voice. The one that was so rich with promise and adoration. The one that did not even beg him to stay, but told him with such courage that his countdown on Earth had not yet ended. He had not a clue who spoke it, or whether it was anything more than a figment of his imagination, though he would still cling to it like a handrail whenever the vehicle of his existence would swerve too harshly.

But just when he was about to convince himself that the voice was something his consciousness had created out of some last-second desperation to be saved, the feathers began to appear.

Each of them were different. Some were as small as his palm and fluffy like that of a baby bird’s, and the others would sweep as long and strong as his forearm. But they were all silver. Silver as burnished rings. Silver as stardust painted on a rural, midnight sky. Beneath the sunlight, they shimmered as though embedded with thousands of tiny diamonds, though Hoseok had inspected each individual one thoroughly enough to know better. He kept them like precious treasures in a very un-precious shoebox beneath his bed, which he would open right after he waked and right before he slept in order to ensure that they were all still there.

Still real.

Why they began to appear exactly six months after he almost subjected his soul to the void, he is still not entirely certain. Maybe it was because—the night before the first appeared on the lip of his bathroom sink—he was staring too fiercely at the razor on the soap holder that was meant for his stubble, not his wrists. Maybe it was because too much had oozed out of that tiny box and was slipping over his every thought like a heavy shadow, made for suffocating. He admits that it was his darkest blip since his knuckles had hardened like the ice below him on that bridge, so maybe, he is simply deluding himself and he does know why they came when they did.

A promise. Reassurance.

It’s not time, my love.

Yet, even now, a whole year since the feathers began to appear, Hoseok has no idea where they come from. Or, possibly, who they come from.

It is not like he has not searched. The moment a lick of silver appears in his periphery, he whips his head around at neck-breaking speed. A desperate attempt to see how the feather came to be. He tries to not let the origins of them fester in his mind and eat him up, for they are, without a doubt, supernatural. They are no commonly occurring thing for just anyone who is frequently plagued by those thoughts that linger like an eternal gloom on the horizon. As far as he can tell, at least.

He does not dare to ask his psychiatrist.

Instead, he has come to terms with being okay with not knowing. The otherworldly feathers are simply something that are unique to his person, and that is that. All that really matters is, whenever he discovers them, his mind ceases to be so weighed down like a faux fur coat in a downpour. The clouds drift apart and let the sunlight sift through to kiss and caress his skin; to scare away the shadows and fill his heart with gold.

But it is the first day of January—exactly a year after the bridge—when he discovers the truth.

No, meets it.

Meets her.

The thing is, Hoseok is having a wonderful day. For the middle of winter, the sun is generous; it spills through the clouds and onto his hometown like a bucket of pale yellow paint. He spends his morning tending to the community garden, and helps the 10-year-old twin boys who live down the street with picking strawberries for their grandmother. The afternoon is passed in his own yard, raking up the leaves that last night’s storm stripped from the oak and shook over the garden like a salt shaker. Thus, by the time that the afternoon is taking its final breaths for the day, it is safe to say that his hands are so dirtied that it seems like the soil has simply grown out of the lines of his palms.

And albeit that Hoseok’s day has been as lovely as can be, he finds that, upon washing his mud-marked hands in his sun-spilled kitchen, there is a glimmer of silver in his periphery. But when he swivels his neck at whiplash-inducing speed, as he always does, it is not to see a feather.

Not a lonesome one, at least.

Rather, there is a young woman standing just by the window that is pouring the unusual winter sunlight into the room.

A young woman with a set of very real, all-consuming, silver-feathered wings that hang about her figure like an open cage.

Standing there, with his fingertips still dripping from the running faucet, Hoseok wonders if he should pinch himself or rub his tired eyes. But there is a sense of fear about it. Not the kind that silently screeches in his ears to put as much distance between himself and the angel-like being that is mere feet away, but the kind of anxiety that nibbles nervously at his insides and roots him in place.

The kind that is frightened of her leaving him, even though he does not have the slightest clue if she is, in fact, here to snatch his soul away.

The angel-woman stares, a cocktail of surprise and affection swirling in her wide eyes, which match her wings in their glittering, silver shade. And that is what has Hoseok’s breath stuck like gum in his throat—the unadulterated adoration that caresses her features like gentle kisses. The lovingness of her gaze, which seems to be slowly registering that he can see her in all of her magnificence. And it is for this reason that he knows before she even speaks that–

“Hoseok!” she gasps, and it is the voice. The one that had wrapped around him like arms warmed by the sun. The one that had yanked him out of the darkness and silenced the warring of his thoughts.

“You,” Hoseok whispers, his bones feeling as tight as pulled strings. “You’re…”

“Oh dear, I’m a fool,” she hisses, seemingly to herself, as she presses her fingertips to her closed eyes. Hoseok, awed, can only stare in silence at the wings that shiver around her—the ones made of his precious feathers—until her hands finally drop to her sides. Her gaze settles ruefully on his face, and his ribcage suddenly sags with longing. “I’m sorry, my love. You’re not supposed to see me. Not yet. I shouldn’t have come, but you just… You looked so happy, and I couldn’t help but take a peek.”

“You’re the voice,” Hoseok continues, finally finding the words that were quietly dancing on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be spoken. “The feathers… They were all you.”

She smiles, her wings stretching ever so slightly, and the sight is so radiant that Hoseok’s eyes just about water. “It would be silly of me to lie, wouldn’t it? But I may as well leave no rule unbroken, now,” she says, mirth twirling in her voice as she takes a few tentative steps towards him. The hem of her pearlescent silk dress sashays around her ankles, the tips of her wings slide against the floorboards, and Hoseok does not back away. Rather than feeling his throat close over like a fist is lodged inside of it as she nears, his buzzing nerves calm like a sea being freed from the clutches of a hurricane.

“What… Who are you? What’s your name?” Hoseok whispers as she enters his personal space, and his entire body is overcome with a peculiar sense of relief. Every inch of his being urges him to hold her, and he cannot fathom why. This close, she smells sweeter than spring rain.

She purses her lips, resembling that of a dewy rosebud. “Okay, maybe not all of the rules will be broken. The second one is a little too dangerous, but I can try and humour you with the first.” Her loosely curled fist lifts, hovering between their chests like a symbol of peace. Hoseok makes no visible sign of resistance, and it is only then that she lays her palm flat against the harmonious thud within his chest. At the tender touch, his blood sings a tune of euphoria.

“I’m the one who looks over you. Who guards you and your soul.”

Hoseok’s winged protector smiles, and her hand slides up his throat until it has settled on the side of his face. Her skin is neither hot nor cold, and that does not unsettle him as much as it should.

“Why do I feel like we’ve met?” he murmurs, willingly sinking into the familiarity of her fingertips on his cheek like cinnamon on warm butter. His heart twitches like he knows her—has known her. Long, long before she was leaving him glittering feathers and pulling him away from a drop too high to survive.

“Because we have, very long ago,” she coos, tracing the lines of his face with the care of a lover. “And someday, after you’ve lived a long, happy life, we’ll meet once more and you’ll know me better than you ever have. I promise.”

“I… I don’t understand,” he murmurs, staring right at her mouth like it is a particularly captivating piece of art. He tries to drag his gaze back to her molten silver eyes or the monstrous wings that flutter and rustle like whispers around the both of them, but he finds himself incapable.

“You’re not supposed to for now, but you will,” she says, drawing her hand up the side of his face until her fingers are able to glide through the soft curls of his hair. His scalp tingles like goosebumps. “You’re not even meant to see me, but I was careless. I’ll be punished, but it’s okay. I’m just…” She closes her eyes and breathes in deep, and then deeper, as though her lungs are the size of a lake and are impossible to completely fill. Her fingers come to rest against his throat once more, and her skin is suddenly filled with heat, scorching like the sun that kisses his skin every day. “I’m just wishing to be selfish for a moment. Is that alright? I’ve interfered enough. But please, let me be selfish, just for a moment longer.”

Her eyes, carefully, drift to his parted mouth, and Hoseok knows what she means. He feels it too, their souls urging them to wrap around each other, as though they are a single thing. And so he leans, rather than speaks. He leans, but not too far, because she meets him in the middle with thinly tamed fervency.

Hoseok cannot remember the last time he kissed another like this. Soul-devouring, all heat and love, with not a shred of resistance. Her lips and tongue are precisely like her voice: honey-sweet and burning like flames. And he thinks that he could do this for all of eternity, that he could kiss this nameless angel like there is no other meaning to life than her mouth sliding against his own. Because truly, it feels too good, too perfect, as though their lips were specifically designed to fit with one another.

But when Hoseok opens his eyes, it is to see tears slipping from between her lashes, as silver and diamond-like as her feathers.

“Live,” she whispers against his mouth, and her touch starts to fade like a breeze. But he is already forgetting her before the panic of her loss can begin to settle in.

Live long and happy, and I’ll see you at the end of it all, my love.

Hoseok... blinks into the emptiness of his kitchen. He feels foggy, as if he has woken from a midday nap that he never intended to have. But just as he is about to shake off the odd spell and go about the remainder of his afternoon, a peculiar thought comes to his mind. Peculiar, since it does not feel naturally formed. An intruder, though one that is not unwelcome.

A name, which sits in his head like a soft-spoken suggestion.

A half-hour later, he and his tongue, heavy with courage, find themselves at the florist across the road from the community garden, sweet-talking a number and a date out of the girl who makes even the most boring flowers into something outstanding. When she blushes and giggles as she glides a blue pen over a torn piece of paper, Hoseok feels his heart twist with delight. And there, with the tangerine sunset bleeding through the store’s front window, he does not notice that the knowledge of precious silver feathers in a un-precious shoebox slips from his mind, as if such knowledge was never there in the first place.

From above, where the sunlight shines brightest above the night that is slowly creeping over Hoseok’s hometown, his guardian angel—his soulmate—smiles. She has years of waiting until he is to truly step into her arms and press his mouth to her own once more, but she does not mind.

To her, a long, happy life for him is worth the decades of patience.

Prompt | Unbind Me: I’ll write a drabble about your character freeing mine, or the other way around, or something along the lines. Requested by @serendipi-tae!

Note | The concept is that the guardian angels are soulmates with the humans that they protect, so when the human dies, they are united with their soulmate. But the guardian angels aren’t supposed to noticeably interfere with the lives of their human, hence why she’s being secretive.

All Rights Reserved © Vankoya. No translations, reposting and/or modifying of the following fan fiction is allowed without my permission.

[lifeasitis21]

For The Last Time

“Lighthouse”

Clark x Reader

You were so tired of spiraling. Getting back to what made you feel okay was the only thing you could think to do. And your opportunity to do so had been closing for a long time now. You just prayed it hadn’t disappeared just yet.

“Clark, it’s Y/n. Call me back. I need to talk—uh, in person is better. Please get back to me.”

If there was one thing that irked you about him, it was the fact that when he knew you were safe, he never answered his phone. Whether he ignored It or didn’t see it, you weren’t sure.

You had just gotten to the point where you couldn’t twiddle your thumbs any longer when he returned your call.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear my phone. I—well Sacha turned it on silent in our last meeting. But then she never turned it back on!” he scoffed. “I’ve been missing calls for days now.”

“—Clark. I need to see you. Are you at your apartment? I’m coming over.”

“Yeah I’m—here..”

You barley heard his last words before you hung up and went down to your car.

You took the stairs to his floor two at a time. Your heart was beating so quick. And you noticed because it was the first time you really felt it in a long time.

You skipped the knocking and went straight for the key he hid on the ledge of the door. A click of the lock and you were in.

“Clark, It’s—me.”

He was standing  at the corner of his hallway. As you walked in he turned his attention to you while your eyes fell on Louis, who was sitting on his couch with a drink in her hand.

“Shit—Sorry I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you started.

“No, it’s not a problem at all. It’s good to see you again Agent Calloway.” She rolled out a lazy smile as she spoke.

“Likewise,”

Clark had kept his eyes down as you spoke to Louis, but when you looked over at him, he had trouble meeting your eyes.

“But like I said, it can’t wait.” You finished.

Clark took that cue and followed you out the door. You considered the hallway for a moment, but with a reporter only a few feet away, you stayed quiet until you got to the roof.

“…It’s only work related,” he seemed to confess.

“Clark..what? I don’t care. Poppy Flowers!”

And that didn’t register even a little bit with him. The look of exhilaration in your eyes, however, well..it turned him on.

He knew his window of speaking was closing and closing fast. And from your perspective, he was just staring at you with his brow raised and his arms frozen in their place across his chest.

“…Come again?”

A shadow of a smile pulled at your lips but you pushed it away, “Clark the painting. Does your guy still have the location?”

“Oh! Oh the painting. Yes…yes it hasn’t moved. I told him to keep tabs on it. Same owner same city.”

“Perfect! Because I found him.”

“…wait you what? You—”

“I found him! I found him Clark. He’s in Rio, Vitor Gabriel.”

You were nearly bouncing with excitement, before he stopped you.

“Y/n what? I already told you that.”

“No, Oh my god. Clark, I found him as in, I have eyes on him right now, and my source says he’s relocating the painting tomorrow. I mean, we’ve got to jump on this.”

Parts of him were a little behind, but it seemed that every ounce of confusion he had, brought you a few inches closer to him. Like coming closer, and speaking slower would help him catch up. The problem was that all those little things were intoxicating. As you spoke he savored the pout in your lips. And when you moved in closer, he watched the once morning flecks of gold in your eyes take on a dark and sultry air. Every fiber of his being was praying you could and couldn’t read his mind, all at the same time.

There were a thousand questions he should have asked, a thousand opportunities for doubt, but not a single word left his mouth as he watched you.

“I know this is last minute, and you have a life. But I think I need this—I know, I need this.”

He couldn’t even bring himself to stop in time before his hand trailed over the curve of your jaw. Don’t let it go too far, he prayed, as he unapologetically let his eyes follow the lines of your lips.

“I’ll go anywhere, Y/n.”

He pulled his hand away then, and walked past you as if it hadn’t happened. You followed, because regardless of Clark, there was something bigger pulling at you. Something you had to do.

He told you he needed to grab his go bag from inside, you opted to wait in the hall. Arms crossed and settled against the wall, you waited.

It wasn’t long before Louis walked out with her bag in hand.

She watched you, for a moment, searching your eyes, taking in the entirety of it all. You thought for a moment she too would reach out and touch you, as if it were the only way to really see you.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Agent Calloway,”

She began to walk away, behind her you heard Clarks footsteps, but while still in earshot, she said, “because he already has.”

There was no longer a team-- a mission. Just you and Clark.  This was completely off grid. And you wanted it to stay that way. It meant you would have to find your own way to Rio, but in your time spent solo, you’d acquired an expansive list of sources, one of which was a pilot and owed you a favor.

The plan was simple really, you could have done it alone, but with something as valuable as the Poppies, you couldn’t risk messing it up. Your source still had eyes on Gabriel, but you would be cutting it close on arrival.

“There’s a stopping point in the middle of their route, mostly too insure they don’t have any tails, re-check the integrity of the painting. He’ll be transporting the painting in a specially made case. It keeps it the correct temperature—keeps it from getting bent or touched.”

“So do we need to figure out a way to get it out then?” He asked, glancing from you then back to files you had sprawled out on your tray table.

“No, we need to take it as is. No point in taking it if we fuck it up.” You smirked.

His eyes caught even the first hint of it.

“I’m assuming its pretty heavy then. So how do you, want to carry it out?”

You considered his question for only a second before you frowned and looked over at him, “You carry it.”

He laughed as you blurted it out. “I didn’t want to assume, is all.”

This was going to be exponentially easier than it ever had been. Of course it’s like a gold mine finding out there’s only limited security on the painting as to not draw any unnecessary attention, but with Clark, it should be a breeze.

As soon as you hit the ground your source sent you the coordinates. They came in just as you started to drive off. It was business from here on out. But you would be lying if you said you didn’t feel more alive now than you ever had before.

“500 yards out. Take this alley coming up on your left. It’ll put you right behind them at the end of it.”

You’d factored in the traffic, you knew it would be crowded, but you only hoped their halfway place was secluded enough to account for the fire fight that was sure to come.

“300 yards.”

As you approached the end of the alley you saw what had to be their convoy. Two SUV’s sped by the entrance of the alley just as you were about to pull out behind them.

“They’re going to realize their being followed any minute now. We have to act first,” you said, looking to him for a suggestion.

“Halfway point is at the end of this street…so I say we go now.”

Your heart jumped as he said it, you looked over at him one more time. He kept his eyes on you, countless words behind them. “You ready?”

“I’m right behind you.”

You slammed your foot down onto the gas and held tight as you accelerated directly towards the back of the van.

Just seconds after impact, the car  began to lose its back tire traction and as you pushed the back end, the front turned and then toppled over itself. One, two, then three flips. The sound of metal and glass crashing hard against the concrete.

You halted to a stop just before the vehicle, the first, as you had guessed, was stopped just in front.

It was now or never. You threw your door open and watched for the first sign of movement.

Shouting from your right, you turned just as Clark fired two shots.

That’s when bullets began to rain down; flying past you as you ran for cover behind the car across the street.

They were prepared for this, but so were you.

With no restraint you stood and leaped over the front of the car, gun in hand and at a sprint you started shooting at every body with a gun. It was as if you were invisible, every one of their bullets missing its target. The closer you got, the sooner you realized everything you’d been missing.

You took a running jump and your heel collided hard with the guards jaw. It sent him flying back into the street. There was an unspoken law that this was no longer a gun fight as you pounded his face hard against the ground.

The next was upon you in seconds, a right hook grazed your cheek but he wasn’t ready for the knee you slammed into his stomach. He doubled over for a second, but a second was all you needed before your knee flew back up and crunched into his face.

Clark was beside you now as two more men came running for you. From there on out it was like a dance between just the two of you. The entire world disappeared. He would rise up, you would fall low. Back to back you fought it all off. Instinctively you knew each other.

You blocked off blow after blow of the guard in front of you, but to your left Gabriel was encroaching. You needed to finish this now. Falling wasn’t an option. You tried a left hook but it dragged, in the moment of hesitation though, you swung your elbow into his temple. But as you had begun to swing, you saw a hard fist closing in at the corner of your eye.

Your man fell and you braced yourself, but the one you thought was coming, was now 10 feet up, flying through the air.

“You good?” Clark asked breathlessly.

You nodded, awestruck for the first time as you watched him. “We need to move out,” you managed.

Clark jogged over to the wreckage as you kept an eye out.

The painting was just where you said it’d be. It was encased in blacked out glass and it stalled him, but there was no time, he had to just trust it would be in there.

“Let’s move.” He called out to you.

You hopped back into the drivers seat and headed towards your escape route. About a mile and a half away you spotted a second convoy approaching the crash quickly, but by the time they got there, you and Clark were long gone.

[tennesonrhames]

Finale: Sea Wolf Part 10

The climb from the summit of the mountain was arduous. I'd walked across barren desert, scaled sheer cliffs, and descended into pits in the world you thought would never end. Even with all of the darkest corners of the lands I'd visited, almost nothing compared to the biting cold of the snowy peaks in Highmountain. Whenever the wind picked up it brought with it a thousand shards of razor glass that seemed to want to dice my skin and leather alike. Each flake was another reminder, and with every hit I took another step deeper into the blankets of ivory. The cold had a way of piercing through you faster, and more completely than any blade I'd ever been stuck with. ____________________________________

I felt every inch of it under me as my claws sunk deeper into the bitter snow. It was like I could feel every single needling piece of it, but I kept my eyes forward even as I barreled through the thickest drift. Powery white exploded in front of me, and I watched the moonlight reflect off the flakes of snow as I ran after them. I didn't know who they were but I knew that I was hungry, and when I caught the scent of their blood I didn't wait. The pack behind me was busy with another few, too slow to get away from our attack as we circled them and closed in for the kill. The leader was behind me, a few yards back but catching up quickly. If I wanted something decent from my catch I had to at least bring it down before He got to it. ____________________________________

I banished the memory and stumbled a bit as the winds picked up. It felt like a titans fist had slapped my body aside as I hit a tree, my feet giving out from under me. Everything was ice, and I could hardly keep the powder from frosting over my beard as I slumped against the bark. My fingers, feeling like stiff gears gone without oil for ages brushed over the bark. The ridges in the wood felt almost familiar, even if I could hardly feel it as I slowly froze. My eyes moved and studied claw marks dug into the tree, some of the bark stripped clear from some massive beast that'd marked it up. Too big to be a wolf it must have been a bear at one point that came wandering through. ____________________________________

They circled around a small cluster of trees, temporarily blocking my sight of them as I kept pursuit. My claw dug into the bark, and I felt every inch of the wood splinter and die as I forced my body to turn around it. Every muscle in my arm screamed at me from the strain, my momentum wanting me to go one way while my hunger willed me another. I left little more than shattered wood, and tossed dirt in my wake as my feet dug into the soil. They were slow close I could smell the blood in their veins, and almost see the wild look in their eyes. The distance between us gradually closed, and I felt the thrill overtake my senses as I closed in. I was almost at that moment, almost to that point when they were about to realize they'd failed to escape. I always relished that moment just before I- ____________________________________

"Dammit, FOCUS."

I couldn't keep my thoughts straight as I slogged through the snow. By some divine providence the winds abated if but slightly and I was able to force my boots deeper into the thick of it. Had I had more sense I'd have stuck to the warmer lowlands, crossed through a valley until I found a river and followed it. Something in me told me this was the way to go, and despite all odds I pressed forward. My boots were soaked through and I could feel the frigid cold reaching my feet. There was little worry of losing the limbs, even amidst the cold this bitter my body kept itself warm above that freezing point. How long that would last I fought to keep my thoughts from, even as I saw a flattened valley up near the top of the path. It was nestled in the crux just between the two tallest peaks of the mountains, where the hoof prints had aimed me toward. ____________________________________

I could hear the huddle whimpers as they drew closer together. While I would have relished being able to pick them off, one at a time as they staggered away from their herd they'd bunched up. They swung their limbs, wild and dangerous eyes watching their every move. I sniffed the air, and the low rumble in my chest and in my gut chilled their blood. They froze in place, their eyes affixed to me just before He broke through the other side. Whatever hopes they had for escape or a fight dwindled to naught, and as we circled I began to plot my path through them. I didn't relish the idea of sharing the kill or the meat, but at least with Him here it'd be easier. That was when I saw the boy. Boy? It was just the youngest of the group. The herd. He looked scared, a bruise under his left eye as he watched me. I saw a hand obscure his face and a man...one of the older ones, stood between us. He looked like the boy though his face was lined and scarred, and his face was dusted by a russet beard.

"No." I heard him say. ____________________________________

It had to be the cold getting to me, I thought, as I came to a stop beside another tree. The snow was a bit thinner hear but it still reached up to my knees, and I felt like I was back on the shoreline sloffing through the water to try and get away from the carnage of our wreck. For a few moments I wondered if others had made it off the ship to saftey, had perhaps washed up elsewhere along the coast. There weren't enough bodies on the shore to account for all of them, but after hours of searching I neither heard, smelled, nor saw any sign of others survivors. I couldn't worry what fate they'd met when I had to worry on my own. So I kept moving, kept my heart beating and my blood warm as best I could. Another gust of wind felt like it moved straight through me and my arms crossed over my chest. I had to go, had to keep moving towards...wherever. _____________________________________

His voice stopped me cold. I froze mid step, a claw poised in the air towards them and we met each others gaze. I saw his eyes flinch, confusion mixed in with the terror as we studied one another. When I heard Him growl and move towards me my palm touched to the dirt. Without looking away I moved another step closer towards the man.

"No..."

Again I stopped and found myself arguing against my own thoughts. Something about this was so familiar, but I couldn't place it in my head. Why did the boy matter, why did the father matter. Hunger was all that mattered, and they were the first kill we'd seen in months worth the risk. Another step and I saw a flash of light in his hand. The light glinted off the flat of a blade, a hunting knife and I found my eyes drawn to it without thinking. Another step.

"NO!" ____________________________________

If I didn't make it somewhere, someplace soon I worried that my own thoughts might keep me down. It was getting harder to take another step and I could feel my body growing chilled. The shivering began shortly after when I found myself on another incline. Biting snow blasted my cheek and I had to keep a hand at the brim of my hat to keep the damn thing from flying off. Another step, and another just to keep me going. I kept telling myself it'd be just over the next rise, just around the next bend, and I'd see what I needed. A fire would have been a godsend in that moment, even if I had to go a week without a meel or water I'd have given my left arm for just a bit of warmth. ____________________________________

He shoved the blade towards me, swinging it in the air like he would bring me down with it. I had to give the man credit that he lacked the fear the others had drowned in. My hands...my claws twitched and dug into the dirt beneath me as we just stared. I saw the way his hand trembled, shielding what had to be his son from the danger, from the monster, from me. Another growl, this time at my ear as He argued against my hesitation. The wince creased my eyes, and for a second I just stood there with a claw reaching towards them suspended in mid-air.

"Rrrrun."

My voice was harsh, deeper than a canyon's reaches, and fighting the beast that choked on the foreign sound. The sound startled all of them, and I saw a look pass in the man's eyes from fear to that sort of feeble awe you feel when something beyond comprehension is put in front of you. I looked up at him, hunched over and ready to have leapt into the midst of them to begin tearing cloth and flesh alike to ready the kill, but now I waited. My eyes darted down the path behind them and away from the danger, away from the monster, away from me. ____________________________________

My hands dove into the snow, almost buried up to my elbows as I finally began to lose ground with my own willpower. I collapsed forward onto my hands and knees and felt the snow drifting in through my fingers, up my sleeves, and against my bare skin. It was funny how something so cold could feel like it burned you up from the outside. Breath spilled out of me in a hiss and colored the air in front of me in a powdery white like the snow itself. I filled my lungs with the frozen air, and gripped snow and dirt into my hands as I struggled to stand once again. That was when I saw it, a small post just about twenty feet away from me. It looked like a totem, the wood old and carved with various faces stacked atop one another, with a sing wing extended towards something down the path ahead. It was perhaps the greatest thing I'd seen in my entire life. ____________________________________

For a few seconds that stretched into eternity none of us moved. The humans in front of me, too scared to move before shifted. A foot, a turn of a body, and the way their heads glanced between them before they looked towards the path. Only the boy and the man kept their eyes on me and Him. I thought it was smart, the way they trembled but refused to take their eyes away from the threat in front of them. Still brandishing the knife I saw the mans other arm move, and start to usher the boy away. That was when I heard Him take a step towards them and his growl set fire to the air. Every one of them froze again mid-step, and I made a choice that'd change everything. I'll never forget the way they all seemed to move in slow motion, their legs and arms drifting through the air as they dug their feet to the soil. How each and every piece of sand and leaf flew through the air, fluttering to the ground in their wake. I can still remember the way my lungs filled with air, and burst a sound that both thrilled and scared me to this day.

"RUN!"

And I'll never forget the look of shock on His face when I dug my hand into his throat. He had tried to take a step to follow after them, refusing to acknowledge my betrayal in light of a meal. When I saw his body at the corner of my sight I moved, and I was just quick enough to catch him. The sensation was familiar, the results the same, even if now my skin was lined by fur and inches of corded muscle that moved like an animal. I recalled each detail as another of these lumbering beasts fell in the same way when I plunged a sharp edge into their neck, even if the knife had now been replaced by my own claws. I could see the moonlight glint off their surface just before they pierced the skin, and slipped underneath to the soft veins.

His yelp was short and pitiful, barely a whimper as I forced with every inch of strength deeper into his throat. I felt bone, could see the way my hand jerked and sent my claws through the back of his neck, and then I clenched my fist. A choking sound, a twist of my hand, and then the snap was all it took to leave him lifeless on the ground before me. I watched his body twitch as his tongue fell out the side of his mouth, eyes that had been wild in hunger now glazing as the last beats of his heart began to fade away. Blood soaked my arm from the tip of a claw to my elbow, and the fur that was black was stained a deep maroon now. It felt warm against my skin, and the scent filled my nose as I breathed in my first good kill in months. I didn't expect to, but I'd found the worthy game I'd been after all along and I ate well that night. ____________________________________

I barely managed to stumble forward the last fifty feet over a small ridge, the slope of the hill slight as could be but feeling like another mountain. Every muscle burned and froze at the same time, and it seemed like any moment the world would come crashing down. Perhaps that was why I didn't see them at first, lumbering and towering above me by almost two feet. Their massive hooves dug craters into the snow with every step, and when they finally came to a halt in front of me the Tauren levelled their spears with my chest. My hands, trembling and bearing frost rose up when they began to speak. Their broken Common was hard to discern, and even now I can hardly remember what they said. I recall my voice, even if the words are a faint mystery now and soon enough they led me slowly back towards their camp.

I could see the points of tents and the trails of smoke from fires scattered around the small area with tauren and other peoples mulling about. Each one slowly turned to regard me with wary stares, unsure and fearful of the stranger who'd appeared along the very edge of a blizzard. While stormclouds gathered somewhere behind me, rising up to challenge the towering peaks I saw movement in front of me. Before I could even react I was knocked off my feet, and my back struck the snow and earth beneath me with a heavy thud. My hat was lost to the wind, and I felt something press down on me hard. Instinctively my hands gripped whatever it was in my stupor, but a familiar feeling in my hands and a smell unique to a particular Warg filled my nose. Duchess.

"How..."

My voice was harsh and ragged, gutteral in its sound but I gripped the fur of the wolf atop me and buried my face in her side even as she licked my cheek like it was a prime rack of rib. Her whimpers and cries of joy filled my hears, and I almost missed the quiet take of breath from nearby. Her steps had been so light on the snow I didn't even hear her approach, but I heard her voice like a clear bell through the air. The second I heard it I stopped, and shoved Duchess from atop me to look at the frail woman standing a few paces away.

"Tenneson..."

Even as I struggled to get to my feet again, and took in what I thought had to be a hallucination in front of me the tears in her eyes told me different, and I felt my feet carrying me towards her.

"Georgie..."

Aaaaaaaand with that the Sea Wolf series is finally done. This has been an absolute treat, but a somewhat harrowing challenge getting through this beast. Started months ago, and despite life throwing curveballs I finally got it done. And I’m happy with it, which I haven’t always gotten to feel about my writing. I hope any and all of you that have read it enjoyed it, and can tell you for sure that there will be more in the future. Now I can write other stuff for other characters...all too many of them.

[scriptsfromthevoid-blog]

Working at the Bar - Part 1 of X

On the night I died, I had been working behind the bar. It was cold outside, the remnants of winter still clinging onto the passing of seasons, dragging its heels into the beginnings of spring. Outside was covered in a thick coating of slush, melted snow and ice. Every patron that came in sounded a similar alarm: a sequence of squeaking shoes on hard wood flooring, fading after about 10 steps. Made me feel a bit better about not being able to afford to buy one of those fancy bells for the doors, since the sound had become endearing to the regulars round these parts.

The bar had been noisy for the past week, what with people coming back from vacations and going back to school and work. I got to hear all about the stories of people who traveled all around the world, and I gotta admit, it was interesting. Folks were all up and excited about all sorts of things: some folks went fishing, some went skydiving, I even had a couple who won a sweepstakes or somethin', came in talkin' about how they won five hundred grand. Man...if I had that kinda money...

Anyhow, while I loved hearing people's stories for the most part, there were always...those people.

“A-and she t-t-told me she lov-v-v-ved me-e-e!”

“Mm-hmm, no, I hear you Mr. Josten, I hear ya.” My hands were switching from patting this heaping, sobbing mess to cleaning the glasses to wiping up his puddle of drool, tears, and mucus. After muttering some muffled misogyny and wiping his face mostly dry, the drunken Duncan Josten orders another shot of whiskey and slinks over to the far side of the bar, alone.

Josten was a regular here, and a ne'er-do-well from head to toe. He was so wrapped up in his life being as horrible as it was that he didn't see what traps he was stepping into. That short, warped pile of worry had seen a divorce lawyer so many times, he had his number as an ICE contact. It was sad, really, and I felt bad...but honestly, I'd just heard the same story a hundred times, and its affects had worn off.

My eyes went out of focus, and my hands began to operate on autopilot. This whole day had felt...different, and in a way I couldn't pin down. I scanned the scenery absentmindedly, looking without seeing. All the regulars had come in and were sat at their usual seats. The jukebox was playing, and the soft sound of murmuring and residual sobs from Josten set the right soundtrack for the place. No, it wasn't the sound, or the people, it was...

That's when he walked in.

“Hey, bartender. I gotta have a word with you.”

I was broken out of my haze and my eyes snapped to the front of the bar, along with the eyes of everyone else seated. It took a second for me to process what was going on, but it finally clicked in my head what the man had said. I put down my glass and rag, leaning over the bar and crossing my arms.

“A word? Sure, I can serve one-a those.” I said, turning around and straightening my inventory up. I grab a glass and fill it with two ice cubes, and a smirk formed on my face. I turn around slowly. “You seem like a man who--”

“Likes it on the rocks. Yes, bourbon please.” The man was suddenly sitting directly in front of me. His speed made me flinch, almost making me drop the glass. I caught myself in time, but my heart was still settling. This little blunder had definitely been caught by the new patron, a smug grin spreading across a pale, well kept face. “What's wrong, did I scare you?”

This elicited a frown from me, and I shook my head. “Naww, no way. I just didn't hear the squeakin' of your boots, that's all. I'm just used to it at this point.” I set the glass down on the dark wooden bar, letting my hand fall a little harder than usual. The ice jumped in and out of the glass for a second, and with the clinking of the frozen cubes on the bottom of the glass, I could feel the eyes of the regulars slowly break from their fixation.

I slowly set about finding the correct bottle, stirring some thoughts in my head. “So, you needed me for something?” I asked, returning to the bar and pouring the contents of the Jim Beam bottle over the ice. Each crackle gave me a bit of relief from this situation. The more I thought about him, the more an eerie feeling of anxiety crept into me. “I didn't do nothing wrong, now did I?”

As I finished up pouring, his smile shined once more, his face getting that much closer as he leaned onto the bar. His eyes and fingers traced the paths of the now moving ice cubes, his fingertips a mere centimeter from its target. I squinted. Something about this whole situation was just...uncomfortable.

After a bit of a pause, he started.

“Wrong? No...in fact, I'd say you'd done a lot of things right. Tell me, now...do I look familiar to you?” His body didn't move at all from what it was doing, save for his eyes. The two peering globes shot me a look that was as mischievous as it was...oddly alluring. The green irises looking at me through half closed lids seemed to be sending me a message, but the circumstance made it hard to decipher.

“Familiar...no, I can't say that you do. I'm sorry, is there somethin' I'm missin'? I didn't see any camera crew come in, if this is a joke, you're going outta your way for it ya know.” I looked around, trying to find something that could give me some clue as to what this guy's deal was. The stools had been cleared out, save for a wary-looking Mr. Josten, and I was catching side-eyes from the corners of the room. A woman in the back was giggling and pointing at me semi-discretely. As I turned to look, a finger touched my jaw and guided my view back to the front.

“Don't be rude, I'm talking to you. I'm sure she'll be here later. Now think. Let your mind go way back. Surely you remember your old pal Reuben?” The finger on my jaw turned into a hand, which then slid down my neck and onto my shoulder. A chill was sent down my spine, and warm tingles were sent up it. Reuben...why did that name sound familiar? I remember hearing it when I was young, back in high school even.

My mind fades to an memory of an autumn long passed. I can't place where I am, but I remember feeling at home. It's cold, but not uncomfortable, and I can smell smoke in the air. I'm...outside, I remember that. I look around, and I'm with people I like, or at least I liked. A bunch of young teen-somethings having a party. A bonfire in a backyard, flames lighting up the growing dark. I hear a voice, I laugh, the night carries on. I try to remember, but nowhere in this memory is a Reuben...

My heart sinks, and my blood runs cold. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a small group of the taller, stronger men circled around something. My head turns as fast as it can, but the whole scene seems like it progresses in slow motion. A harsh voice cuts through the air, and I hear a blow land. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm up on my feet and across the yard.

I hear a cry, another blow. A detached anger rises in my body, bleeding into my face. My vision blurs, I don't know what's going on. Phantom pains plague my body, but I still faintly feel the pain I deal on the tips of my knuckles. Through a whirlwind of pain and anger, I look and see him. A thin, sweater-and-bruise covered boy, not too much younger than me, quivering and huddled on the ground.

After my vision fully returns, I stand and slowly walk over to the kid on the ground. He looks up at me, and stands. I put a hand on his shoulder, say something that sounds comforting. I can feel him shaking underneath my hand. Our eyes meet, his filling with tears, and we embrace. I remember talking for a little bit...but then the vision stops, cut short by something.

Thrusting my head back, I gasp, the rush of oxygen bringing me back into reality. My heart is racing, my brain is all over the place. I look down, trying to process this lost memory, now found again, but my eyes end up staring into this man's, whose green irises are already staring back. A warm and cunning smile is plastered to his face, and he chuckles.

“So...you remember, do you?”

My hands slowly float up to my scalp, grabbing and pushing back hair with an air of absence. I hadn't though about anything from back then in years, not since I had moved. Almost two decades had passed, so seeing this man in front of me was akin to seeing a ghost. My mouth tried to say a thousand things at once, but nothing intelligible came out. He snickered at my failure. Embarrassed, I took a deep breath, and very seriously looked into his eyes.

“Now's not the time. Talk to me after work”