#just the idea of straight wyatt......... so inch resting

[phoebehalliwell]

What does Wyatt Halliwell act like in his teenagers age? and what is his personality? Is he bad boy type and ladies man/player/womanizer? Wyatt is more like his daddy boy. Chris Halliwell is more like his mama’s boy, like he is responsible and serious about school and other things. Can you do it like headcanons? Also, what is their interest in women like wild they date/fell in love with a female demon?

okay so this ask made me remember that wyatt is not actually gay in canon but for all intents and purposes every time i write about know that i am writing him as a gay man. But, for this ask, i will write for a wyatt that is attracted to women.

for starters, the wyatt that we did see in canon is this really open and earnest guy who very clearly believes in good and sort of an intrinsic plan for everything and definitely holds this belief that if you keep an open mind and an open heart, everything will fall right into place. so i think he’s totally a hopeless romantic. i also think he’d be really self conscious because he really is this all powered embodiment of good magic meaning that within magic circles and receives A Lot of attention all the time, so he feels the need to be like especially likable (especially because the elders were so scared he’s turn evil that they tries to kill him so uhh better prove that you’re so very super Not Evil). so like, translating over into mortal circles, he can’t necessarily shed this really need to be an insanely likable, good person. and bc of this whole being a good, likable person, who’s also like tall and blond but still has this edge of mystery bc like wtf why does he mysteriously vanish for long periods of time w no explanation what’s up with that i feel like the type of girl that is really attracted to wyatt are the one’s who read romance novels. and i think the attraction goes both ways because they both sort of share this honest belief in true love and all that passion for these tales of finding great love and keeping it against all odds. that being said i think all of his relationships end pretty poorly because there’s always this jump then fall intense dramatic passion that almost always devolves into wither one of them getting to clingy or someone getting too intense or serious. i think wyatt genuinely falls in love with almost everyone he dates, and has both broken several hearts and gotten his heart broken several times. i feel like he would never be on like really bad terms with any of his exs but i don’t think that he would really be friends or like on speaking terms with any of them bc it’s just too awkward to try to be casual and small talk with anyone who you have shared such an almost like overdramatic relationship with. voted most likely to write a song on acoustic guitar for his girlfriend.

chris i think is really the opposite of wyatt like again if your brother is like this adored figure who is very much a people person and liked by everyone you can either be a try hard and try to worm your way into his circles in an cringy desperate manner or you can be aloof and act like you really don’t care and specifically build your social circles around those your brother isn’t involved in (there is, of course, the third option of just being like yourself as a normal person and not letting your familial relationships dictate who you become friends with but uhh chris didn’t think of that one) so he definitely hangs out with the misfits and only really dates those in his circle. and i say “date” but it is like the loosest meaning of the word. while wyatt goes all in and falls in love every time, chris tends to keep his armor up. he just,, he doesn’t want to go through all the effort of revealing his true self and being honest and open and all that, especially if there’s no guarantee it’ll yield anything good. i mean, that’s what wyatt does and he’s seen his brother’s heart break countless times. and on top of that he’s really become wrapped up in sort of this brand of skinny tall brunet with daddy issues because a lot of people really find that attractive. but no, he is not willing to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.

as far as a demon love interest: i think chris would be most likely to have a relationship with a demon as again his idea of relationship is really guarded it’s not rooted in trust its very surface level so like they would both go into this relationship knowing it’s a horrible idea and will never last, but at least it’ll be fun. wyatt on the other hand i don’t think would ever knowingly date a demon because whoa! bad idea! but i think that if he were to be conned it would very much be a phoebe situation because once again he loves with his whole heart he’s very open and vulnerable. that being said, i think wyatt prizes his family above all else so if it was a cole situation he would definitely vanquish his love to save his family. but if it was more of a accidentally falling in love with a demon after a coffee shop meet cute where she doesn’t know he’s charmed and he doesn’t know she’s a demon that could have slightly more potential. if i were to do a plotline like this tho, i would actually make her a warlock and not a demon, because i think warlocks can defect to good and become witches, as it’s shown it can go the other way as well. demon is just too permanent. that being said, i still don’t think a wyatt demon relationship would prosper because it’s just too dangerous. again, he’s more of a hopeless romantic, the element of danger and the potential of betrayal isn’t a thrill ride it’s an encroaching fear. and especially with his family breathing down his neck bc they have seen how bad a demon witch relationship can turn, i don’t see him going through with that. even if he loved her, i think he would still break up with her (now if you then wanna pull a two households both alike in dignity situation it could be done but as previously stated i think demons are really difficult to redeem in the charmed universe)

[thosewickedlovelies]

“Ask me”

Frankie Morales x GN!Reader x Santiago Garcia

Summary: *ben wyatt voice* It’s about the tension

Word Count: 1,046

A/N: Just a saucy little concept I’ve had in my notes for a while. I was loosely imagining this set in the Into the Woods ‘verse, but it’s definitely a standalone piece

Part 2: The answer

--

“Ugh, you guys can keep going, but I’m taking a break,” you declare, dropping your controller and stretching your arms overhead. After spending the morning hanging out with Santiago and the afternoon listening to his and Frankie’s shit-talking, you need one. Your stiff limbs unfold gratefully as you stand.

“You sure babe?” Frankie looks up in concern.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna chill for a bit,” you assure him, brushing an affectionate hand over his cheek.

“Okay.” His adoring smile always makes you melt a little. Like taffy in the sun, you soften and bend back down to him, pressing a kiss to his tousled curls before withdrawing.

You leave Frankie and Santi gaming away on the couch and unspool yourself along the cushioned loveseat, comfortably propping your feet up on its arm. With the tv screen behind your head, their banter fades into the background, and you allow your thoughts to drift as well. You’re happy to give the boys time to themselves- Frankie’s friends always made you feel included, but their bond pre-dated you by a wide margin.

“Come on baby, come on baby,” Frankie croons, coaxing his vehicle onscreen.

Santiago snickers. “You talk to your real-life baby the way you talk to these cars, ‘Fish?”

Frankie cuts his eyes to you, a slow smirk sweeping over his face at the opportunity his friend had just unknowingly presented. “Ask them.”

The sudden low drawl of your lover’s voice rolls over you like a wave, and an answering rush bubbles low in your belly. You look up, eyes a little wide. But your mouth quirks right back at him. Delighted at the unexpected turn in conversation, you eye them both smugly, not even bothering to feign admonishment at Frankie’s R-rated implications. Truthfully, you love when he gets a little suggestive in front of the boys- it’s fun to play along and make them squirm, and the resulting boost to his ego benefits you both at the end of the night. 

Santi glances between you, immediately sensing the heat now shimmering thick in the air. “Ugh,” he grumbles. “Sorry I said anything.”

But the sofa cushions creak in betrayal of the lie as he shifts, drawing the controller a little higher in his lap. You catch Santi’s eye and hold it. Luring him in to your partner's setup, you deliberately drag your gaze inch by inch over Santi's tense frame before swinging it back to Frankie. His darker eyes gleam steadily, doubtless remembering the same half-serious conversation you’d had a few weeks ago.

You and Santi had always been…familiar. Perhaps more so than would normally be considered appropriate given he was your boyfriend’s best friend. But Frankie had never been threatened by your occasionally line-toeing flirting, knowing that he was the one you went home with. 

Even now, he turns his smirk back to the tv while your gaze darts between them, his slouch unconcerned. A definitive answer to your increasingly urgent question. Santiago, on the other hand, has abandoned his game’s chances entirely, pinned under your considering stare. He swallows.

You cock your head. “Are you going to?” you query. All round-eyed innocence.

Santi looked mildly dazed, but at the hint of a challenge in your question his brow furrows. That sharp watchfulness so often present in him returns to his expression. “Going to what?” he asks warily.

Your mouth curves higher on one side, and the glint in your eyes puts Santiago in mind of a creature whose beauty hides a deceptive lethality.

“Ask me,” you clarify. 

As if it should have been obvious. As if any of Santi’s mental efforts could currently be expended on anything other than identifying the nature of the trap he had unwittingly wandered into.

A dry, uncertain sound that could have been a chuckle rasps from his parted lips. He angles Frankie a sideways glance, clearly wondering how he’s supposed to be reacting to this situation.

Frankie’s face is a portrait of tranquil amusement, although his attention is obvious by the crawling speed of his activities onscreen. “Everything alright over there, Pope?” he asks, utterly unfazed.

You couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction at seeing Santiago so flustered. Normally it was him and his sculpted beauty affecting you so, with the way he weaponized those heart-stopping grins and allusive eyes. You’d turned the tables on him by involving Frankie, by provoking him in broad daylight. Afternoon sun filters through the windows, bathing the room and the men in a golden glow. It’s a time of day when the bedroom often calls to you, as it is now- lazy contentment has wound amongst the three of you like warm honey, sweet with slowly stirring desire.

“You tell me, man,” Santi answers. “Is this- what’s happening here?” He ticks a finger back and forth between you and Frankie, not yet accepting a part in this game. This bluntness, cutting straight to the chase, was usually his way of putting others off, maintaining an edge in the conversation. But not all of his techniques worked on Frankie anymore.

You exchange a last look with your partner, who pauses the game and sets his controller aside. There’s a trace of apology in the smile you give to Santi now. Aware of him tracking your motions, you keep them unhurried as you cross the room and sit between the two men. 

You settle next to Santi attentively, draping yourself against his side. Giving in to the ever-present urge to touch his hair, you rest one arm along his muscled shoulders, toying with the shorter curls at the back of his scalp. It’s a relief to feel the reflexive squeeze of his hand on your knee at the action. His guarded expression has transformed into something more curious, calming your fluttering heart.

“Santi,” you begin. “We, um…” Your first attempt at speaking is promptly thwarted by Frankie easing up behind you, brushing his lips over your shoulder and neck. Teasing kisses meant to encourage, distract. Sending electric shivers racing through you to be absorbed by Santiago.

One broad hand rests heavy on your hip, keeping you pressed forward into the other man’s ready grasp. A familiar heat prickles and hums beneath your skin. You meet Santi's burning gaze. “We had this idea.”

--

Taglist: @thirstworldproblemss, @leonieb

[beforedawnmuses]

You should write a fic where Rufus Flynn Lucy and Wyatt are undercover and for some reason Flynn and Lucy end up dancing and Rufus is just awkwardly watching them and trying to distract Wyatt from seeing it. And maybe Lucy and Flynn kiss and Wyatt sees?

Here you go Nonnie! Hope you enjoy!

The 70s is by far one of the most familiar decades Flynn’s ever visited, everything is almost recognisable to what it’ll be in his time. The clothes are a little garish for his tastes, with everything being just a little too bright. But it’s a comfort to see Wyatt and Rufus look just as uncomfortable in their ill-fitting suits as he does. Lucy on the other hand still manages to look beautiful in the little blue dress she’d managed to find. It really wasn’t fair.

They were currently in some bar, seeing that they wouldn’t actually be able to find the sleeper agent until the next day when Arthur Ashe was supposed to become the first black man to win Wimbledon. But they wouldn’t be able to find his would-be assassin until the next day when he was playing, so Rufus had the suggestion to kill time at a club. He thought it was a terrible idea, but Lucy had looked excited at the prospect, so himself and Wyatt begrudgingly agreed and followed the two silently as they giddily skipped along the street and into the first club they found.

The two of them sit giggling at something across the table, glancing in wonder at the people around them while Wyatt’s in the bathroom. This whole scene puts him a little on edge, there are too many people moving around at once and it’s so nosy that he can barely hear himself think. One of the only comforts is the cool metal of his gun that he can feel against his back from where’s its tucked into his waistband.

The gasp from Lucy is audible, even over the loud music, when the notes of the next song begin to play. And a small smile tugs at the corner of Flynn’s lips when he realises why, it’s Your Song By Elton John, one of her favourites. A small warmth settles in his chest when he realises why he knows that, it’s not from something he’s read in her journal, it’s something he knows from knowing her. She played it in loop last week, he’d heard it blaring through her earphones, and when he’d asked her why she kept on playing it, she’d rolled her eyes, told him that it was one of her favourite songs and that it fitted her current mood.

He drains the remainder of his scotch before he makes direct eye contact with her, nodding his head towards the dance floor. It takes her a minute to catch his meaning before she nods and says something to Rufus. They walk silently to the dance floor, her hand gently brushing against his as they move, he eventually finds the courage to take it and spins her into his embrace, his hands comfortably finding their way to her waist as they begin to sway to the beat.

She fits comfortably next to him, her heels making her just the right height for her hands to rest on his shoulders. Her waist his soft against his hands and he can imagine if he moves his thumb just a little, her breath would hitch as he almost brushes against her breast. But he doesn’t, not yet. They’ll have plenty of time for that later, he hopes.

“Why’d to ask me to dance?” She asks him, her forehead creasing in that adorable way that it does when she’s trying to solve some puzzle. It amuses him a little, that she thinks of him as something that she needs to figure out, to understand. And he wants to help, he wants to pull all of the pieces together for her, but he doesn’t know how. So he’s stuck with giving her the small pieces of him that his heart will allow.

“It’s your favourite song, you told me last week.” He watches as the touched look crosses her face, and he can practically see her barriers come down another inch. Feeling brave, he steps closer to her, so she has to tilt her head in order to see him properly, if not for the heels she would have to be lifted in order to rest her arms on his shoulders at all. “Why’d you say yes?”

That question catches Lucy off guard. Her mouth opens and closes once, twice as she looks away, flustered. After a moment, her eyes meet his and he feels her fingers gently twisting in the hair at the back of his neck. “I wanted to.”

Flynn feels his heart practically swell to burst in his chest and he can’t contain the grin that spreads across his face. He sees her grin back, the small blush rising to her cheeks as she bites the inside of her cheek and he thinks that nothing could bring his mood down right now.

Except that.

A movement at the bar above Lucy’s head catches his eye. It’s Emma – of all the goddamn clubs she had to come onto this one? His first instinct is to reach for his gun and he feels his grip tighten on Lucy’s waist as he resists it. She seems to be alone, so the sleeper isn’t with her and he can already feel the telling off he’ll get from the rest of them if he starts to open fire in a packed club, for surely if he did all hell would break loose.

Wyatt and Rufus can’t be seen from the bar at their table in the back corner, so if they can make it back over there, they can leave through the back exit and then wait for Emma to leave later to extract information from her. But the problem is that he can be seen very clearly from the bar, with his towering height. Flynn watches as she turns Emma turns her head, just a fraction, but its enough to make him panic and do the only thing he can think of.

He kisses Lucy.

He half expects her to push him away, but she grabs the lapels of his suit to draw him deeper into the kiss and his hands wrap around her waist and pull her closer of their own accord. It’s sweet and she tastes of the chocolate she’d been eating earlier and for a moment he loses himself. Nothing exists except the feel of her arms tugging him close – impossibly close – and the taste of her kiss.

Eventually, he snaps back to reality. He glances at the bar where Emma has vanished, but a quick glance over his shoulder and he see’s her enter the bathroom, unaware of their presence. They had to move quickly.

But he continues to stare at Lucy, unable to fathom words as she beams up at him, seemingly pretty okay with what happened, more than okay in fact. They have to move, to get to safety.

But just for a moment, he smiles back.

Rufus has been acting weird ever since Wyatt came back from the bathroom. He won’t give him straight answers. One minute Flynn and Lucy are in the bathroom - separate bathrooms, something Rufus felt the need to emphasise for an unknown reason -  and the next they’ve gone outside to get some fresh air. If his mumbled story wasn’t weird enough, the fact that he keeps on pushing drinks on Wyatt is.

Whatever, he just wanted to find Lucy so they could leave and find somewhere to sleep. Flynn had been getting on his nerves with snide comments the whole damn day and he just wants to find somewhere where he can put a locked door between them and get some quiet.

He glances around him, the soldier in him never allowing his guard down, especially when they’re on missions. He’s extremely thankful for his training because  its kept Lucy – and Rufus – safe on several occasions and his observations skills are always something that he likes to use to his advantage.

He’d been thankful for them, until now, when he sees Flynn kiss Lucy on the dancefloor and worse, as she pulls him in closer. It’s like watching a car crash into you, knowing that it’s going to upend your whole world but you can’t look away as the headlights come so close they blind you until all you see is black. He feels his fists clench and his nails dig painfully into the palm of his hand, except it’s not painful at all because nothing could be as painful as the sight he sees before him.

Wyatt isn’t even aware of when he gets up and moves closer to the dancefloor, but he does.

Flynn’s still trying to pull himself together but it’s a little hard with Lucy smiling at him like that, and he really wants to kiss her again, to feel her tug him closer. But he has to focus before Emma sees them and all hell breaks loose.

He glances up to see Wyatt Logan marching towards them, with steel in his eyes and his jaw set.

Perhaps all hell was about to break loose anyway.

[qqueenofhades]

the tangled web of fate we weave: xi

because i literally can.not stand to work on my damn dissertation any more so... here we are. this chapter is close to 12k because i have no self control.

tumblr’s formatting still sucks and is a dumb so yes, carry on.

part x/AO3.

Wyatt Logan learns he is in trouble the way most busted husbands learn they are in trouble: his phone starts buzzing up a storm, falls off the side table, and when he gropes at it and picks it up, the first three words he sees are “Jess cell” and “TALK.” This is a combination to strike terror into any unsuspecting man’s heart, especially when he’s not quite certain what he did – what else, that is. He’s been in San Francisco for the last several days, he didn’t come home on Sunday like he promised, but he had a nice floral arrangement sent as an apology, and he’s gotten weirdly involved in this Rittenhouse hunt. For instance, he’s pretty sure that Bam-Bam’s dad is in it. Whether Bam-Bam knows about that is another question, as he seemed genuinely blank on it and Wyatt has known him long enough to be sure that he’s not that good a liar. But this means that there’s an operative in Rick Baumgardner’s swanky, high-powered law firm, and the operative’s son in Delta Force, which fits with the emerging pattern that Wyatt is discovering. Tons of important and well-connected people, embedded in just about every relevant government and military department – not necessarily pulling strings, but those strings aren’t far away if they feel like venturing a tug. Wyatt thought Flynn was crazy (frankly, the jury’s still out) but he’s not making this up. This is serious.

Wyatt’s valiant detective work, however, is currently of secondary importance. Still bleary-eyed, he swipes at his phone, then stares as a photo pops up in a text message. It’s him, out to dinner on Saturday night with Emma Whitmore, at the exact moment he was leaning in to hear her better. Unfortunately, from the angle of whatever vigilante mystery diner snapped the photo, it looks an awful lot like he’s leaning in for a kiss. He can almost, therefore, understand the string of angry texts from his wife. She sent the first one six hours ago. Uh-oh.

Sleepiness evaporated, Wyatt sits bolt upright and hits Call. He sags back against the hotel pillows as it rings, running a hand over his sandy stubble and cursing. He probably should have seen this coming, but – how did someone just happen to get hold of that picture and Jessica’s number, was there some old school friend who recognized him and decided to get the lowdown on the garden-variety dirtbag husband – but that’s not Wyatt, that’s not what happened, that’s not –

“Hello?”

Wyatt winces. It’s Jessica, and she definitely saw the caller ID. “Hey. Uh. You have a minute?”

“Do I have a minute? I’m the one who’s been texting you for six hours! By definition, I have had three hundred and sixty minutes! How about you, Wyatt? You have a minute to tell me what’s going on? Now that’s a question.”

“Jess, just – it’s not what it looks like, it was a business dinner. You don’t have to get so – ”

“Wow, so it’s the not what it looks like and women, so emotional! cards right out of the gate?” Jessica sounds even angrier. “Want to just go for the nothing happened, I swear and make it a trifecta?”

“Nothing did happen, it’s not – Jess, just let me explain, it – ”

“You stand there glaring and harrumphing whenever I talk to any guy – including my boss, that one time – and all of a sudden, I’m the irrational one when, after weeks of you vanishing and ducking out the back door, I get a mysterious text with a picture of you practically jumping down some glam redhead’s throat? If there – if there was someone you met overseas, and now you’re trying to keep it up now that you’re home, Wyatt, just – ”

“Jess! Jessica! I’m not cheating on you, Jesus!” Despite the fact that this is the truth, Wyatt is aware of a small voice in the back of his head, which is yelling, YOU BLOWING IT, SON. Getting angry is not his prerogative in this situation; it does look bad. “I told you, it’s for the investigation, her name’s Emma. It was just to – ”

“Yes,” Jessica says. “The investigation? The one you assured me you were still on? So I’m guessing you have another dazzling explanation for why Pendleton called the house yesterday and wanted to know where you were, since you got reassigned three weeks ago?”

Son of a bitch. Wyatt should likewise have seen that coming, but he figured they’d call him on his cell first. He has done the usual check-ins, but he hasn’t told them what he’s doing, and he may have missed the last several days, since he doesn’t think it’s a great idea to go straight from investigating a shady cult to waving beacons at the government. “Look, I – fine, some parts of it are. . . it’s complicated, but I swear, I swear, nothing happened. It was not a date. She was asking me about another guy, she wanted his number. She’s trying to get out of a bad situation, I wanted to help. That is the whole story.”

Once again, he can hear Jessica breathing but not answering, taking her time about it. Finally she says, “I’m not even sure I care at this point, honestly. We have barely had a real marriage in – who knows how long. Since at least the last deployment. I don’t want to be that nagging wife insisting you stay at home, but God, Wyatt. I’ve given you the world’s longest leash, a favor you have not returned, and you just keep lying, you keep dodging out, you – ” Her voice breaks, and she stops. He can hear her gulping, hand over her face.

Wyatt sits there feeling about two inches tall. He can’t even physically comfort her, if that was a thing she wanted right now, and he’s known all along that he was fucking this up, but kept justifying it in the name of the bigger picture. Which is not entirely inaccurate; Rittenhouse does seem to be a genuine threat. But the demands of the job, however valid, don’t always cover your ass when you’ve comprehensively fornicated the canine in the way he has, whether or not he meant to. He needs to get over himself, get off this case, and take a goddamn breath, before he hurts Jess any more. Platitudes and floral arrangements aren’t going to cut it. He needs to get home, or the next thing on the docket for them is divorce papers, and frankly, he’d probably deserve it.

“Listen,” Wyatt says at last. “I’m going to swing by Mason Industries and find Emma and see if I can get an explanation for this. Then I’m coming home right away. It’s a drive, I can’t get there immediately, but I should be back by tonight. You hear me? I promise.”

“Yeah.” Jessica sounds unutterably weary. “You’ve promised a lot, Wyatt. I suppose we’ll see if that extends to you turning up. I’ll leave dinner on. Surprise me.”

And with that, she hangs up.

Wyatt stares at the phone in his hand for a long moment, hoping he’ll feel better. He doesn’t. At last, he tosses it onto the nightstand and gets out of bed, heads to the bathroom, and bumbles through a half-assed shower. Wants to shave so he doesn’t look like a total mug, but doesn’t know if it’s the greatest idea to have something sharp near his throat, even (or especially) a Gillette three-blade Super Turbo Macho thing that Jessica bought him last Christmas. Mostly as a gag gift, but Wyatt likes it, all right. He finally manages a cursory scrape, only nicks himself twice, and dabs it off with toilet paper. Feels like the kid who ran away from home before he was old enough to properly shave, doing it for the first time in a dank truck stop bathroom that reeked of piss – but he’s fine. He’s not gonna spiral. He’s fine.

Wyatt pulls on his least wrinkled clothes and heads out. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to Emma when he finds her – she has no more control over the fact that someone snapped an apparently compromising photo than he does – but obviously, he is not thick enough to think it’s coincidence. Rittenhouse might still have someone on her, watching her closely, keeping an eye out for any attempts at desertion or making contact with an outside source. Was that a warning, the proverbial horse head in the bed, and the next time, Emma goes sleeping with the fishes? If nothing else, Wyatt needs to warn her.

He pulls into the parking lot at Mason Industries and talks himself inside with only a little extra effort. Asking for Emma Whitmore, however, he is told that she is not there. She didn’t come into work on Monday, and hasn’t been in for the rest of the week. There was some sort of notice. Personal time, or family emergency. Very sorry, that’s all we know.

Wyatt barely restrains himself from hitting the counter in frustration. It is mildly comforting to hear that Emma took the initiative in disappearing (at least that’s what it sounds like) rather than waiting around to be nabbed, but it still leaves him with no clue about where that is or why, or how that picture came to exist. Or is it all just some giant –

Right then, before Wyatt can entirely finish the thought or remember what it was going to be, the glass hall doors swish open, and Rufus The Tech Nerd makes his reappearance. He’s juggling a stack of papers that look to be covered in complicated mathematical gibberish (Wyatt failed ninth-grade algebra, don’t look at him) and muttering to himself, but he screeches to a halt when he sees Wyatt. “Wait. You again?”

“Yeah. Me.” Might as well own it, Wyatt thinks grimly. “We still haven’t actually properly met. My name’s Wyatt Logan.”

“Rufus Carlin.” Rufus shifts his armload of papers enough to free up a hand for a shake, which he offers politely, but still guardedly. Given what’s been going on around this place recently, Wyatt doesn’t blame him. “You here to interrogate Connor again?”

“No, actually, I’m not. That coworker of yours I met the other day, the two of you were running some kind of tests. Emma, Emma Whitmore. I need to talk to her.”

Rufus blinks. “Emma? She – ”

“Hasn’t been in? Yeah, I heard.”

“So you always just turn up at high-tech labs planning to go through the whole workforce for answers, is that it?” Rufus doesn’t look impressed. “Emma and I work together, but we’re not buddy-buddy, I can’t tell you where she is. I did hear someone talking about it, they just said that she was gone and it was important. So?”

Wyatt supposes that technically, this is understandable. He did give Emma Flynn’s phone number and tell her to talk to him, and if she’s jetted off in hopes of doing that, she might not know about the picture situation anyway. He could actually call Flynn, but can’t quite summon up the desire to do that. Instead he says, “Okay, all right. But you don’t have just a few seconds, do you? To talk?”

“Do you have a warrant?” Rufus shoots back. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Belatedly, Wyatt realizes that a white lawman coming in here and throwing his weight around, even more or less politely, to a black scientist isn’t a good look, as if he thinks that Rufus – despite his clearly staggering intellect and well-paid tech job – is just another “hoodie kid” he can lord it over with impunity. “Hey,” he says, more humbly. “There’s just some weird shit going down recently, I’ve kind of gotten mixed up in it, and once I get some things straight, I will disappear and never darken your doorstep again. Okay?”

Rufus eyes him as if to say that he holds probably multiple PhDs, Wyatt does not need to dumb it down for him, but finally shrugs, indicating the papers. “I was just on my way out to bring these over to the guy who’s taking them to the JPL. So this isn’t a – ”

“Where are you headed?” Wyatt asks. “I’ll give you a ride.”

“And I really think it’s a great idea to get into a car with you?”

“Fair. But I – ” Wyatt struggles to think of one genuinely decent reason that Rufus, in fact, should. “It’ll save you gas money?”

Rufus almost looks amused, despite himself. Then finally, he shrugs. “The office is in San Jose,” he says. “Just a second, let me tell someone where I’m going and who I’m going with, in case I don’t come back.”

Wyatt raises an eyebrow, but wisely holds his tongue as Rufus goes off, then returns a few minutes later, tucking something into his pocket. “Fine. Let’s go. If you’re going to kill me, at least don’t play Motley Crue. Or Kid Rock. I’m not dying listening to that.”

“I’m not going to kill you, honestly.” Wyatt leads the way out to the parking lot and hits the clicker to unlock his truck, momentarily hoping that nobody has planted a pipe bomb under it while he was inside. It wasn’t that long, but it feels like that kind of day. Hoping to make friendly small talk, he adds, “These are going to the JPL?”

“Jet Propulsion Laboratory,” Rufus says. “In Pasadena. They do a lot of work for NASA. Us too.” He shrugs. “The Star Wars nerd in me still has a tiny inner meltdown coming to work every day, and I’ve had this job since I graduated from MIT.”

“Nice.” Wyatt glances at him; Rufus can’t be much older than he is. Maybe even a year younger. “I’m guessing you finished high school when you were what, fifteen?”

“Fourteen.” Rufus can’t quite keep the tinge of pride out of his voice. “Then computational science and engineering, and physics, all the way through. I’ve worked here for two years, but I’ve known Connor since I was in middle school. I owe him a lot.”

That’s clearly a veiled warning that he’s not going to be induced to turn on his boss, if Wyatt was thinking of squeezing him for more information. Wyatt’s not, though he is feeling decidedly intellectually outclassed. Technically, he’s not a high school dropout – he did his GED when he was twenty-one, and took a few classes at community college between postings. Plus he’s trained as an Army language specialist; he speaks four (Spanish, German, Urdu, and he can just about scrape by in Arabic). That, however, is definitely not on the same level, but he starts the truck and pulls out without anything exploding. Following Rufus’s instructions, he heads for 101 and merges onto the highway.

They’ve been driving for about ten minutes when Wyatt becomes increasingly aware that the black car two or three lengths behind them has taken every turn they have. That is not terribly suspicious – this is a major thoroughfare, and it’s Silicon Valley, black cars are everywhere – but Wyatt, for obvious reasons, is sensitive to the possibility of being followed. Just to be sure, he makes a few quick lane changes, cutting deftly in and out of the heavy flow of midmorning traffic. A pause, then the black car makes them too.

Wyatt’s pulse starts to pick up. This is obviously no place for a car chase, in the middle of a throng of civilian commuters, but he also doesn’t want to keep tooling on as if he hasn’t noticed anything. He keeps an eye on the freeway exits, speeds up, and throws them into a small break in traffic, abrupt enough to catch them both against their seatbelts. Been a while since he had to really bust out some moves. That is definitely a bad thing, not a good one.

“Dude!” Rufus yelps, as they take the exit ramp a great deal faster than recommended. “What the hell are you doing? It’s not for another three exits, and all of a sudden, I’m riding shotgun with Vin Diesel? I knew this was a bad idea!”

“Sorry,” Wyatt says tensely. “There’s some guys tailing us.”

Rufus twists around in his seat as if to look, but the black car has, for the moment, vanished. Or maybe it hasn’t; Wyatt didn’t get a good look at the license plate, after all, and there are several black cars presently behind them. He switches sharply out of a stalled queue at the off-ramp traffic light, gets honked at, and accelerates into the right lane. Fuck. He’s pretty sure that one there, coming down the pike, is their pursuers, and nips through a very dark yellow turn arrow, but not entirely fast enough to avoid notice. The mystery car is solidly in his rearview mirror, and a nice suburban avenue, with traffic lights at every intersection, is an even worse place for high-speed vehicular escapades. Shit. Maybe he bailed on the highway too soon.

Nonetheless, Wyatt Logan is a man of action, and this is the action in front of him. As Rufus grabs onto his seat with both hands and squeaks something that sounds like, “What the fuck,” they peel down Scott Boulevard, adroitly dodge a car coming out of a hidden drive, and push it as close as they can with the lights without outright running them. Wyatt can’t help the surge of adrenaline that pulses through him, almost tempted to whoop, though he’s very sure Rufus would not appreciate it. And if some yuppie in a Prius calls the cops to report some tool in a truck driving like, well, a tool, he will shortly not be in a whooping mood.

It takes a few more minutes of pretty fancy driving (if Wyatt says so himself) but they finally take several turns without the car reappearing. He’s pretty sure he can get into San Jose from here, even if Rufus is loosening his grip one finger at a time. Again he says, “The hell?”

“Sorry. I – used to drive a lot.”

“That’s not even what I meant. We just drag-raced through Santa Clara, and you’re – ”

“Look,” Wyatt says, finally daring to take his attention off the road for more than two seconds. “I told you there was some shit going down, remember?”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t realize that was the car-chase kind of shit!” Rufus glances edgily over his shoulder again. “How about you drop me off in San Jose, and I’ll just. . . call someone at the lab for a ride back to work, huh?”

Wyatt has to admit that he would probably want to do the same thing in Rufus’ position. There is not much talk for the next few minutes as he finds his way to the generic office complex where Rufus is dropping off the papers, turns in, and parks. As they pop their seatbelts with some relief, Wyatt says, “Hey, I’ll walk you in, all right? Just in case.”

Rufus opens his mouth, considers, apparently decides it can’t hurt, and nods, if grudgingly. They get out, enter the complex, and head upstairs, where Rufus finds where he’s supposed to go, dispatches the papers, and chats briefly with his JPL contact before they leave. It’s all very science-y and incomprehensible to Wyatt, but he can tell that Rufus lights up around it the way Wyatt himself does around cars, and has a moment of wishing they could be friends, despite the awkwardness of the situation. He doesn’t have any who aren’t also old squad mates, and it’s been a long time since he’s seen most of them. Don’t really keep in touch when they aren’t on deployment. You trust the guy in the foxhole next to you, but you don’t always kick back and order pizza and do the dude equivalent of braiding each other’s hair, either. And in a branch of the service like Delta Force, your buddies are a lot more ephemeral than jarheads who’ve been in the same platoon since the Flood. They get reassigned, they take different postings, they die. A lot of the time, you never even know.

Wyatt shakes his head, reminds himself that he still needs to get this over with and go home to his well-deserved chewing out from Jess. He offers to walk Rufus back and wait with him until his ride arrives, though he’s not sure if this is counterproductive in terms of getting Rufus away from him. Or if it’s just a question of –

They emerge into the parking lot, and stop short.

The black car that Wyatt was congratulating himself on escaping is parked next to his truck, and several men in suits are leaning against it. Two of them are clearly security, built like linebackers, and the third looks like the genial silver-haired man in prostate medication ads. (Wyatt just feels that’s how anyone would describe him.) He glances at them, still frozen in their tracks, and smiles. “That was some very impressive driving earlier, Mr. Logan.”

If there is a creepier way in all of existence to open a conversation, Wyatt doesn’t want to hear it. He has automatically reached into his jacket for his gun, but if he pulls it out, Thing 1 and Thing 2 are going to do the same, and that can’t go well. “I’m sorry, and you are. . .?”

“Cahill,” Prostate Medication Man says. “My name’s Cahill. Hello, Rufus.”

Rufus opens and shuts his mouth, throwing Wyatt a deeply betrayed look. Wyatt mouths I’m not with them, which he hoped was obvious from the Fast-and-Furiousing it, but he can’t blame Rufus for a little confusion. He has a very bad feeling that he knows exactly where they are from, but he takes half a sideways step toward Rufus, preparing to shield him if necessary. It’s only the fair thing. Rufus would not be in this situation (or would he?) if not of Wyatt, and he’s not going to let Rufus’s pessimistic (but possibly accurate) predictions of getting murdered come to pass. This is ridiculous.

That, however, does not have any bearing on whether or not it’s happening, and Rufus looks shaken and afraid. “Mr. – Mr. Cahill, sir. I work at Mason Industries, you can phone Connor Mason right now and he’ll send someone to prove it, I’ll give you his – ”

Cahill waves a hand. “Of course you work at Mason Industries. That’s why I’m here. You see, Rufus, I just need to make sure. Did you hand off those equations exactly as you received them, no alterations, no deletions? You – ” he glances at Wyatt – “you didn’t attempt to change or interfere with them in any way?”

“What the hell? No, I gave Rufus a ride over, I didn’t – ”

“You went to some effort to shake us, though.”

“I’m a soldier. I have that reaction when someone starts tailing me.”

“You’re an employee of the federal government, Mr. Logan. So are we.” Cahill spreads his hands in what is clearly supposed to be a why-don’t-you-trust-me-man kind of way. “Unless you’ve also decided, like certain others, that your obligations are flexible?”

That definitely sounds like a trap, and Wyatt is quiet as he tries to think how to answer. Rufus clearly doesn’t dare to sass these clowns – being a little fresh with Wyatt in the safety of Mason Industries is one thing, but every black man knows what happens if you so much as look at an armed white man wrong, and even Wyatt feels half-intimidated, which doesn’t (or isn’t supposed to) happen. He obviously doesn’t want to bring up Emma in front of them, but it seems more than clear that they (and their friends) are the ones she wants to get away from. There’s a very awkward silence as they eye each other. Then Cahill says, “If that’s all the case, clearly you won’t mind me running up and checking that the calculations were submitted correctly. Rufus, we’ll give you a ride back to Mason Industries, so just – ”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Rufus says. “But I’d actually prefer to ride with Ranger Rick.”

Cahill smiles patronizingly. “Good to know you’re getting along – but I’d be careful of how much you do going forward.  You’re a smart young man with a bright future, Rufus. Don’t mess that up. Oh, and Mr. Logan. While I go up, I think my associates want to have a quick word. It shouldn’t take too long. Gentlemen?”

As Wyatt instantly prepares for being jumped, hesitates a split second too long in deciding whether to go for his gun – it’s a suburban office park, there are civilians everywhere, he can’t just let loose – the meatheads step forward, take firm hold of either arm, and escort him into the car, where he is immured on the patent leather seat. After that, with barely the preliminary of offering him a drink (which Wyatt is not a total moron and thus does not take) they do in fact proceed to have a chat. It’s a terrifying chat, but still. The gist of it is that they’re sure he’s a nice boy and nobody wants to make this difficult. He is going to go back to San Diego, make no report of this to anyone in Pendleton, and take up whatever ordinary new assignment they have for him. He is not to attempt to make contact with anyone whose recent actions might cause any question of his sincerity on this matter, or continue to insert himself into Mason Industries’ proprietary intellectual-property ventures. He can sign an affidavit right now swearing to all the above, or. . . well, it’s really preferable that he signs.

Wyatt listens with disbelief, then incredulity, then anger – and then, despite himself, some fear. NDAs and classified protocols and stuff you can’t talk about for years, or ever, is obviously par for the course in this job; he generally expects that most, if not all, of his missions will remain officially off the books for the entire duration of his service and well after his retirement. But he knows how that works, and it entails letting him in on the secret first. This clearly is not what the brute squad came here to do. If he disobeys, he’s going somewhere the law can’t help him. Or worse.

“Look,” Wyatt says. “This is a little much, don’t you think? We’re all coworkers here, in a way. Like your boss says, all on the same side. You don’t have to – ”

“You married, Mr. Logan?”

“What?” Wyatt stares at Thing 1. “Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Yes.” He thinks of Jess, waiting for him to get home and not really believing he will. “Not that I see what that has to do with – ”

“Any kids?”

“No,” Wyatt says, slower. “Maybe, you know. One day.”

“If that’s the case, Mr. Logan, you want to sign.” Thing 2 slides a sheet of paper toward him. “Better for you and whatever family you’re thinking of having. Trust us here.”

Wyatt doesn’t see a way out of this car – at least any good one – if he doesn’t. He accepts the offered pen and scribbles illegibly where indicated; he’s heard of cases where people got out of ill-advised signing decisions because the prosecutor couldn’t prove it was their name on the damn thing. This done, the goons seem satisfied, at least for now, and tell him to head on home. They’ll handle Rufus. Everything will be fine.

“You just – ” Wyatt can’t punch them, much as he would like to, but he pins them with a searing look. “You just take him back to work and leave him alone, all right? He’s just a geek doing his job, he – don’t mess him up in this.”

The goons exchange an amused look, as if they’ll agree that they know something he doesn’t. Then Thing 1 says, “As long as Rufus keeps on living his life as normal, he has nothing to worry about. You have a good drive home, Mr. Logan.”

Wyatt is almost sure that that means they’ll be keeping tabs on him somehow to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere else en route, and likewise quite sure that he knew who took the picture of him and Emma. Probably sent it to Jessica as an opening shot across the bow. He waits until they open the door (the car does not have regular inside handles) and stumbles back out, just in time to see Cahill emerging from the office complex and looking pleased; evidently he has satisfied himself that there was no funny business with the equations submitted to the JPL. Rufus has shrunk back against Wyatt’s truck, and shoots him a desperate look, as if to acknowledge that he was not his biggest fan this morning, but now would really appreciate it if Wyatt would not leave him alone with these lunatics. Frankly, Wyatt does not want to, but it’s also clear that he is not going to be given a choice. He mouths sorry at Rufus several times, opens the driver side door, and gets in.

It takes him a moment to put the truck in gear. His hands feel cold and uncooperative, there is slime down his spine and an unpleasant lump in his gut. He doesn’t want to be meekly rolling out of here, tail between his legs, and yet somehow, he is. If this is Rittenhouse, and it seems beyond any doubt that it is, they have not, not in the least degree, come to play.

It is a very long drive home.

Lucy wakes up slowly, surfacing from a repeated roundabout of uneasy dreams, in that split-second state of total disorientation that she has had far too often recently. The light is an indeterminate grey, reflecting through her closed eyelids, and she can feel the stall before her brain belatedly re-engages and the events of the past twenty-four hours return in nauseating detail. She lies very still, as if hoping that they will get bored and go away, but of course, it’s too late. She’s here, they already happened, and Flynn –

At that, Lucy opens her eyes with a start. Despite the turbulence of her mental situation, her physical one is – for the moment – actually rather comfortable. She’s tucked into Flynn’s side like a shrimp, head half on his shoulder and half on the pillow, her arm draped over his stomach and moving with the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Their legs are entangled beneath the quilts, her knee between his thighs, and for once, if only since he’s fast asleep, he has abandoned his efforts to put as much space between them as possible. His left arm is wrapped around her shoulders, cradling her into him, and his right is resting atop the covers, as if he made sure to leave it free if sudden gun-grabbing should be called for. He clearly is not discounting the possibility, but – at least for now – the early morning is still and quiet.

Lucy lets out a long breath, fingers sketching lightly across Flynn’s broad chest. She doesn’t want to wake him, especially since he could probably use the rest even more than her, but she also can’t quite bring herself not to touch him, as if there is space and time and distance that needs to be made up, and she’s not sure how much longer she has to do so. She drifts the tips of her fingers over his solar plexus, careful about his wounded shoulder. The bruising looks uglier this morning, from where Millerson and Vincent hit him. Are they going to walk down for breakfast and find Emma lurking behind the bagels? How are they getting out of here?

Those are pressing questions, and now that she’s awake, Lucy can’t fend them off, but she still wants to try to hold onto this moment, in whatever small part of it she can get. She glances down at Flynn again. Even in sleep, he does not look relaxed, a grim line drawing his dark brows together as if his dreams are not pleasant either. She is taken by an odd urge to kiss it, to smooth it away. He’d likely wake up and do something else to prevent it, but still.

Lucy cautiously edges closer, moving her knee to the other side of his hip and swinging half atop him. She isn’t going to do anything too forward – he, after all, is unaware, she isn’t going to be creepy about this or ignore the fact that he can’t presently say yes or no – but she still wants to be closer, to press and shape them together, to take comfort, however fleeting, in his sheer solidness. After the fact that her entire world has turned to quicksand and shattered glass, there’s something deeply appealing about it. Yes, Flynn himself was responsible for a good part of that destabilization, but he’s also been trying just as hard to hold it together for her, in his take-no-prisoners, give-no-fucks kind of way. And it’s Rittenhouse that’s really done most of it. Flynn, for all his faults (and they are many), has been trying to protect her. Lucy is certain beyond any remaining doubt that as long as it is remotely in his power, he will keep her safe, and that is no small thing.

She hesitates, then traces her fingers over the grooves on either side of his mouth. He shifts and sighs, but doesn’t quite wake up, and she pulls her hand back. She settles back down next to him, unable to avoid the thought that it feels nice, lying here together. This is clearly not the time to investigate whether it could become a recurring arrangement, especially since she still has very little faith in his ability not to torch himself all over again. Who knows.

Lucy lies there until she has to regretfully disentangle herself from his arm and get up to pee. When she returns from the bathroom, Flynn is awake, sitting half up and looking around as if the one thing to summon him back to the land of the living was the sensation of her going missing from his side. When he sees her, he blows out a breath and tries to disguise it. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Lucy coughs. “Not Rittenhouse.”

Flynn answers with a grunt, sitting the rest of the way up and running a hand through his hair. He glances at the clock, then gets up right away to recon the parking lot, which is unchanged except for the crappy old RV. His face darkens. “I should take a look at that.”

“If Rittenhouse was here, don’t you think they’d have tried to case the rooms already?” Lucy isn’t sure, but she doesn’t want him going down alone. “Or at least – ”

“Who knows?” Flynn points out. “Less chance of a scene if they can just pull out and grab us once we leave, rather than breaking down everyone’s doors. Stay here, I’ll be back.”

With that, he clicks a fresh magazine into his gun, puts on his shoes, and goes out of the motel room, as Lucy watches very tensely. The last thing Flynn needs is more perforations in vulnerable regions, and she sees him emerge, stroll over to the RV, and rap briskly on the window. It takes a few moments to be answered, but finally, it turns out that the occupants of the RV are not elite undercover secret agents, but a dreadlocked young hippie couple who, to judge from the way Flynn’s nose wrinkles, absolutely reek of pot. Flynn proceeds to have a little chat with them. The male hippie seems to be apologizing profusely. They go back into the RV and emerge with a pair of hiking backpacks and a dog, give something to Flynn, and hoof it down the drive, out of sight beyond the trees. Flynn watches them with a malevolent expression, waits several minutes, then finally turns around and comes back up to the room, where he tosses an also vaguely-cannabis-scented keyring at Lucy. “It looks like it’s the piece of shit for us after all.”

“What did you – I thought you said it wasn’t worth stealing?”

“It isn’t,” Flynn says disparagingly. “Not in the least. But beggars can’t be choosers, and at least I could easily convince them not to file a police report or talk to anyone about it. If I had to go to the effort of actually stealing a car from someone who didn’t want to give it up, well…” He pauses, then shrugs. “Things could get unpleasant.”

Lucy decides she probably really does not want to know if he’s talking about carjacking and murder, which it sounds like he is. “So what, just told them to give you the RV and you wouldn’t tell anyone about the pot and illegal camping?”

“Something like that.” Flynn does not seem terribly concerned that they have now inherited the mobile weed situation. Maybe they can get some Febreze. “We’ll take it as far as it will go, then figure out something else. Get dressed, Lucy, we should go.”

This is true, even if Lucy can’t help but wonder resignedly what happened to the soft, gentle, worried caretaker of last night. Probably woke up and was aghast at himself for slipping. Or knows this is going to end with them separated again, and thinks he’ll make it easier if she wants to see the back of him. Push her away pre-emptively, so she doesn’t miss him when he’s gone. It’s the sort of garbage logic that probably appeals to him.

They don’t want to stay longer than necessary, so they eat the last few stale bread rolls and figure they’ll find something more substantial later. Then they head down and climb into their fancy new ride, which has a broken gas gauge and bits of yellowed stuffing exploding through the cracked faux-leather seats. The kitchen is clearly from the seventies, the bed is the size of a cupboard, Flynn cannot stand up even close to straight, and there’s dog hair on everything, as well as the lingering atmospheric aura of eau de ganja. Lucy opens the windows, trying to air it out and not breathe too deeply, as Flynn jiggles the gauge and tries to get it to tell how much he has before he has to find a service station. He finally guesses there’s a little under a quarter of a tank, and this beast probably does not get great mileage. Clearly thinking that it would have been worth it to kill a businessman and steal his Mercedes (though this is not the kind of place that attracts businessmen with Mercedes) he growls under his breath, puts it into gear, and swings out.

They rattle down the road, passing the hippies standing with their thumbs out in hopes of hitchhiking. Lucy wonders suddenly if Rittenhouse will come by and pick them up, if they will tell them who jacked their RV – has Flynn thought of that? She would be a fool to doubt it, but… it’s a horrible thing to consider, but should they have left them alive? Maybe someone would realize they were missing, but if they were just out here wandering, not for a while.

Lucy pushes it aside and returns to the passenger seat, and they drive until they hit the junction for I-87 and the main route up to the Catskills. There is a Wal-Mart mega center here, as Lucy thinks wryly that yet again, Wal-Mart to the rescue. Flynn pulls into the gas station to fill up the tank, but then drives over to the main store parking lot and beckons Lucy out. “I think we need to get you a gun.”

Lucy opens her mouth, then shuts it, then opens it again, then shuts it once more. Of course, you can in fact just walk into Wal-Mart and buy a gun from the sporting goods counter, especially in upstate New York – which, while it might not be libertarian-paradise-rural-survivalist Maine, still has plenty of that mentality in places, especially not far from the military academy. She doesn’t want it and she wants to think she won’t need it, but she also can’t say it’s wrong. “I – ” she says. “I don’t – are you sure that’s really – ”

“I’ll teach you how to use it,” Flynn says. “And I obviously would prefer that you didn’t have to. But I think it’s time you did.”

Lucy does not have a substantial denial for this, and they walk inside. Go to the gun counter, Flynn says his wife wants to look at something compact and sporty (Lucy notices how comfortable both of them have gotten with that lie, just comes naturally to their tongues now) and the salesman pulls out a few options. Lucy picks them up carefully; they all feel alien and heavy and wrong in her hand. She lies – too easily – about having something mainly for target shooting (well, this isn’t wrong, she will possibly be shooting at targets, just not the one the salesman thinks). Then the salesman asks if she has her pistol permit, if she’s an in-state resident, and since the answers to both these questions are no, they have to politely thank him for his time and bow out. Gun laws actually working for once. Mirabile visu.

Still, Flynn does not intend to be thwarted, and since upstate New York generally has a lot more slide in its handgun licensing requirements than NYC, he figures there has to be another private gun store around here, because a) hunting country and b) America. There is, and it isn’t totally straightforward, but he manages to convince the owner that the license is in the pipeline and that (with a quick flash of his NSA ID) it would really be a good idea for him to sell. This is a risky strategy, because the guy is as likely to hate the government as to obey, but he decides he does not want the hassle. He supports women being armed too. He’s a feminist.

Lucy manages not to visibly roll her eyes at this, but they finally pick out a smallish handgun that she can hold comfortably. They buy a few clips for it, Flynn gives her a lecture on the various types of ammunition, the bore differences, don’t put the wrong size bullet in, etc. etc. He goes over the basic firearm rules – always assume it’s loaded, don’t ever point it at a person (or animal) unless prepared to shoot, keep it secured when you don’t have direct control of it, don’t loan it out, so on. Lucy feels as if this should be common sense, but she knows it’s not, and she does her best to listen attentively as she hands over her driver’s license, passes a five-minute background check, signs some paperwork, and is now the proud owner of her very own gun. American as apple pie.

She keeps looking at it as they get back into the RV. Opens the owner’s manual and carefully scrutinizes all the parts and pieces, still can’t imagine how she’d be comfortable toting this around as an everyday accessory (they had “For Him” camouflage gun cases, and “For Her” pink ones, because Heteronormative Gender Roles!) Finally, before she can stop herself, she says, “Where did you learn – where did you learn all this?”

Flynn glances briefly sidelong at her, with a grim smile. “How to shoot?”

“That, and just…” Lucy waves a hand. “All of it.”

Flynn takes his time about answering, until she briefly thinks he won’t. Then he says, “I enlisted in the Croatian army when I was fifteen. 1990. The Soviet Union was breaking up, there was the war for independence. After that, I just… kept doing it. There were stints in Chechnya, in Bosnia, in Kosovo. I was in Afghanistan after the ’01 invasion. Briefly in America, then Somalia in 2006. That was my last war. I joined the NSA after that. So.” He pauses, then shrugs, as if this is just like anyone’s CV. “I’ve had experience.”

Yes, Lucy thinks, he has. Got started as a fifteen-year-old boy, probably lying about his age because he looked older, to go shoot some Reds. If he’s been around the Balkans, he’s probably been constantly fighting in regional guerrilla wars, against the Russians, against the Serbs, in whatever populist uprising is at hand against the oppressive status quo. Maybe what he’s doing against Rittenhouse is not terribly different. She wants to ask what he was doing in San Francisco in March 2003, when he saved her life, but doesn’t expect she’d get an answer.

They drive steadily. Lucy sees a road marker for I-80 west, and then a “Welcome to Pennsylvania” sign not much later – apparently, they’re back. She can’t think that they’re going back to Penn, unless Flynn thinks those Nicholas Keynes files are really that vital – but the whole place must be on high lookout. “Where are we going?”

“The one and only Gambier, Ohio.” Flynn downshifts with a worrisome grinding sound. “You have a job to interview for, don’t you?”

Kenyon. God. Lucy legitimately almost forgot. She could hardly feel less prepared to waltz in there and present herself as a competent, trustworthy, well-put together adult, when she’s arriving in an ancient, pot-smelling RV with her not-really-boyfriend, an ex-NSA asset on the run from the evil organization that has tried to kidnap and/or kill both of them at least once. Is it really fair to Kenyon to turn up and act like she’s in a real position to take the job? Maybe she is, but she has no way of knowing for sure. Rittenhouse could just come barging around this campus, instead of Stanford’s.

They have just stopped for gas and some proper food in Altoona, Pennsylvania, and Flynn has been trying to figure out if that banging noise is going to get any worse, when they see blue lights in the mirror, a siren wails, and a Pennsylvania state trooper ushers them over onto the gravel shoulder. Flynn swears. “Hide the gun.”

Lucy thinks this should be obvious, even her own heart has picked up to a dangerous level. A traffic stop with at least two weapons in the car, a strong reek of marijuana, no registration or insurance (she digs in the glove box and comes up with an emissions report, failed, from 2004) and not a single clue who used to own the damn thing before them (did the hippies just reclaim it from the junkyard?) Flynn pulls out his Alexander Kovac passport and is clearly preparing to lean on the dumb foreign tourist card with all his might. They sit as tensely as statues while the trooper runs the plates. Finally, they hear crunching footsteps, he approaches the car, and Flynn obligingly rolls down the window. In a very thick German accent, he says, “Hallo?”

“Afternoon, sir, ma’am.” The trooper is your standard-issue, early-thirties beefy white guy with a blond buzzcut and a ranger hat. “Do you know why I’ve stopped you today?”

“It is because the… because the…” Flynn waves a hand as if he can’t think of the right English word and is hoping the trooper will supply it for him. “The… rule?”

“Your tags expired last October, and your tailpipe is smoking. Where are you folks from?”

“We’re visiting,” Lucy says, in the best French accent she can pull off at short notice. Altoona Allan here is not likely to be able to tell the difference. “From Europe. We have borrowed the campervan from our friends. There is a problem?”

The trooper sniffs the air. “You two been enjoying your visit to America, then?”

“Vas is dat mean?” Flynn blinks as innocently as a lamb. “I have here mein passport.” He hands it over. “Alexander Kovac.”

The trooper flips through it. “You have a U.S. or German driver’s license, Mr. Kovac?”

Flynn hesitates. He, after all, has several, but they all have different names on them. “I haff German license.”

“You have that license on you, Mr. Kovac?”

“Yes, yes, I do.” Flynn digs through his wallet for several minutes, looking first confused and then increasingly flustered. “Honey, where is my license? I had at airport, yes? When we rented car? I showed them then?”

“Where did you folks arrive in the country?”

“We flew into Philadelphia,” Lucy says, which is not a lie. She opens her own wallet and pulls out her luggage tags from the Philadelphia airport. “Yes?”

“Thank you, ma’am. You find that license, sir?”

“I – I haff it, I haff it just the other day.”

“All right, well. Just in case, sir, please step out of the vehicle.”

“Why is dat?” Flynn says, looking agitated. “This is – I have not done an error!”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Mr. Kovac. Do you have anything you would like to declare?”

“Declare?”

“Is there anything in the vehicle that I need to know about right now?”

“There is – there is just my wife. We are going to see, you know.” Flynn waves a hand. “Beautiful Pennsylvania.”

“I see. Please step out of the vehicle, slowly. Mrs. Kovac, stay where you are, please.”

Flynn considers. Lucy can see a muscle working in his jaw. Then he gets out of the RV and straightens up, whereupon it becomes apparent that he has several inches and a good fifteen pounds on the trooper. Not that she’s calculating the odds of him beating up a policeman, since that is the one thing definitely guaranteed to bring the wrath of Khan on their heads, but – well, she may be calculating the odds of him beating up a policeman. They eye each other up and down. Hopefully Flynn does not smell too noticeably of pot outside the confines of the driver’s seat. He’s clearly dearly wishing that he did in fact go for the Mercedes.

The officer insists on administering a pat-down, checks the passport again, and finally decides that they are clearly very clueless and should probably learn how things are done in the good ol’ U.S of A. But he gives them a ticket and tells them to get the tags updated, and that they should maybe check with their friends about the lifestyle choices they appear to be making. He has decided to let it go this time and not ruin their holiday, for which he clearly expects to be thanked. Flynn does so. Then he gets back into his cruiser, pulls off the shoulder, and drives away.

Flynn stands there until it’s certain that he’s gone, then marches back to the driver’s seat,  jerks the door open, and gets in, fuming. He plainly knows just as well as Lucy that they have had a very, very lucky escape, but it also raises the possibility of a repeat incident that may not have the same result. “I knew this piece of shit was more trouble than it was worth!”

“Hey.” Lucy reaches over to grab his hand. She has to hold on for a moment as well, to steady herself. “Let’s – let’s just keep going, all right?”

Flynn’s eyes flick from hers to their fingers. He lets out a slow sigh, then starts the engine again. He does not cease to mutter under his breath in a wide and colorful variety of vernaculars, but at least they get underway again. It’s another four and a half hours from here to Gambier, but neither of them feel like stopping. If their valiant chariot doesn’t just die on the spot. Lucy thinks briefly of Puff the Tragic Wagon, thinks of the sensation of plunging, the cold water rushing in, feeling it sink away beneath her even as Flynn hauled her to the surface. After that, aside from just doubling down on the history, she became very averse to risks, wouldn’t even go on those extreme-thrill roller coasters or anything like that. Nothing dangerous, nothing out of her control, nothing to make her think she’s still falling. Had a panic attack in public when it felt like a BART train she was riding had lost its brakes, was going to derail or worse. She doesn’t know when she’s felt more like that than now.

It’s getting dark by the time they finally plow into Gambier, which is a very small Midwestern-standard town; Kenyon is the main reason anyone comes here. They find a Comfort Inn and get a room, which has two beds this time. Lucy can’t help being somewhat disappointed. Not for any reason.

In any case, the topic doesn’t come up, because they eat dinner, sleep like the dead, and wake up the next morning in a vain attempt to look less like they feel. Lucy does her hair and makeup, Flynn shaves, and while they will be arriving in the worst vehicle in the history of vehicles, hopefully that won’t be the first thing the selection committee notices. As they step outside, Lucy notices that the RV’s expired New York plates have been changed for current Ohio ones, and raises an eyebrow at Flynn. “Just find those lying around?”

“No,” Flynn says. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

“You didn’t…?”

“If I killed someone, I promise, I would also have stolen his car.” Apparently not realizing that that is not a comforting statement, Flynn opens the passenger door for her with a slight, sarcastic bow. “Madame?”

Lucy rolls her eyes at him, but gets in. They drive to Kenyon campus and park, consult the directory, and bumble in the direction they need to go, until they find the history department. Lucy apologizes several times for turning up like this out of the blue, introduces herself, and asks if Professor So-and-so, who knows Dr. Underwood, has a spare moment this morning. Fortunately, it’s quiet, so she is taken through, shakes hands and makes more introductions. This is just an informal meet-and-greet, not a formal interview, but they want to know what sort of questions she has, what they can tell her about the position, etc. Standard stuff.

Lucy spends the morning more enjoyably than she has for a while, getting shown around the department and meeting her potential new colleagues. They are all very nice (it is the Midwest) and generously offer that her boyfriend can come too, if he wants. Flynn has been too busy keeping an eye on all windows and exits to pay much attention, but Lucy says quickly that he’s fine, though it’s true that she finds herself getting antsy when they have been out of each other’s sight for too long. But no way Rittenhouse can be here. Right?

Finally, they wrap things up, Lucy shakes everyone’s hands again, and they promise to be in contact very soon. She’s still feeling very good about herself as she and Flynn walk out; you would never know that she almost died two days ago, or whatever could have happened (she somehow doesn’t believe that Emma’s promise not to hurt her would have held out indefinitely). They were very impressed with her CV and her research background, the amount of teaching she’s already done, the various projects she has in the pipeline (she will probably complete a Lincoln monograph in a year or two, and has had three articles published). Likewise, Lucy can sense that it is possible for her to be very happy here. Gambier is a sleepy nowhere that would be a big change from Palo Alto, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. At least give it a try. It’s not tenure-track, she can leave in a few years if she hates it, but as a starter job, it could be much worse.

They get into the RV and billow back into town, where they get lunch, and Flynn decides that they are going to make the most of their terrible vacation by finding a shooting range and giving her some preliminary lessons. They stop at the motel to change into some more appropriate clothes and retrieve the guns, then drive around until they find one. Park, and head inside.

Lucy has been wondering what exactly the lessons will entail, if Flynn’s pedagogical method is just to light it up and deal with the consequences later, but he turns out to be a very precise and exacting teacher. Before they get anywhere near the actual shooting, he makes her load and unload the gun a dozen times, feel the difference between each, know how to click the magazine in and out and tell just by the weight if it’s armed or not. They’re using blanks for these first exercises, rather than live ammunition, but she has to treat it as if it is loaded and ready to kill at all times. Practice switching the safety on and off, likewise start to know if it is or not just by how it feels in her hand. Work on how to draw it without pointing it at anything you don’t want to point it at. How to grip it, what it feels like to fully pull the trigger. Practice that, a dozen more times. All right, now put it all together.

Lucy is not the world’s most physically coordinated or gifted individual, and this is not something that comes naturally to her, but she tries. At last, when she can do all this more or less without literally shooting herself in the foot, they get the bright orange ear protectors, go to one of the galleries, and set up. Flynn takes the pistol from her and nails half a dozen dead-center shots in about thirty seconds, either to test that it’s working or just to show off, then watches with an eagle eye as Lucy loads it properly for the first time. The ear protectors make it hard to communicate verbally, so he stands behind her and adjusts her arms and hands, sets her into a good stance, nudging her slightly here and there. Then he lets go, and nods.

Lucy raises the gun, tries not to think about doing this reflexively and shooting Millerson, and aims at the target. Her hands are oddly steady. Then she fires.

The gun kicks, even if not as much as a rifle would, and she takes half a step backward into Flynn. He steadies her, hands momentarily lingering at her waist, as they inspect the result; she at least hit the target, if nowhere near the center. He pronounces it acceptable for a first try with a brusque nod of his head, and beckons her to try again.

They’ve been working on the actual shooting part for thirty minutes or so, after the hour and a half of preliminaries, when another man comes in, takes out his ear protectors and his service weapon – looks cop or military, and very hopefully not a friend or employee of Pennsylvania law enforcement – and starts jacking in the rounds. It’s clear he’s good at it, and Lucy tells herself that it’s her imagination that his eyes periodically flicker sideways to them. Even if they are, that doesn’t mean it has a nefarious purpose – he could just feel bad for the guy trying to teach his girlfriend how to shoot, because women, etc. Maybe they are intruding on whatever fantasy he is imagining for himself. He’s not Rittenhouse, Rittenhouse can’t know that they’re here, or just what a shitbox of an RV they stole. Unless they picked up the hippies, and the hippies blabbed. Is that what happened? Is it?

Lucy is losing her focus, and Flynn likewise seems to be slightly edgy. They shoot a few more clips, but wrap it up, pay for their time, and head out. Hopefully not too quickly or suspiciously. Lucy is rattled, feels as if her momentary illusion of safety and isolation from the rest of the insanity has been destroyed, and can’t sit down when they get back to the motel room. She really just wants to go home. She just wants it to be over, to –

And just then, that’s when her phone rings.

It’s not Emma, which was her first, paranoid thought. It’s the dean at Kenyon. They were very impressed with her this morning, and of course there are still more formalities to go through, committees to rubber-stamp things, and so on. But if she wants the job as soon as she has the PhD in hand, they would be happy to extend a proper offer. Does she? Want it?

Lucy sits there frozen, briefly having forgotten how to breathe. It feels almost like another panic attack, though she doesn’t know why. Is she going to move from the beautiful, sunny Bay Area, her home, her roots, to Bumfuck, Ohio? Leave her mom and Amy and Stanford and everything she knows, to come out here alone and never know if the sharpshooting guy at the gun range was a secret Rittenhouse agent? Do that one thing – throw herself out into the void, into the ether, the reckless and  uncontrollable, that she’s avoided so steadfastly since the accident? This would be a huge change. She would have no support system. It feels too close to West Point and Rittenhouse’s black site there, even though it’s three states away. If so, what, bring Emma and her associated maniacs down on these nice Midwesterners? Can she do that? She feels like she’s going to throw up. Jesus, how can she possibly –

“Ms. Preston?” The dean sounds puzzled. “Are you still there?”

“I. . . I am.” Lucy takes a heaving breath. “I. . . thank you for your consideration. So much. But I – I just – right now, honestly, I – I don’t think it’s the right fit. It was – it was so nice to meet you all, and the position is wonderful, but – ”

Her throat closes. This is as close to her dream job as she is going to be offered – certainly just after graduation, possibly ever – and she is letting it slip through her fingers. She is just too scared, and Rittenhouse’s shadow has fallen over everything, and her mother’s face is in her head, looking disappointed. Lucy, she sighs. Of course you weren’t going to leave me?

“Ms. Preston?” the dean says again. “Would you like some time to think about it?”

“I. . .” Lucy’s fingers are cold and nerveless. “I just – I am so grateful, I am so grateful to you for meeting me so ad-hoc, and – and everything. I really am. I wish I could accept it, I wish it so much. But with how things are in my life right now, I’ve thought it over and. . .”

Flynn looks up with a start, as he has been checking something on his own phone, and frowns at her. Lucy shakes her head at him, barely manages to hold it together for the rest of the conversation, and finally hangs up. Then she leans forward and puts her face in her hands.

“Lucy?” Flynn gets to his feet. “What was that about? Why didn’t you take the job?”

Lucy doesn’t know if she can or wants to explain, or if the howl of misery forming in her chest is just going to come rushing up her throat. Flynn remains hovering for a moment more, then sits on the bed next to her, and very gingerly puts an arm around her shoulder. It’s as if he’s not entirely sure that this is a thing humans do in a situation where their friend is sad, like he’s just dressed up as one and is hoping nobody notices. But Lucy turns, takes hold of his shirt with both fists, and buries her face into his chest. She takes half a ragged breath, and – it’s this, it’s everything, it’s too much, too much – silently starts to cry.

Flynn holds her as if he is once more unsure if this is a thing people do with their arms, rather than using them for punching. He pats her back once or twice as if she’s a colicky baby, but for the most part, he just lets her get on with it, like being sick, knowing it’s been a long time coming and she’ll feel better once she’s done. Finally when she’s fallen more or less silent except for a hiccup or two, slumped against him, he says, “I thought you wanted it.”

“I d-did.” Lucy wipes her nose, snuffling. “I – I do. I do. But right now, how can I – how can I be here alone, how can I leave Mom and Amy and Stanford, how – with Rittenhouse probably just waiting for me to – I’d put the people at Kenyon in danger too, it’s just – it’s not going to work right now. It’s just not going to work.”

Flynn doesn’t answer except for a noncommittal humming noise. It’s unclear whether he agrees or disagrees with this line of reasoning. Then he says, “All right. Well. If that’s what you actually want, then. . .  we’ll drive to Columbus and get a flight back to San Francisco tomorrow. I don’t think you should shackle yourself to that bitch, but – ”

Lucy stares at him, aghast. “You’re talking about my mother. Who has cancer.”

Flynn looks briefly like he’s been caught with his trousers down, though she doesn’t know why. Then he shrugs. “You didn’t seem to be very fond of her either.”

“When did I say that?”

“Earlier,” Flynn says, though Lucy can’t think when they’ve ever talked about her mother in any detail. “Anyway, wherever you go, you need to keep up practice with that gun. We don’t know who will find you, or what they’ll – ”

“I need to keep up practice with that gun?” Lucy stares at him, brow wrinkled. “Am I mistaken, or does that sound like you don’t plan on being around to help?”

Flynn glances away. Finally he says, “You’re not the only one who’s been thinking about the future, about what needs to be done. Yes, I could go back and try to destroy the time machine, but you heard what Emma said. They still haven’t invented half the things they need. I can’t be sure that it would permanently stop them if I did it now, that I would take out anything close to what I need to. And even if I did destroy it, Rittenhouse would still be there, they would still be evil, they would still have Connor Mason and any of their marching myrmidons there to make more for them. I can’t stop them like that. It wouldn’t be enough.”

Lucy keeps staring at him. She isn’t sure entirely what he’s suggesting, but she doesn’t like it. “Garcia, what are you – ”

Flynn looks back at her levelly. “I need to know more,” he says, after a long moment. “About Rittenhouse, about how they got this capability, about what they’re going to do with it. And for what I need to do with that, it’s going to be very difficult for us to – well. To anything. So. I’m sorry, Lucy. But we may not see each other again for – a long time.”

“You. . .” Lucy feels punched. “So you’re what – going off the grid?”

“Something like that. Yes.” Flynn almost succeeds in sounding matter-of-fact. “I know how to live like this, what I need to do. You don’t. One day, we will work together, Lucy. You’ll see. But this, I need to do alone.”

“You – ” Lucy is half-tempted to say screw it, she’ll drop everything, she’ll come with him. But she doesn’t, as he says, have any experience of disappearing off the face of the earth, of conducting deep-cover intelligence operations for months, living on the run – the limited experience she has had of it already has been decidedly unpleasant. That’s the whole reason she turned down the Kenyon job – to return to the safe, settled embrace of Stanford and her mom’s house and her controllable, predictable life, not to fling it completely to the wind and go deep underground on this very dangerous mission. And yet. A tiny, painful part of her thinks it might not be so bad if it meant she got to stay with him.

Flynn sees the look on her face. He smiles sadly, and touches her chin with his thumb. “I told you not to give up history for a boy,” he says. “It doesn’t change now that I’m that boy.”

With that, he lowers his face to hers, and gently, lightly kisses her forehead, the most tender thing he has ever done to her, at least openly. His hand stays alongside her cheek, and Lucy turns her mouth up, all but begging him to kiss her properly, fuck it, even if it makes tomorrow even worse. His eyes drop to her lips, and she can see that there is no part of him that does not want to. Indeed, he clearly wants to do just that, and more. Would be entirely willing to throw tonight away and forget about the morning, just burn the consequences the way he often does, and consider it a parting gift. The air almost shivers. Their eyes remain locked. If she touched him now, he might snap, and then, better judgments or not, wise ideas completely aside and self-control out the window, it could happen anyway.

At last, with a visible swallow, Flynn pushes himself backward. There does not seem to be enough air in the room for both of them, and it is clearly impossible for them to touch, even in passing, without using up all of it. Lucy’s fingers claw out inadvertently after him, fall short. Her voice is caught in her throat. “Garcia – ”

“It’s better that we don’t, Lucy.” His face is turned away from her, profile half in light and half in shadow. “Not if I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Yet-frigging-again, Lucy can’t tell if this means that he would be totally unable to leave her, to commit himself to the long and lonely work of whatever he’s going to do to take down Rittenhouse, if he abandoned himself to a night of wild passion with her, or if it’s just a distraction he prefers to do without anyway. No sex the night before the big game (Lucy dated a second-string member of the Stanford Cardinal football team for six months as a freshman) or whatever. It’s true that she is still not in a good headspace, to say the least. That this likewise counts as the kind of bad decision she is dutifully trying to avoid. But – how?

(How does she let him go, how does she know what the world looks like now, how does this make sense, how is this bearable, how is he going to possibly do this – any or all of those.)

(How.)

Lucy stares at the ceiling, and listens to everything burn.

[ohnojustimagine]

Remote Control

Bray Wyatt/Reader/Braun Strowman 1775 words; Smut

This is set in the same universe as Ride Along but I don’t think you’d need to read that one first.

A lovely anon suggested this scenario, and I couldn’t get it out of my head!

***

They always like to get you good and warmed up before the three of you go out for the evening, but tonight, it seems, is one of those nights. One where they won’t be satisfied with kisses and licks and bites and fingers, with touching you until you beg for your frustration to be eased, but instead are going test your boundaries and take you right to the limit.

Because tonight, just as you’re about to leave, Braun grabs you, pulling you back against him, arms held tight, powerless in his grasp. And you’re almost instantly, helplessly wet as Bray kneels in front of you, lifting up your skirt, gently but firmly guiding your legs apart. He’s holding something, concealing it, but Braun loosely covers your eyes with his hand so you can’t see.

You’re not wearing panties, and Bray is touching you, pressing something foreign at your entrance, something hard and unyielding. You gasp, flinching, and Braun growls, “Relax.”

Bray pushes the object into you with thick, careful fingers, and you immediately recognize the feel, at once familiar and strange as it eases in. It’s a vibrator; the remote-controlled one, egg-shaped to rest comfortably inside you, pressed up against your g-spot. They haven’t used this on you in a while, but you haven’t forgotten the deliciously frustrating torture of having to keep it together in public while the thing works inside you, sending you over the edge while you can’t allow yourself any visibly overt reaction.

Fuck, you think, because yeah, they’re not playing tonight.

Braun releases you, and Bray’s on his feet, smiling at you. “We going to have some fun, baby girl?”

“Fun for you,” you say, pouting, but the two of them only chuckle, leading you out to the car.

You’re in Braun’s Jeep, the two of them up front with you in the back seat. They make sure you sit in the middle, so they can keep an eye on you, and you’re barely on the road before one of them turns on the vibrator. It’s on the lowest setting, you can tell, just enough to get you going but not enough to make you come. You breathe in, your pulse quickening as you shift a little, squeezing your thighs together, but Braun and Bray pay you no mind, talking between themselves as Braun drives.

You rest your hand casually at the hem of your skirt, wondering if they’ll notice if you sneak it between your legs, but before you can even begin to creep your fingers towards where you need them, you hear Braun’s voice.

“I hope you’re not thinking of touching yourself,” he says. “Because that would not be a good idea, sweetheart.” There’s a quiet threat in the words, and you hurriedly move your hands, clasping them in your lap.

“No,” you say. Sometimes they’ll encourage you to be bratty, disobedient, liking to punish you, but there’s no hint of playfulness in Braun’s tone. When they’re like this, serious about requiring your submission, you know you need to obey, however desperate you’re slowly becoming, the vibrator relentless inside you.

Braun parks the car in the street, not too far from your favorite steak place, then switches off the engine, looking back at you. Bray turns too, and you’re biting your lip, trying not to squirm as they both watch you; two sets of eyes shining with a focused, almost predatory hunger.

“Should we let her come now?” Braun says. “Or make her wait?”

Bray thinks for a long moment. “Maybe better now,” he says, adjusting the remote to what has to be the highest level, and oh god, you think, as your hips jerk up off the seat, because you’re not going to last, not like this, but you know you have to wait until they actually, specifically say it, that if you get off one second before they tell you, then that will be it for the evening, you won’t get any more.

Sometimes they’ll ignore you for days, won’t touch you at all if you slip up even once, and you want so much to be good, to give them what they ask of you but it’s so hard.

“Can I?” you ask, hopeful, but neither of them answer. Your hands curl into fists, and you dig your nails into your palms, trying to concentrate on the pain, distract yourself from your orgasm as you wait for permission, but you’re right on the precipice of it.

“You need it, don’t you?” Bray says, and you nod. The street’s not too busy, but there are people walking past the car, and though you know the windows are darkened, you have no idea how much they can see. You’re moaning, maybe too loud, too brazen, and you think you’re going to cry, but then Bray finally says, “Now.”

And you don’t even have to think, your body responding to his command before your brain has even processed the word, the orgasm so intense it leaves you gasping for air, trying desperately to come down. But there’s no chance, because they don’t turn off the vibrator, don’t even lower the setting, and they know how you get straight after, how sensitive you are, but then that’s the point, because they love to watch you helpless like this, trapped somewhere between raw pleasure and pain, ready to beg for mercy if you thought it would be granted.

You whimper, and tears prickle at your eyes, but then Bray relents, and the vibrator stills inside you.

“Good girl,” Braun says.

They both get out, and Braun opens the door beside you, taking your hand and helping you from the car. You’re still shaking, and he holds you for a few minutes, standing there, supporting you, arms around you as Bray rests his hand on your back, moving it gently until you calm.

“You hungry?” he asks.

You inhale a deep breath, and say, “Yeah, I am.”

The three of you sit in a booth at the restaurant, and you’re expecting them to activate the vibe while the waitress is taking your order, just for the enjoyment of seeing your discomfort and embarrassment, but nothing happens, and gradually you start to relax, at least for now. You talk, and you find yourself smiling, simply enjoying their company. You don’t ever get to spend as much time together as you’d like and the thing is, however much you love what Bray and Braun do to you, they’re also your best friends, and they make you laugh more than anyone you’ve ever met. The amazingly hot sex is a pretty big fucking bonus, yeah, but it’s not why you’re with them.

By the time you finish your meal, you’ve almost forgotten about what’s inside you, and you all wander out into the street, making your way a few blocks up to a bar where there’s a country blues band playing.

The music’s just starting, and Bray and Braun order shots at the bar. You swallow yours, shivering a little at the way it burns your throat, and you’ve just put your glass down when Bray switches on the vibrator. You jump slightly, startled, and they both laugh at you.

“You going to be able to behave yourself?” Braun asks.

You waver, because shit but it’s already too good. “I don’t know,” you admit.

“Well,” Bray says, grasping your wrist firmly as he leads you into the small crowd, “we’ll just have to make sure to keep you on a tight leash.”

You find a spot with a good view of the band, off to the side a little, close to the wall, where Braun won’t be blocking anyone’s line of sight. Bray stands beside you, and you lean back against Braun, pressing your body to his, sighing with happiness. Having already come once, the feeling of the vibe in your cunt isn’t so urgent this time, and for now you can just enjoy it, the pulse that’s getting you in just the right place, filling you with a warmth that spreads over your skin, sweet as honey.

The band is amazing, every song seeming to slide along over a lazy, sexy bassline and you close your eyes, hips moving in time with the beat, raising your arms, reaching up behind you to loop your hands around Braun’s thickly muscled neck. He caresses the underside of your upper arms, and bends low enough that he can lick your ear, wet, his breath hot, beard tickling your face. “They’re all watching you, baby,” he says, in that insanely deep, rumbling voice that never fails to drive you wild. “Every man in this bar wants to fuck you.”

You open your eyes, and yeah, there are definitely more than a few guys staring at you, a couple girls too, and you blush, despite yourself, but the pleasure is building inside you, and you’re not sure you care who sees it.

“My turn,” Bray says, taking your hand and pulling you towards him. He wraps his arms around your waist, sliding his hands into the top of your skirt, and for a second you think he’s going to finger you, right here in front of everyone, but instead he hooks his thumbs over the waistband, content to rest there, stroking your stomach.

And Braun must have the remote now, because suddenly the vibrations in your cunt quicken and intensify, and your arch your back in response, stifling a groan. You feel a drop of sweat inching its way down your spine, and you know what you must look like, practically writhing in rhythm with the music, but you’re so far gone, the throbbing at your core taking you higher.

“I want you to come for me,” Bray murmurs. “Give all these good people a nice show.”

You can’t breathe, and the lead singer of the band is growling out a long, low note as Bray whispers, “Now.” Heat flashes in front of your eyes as your orgasm shudders through you, and you bite your lip so hard you taste blood, struggling to contain the noises you want to make, Bray keeping you close as it passes over you.

And this time, to your relief, the vibrator is turned off immediately, and you fall against Bray, letting him hold you.

“You want us to take you home, darlin’?” Braun asks.

“Yes,” you say, because that’s all you want, right now.

“Yeah,” he agrees, soothing, but it’s only a moment before he adds, quieter, but probably not quiet enough, “Do you know how hard we’re going to fuck you?”

You let out a small, needy whine in reply, and Bray grins at you. “Come on, then,” he says.

[takadasaiko]

The Fallen Series: Mushy Cupcakes and Old Letters

FFN II AO3

Series Summary: One-shots following Robert Svane through his journey to becoming the Revenant Bobo Del Rey. Not written in chronological order. Pre-canon through current events in SyFy's Wynonna Earp.

One Shot Summary: No one seems to remember little Waverly Earps' birthday each year, so when she realizes that she's never celebrated Bobo's she decides to throw him a birthday party all by herself. Requested by an anon.

Mushy Cupcakes and Old Letters

She had told him to meet her in a different place that day, and who was he to deny his little angel something he could give? Her instructions had been left in the form of a map she had drawn herself that had been stuck between two crossed boards of the fence that marked the beginning of Earp land. It was done up in crayons and coloured pencils, but Bobo could make it out. Mostly. It wasn't like he didn't know every inch of Purgatory and the surrounding lands like the back of his hand at this point.

He found little Waverly Earp by a shallow stream, crouched by some rocks and setting something up. Her back was to him and she hadn't turned yet, so he made sure to put a little effort into ensuring his steps made enough noise to draw her attention.

The little girl turned as if on cue and her expression lit. "Bobo! You're early!"

"Should I come back?" he asked, catching a glimpse of what she was putting into place. It looked like little tea cups and saucers with… cakes? Maybe. There was definitely more icing than small cakes.

"It's okay," she told him and picked her way around a few rocks to grab him by one hand and pull him over. "Surprise! Happy birthday!"

Bobo stopped, tilting his head a little before he squatting down on his heels so that he was closer to her height. "It's not my birthday," he said after a long moment.

"But I don't know when it is," she told him, "and you haven't told me. What if I missed it? You'd think no one loved you."

She was watching him with those big eyes of hers and Bobo was struck, not for the first time, just how sweet and pure this little girl was. He found himself smiling very slightly, that odd sense of comfort that always crept up on him when he spent time with his little angel taking hold. "So you threw me a birthday party?"

"Yeah. I didn't know who your friends are, so it's just us. Is that okay?"

"That's perfect, Angel," he promised her and she beamed, pulling him back to his feet and the rest of the way to the little set up. She told him where to sit and he had a plate shoved in his hand almost immediately. "It's a little gooey," she warned him, her nose turned up.

"Are these left over from your birthday party?" he asked. It was just a couple days passed her sixth birthday. Maybe Ward had tried to bake, or one of the older girls.

"No, I made them myself in my Easy Bake Oven," she told him proudly, even though he had no idea what that meant. "Are they good?"

He took a bite and she hadn't been exaggerating. Definitely gooey.

Waverly giggled at the face he made and he was glad to see that it hadn't deterred her. She chattered away about the last few days, about going to school, and how a boy had been mean to her friend Chrissy on the playground but she had shown him. He listened to her go on and on, picking at the parts of the cupcake that had actually been baked through and finally dipping his pinky into the mush to try that as well out of curiosity.

"You still haven't told me about your birthday," he reminded her as she took a big scoop of the icing and shoved it in her mouth.

"Didn't have one."

His lips twitched downward. Ward had promised her a birthday party that would make up for missing last year's. Bobo didn't know a great deal about kids, but he learned quickly that they remembered promises made.

"Well," he drawled, "I brought you somethin' for it."

"A present?" the little girl asked, eyes lighting up at the prospect.

"Can't tell anyone."

"Nope! Promise! No one!"

He cracked a smile at the excitable look that had replaced the sad one and pulled an envelope from his inside pocket and handed it to her. "You said that you like history, right? That you're collecting things?" She had gone on and on a few weeks before about the history she was learning in school and how her family had made it into the history books. She had told him she was going to learn everything there was to know about the Earps, Purgatory, and everything connected to it. Now, though, as he handed the six-year-old her birthday present, Bobo had to wonder if he shouldn't have gotten her something else. Something more age-appropriate, even if he wasn't entirely sure what that would have been.

Waverly's eyes grew as she pulled a couple of old photos and an old letter out. "Wow! Are they really old?"

"Over a century. One hundred years," he specified. Well, she seemed excited at least.

"I know what a century is," Waverly told him proudly. "Are they famous people?"

"Not really. A few outlaws, mostly. Townsfolk."

"Where'd you get them?"

"I know a guy." And Levi knew better than to ask questions about what he wanted the photos for.

"What's the letter?"

That had been a little harder to part with, but if he were honest, he never should have kept it. It was a dangerous link. Even if Ward found her with it, it'd be safer than if one of the Revenants happened to stumble across it. "It's a letter written by Wyatt Earp. You said you wanted to know everything about him. Figured that'd be as good of a place to start as any."

"Wow!" Waverly breathed, suddenly holding the letter a little more carefully. "The Wyatt Earp?"

"The very same."

"How'dya get it?"

He smirked just a little. "I know a guy."

"You know a lot of guys."

"I do."

She stuck her nose close to the scrawling handwriting that Bobo had once known well. "Who's Robert?" she asked him, reading the name the letter was addressed to.

"A friend, I 'spose."

He watched as she nodded, her eyes scanning the old paper, and Bobo hoped that the small smear of very old blood wouldn't be recognizable to a six-year-old. "Oh! He's talking about Doc Holliday! I know who he is."

"Everybody knows who he is," Bobo grumbled and shook his head, hoping to distract her from what sounded like it was about to be a long info dump on everything she'd learned about one of the men he hated most in the world. Bobo didn't think he could take that that afternoon. "You like it?"

She set her new little treasures down carefully on a rock and stood so that she could wrap her arms around his neck, burying her nose in the fur collar of his coat. "I love it! Thank you thank you thank you!"

That drew a smile from him. "You'll keep 'em safe, right? Don't let your sisters tear it up."

"I promise I'll keep it safe." She stuck her little hand out and he chuckled as he shook it, the promise sealed between them before she sat back down to continue her exploration of the letter. They sat there together in silence, Bobo enjoying a few moments when he wasn't having to deal with the idiots he had to keep in line and Waverly going over her new presents. "These are a lot better than my mushy cupcakes," she told him after a few minutes.

"Nothing's better than your mushy cupcakes," he assured her.

"Bobo?"

"Yeah, Angel?" He looked down, finding her staring straight up at him from where she was leaned into his side.

"How old are you anyway? I didn't know how many candles to get, but I can know for next year."

"Sometimes you just stop counting," he murmured and she thought he was teasing her and giggled. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her into a hug. He wasn't sure how many more birthdays he'd get with her, but until Ward Earp found him out or Waverly started asking too many questions, he'd be there. Even when he couldn't be right there with her, he would always protect her. That was a promise he swore he'd stand by. His angel.

Notes: I now have a new head canon that Bobo helped Waverly start her collection of Purgatory history and I love this new head canon.

[littlerachelbee]

“home”

(This is totally a few hours late but shhhh it’s okay)

For the weekly challenge by officerparker. I kinda took the general idea of the prompt and ran with it. 

Under the cut. Warning for attempted non-con.

She should have known better.

Chasing Emma through time was even more trying than chasing Flynn had been, and Lucy could barely keep the days straight at this point. When Rufus had suggested they all grab a drink after coming back from their latest mission, Lucy had immediately agreed, needing some alcohol in her system after spending far too long in a small closet eavesdropping on Emma's conversations, pressed up against Wyatt.

They followed Emma, unbeknownst to her, to gather information on Rittenhouse and to thwart her plans. It was almost the same, except Wyatt wasn't technically contractually obligated to kill Emma; she was still their best bet at destroying Rittenhouse, and Lucy had been adamant that they needed to know what she knew before they took her out. Wyatt was now their bodyguard, self-appointed, of course. Agent Christopher hadn't even gotten half of her speech out, trying to tell Wyatt that Lucy and Rufus would be fine without him, when all three of them had stood, immediately spouting off how much they needed Wyatt, and Wyatt claiming he needed to be there to protect them for his own personal sanity.

That had struck Lucy. Not only did he need to protect them because they were his team, but he claimed he'd go crazy if he had to sit in the present, trying to go on with his life, not knowing whether they were truly safe or not. Agent Christopher had smirked, having known this would happen, and began debriefing the entire team.

It wasn't until she snapped at all of them that of course, she wasn't replacing Wyatt that they all took their seats once more, focusing on the mission at hand.

Another body jostled her out of her thoughts, and Lucy inwardly groaned as she scooted her stool closer to the bar, her stomach flat up against the edge.

She should have known better than to agree to drinks on a Saturday night.

She waved off the drunkard's half-assed apology as he stumbled into the crowd. The bar was packed. Lucy had barely squeezed herself onto a stool when she'd gotten there about twenty minutes ago, texting both Rufus and Wyatt her location in the bar and warning them of how many people were there. She'd waited for a response, hoping that either of them would suggest another place for them to meet, but none had come. So, she'd slid forward on her stool, clutching her purse, and yelled her drink order to the bartender over the noise.

He'd brought her drink over right away, smiling warmly at her, but she wasn't in the mood to flirt in this crowd. Plus, he wasn't really her type. He had refilled her glass twice already, though, so he was currently her favorite person in the room. At least, until her team got there.

"Excuse me, ma'am," a husky voice whispered in her ear, and she turned towards the man, frowning. He had dark brown hair and emerald green eyes that seemed to glitter in the low light of the bar. He grinned down at her, and she felt a cold chill run down her spine as his gaze swept her body.

"Can I help you?" she asked shortly, her grip on her drink tightening. Give me a reason, she begged silently, to toss this drink right in your face for calling me "ma'am". She ignored the voice in the back of her mind that reminded her she didn't mind too much when it came from someone else.

"I just noticed a pretty little thing like you is currently unattached, and I'd love to change that," he slurred, leaning in close. Lucy coughed, leaning away from the alcohol on his breath. This wasn't a good idea.

"No, thank you," she replied, smiling tightly, gesturing around to the crowded dance floor. "I'm sure you can find someone else to your liking." His grin faltered, then a mischievous glint shone in his eyes and Lucy felt real fear for the first time in a while.

She suddenly wished Wyatt was here.

The man reached out and quickly ran his fingertips down the length of Lucy's arm, making her flinch uncomfortably. He gripped her hand tightly in his, and she blamed it on the three drinks she'd consumed that she felt too weak to fight him off as he dragged her up from her stool and pulled her into the crowd on the dance floor.

"No, please," she called out, but he either didn't hear her over the number of people in the room or, more likely, he didn't care. He spun her around, shoving her back against the wall, pressing his body up against hers.

Lucy tried to think through the haze of alcohol clouding her brain. How could she have been so stupid? The man latched his mouth onto her neck, his hand holding her head solidly against the wall. Her hands curled into fists as she tried to remember what Wyatt did when he got into situations like these.

True, he'd never been thrown up against a wall with a creep pressing every inch of his body against his own. He had been in situations where he didn't seem he would ever be able to get out of, though, and Lucy mimicked his actions, her fist reaching up and knocking into the man's jaw, his mouth ripping from her neck with an obscene pop!

"Ow!" she cried out, cradling her fist against her chest as she looked up to find the man on the ground, holding his jaw. His eyes flashed from shock to anger and he was on his feet again in an instant. Lucy backed herself up against the wall, too frozen with fear to react, when someone stepped directly in front of her, blocking her from the man's view.

"I'm sure she told you no," Wyatt growled, glaring at the man. "Take the hint." She saw Wyatt shift just enough that his gun showed in his holster, and watched as the man's eyes widened and his face paled.

"Hey, it's cool man," he said, backing up, his arms raised in surrender. "I didn't know she was taken. She's been here for a while now. I figured she was alone."

"There was traffic," Wyatt deadpanned, taking a step towards the man. He flinched before quickly turning and disappearing into the crowd. Lucy recognized the set of Wyatt's shoulders, seeing he was ready to go after the man, and quickly reached out to brush her fingertips against his arm.

"Wyatt, don't," she pleaded, and he turned around, his hands instantly resting on her cheeks, brushing her hair from her face.

"Lucy, are you alright? Did he hurt you? What happened?" he asked, his eyes wide with worry as he quickly scanned her form, assessing her for any injuries. "What's wrong with your hand?" he asked, frowning down at the way she was still cradling her wrist against her chest.

"I punched him," she said simply, looking up at Wyatt. His face smoothed into what looked like relief as he leaned in closer to her.

"Is that why you screamed?" he murmured, taking her injured hand in his. She frowned up at him as his fingers prodded her wrist.

"I screamed?" she asked. Wyatt smirked at her, gently turning her hand over. She hissed in pain and he immediately froze, slowing his motions as he tried turning her hand over again.

"I might just be attuned to your voice," he admitted under his breath, his eyes flitting up to meet hers. "But, I heard you scream, 'ow'." Lucy blushed, focusing on her wrist again as Wyatt felt around the bone again.

"Ouch," she hissed again, trying to pull her wrist away as a reflex. Wyatt kept a firm and steady grip on her wrist, frowning down at it. "Where's Rufus?" she asked, still wondering how he'd even known she was in trouble. Didn't he always, though? Ever since their first mission, he always knew when she needed him more than anything.

"He's still at Mason, working on something with Jiya so the Mothership can't see where the Lifeboat is," he muttered, gently placing her wrist back up against her stomach, folding her other hand underneath it. "It seems like it's just a sprain. I'll wrap it when we get home."

Lucy's eyes shot up to meet his at that. She suppressed a smile as he quickly realized what he'd just said.

"I mean," he backtracked, and Lucy smirked up at him, leaning in closer as his cheeks reddened with embarrassment. It was nice to see a flushed complexion on Wyatt, for a change. "You know, my place. My home. You're just staying there," he finished lamely. Lucy nodded, squinting in amusement up at him.

"I'm aware," she replied wryly and he rubbed the back of his neck, ducking his head down, and she could smell his shampoo from here. She fought the urge to close her eyes and breathe in deeply while he was still this close to her, to relish in the relaxing scent that was Wyatt.

"Alright, Punchy Brewster, let's go." He slipped his arm around her shoulders, leading her towards the door, tucking her close against his side as they maneuvered their way through the crowded bar.

"Let's go home?" she prompted, looking up at him, all signs of teasing gone. He smiled softly at her, his eyes bright as he effortlessly led her through the crowd.

"Yeah," he breathed, leaning in closer to her to whisper in her ear. "Let's go home, ma'am."

[phoebehalliwell]

Yo imagine Wyatt being raised by the cleaners and coming back as an adult but time moves differently in the void (idk where they live) and it’s only been a few minutes. THE DRAMA tm I mean imagine Piper’s outrage! It could encompass a whole freaking season!! And then just because I’m a sucker for Phoebe’s baby living, like they could have stolen this child too! Twice!Blessed Wyatt & Source!Touched Dency as Cleaner siblings 👀

i feel like this would be like the Quintessential like network tv drama move tho like bc like. child actors? who wants em? they’re not that good, there are a whole bunch of rules about how long they can be on set for, you gotta bend over backwards trying to film a scene of theme fighting a demon w/o actually having them be in the room with said demon bc they get scared. bc they’re a child. when instead of having a child actors,,, you could have a grown human actor. amirite lads? i feel like this is definitely like a thing i swear they did this on ouat with belle and rumplestiltskin’s baby bc like. who wants a baby as a character when you can get the abc equivalent of kylo ren i guess? like who wants a baby wyatt when you could have a full grown adult wyatt who is still trying to get a hang of being in a human world bc he’s grown up in like. a void. and i Love the idea of dency being with him too especially bc i think they would form this sibling bond without ever actually know that they’re cousins (bc i don’t think the cleaners would like tell them of their lineage) and i also think powers are like augmented in the void i think both of these kids powers would be dampened probs like to that or a normal witch (and the cleaners would know any better bc uhh quite frankly they don’t host witches very often) so once dency and wyatt go out into the real world and find out they have like powers like a god that’s also gonna be a trip. i also think it’d be like inch resting bc i think obvi dency and wyatt would be drawn to the manor in one fashion or another bc well a) the plot needs it but b) it’s like their ancestral home it’s the nexus they feel the pull and the charmed ones would like equally feel this connection to wyatt and dency bc like you know That’s Their Children but they don’t know that. bc like piper’s been wiped of the idea of wyatt but it’s still something that you know she always mulls over that feeling when you lose a tooth and you can’t help but poke and prod at the lil vacancy where it once was and i think she feels like this really strong connection to wyatt bc she’s like if i had a son i would want him to be like you and i think like the more time she and wyatt spend around each other the more she’d really get echoes of y’know having wyatt but she just thinks they’re like he mind constructing fantasies of what it would have been like to have a kid besides wyatt’s like twentysomething so clearly like they can’t be related but like They Feel Related but it’s probs just the fact that she regrets never having kids latching onto her. leo will occasionally pop in but he doesn’t like spending time around wyatt something about him like puts leo in pain and he can’t figure out why so he thinks it’s just like Instincts and he goes to do some like digging into exactly who this dude is meanwhile piper’s been having this whole crisis about the fact that she never had kids blah blah blah which is specifically dredging up memories for phoebe about her own pregnancy that only last like two months but was still like a very formative time for her (the cleaners got a hold of dency when the source/seer/whatever was vanquished and the found the essence of the sources heir left still imbued with the power of the source of all evil and a charmed one and then went zoinks shouldn’t leave that just lying around that’s way too much power and it’s definitely not be used responsible we’re gonna take this back to The Void™ just to make sure it doesn’t go haywire well much to their surprise within a couple months that essence has now taken the form of a Human Child and they’re like a child but y’know they can’t Kill It because then it’s just release the essence in a less tangible form (also it’s a baby) so they’re like word well okay what if like we raised the kids and another cleaner is like what and the first cleaner is like okay well the whole reason we brought the essence back was so that it didn’t go haywire and destroy everything and make our jobs all a lot more difficult so like what if we raised the kids and taught them the ways of the cleaners! and cleaner two is like what ew no let’s just trap it in a giant ice cube and call it a day and the eldest cleaner is like no cleaner one is onto something so blah blah blah by the time they have to vanish wyatt and entire baby they’re like hey we’ve got another one now we can give dency a sibling!) so like blah blah blah (oh also fun fact in this au dency has the same haircut as the cleaners) and phoebe’s just sorta like she feels like the has this connection to dency but she thinks it’s just cuz she’s like a young witch who like loves her powers and like has a close bond with her sibling and phoebe just thinks she sees herself in dency blah blah blah oh cole’s spirit who is like fuckin creepin around the house or whatever in a very disturbing manner Also Sees Dency and is like hey. hey what’s up with that. blah blah blah leo has done his digging and confronts wyatt like why don’t you exist and wyatt’s like what and leo’s all like aggressive & upset bc he’s trying to protect his family and wyatt’s just like really confused like i was raised in a void with my sister?? like normal people???? and blah blah blah dency gets involved which gets phoebe involved and then piper’s showing up like what’s all this then and leo’s like accusing wyatt of lying and saying like the two of them are trying to infiltrate the family and get closed to the charmed ones to like you know learn magic straight out of the book of shadows something or others and then the cleaners themselves actually show up like okay kids this was fun and all but like it’s time to pack it up like let’s go home and like dency and wyatt are both like hey no we like being like here we like being out in the real world and the cleaners are like okay but you have to think of what’s best the real world just isn’t safe for you you’re too powerful to ever fit it you’ll always be ostracized and made out to be villains it’s better with us it’s safe with us just come home and like you know now paige has also shown up and the charmed ones are like who the hell are you and leo’s like what the actual fuck is going on right now Are Those Cleaners and wyatt and dency are like standing strong with each other and they’re like we can live here we can be safe here like please just give us another chance and the cleaners are like i’m sorry we can’t it’s just too dangerous and wyatt’s like i’m not letting you take me away again! and dency’s like again? and piper’s like yeah again? and phoebe and paige are like what does that mean? and like the gears are turning in leo’s head and like for once he really leans into the emotions that sorta y’know know double double toil and trouble underneath the surface whenever he’s around wyatt bc he always ran from them, they were painful and he figured it was because wyatt was well like evil but now he’s not running and he’s leaning into it and really trying to figure out what he feels and it’s this insane loss and fear and longing but underneath that is like joy and elation and absolute happiness and unconditional love and he remember the time wyatt was born meanwhile phoebe the empath has basically been knocked off her feet with the tidal wave of raw emotion that just shot out from leo and she has the same realization and leo’s like I’m Not Letting You Take My Son Again. and wyatt’s like what and piper’s like what and phoebe like also takes a stand and she’s like dency and wyatt are our family. and you can’t take them. and wyatt and dency are looking at each other like ????? but they’re like game they don’t want to leave and the cleaners are like you know what no No absolutely not and they take dency and wyatt and they wipe the halliwells’ memories and fuck off back into the void but now the ball is rolling and dency and wyatt are like no who are we who were they that was our family and the cleaners are like you don’t have family and dency and wyatt are like that’s not true and you know it and wyatt like piper’s my mother isn’t she and the cleaners are like don’t ask stupid questions and wyatt’s like she is!! i knew it! i fucking knew it!!! and dency sorta sitting there and she’ll totally you know go to bat for wyatt and she believes the halliwells are her family but she just doesn’t feel this connection wyatt has like wyatt Knows piper’s his mother but dency doesn’t feel the same way. she doesn’t have the same connection that like wyatt has. but blah blah blah they aren’t able to argue long bc they’ve sense a shift in the void meaning someone’s out there exposing magic and they go and it’s the charmed ones fucking up things and the cleaners are like word we can get rid of you too and wyatt’s like if you do i’ll go & destroy everything and paige is like yeah love the energy not actually necessary bc you guys aren’t allowed to get rid of us bc well not to flex but we’re the charmed ones and the cleaners are like yeah big whoop and phoebe’s like how familiar are you with the cosmic balance and the cleaners are like . and phoebe’s like yeah though so and paige is like you can’t kill us without drastically tipping the scales. and the cleaners are like fine what do you want and they’re like we want dency and wyatt and the cleaners are like well shouldn’t it be their choice whether or not they want to go with you and the charmed ones are like fine ask them i’m not worried and wyatt’s like i’m going with the halliwells period end statement but then like cleaner one the initial cleaner who was like let’s care and raise dency is like talking to her like please. it’s safer with you here. wyatt feels his connection with them. what do you feel? we raised you, we care for you, we love you, we want to see you safe. we’re your family. and dency’s just like who am i. and the cleaner’s like nothing they would like. and dency’s like that doesn’t answer my question. and the cleaners are like you’re the source’s heir. and the charmed ones are like She’s The What. and dency’s like i’m what. and the cleaners are like you are the daughter of the source of all evil. you are the epitome of power and destruction. but we can keep you safe, we can keep you from hurting anyone. and phoebe’s like are you gonna tell her the rest. and dency’s like tell me what. and phoebe’s like you may be the daughter of the source of all evil. you’re also the daughter of a charmed one. you’re my daughter. and dency’s like What. The Fuck. and the cleaners are like oh don’t be so generous you carried her for all of two months she is not your daughter and dency’s like What. The Fuck. and like paige and piper and in the background and like the gears are turning in their heads like cole’s kid??? and the cleaners are like when we found you you were barely an essence all that was left over from a brutal vanquish and dency’s like WHAT. THE FUCK. and phoebe’s like you took my kid from me! and the cleaners are like you vanquished her! and phoebe’s like we vanquished the seer! we stopped the source of all evil! and it cost me my child don’t you dare say i did this to her and dency’s like you know what actually no and she flames out and piper’s like well i guess you have your decision feel free to get the fuck out of my attic now and the cleaners are like like you guys are assholes and there’s a reason we let prue die 😗✌ and dip and piper’s like if a see another cleaner ever again i’m gonna vanquish that motherfucker So Quick he won’t even have time to ruin yet another one of my family photos. blah blah blah wyatt’s like At Home he’s reunited with his family and they’re so happy to have him back and piper’s like let me cook you a really nice dinner the last time i cooked for you it was just pureed carrots i’m hoping you’re palate’s gotten a little more refined and wyatt’s like thanks mom that really means a lot but i can’t stay here i can’t turn my back on dency she was my family before i even knew i had one i have to go find her so of course the let him go blah blah blah he finds dency blah blah blah heart to heart blah blah blah they all reunite blah blah blah happy ending : )