#liam go an hour without mentioning him challenge go (impossible)

[evilsystemm]

I'm glad you're back also. Not that it affects me directly maybe I've grown in that regard, being able to appreciate good things for you that are neutral or negative to me. It's nice. I always wanted it. I was really relieved when I was told people had spoken to you for the first time in months. I was scared you'd be gone forever. You as a concept being gone is something I could never take. Ever. Your physical absence is okay if not lonely and bitter, youre the only person who has seen my soul and looked upon it as I desired it to be, but the thought that you'd never think, feel, act again really scares me and I just cant bring myself to imagine it. It would be like losing a limb. I've come to realise I'd rather you exist in a way that sucks for me than to not exist at all. And both of us understand how advanced that is for me who's never been able to conceive of selflessness, especially with someone as special as you. I think about you every time I front without fail. You're everywhere, in everything I do still to this day. And usually I'd speculate whether that's the same for you but right now I'm just going to assume that it is based on how youve spoken to me in the past (even if to a lesser degree) and that if it isn't, I don't care at the moment. I choose to love you today even if I can't do that when I'm with you. I dont know if you'll read this. I dont know if I hope you will or not. It probably gets old hearing me talk about you so much, the same idea over and over. That I love you but I can't love. That you are me and I am you. You understand by now, I feel it. You've always understood me so quickly. Anyway, I'm glad you're around. I hope people treat you better than I did, and how I've heard some have been recently (in my mind im exploding them on your behalf), I hope someone loves you as much as I do. And maybe better than I can. Saying that makes me feel like I'm ripping my heart out and wringing it. But I think im okay with that for you. You weren't an exception to how much of an asshole I am, no matter how much I prayed and begged to have that. No one seems to be an exception but you are so incredibly special. And I know I am, I think. I still doubt it but I try to ignore that. I know you always wanted me to. It's hard. I've exhausted all the sorrys I have so I'll leave this routine mental breakdown on the note of be well. You're always mine and I'm learning to love your happiness because I want to love you not just consume you. And lastly I am infinitely grateful to the universe for not taking you away.

[bravonovel]

Begin Again: https://www.bravonovel.com/begin-again-7645

Begin Again novel is a second chance romance story, written by Val Sims.

A hot rebound is just what any doctor would recommend for Eden McBride's broken heart after a brutal breakup. Not really. But it's what she needs.

Liam Anderson is the perfect rebound guy. Dubbed the Three Months Prince because he's never with the same girl longer than three months, Liam's had his share of one night stands and doesn't expect Eden to be anything more than a hookup.

When he wakes up and finds her gone along with his favourite denim shirt, Liam is irritated, but oddly intrigued. No woman has ever left his bed willingly or stole from him. Eden has done both. He needs to find her and make her account.

But in a city with more than five million people, finding one person proves impossible, until fate brings them together again two years later.

Eden is no longer the naive girl she was when she jumped into Liam's bed; she now has a secret to protect at all costs. Liam is determined to get everything Eden stole from him, and it's not just his denim shirt.

Begin Again novel Trial Reading

"Can someone please tell me why I left our perfectly comfortable couch to freeze my ass off here?" Eden McBride glared at her three friends waiting patiently in the queue with her.

It's been over an hour, but the long line snaking its way around the block had barely moved.

Out of all the hangouts in Rock Castle, they had to choose Crush, one of the most challenging clubs to get into, especially on the one weekend when the hottest DJ in town makes an appearance.

"To help you get over the man whose name we won't mention!" Sienna, her best friend since primary school, said in a hushed tone. The clear plastic beads dangling on the ends of her long ombre braids chinked as she turned her head to match her death glare.

On her 'bad' days, Sienna was cute. But on a good day, like tonight, she was smoking hot. The guys milling about, desperate to get inside like they were, clearly thought so too. They could barely peel their eyes from her.

"Yeah, Eden, we've given you enough time to mope," Lydia chimed in as she snapped a quick selfie and posted it on her Instagram. Within seconds her phone pinged incessantly with notifications from millions of adoring fans. Lydia is a mega-successful YouTuber whose makeup videos have catapulted her to a goddess-like status on the internet.

"The sooner you get back on the bike, the better," Cassandra added, flicking her long blond hair over her shoulder as she pulled up the collar of her signature leather jacket. In the five or six years Eden's known her, she's never seen her in a dress. Not even once. For a self-proclaimed tomboy, Cassandra was effortlessly chic, and with her tall slim physique and delicate features, she could pull off any look.

In their crew, Eden was the plainest, and she was okay with that. Her skin was so pale she could never get a tan no matter how long she stayed in the sun. She tried colouring her long mousey brown hair a few times, but the constant retouching got old real quick. Her most striking feature was her slanted, brown eyes. Pity, she had to hide them behind thick-lensed glasses because she was almost as blind as a bat without them.

"He's moved on. You should do the same!" Lydia chimed in brutally. Subtlety was not her strong suit.

Eden sighed and rolled her eyes. Her friends meant well. But, she was okay with spending her days and nights in front of the TV binging on carbs and terrible reality shows. She was cool with not brushing her hair or changing her clothes for days on end. She was happy to cry herself to sleep and wake up with a puffy face and swollen eyes. But she didn't want to be rushed through her grief.

How could six weeks be enough to get over a lifetime of memories, of four years of happy moments and hopeful dreams, dashed in an instant?

"If this stupid line doesn't move in the next two minutes, I'm leaving," she hissed and pulled her trench tighter, glad she had the foresight to wear it even when her friends wanted her to ditch it because it was 'ruining her whole aesthetic'.

A Lamborghini screeched in front of the entrance, followed by a Ferrari and a Porsche. A group of men, as tall as the surrounding office towers and good looking enough to have walked straight out of a fashion magazine, jumped out of the three cars, threw their car keys at the valets, and made their way to the door.

Perhaps it was the long line that seemed to be going nowhere fast or the stress of the past few weeks, but when Eden saw the six towers trying to bypass the queue, she lost all her patience. Without thinking, she left her place and stormed to the entrance, her friends trailing behind her.

She tapped the very tall ginger, trying to smooth talk his way into the club, on the shoulder. He turned to look at her, his thick eyebrows fusing in a questioning frown.

Eden paused, her lungs struggling to keep up with her thoughts and take in simple breaths. With hair so bright like flames, she expected his eyes to be green. Not this denim blue. She could feel herself struggle against their pull.

"Eden, don't cause a scene," Sienna gritted her teeth and tugged at her arm.

But, Eden saw no reason to be polite. Not when she was almost frozen solid she could barely feel her ass.

She stretched to her full height as she tried to match the man's towering size. But even in her Jimmy Choo stilettos, she still had to look up at him.

"Can I help you?" He asked in a voice meant to melt the panties off of any woman within a kilometre radius.

As if he wasn't already deadly enough, he had a cleft too. The fact that it wasn't so prominent and only seemed to show itself when he spoke or smiled, which was all he did in the last fifty seconds, made it all the more devastating.

"I don't need your help," Eden said icily, hating him a little. He had no right to be so attractive.

"Okay, then!" He shrugged, showing off two rows of perfectly straight teeth as he smiled. They were so white she thought they might be veneers. They had to be. There was no way anyone would have such great teeth unless they had an excellent dentist.

"If you are done gawking at me–"

Eden held up her hand, irritated with herself for noticing all these things about him and hating him a little more for his presumptuous arrogance.

"Do you see all these people?" She glared at him and pointed at the endless line. "They've been waiting for over an hour. You can't just come here and skip the queue."

"Are you going to stop me, Princess?" His rust-coloured eyebrows shot up, his eyes sparkling with amusement and his Calvin Klein underwear model friends sniggered. Eden wanted so much to wipe the smirk off his face with her puny little fists. But she was an educated person. She didn't have to use her hands to prove her point. Words were just as powerful.

"If you have any decency, you'll do the right thing and wait in line like everyone else." She hissed, blinking furiously behind her black-framed glasses.

A hush fell over the small crowd gathered around them. Eden's friends kept tugging and pulling at her. But she was so over everything, including this night, and she refused to be intimidated by Red as he leaned down to stare at her at eye level condescendingly.

"I guess I'm not a decent person now, am I?" He blew a cold minty breath on her face and shrugged, returning his attention to the bouncer.

He flashed a few notes at the burly man, gathered up his crew, and waved at her group. "They are with us!"

Before Eden could even process his announcement, they were already inside the club, wading through a swarm of sweaty heaving bodies swaying to the music.

......

Continue to read Begin Again novel: https://www.bravonovel.com/begin-again-7645/chapter-1-crush-95332

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[dailytomlinson]

[DISCLAIMER: Stunt parts not mentioned]  Louis Tomlinson’s first single in more than a year doesn’t hold anything back. “You’ll never know how much I miss you/ The day that they took you/ I wish it was me instead” he sings on “Two of Us”, a surprisingly raw pop ballad about losing his mother, Johanna, to leukaemia in December 2016. As he sings “I’ll be living one life for the two of us” on the chorus, he sounds like a man making a pledge. When we meet at a Hertfordshire hotel near his home, I tell Tomlinson it’s brave to put these feelings out there. “Yeah, it is,” he agrees from his seat by a window he’s smoking out of. ‘Two years into One Direction, I felt like I was treading water a bit’ “To be honest, I’ve wanted to write this song for a while. But it’s a bold thing to do, and when I had those thoughts, I wanted a few more years of experience as a songwriter before writing it. This is one of the most important songs to me, and I had only one chance to get it right.” Songwriting has always been important to him: racking up co-writing credits is how he kept his head as the member of One Direction who lacked Zayn Malik’s vocal range or Harry Styles’ flashy charisma. On stage, Niall Horan often played guitar and Liam Payne would handle the business of the gig – thanking fans for coming, reminding them to buy the new album – so Tomlinson carved out a niche behind the scenes. “I always pushed for the band to write as much as we could. Probably two years in, I felt like I was treading water a bit,” he recalls. “I didn’t really feel like I had a solid place – what was I contributing? There were some sad times like that, so I said to myself: ‘I wanna pick myself up and be the most prolific writer in the band.’” After forming writing partnerships with Payne and several professional songwriters, Tomlinson duly became just that, co-writing more than 30 One Direction tracks including the big hits “Steal My Girl” and “Perfect”. “So then at awards shows, or even in our performances, I could take real credit outside of whatever my contribution was to any particular song,” he says enthusiastically. “Just having an involvement in the songwriting was a real big step in terms of me building my confidence.” Tomlinson, who was born in Doncaster and turned 27 on Christmas Eve, says he also gained confidence from his role on The X Factor last year, where he mentored the Jamaican-born singer Dalton Harris to victory. It was hardly a stellar year for the show, which got thumped in the ratings again by Strictly Come Dancing, but Tomlinson’s unshowy judging style felt reassuringly natural, especially next to the souped-up husband-and-wife banter of Robbie Williams and Ayda Field.  Tomlinson, who was born in Doncaster and turned 27 on Christmas Eve, says he also gained confidence from his role on The X Factor last year, where he mentored the Jamaican-born singer Dalton Harris to victory. It was hardly a stellar year for the show, which got thumped in the ratings again by Strictly Come Dancing, but Tomlinson’s unshowy judging style felt reassuringly natural, especially next to the souped-up husband-and-wife banter of Robbie Williams and Ayda Field. The X Factor also put Tomlinson on level terms with long-time mentor Simon Cowell, who created One Direction on the show in 2010 and signed them after that year’s final. After the group went on hiatus in January 2016, Tomlinson was the only band member to stick with Cowell for his solo career. “Without being too soppy, loyalty is really important to me,” he says. “And the reality is, I wouldn’t be sat here having this chat with you if it wasn’t for Simon. Staying with him was kind of the obvious decision for me. He did all right with One Direction, didn’t he?” Read more: Boyzone interview: ‘There’s no one out there as raw as we were’ Given that the group sold more than 70 million records, and Tomlinson’s personal fortune has been estimated at £42m, it is difficult to disagree. Tomlinson thinks he and Cowell click because he isn’t afraid to “push the boundaries a bit” with him. “I’ve never met anyone who’s as cheeky to Simon as I am. I’m not sure anyone else really tries it,” he says. “Yes, I’m in awe of him creatively, but we do have this funny relationship where I enjoy winding him up. Some people are naturally intimidated by him. But once you’ve been around him a while, he’s a good lad.” Tomlinson’s first two solo singles went gold, but “Two of Us” represents something of a comeback after the pop-punk-flavoured “Miss You” stalled at number 39 in December 2017. It was his first proper flop after four years of hits with One Direction. “I miss the band every day – I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. Of course I do,” he says. “It was an amazing time, so when you don’t have that same rhythm, you feel it. But that’s what drives me. It gives me something to aim for again. ‘Being in the spotlight, that was hard. It was like a runaway train’ “And obviously in an ideal world, who knows when, we get back together at some point and you know… whatever. But having that idea in my head of working really hard every single day, that gave me a target.” I’m struck by how relentlessly positive Tomlinson is about his One Direction years. He doesn’t complain about the group’s workload (“As long as I got six hours’ sleep, I was fine. But anything less than four and I was going to be a proper arsehole that day”) or seem bothered by their famously full-on fans. “Larry Stylinson” was the name given to a fictional romantic relationship they imagined for Tomlinson and Harry Styles.  “You never want to sound ungrateful ��� or feel it even,” he says. “Being in the spotlight, that was hard, especially for the first year or 18 months – it was like a runaway train. Until I found my place in the group, I found it really difficult. Because when I’d go back home and talk to friends, I couldn’t take enough ownership of what I was doing. “That started from being on The X Factor and not singing a lot, if I was singing at all. And taking negative comments about that was tough. We were all really young, and it was a really emotionally challenging time, which is why we were so lucky to have each other.” He gives a knowing grin. “You know, I’m not going to name names, but there is one celebrity in particular – and I’m sure it’s the first name we both think of – who’s been a bit of a dickhead throughout his career in pop. There have been times when I’ve looked at him and thought, you know what, how impossible would it have been to have done this at an even younger age, and all on your own? “This job really is difficult at times. It takes strength, and it takes people around you to say: ‘Chill out a bit, and don’t be a dickhead.’ And luckily, we always had that.”

[katurrade]

Secrets and Sins 11

This is not your normal TRR story. This is a complete AU. A mobster AU. Hopefully you enjoy this, it’s dark and twisted, but should be a fun ride. It’s also written in a reader format, not a MC format. (Y/N = Your Name. Y/L/N = Your Last Name) Enjoy!

Description: You flee from an abusive situation and find yourself on the other side of the country, creating new friends and possibly finding new love. But will you be able to escape your past? To truly move on with your life? Or will everything come crashing down around you in the blink of an eye. Catch up HERE.

Word Count: 3,370 ish.

Pairing: Mobster!Liam x Reader.

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Violence. Drinking. Curse words. Possible NSFW content in later chapters. Flashbacks of abusive behaviour, and moments of abuse. Possible triggering thoughts and feelings. Probably more warnings to come.

A/N: *throws canon out the damn window* YEET.

“Can I come in?” He asked as his blue eyes locked on yours.

“Sure. This is your house.” You replied flatly as you crossed your arms then turned around and walked back into the room. You sat down on the edge of the bed, as he entered and shut the door softly behind him.

He walked over to the chair in the corner and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his eyes looking down at his intertwined hands, which were between his slightly opened legs “I just want to explain who Madeleine is.”

“You don’t have to, it’s none of my business.” You waved it off.

“I do,” He said firmly as he looked up at you “because I don’t want there to be any confusion between us.” He gestured with one of his hands back and forth between you both “I don’t want any secrets or lies, from either side. If you promise to always be open and honest with me, I will do the same with you.”

You nodded “Okay, I can agree to that.”

“Good. So Madeleine and I have never, and will never be a thing.” He said firmly “She used to date my brother, back when he was the heir to all this.” He gestured around the room “The second I challenged him and won, she dumped Leo and set her sights on me. I’m not going to lie, I gave into her a couple times but it was never anything more then that. I never wanted her.”

You cringed slightly then scoffed “She sounds like a classy broad.” Though it wasn’t a compliment. It grossed you out a little to learn he had been with the blonde haired bitch, but you quickly brushed that off as you realized you’d both had lives before he walked into yours. And that you were both far from virgins. Though none of your past conquests were walking around his house, cooing about this and that—

“Yeah. Not my finest hour.” He grimaced for a second but then laughed, and the sound was like music to your ears, it was clearly a real laugh. One you secretly hoped you’d hear many more times. “We actually call woman like her ‘crown chasers’ and they are not even close to what I’m interested in, or looking for, for that matter. But as for why she was here, the only reason is because she is Regina’s niece. Just so we’re clear, she wasn’t here by my request, nor do I want anything to do with her.” He paused and that damn smirk was back “She isn’t the one I have my sights on.”

And just like that those silly poprocks were in your stomach again. How this man could make you feel like this with just a few simple words was actually kind of frustrating, if you were being honest. “Well, thank you for clarifying.”

He nodded “Now, I have a question for you?” then he paused for a moment “Actually, maybe two questions.”

“Okay?”

“First, did you get a chance to think over my offer for repaying the second drink?”

“You mean, have I decided if I want to accept your date offer or not?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“I haven’t.”

“Okay, then second question. Would you want to be my date tomorrow night for the fundraiser gala the she-witch mentioned?”

You snorted in an attempted to muffle your laugh by pressing your lips together firmly, as your hand flew up to cover your mouth. The nickname he had used for her was so fitting. And how he just said it like it was totally normal, and it was just him saying someones actual name, killed you. You saw the amusement in his eyes at your reaction to what he had said.

After a few second you calmed yourself down and lowered your hand from your mouth. You decided to ignore the ‘She-witch’ comment entirely. “So basically both questions were to ask if I’d go on a date with you?” You raised an eyebrow at him.

He shrugged “Basically.”

“Well, as much as a fundraiser gala sounds fun, I actually have to work tomorrow.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, and you were now sure that was his nervous tick. And you liked that he had one. It made him a little easier to read. He spoke up and he almost sounded apprehensive. Like what he was about to say may upset you, the nerves in his voice definitely made you tense up slightly “Actually, you don’t. I ah-I spoke to Bertrand this morning and informed him that you’ll be taking a paid vacation for a little while. I hope you don’t mind. I was actually coming to tell you that before Madeleine interrupted.”

You’re eyes widened “What!? Why?”

He sighed “Y/N, you got attacked last night. Whether you feel it or not, that will effect you. Take the paid break to move passed that.” He smiled, though it was weak at best “Plus, it would be almost impossible to keep you safe at work. To many people come and go from that place all day and there are a few different exits. Aside from having Mara and Rashad sit in the pub all night, there isn’t really any other options to keep you safe.”

“How long will I have to be on this ‘paid leave’?! I can’t just sit around all day, doing nothing.”

“I have a few things in motion, so my hope is not long. You can come and go from the house whenever you’d like, just take Mara and Rashad with you. I don’t want you to feel trapped here, in any way.” He shook his head “But, I want you to be safe. And I promised to protect you. So this is how I am doing that.”

You just looked at him as you thought about what you wanted to do. Or rather, how you wanted to respond. He made a very valid point but part of you did feel trapped by his actions. How could you not? He went behind your back and made a judgement call without even consulting you on it. That was a pretty controlling thing for him to do. But you also saw where he was coming from. And even though you barely knew him, you could tell he cared about you, and obviously a lot. He just had a weird fucking way of showing it. One you weren’t overly comfortable with.

“Look, thank you for protecting me, I do honestly appreciate it, but you can’t just make calls like that in my life, Liam. Because at the end of the day that’s exactly what it is, my life. And I would like—no, I need, to have the last say in it. So please don’t do that again, come to me first and talk to me about it. We can come up with a plan together, but don’t just assume you know whats best for me. Okay?”

He frowned slightly but nodded “I’m sorry, I just..” he trailed off.

“You what?” You coaxed softly.

He looked you in the eyes, his beautiful deep blues showing a few different emotions but you could only make out remorse and maybe even ...fear?

He spoke softly, almost in a whisper and you had to strain a little to hear him “I know we haven’t known each other long, but if anything were to happen to you, I don’t think I’d be able to live that down. I’d never forgive myself.”

You furrowed your brows for a moment, not really knowing how to take what he just said then the words just sort of left your mouth on their own “I understand where your head was when you talked to Bertrand, but all I ask is that from here on out you come to me first. I need to have some control in my life, Liam.” You said firmly “But, if I’m being honest, I probably would have come to the same conclusion as you did. I just want to be the one who makes that choice, okay? Promise you won’t do that again, and we will be all good.”

He nodded “I promise.”

“Perfect, then we will just act like this never happened.” You giggled.

“Thank you.” He smiled “So, now that you are in fact free tomorrow, what do you say about accompanying me to the Gala?”

And just like that, your minded drifted off at his question. Was accepting a date offer from another mob boss really a smart move. He had brought you into his home to protect you. Hell, turns out he was protecting you long before this point. But is this really what you wanted. The last time hadn’t ended every well and you still weren’t any where near over what he had done to you.

In all honesty, you may never get over what he had done to you. It was like a wound that refused to heal. Could you trust Liam? Did you believe that his intentions were true and that he wouldn’t end up treating you the same way in a few short months? The same way your ex had. He had seemed nice in the beginning, though when you thought back, there was always something off about him, but you were young and naive. And believed in fairytale true love and happy endings. Ha! You learned real fucking quick that those things didn’t exist in the real world.

But with Liam, nothing felt off. To the contrary actually. Everything felt right. Even though you barely knew him, part of you trusted him. A lot. More then you should. Maybe even more then you ever trust anyone else. And for sure more then you ever trusted your ex, at any point in time. But you also knew better then to fall head first into love again. You knew if you accepted Liams date offer, that regardless of what you told yourself or how much you fought it, you’d fall for him fast, and fucking hard, at that. You just knew it from your passed experiences with him. You wouldn’t be able to hold out for long. He made you feel safe. Secure. Special. Three feelings you desperately needed to feel right now. Three things that were crucial to helping you heal. The same three things you hadn’t felt in a long time, except when Liam was around.

You bit your lip, knowing what you were about to agree to. It wasn’t just to the date. No, it was to allowing him to help you heal. Help you move on. You nodded “Okay, if I agree to be your date, I have one condition.”

“Of course, what’s your condition?”

“We take this slow.” You paused “I-i need us to take this slow.” You said quietly.

He smiled softly at you “Y/N, how about I make you a deal?”

“Okay?”

“Be my date tomorrow and once the night is over, if you never want a second date, I’ll respect that.” He paused and you could swear you saw a brief look of heartache? cross his face before he quickly corrected it and continued “But, if you do want a second date, I’ll let you set the pace.”

You furrowed your brows again, more in disbelief this time “You’d do that for me?”

“I would. I may not know your whole story, but I know enough to understand that you may not be ready for this yet. And the last thing I want to do is make you feel forced or trapped, in any way.”

“Okay,” that was all you needed to hear. You stood up and walked over to where he was sitting and held your hand out to him, he looked confused for a second before he put his hand in yours and you shook it firmly “You have yourself a deal.”

The second the words left your mouth a giant smile formed on his handsome face, causing you to smile as well. But then yours quickly turned to a frown when the realization hit you “Shit. I don’t have anything formal to wear for a gala.” You paused “I mean, unless the dress code is jeans?” You smirked.

He stood up and offered you his arm “It’s not, it’s definitely black tie.” he chuckled “So I guess it’s a good thing I had Regina pick up some dresses for you to try.” He nonchalantly added but his cocky smirk gave him away. And just like that, you finally understood his random question from this morning, the one about your dress size. He started to lead you out of your room when you thought of something.

You put on the best poker face you could muster and raised a brow at him “Oh really, and what if I had turned you down?”

“I knew you wouldn’t.” He shrugged as he led you down the stairs. God, he really is a cocky fucker. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“But what if I had?” You pressed.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs and leaned down to whisper in your ear “Did you turn me down?”

Your eyelids slammed shut at his breath on your neck again. Then you quietly whispered “No.” you’re voice betraying you, yet again, thanks to him.

He stood back up and chuckled as he started walking again, instantly making you open your eyes. Damn him. And his flustering ways. You knew instantly that what he just did was to prove his point. That point being that you did want him, and a lot.

“Then that’s all that matters now.”

He walked you down the long hall, passed both kitchens and up a set off stairs on the right. They brought you to a door at the top, which he knocked on. And a moment later the door opened to show Regina on the other side.

“Liam, Y/N. Come in.” She said as she gestured and stepped aside to let you both enter, but Liam put a hand up “Unfortunately, I can’t stay, but you ladies have fun.” He smirked down at you.

“Of course.” She smiled “Y/N, please come in.”

You stood there for a second, shifting your weight from side to side. Not sure if you wanted to do this without Liam. Not sure who else was in the apartment, your eyes flicked around what you could see of the suite, trying to figure out if the she-witch was in there, somewhere. And as if Liam could read your mind he leaned down and whispered just for you to hear “I kicked Madeleine out.”

You felt the involuntary smile spread across your face, then nodded once he stood back up. He then turned and headed back down the stairs, calling over his shoulder “I can’t wait to see what you pick.”

You turned then walked into the suite, entering directly into the kitchen area, off to the left. Once passed the kitchen it opened up to a living and dining room. It was just as beautiful as the rest if the house, which was no surprise to you. Though this part of the house seemed more homely, clearly having a woman’s touch to it. Regina closed the door “I’m sorry about Madeleine earlier, she doesn’t always play well with others. But she is harmless.”

You pressed your lips together and nodded “It’s okay.”

“Now, let me show you the dresses.” She said with a smile as she walked into a bedroom off the living area, you followed. Once in the room you saw a rack with a few different dresses in all different colours.

Your eyes widened at the beautiful dresses in different fabrics, colours and shapes. You looked at Regina for a moment, as if asking permission, she nodded and smiled in return. So you walked over to the rack and ran your hand along all the dresses, feeling each one pass your fingers as you did.

Regina clapped her hands “Okay, let’s pick you out a dress.”

You tried them all on, finally settling on the one that suited you the best. It was stunning and made you not only feel confident but you also secretly figured it would leave Liam speechless. Or at least you hoped it would. Once you had changed back into your normal clothes, Regina gave you a black garment bag so you could get the dress back to your room without anyone, or more specifically one person in particular, seeing any part of the dress. Both of you not wanting to ruin tomorrows surprise.

You thanked Regina then made your way back to your room, you wanted to call Hana and not only check in with her but also fill her in on everything that had happened. After a quick text to make sure she was in a good place for a long phone conversations, you called her. And you both talked for 2 hours.

She was so worried when you told her about the bounty and the attack. But by the end of the call she was basically telling you to marry Liam. It was a joke, however part of you actually took the words to heart. But then quickly shoved them to the back of your head. You barely knew him, nor how this would all play out in the end. The last thing you should be fantasizing about was marrying him. Fuck that. Too soon. You finally ended the talk with a ‘we have to get together soon’ and a ‘stay safe’ from both Hana and yourself. Then you hung up. And decided a nice long shower was in order. You just needed a few minutes to yourself and to relax. And showers were always your go to when your mind was running wild with ‘what ifs’ and worries.

Once you had finished your shower you entered back into your room, going through the bags, making a mental note to unpack them soon as clearly you were going to be here for a while, might as well move in for now. You picked out a pair of dark grey tights and a black T-shirt, pulling a big black hoody overtop. Once again, your outfit was all about comfort. Because why not? You quickly dealt with your wet hair, brushing it then putting it into a top bun.

You were just about to head downstairs to make yourself some dinner when there was another knock on your door. You wandered over and opened the door to, once again, find Liam on the other side.

But this time he didn’t seem nervous at all. The opposite actually.

“Hey, you hungry?” He asked.

You nodded and laughed “I’m starving.”

“Good.” He laughed as well “Let’s get some food into you. Oh, and it’s movie night.”

“Movie night?” You asked as you walked out of your room and closed the door.

“Yeah. We have movie nights every Saturday. It’s sort of like a tradition around here.” He said as you both headed down the stairs.

“Oh, sounds fun.” You replied with a smile.

You both then headed down the stairs to the basement, finding the whole gang down there in the home theatre.

There was an assortment of snacks, drinks and pizza laid out around the room. And everyone was set up in the massive chairs, waiting on the movie to start and talking amongst themselves. You ended up sitting in the back, in one of the recliners with Mara on one side and Liam on the other.

You quickly learned the movie you all were going to watch was The Hitman’s Bodyguard. It was supposedly Drakes turn to pick the movie, though Rashad groaned about how he had already seen it and he didn’t want to watch it again. But Drake just threw popcorn at him and told him to ‘shut it’ because ‘no one cares what he wants’. The while gang laughed then the lights dimmed and the movie started.

It was a fun night, mixed with stupid jokes, jabs and innuendoes. You ate more pizza then you should have, and way to much popcorn.

Once the movie was done, a few people wanted to play a round of bowling but you were exhausted. Liam walked you back up to your room, kissing your knuckles just like the night before and bidding you ‘Goodnight’, which you returned. Then you entered your room, got into pjs and climbed into bed. Turning off the lights and passing out almost instantly, again. You could get used to nights like these. To the calm they brought you. The sense of safety. And if you were honest, the feeling of family. It was weird to feel this way so fast, but everyone had been so welcoming and it was quickly starting to feel like you belonged here. Like you were one of the pack. And you liked that, and hoped it would stayed this way. Or rather, you sort of needed it to. This was the closest you’d been to a family in years and you missed it. A lot.

Chapter 12 HERE.

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[icecubelotr44]

Clear and Present Danger (3/16)

Summary:  Homicide detective Killian Jones has been searching for a way to bring Milah’s murderer to justice. There’s only one small problem: Robert Gold is the captain of the same homicide division. Enter Emma Swan, Internal Affairs investigator, looking into Gold’s shady dealings. Between the two of them, can they unravel the web of deals and lies that have gotten Gold to where he is?

Rated:  T, for violence, some dark themes, angst, and whump (you expected different?

TW: character death, mention of past self-harm, fatal car accident, school hostage situation

Other ships: mentions past Millian in a good light, Outlaw Queen, Snowing

Art credit/link: The totally awesome @cocohook38 made the cover you can see above and on her blog here. Later in the story, she’s illustrated some key points to the fic and I can’t thank her enough for her work!  Go show her some love!

Beta reader: @gusenitsaa took on this monster without probably knowing exactly what she was getting into (what do you mean 100,000 words?!) and any mistakes that you find are probably me being stubborn and ignoring her advice!  Thank you!

A/N:  Written as part of the 2018 Captain Swan Big Bang Challenge.  You can catch up with all the other fics that are complete by following @captainswanbigbang and/or subscribing to the Group Collection on AO3 and/or the C2 on FFN. This is complete in 16 parts and will be posted every Sunday from now until its completion.

Take it away, It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Word count:  ~ 6,250 (100k Total in 16 chapters)

From the beginning: AO3 / FFN

Current Chapter: ao3 | ffn

CHAPTER THREE: Reasonable Suspicion 

Killian’s ears were still ringing from the blow the woman had landed across his jaw.  His lungs had only just started working again and he was sure that there would be bruises to hide from Liam in the morning.  To say that she’d taken him by surprise was an understatement.  He watched her carefully, the glint of the sun on the metal in her hand enough to keep him on edge.

“Gold… murdered someone,” Emma repeated, playing idly with the blade.  It wasn’t a question, but Killian nodded reluctantly anyway.

“I… I can’t prove it.”  He scrubbed a hand over his face to hide his frustration at that before he continued.  “Yet.  The bloody crocodile was in the station when it happened and everything I’ve turned up is dead ends.  But I know he was responsible.  I know he killed her.  And if you’re here to investigate him, then-”

“How do you know that I’m investigating him?” she asked, and he could hear the suspicion dripping off every word.

Killian shrugged.  “You weren’t doing much to hide it.  And there’s not much else going on in the office other than Gold’s hubris, lass.  Not that would draw IA’s attention, anyway.  But I meant what I said, you can’t trust Isaac.  He’s so far into Gold’s pocket that I’m pretty sure they’re wearing the same pants.”

The woman nodded.  “I figured that out for myself, thanks.”

“Oh, you’re a tough lass.”  Killian was thrilled to see her finally fold up the knife and stuff it into a pocket.  “May I have the pleasure of your name now, Miss...?”

“Detective Swan,” she said, sticking out her hand for him to shake.  “Emma.”

Killian took her hand and, ignoring the widening of her eyes in surprise, pulled it up to kiss her knuckles in a show of exaggerated chivalry.  

“Pleased to meet you, Swan,” he said over her knuckles, tightening his grip when she tried to pull away.  “I think we’re going to make quite the team.”

She scoffed.  “Who said I was going to work with you?”

“The way I see it, we’re looking for the same thing.  We can either keep working separately, or” - he shrugged again, still refusing to let go of her hand - “we can pool our resources.  Put Gold and whoever’s making it so easy for him to sit pretty in that office behind bars.”

Emma smiled sweetly, drawing a grin from him that he couldn’t help, before she struck, twisting his grip around until she had him shoved face first against the brick.

“Bloody-”

“Let’s get one thing straight, buddy,” she interrupted his cursing.  “Your charm might work on someone else, but not me.  You give me what you have on Gold and maybe… maybe I’ll think about keeping you in the loop.  But I’m not going to just trust you because you say so.  For all I know, you’re just as far into Gold’s pocket as your buddy Isaac.”

“I’d never be caught dead working with him,” Killian muttered against the wall, chagrined to realize that she had him completely incapacitated.  “We’re on the same side, luv.”

“Not your love.  You can call me Detective.”  She released him as quickly as she’d restrained him, stepping back and glaring before he could even turn around.  She was strong, she was guarded, and she was dangerous.  But she wanted Gold behind bars and he’d worked with less in the past.  

“Detective,” he allowed with a nod, “I think we can help each other.  And you could use someone on the inside, yeah?”

He could see her mulling it over, the indecision written on her face as clearly as words on a page.  There was something about her, despite the knife she’d pulled on him. He knew her job wasn’t easy, knew that the majority of their colleagues would rather vilify her than praise her for taking an impossible job and making it hers.  But there was more than that hiding in the depths of her eyes.  A deeper hurt that resonated with him.  She had the look of someone who’d been thrown away like garbage and it made Killian all the more grateful to remember that Liam had always been there for him.

Even if he was going to take the long way home to avoid the Spanish Inquisition and resultant mollycoddling that was going to come the second Liam saw the bruise forming on his chin.

Her eyes narrowed, searching him, and Killian waited for her to make a decision.

He smiled in triumph a moment before she sighed.  “I don’t like working with partners, Jones.”

Killian waited.  She was going to let him help, he just had to be patient and not push it.

“But you’re right” - it sounded as if it cost her something to admit that - “that it wouldn’t hurt to have a set of eyes and ears that your coworkers wouldn’t expect.  We do this my way, got it?”

“Of course, Swan.  You’re in charge.”  Killian held out his hand to shake hers again.

She glanced at it.  “I’m not going to kiss your knuckles, you know.”

His answering grin was so wide that his cheeks hurt., but Emma didn’t seem to notice.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jones.  Watch your back, all right?”

“I’ve got plenty of people in my corner who will do that for me, lass.  Keep your eyes up, yeah?”

Killian thought he heard her mutter, “Must be nice,” before she disappeared around the corner.  He nodded to himself, turning back to the main road and heading towards the subway station.  There was a kernel of hope that hadn’t been there before, a tendril of possibility that Killian wanted to grab onto with both hands and tug.  He wasn’t the only one anymore, the only one who saw Gold as more than just an untouchable and necessary evil.  Still, they’d have to tread lightly.  Gold wouldn’t hesitate to take them down to keep himself safe.

“Jones?” Locksley called, pulling Killian out of his thoughts.  “What are you doing down here, mate? Get lost?”

Killian knew he was joking - mostly - but he could hear the worry in his tone.  “Aye mate, thought I parked the Benz down here.”  He managed to keep a straight face long enough for Robin’s hand to twitch towards the phone on his belt.

“Bugger off!” Robin spat when the grin on Killian’s face gave away the joke.

Killian sobered immediately at Locksley’s tone.  “I’m sorry,” he apologized, moving out of the alley to catch up with his partner.

Robin glared at him before walking towards the subway station.  “We were all worried, you know. You woke up in the ER and you didn’t know Liam.”

What?

Killian whipped his head around to catch Robin’s eye and he grabbed his partner’s arm when Locksley wouldn’t even look at him.

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” Robin grumbled.

Some of Liam’s hovering over the past few weeks started to make more sense.  His brother could give the fiercest mama bear a run for her money on a good day, so Killian hadn’t thought too much about it.  He couldn’t have named the emotion half-hidden in Liam’s eyes every time he’d fussed over Killian, not then.  But he also didn’t remember much between seeing Hades in the alley and waking up to Liam’s mother henning in the hospital room he’d suffered through forty-eight hours of observation with ill disguised grace.

Maybe not so much on the ‘disguised’ end of the spectrum.

“I don’t remember that,” he muttered when Robin’s concerned stare went on too long.

His partner nodded.  “We figured as much.  And Liam said not to say anything when you woke up again and everything had seemed to settle.”

“Of course he did,” Killian mumbled under his breath amidst a sigh.

Fear.  That was what Liam had been trying in vain to suppress.  Killian had scared him again.  While he remembered only a knock to the head, Liam had been forced to wait for him to wake up, not knowing if he’d remember his own brother when he did.

There had been plenty of scares in their careers - they were both police officers, after all - and injuries were par for the course.  Both he and Liam had spent their share of sleepless nights at their brother’s bedside and the fear that came with that was all-encompassing, but mostly fleeting.  It had to be, or they’d never get back out on the streets.

But Killian remembered when Liam had woken up shaking and couldn’t stop - not quite seizing, but close enough to send a tendril of pure terror coursing through him.  He remembered how close he had stayed those first few weeks as the neurotoxin settled in Liam’s bloodstream and allowed him to resume most of his daily activities. He remembered that fear.  That was what Liam had been dealing with over the last couple weeks as Killian recovered.  The unknown quantity.

Didn’t mean that Killian wasn’t going to find a way to exact revenge for the super glue, though.  It wouldn’t do to let Liam - and by extension, David - think they could get away with nonsense like that just because they were ‘older and wiser’ as it were.

He and Robin parted ways at the corner, the bustle of the city at rush hour serving to make the headache that Swan had exacerbated even worse.  It would be sheer luck if Liam didn’t take one look at him and blow a gasket.  He recalled a scene in one of the Harry Potter movies where Harry had been locked in his bedroom - it didn’t take too much of an imagination to picture Liam trying the same tactic.

Swan occupied his thoughts on the ride home, their two brief interactions playing on a loop as he pondered over her - who was she really?  What made her tick?  Why had she chosen to go into Internal Affairs?  She was clearly tough enough to be on the streets and he didn’t think that outside perceptions of her would have swayed her away from a beat patrol before moving up the ranks.

What does she have on Gold?

Killian hadn’t been this intrigued by a woman since the day he’d first set eyes on Milah.  He’d been sitting alone in Finnegan’s Tavern, a bottle of Sam Adams forgotten on the table in front of him and his brother off in another corner of the bar getting them something to eat.  She’d been stunning to look at, sitting by herself as well and nursing a glass of wine as sharp eyes darted around the room.  Her curls falling loose over her back, the lost look in her eyes, all of it intrigued him and he wanted to know more.

It hadn’t taken long for Killian to forget that Liam was even there with him; he’d approached her and been regretfully turned down that evening, but she hadn’t left his thoughts.  Who was she and why did she look so sad?

Every minute with her was a gift - and Gold had torn it from his grasping fingers.  She’d been Killian’s for a few precious-

“What the bloody hell happened?” The voice broke through his musings.

Killian sighed audibly.  As expected, he’d barely managed to get the door open before Liam had pounced on him.  He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, if only in deference to the headache, and waited for the inevitable inspection.

“You’re supposed to be on deskwork!”  Liam stomped through the kitchen, reaching out to turn Killian’s head closer to the light.  Killian hadn’t seen the bruise yet, but he could feel it - blood pooling hot and pulsing just under the skin of his jaw, a stark reminder of what it was to be on Emma Swan’s bad side.  Liam poked at the bruise, drawing a hushed grunt of pain and - if possible - the frown on his brother’s face deepened to new levels.

Mindful of what Robin had let slip, Killian tolerated the inspection as patiently as he could manage, for as long as he could manage.  It didn’t take too long before he was batting Liam’s prodding fingers away anyway.  “It’s fine, brother.  I spent the entire bloody day sitting at my desk twiddling my thumbs like a good boy, all right?”

The smirk on Liam’s face flashed for only an instant before it was hidden behind a mask, but Killian didn’t miss it.  He glared and pointedly didn’t mention the super glue nor the fact that he likely still smelled like nail polish remover.  He just wanted a shower and some ibuprofen and something to drink.

“So how’d you get the bruise then?” Liam asked, his fingers twitching like he wanted to poke and prod at it some more.

Killian moved safely out of reach before he snarked back.  “I was attacked by a Swan on my way home. It took us awhile to come to an understanding.”

Liam just blinked.  Killian waited just long enough to see the confusion start to turn to concern before he cracked a smile, waving his brother off and rooting through the fridge for a drink.  The shower would have to wait until Liam was satisfied, but at least he could get rid of the cottony feeling in his mouth.

“Killian!”

He sighed.  “Relax, brother.  I’m fine.  There’s an IA officer looking into Gold.  She and I… we didn’t get off on the right foot, so when I went to try again…” he trailed off, waving over his jaw.

Liam snickered, a look on his face that left Killian’s ears red.  “I assume you put things right, little brother?”

“Younger, Liam,” he whined, cringing a little at how petulant he sounded.  It wasn’t a new argument and, truth be told, it wasn’t one Killian ever expected to win.  He didn’t even mind too much when Liam didn’t acknowledge the ‘correct’ moniker as he moved to pull dinner out of the oven.  It would be all too easy to make a remark about him becoming a good housewife and Killian patted himself on the back for not giving in to the temptation.

It was a close call, but he’d plan something better in retaliation for his desk.

Emma sunk into the steaming bath water with an audible sigh.  She’d left the light off, several candles burning away merrily and filling the small room with soothing scents.  There was a glass of wine on the bath caddy and a book lying face down that she only sort of intended to read.  It didn’t take too long for the heat to seep into Emma’s muscles and she relaxed into a boneless heap in the water.  However much she had intended to leave work at work, she couldn’t get that interaction with Jones out of her head.  She had no reason to feel bad; he’d been sneaking up on her, she had plenty of experience with loyal cops showing her how they felt about her investigations, he’d been sneaking up on her.

And yet.

Killian Jones was far more than a pretty face.  If he was telling her the truth, he’d been grievously wronged by Gold and could be a valuable asset in her investigation.  The key was to get in and get out without getting attached.  He was a tool in her arsenal, nothing more.  His sarcastic quips and the over-the-top chivalry weren’t going to change anything - she was at the precinct to do a job and that was it.

Bringing someone like Gold to justice would more than make her career.  It would make the other detectives start to take her seriously, a woman in a man’s world.  She would love nothing more than to wipe the indulgent smirks off the faces of the men in her office.  It might be nice to be able to peek out of the armor a little bit. Occasionally.

The water slowly cooled and her glass ran dry, but Emma still lingered in the half haze of sleep that she’d slipped into.  It was simple here, in the sanctuary of her apartment, away from all the drama and the politics and the intrigue of her cases and her interoffice relationships.  She didn’t have to hide behind the mask she’d crafted or question every interaction she had.  Here, there was just her and the safety of her loneliness.

When the water was finally a few degrees too cold to be comfortable, Emma stood and wrapped herself in a towel.  She tried not to bring her work home with her; it was hard enough to deal with it during work hours.  But with the addition of Jones to her arsenal - and her constant thoughts, it seemed - she’d have to come up with a new plan of attack.  Emma wasn’t used to having to consider another person on her side in her investigations.  They’d tried to rope her into working with a partner before but it never stuck.  They were too inept or she was too prickly, too stubborn, too set in her ways to listen to their ideas.

It was better if she worked alone, that was all there was to it.

Over the next few days, Emma did what Emma did best: she ignored Killian Jones completely.  She had plenty of interviews to conduct and spent half of her time driving across the state to follow up with the men and women Gold had put behind bars as well as some he hadn’t.  They all had precisely the same thing to say about him.

Absolutely nothing.

Emma didn’t need her ‘super power’ to tell that they were - to the very last man - terrified to speak out against Gold.  Someone had gotten to them before her and had bought their silence.  It left her irritable and exhausted, unwilling to play the game when Isaac cornered her in the bullpen to “see what she needed.”

She needed to punch someone in the face.

As it was, putting her fist across Isaac’s jaw probably wouldn’t do anything but get her suspended and put the investigation that much further behind.  Instead, she plastered on a smile that she hoped looked sincere enough to pass muster and asked for another batch of files that had nothing to do with Gold or the charges against him, hoping that the little weasel would run back to his master and crow about her apparent ineptitude.  She’d have to steer the investigation formally towards Gold at some point, but she needed something concrete to go on before then.  All she had right now were allegations and rumors that were - so far - unfounded.  Emma didn’t believe for a moment that the accusations listed in her file were false, but she needed to find some kind of evidence.  Even the evidence from the investigation into Milah Gold was hazy at best and - as Jones had said - didn’t point to Gold’s involvement at all.

The case had, very pointedly in fact, implicated Killian Jones in her murder.  Even if Emma hadn’t heard it in his voice the day she’d nearly knocked him out in that alley, she was no longer uncertain about how much Jones had loved Milah.  It was written all over the interrogations, the track the evidence had taken, in every entry from the detective who’d investigated.  Killian had been cleared quickly - which surprised Emma given Gold’s power - but the damage must have been done.

The problem was, it was all too clean.  There was no way that the woman’s brake lines had been cut and no one had been spotted near her car in the police station’s parking garage.  The video surveillance gave Emma - and anyone else who had investigated, namely K. Jones on a near-weekly schedule - a perfect view of Milah’s car.  Emma watched as the woman got out of the vehicle and walked out of frame, then stared at nothing of note for the half hour she’d been gone, and finally saw her come back to her car and drive away.

All of it was too clean.  Every case that Gold had closed, every murderer that he’d convicted, on paper they were all perfectly by the book.  Every ‘i’ was dotted and every ‘t’ was crossed.  On paper, there was no reason to suspect that he’d ever stepped a toe across the line.  But all it took was one look at him to know that he was dirty.  All it took was one readthrough of the case file that had been compiled to get the sick feeling in her stomach.  Gold needed to be tried for his crimes and, hopefully, the evidence against him would be compelling enough that not even whoever was backing him would come out with their hands clean.

That was Emma’s job, and she looked forward to the end results.  She did not, however, enjoy the monotony that came with trying to keep her investigation under wraps.  She had Isaac pull Jones’s case files today, trying to get a glimpse into the lieutenant’s process in attempts to understand him better.  The mole at her side grinned snidely when he’d commented that it was only a matter of time before Jones was investigated.

“His promotion was a little too convenient,” he crowed before elbowing her in the side in apparent camaraderie, “if you know what I mean.”

Emma stepped pointedly away and resisted the urge to roll her shoulder and stretch where he’d impacted her ribs.  Instead, she smiled in feigned interest and cocked her head to the side.  “Oh, really?” she asked, hoping Isaac would latch on to the ruse.

He did.

“Oh yes, I could tell you all about Lieutenant Jones and how he came to be in our humble department.  Did you know that he was still on patrol just over a year ago?”

She hadn’t.

“Captain Gold requested that his promotion track be accelerated personally.  I’ve never understood it, of course.  Jones is nothing but a problem.  The captain tolerates him, but if you ask me, there’s something fishy about it, because the two of them… well, to say they’re like cats and dogs would be insulting to those poor animals.  And yet…” Isaac trailed off meaningfully, his eyes tracking across the bullpen to where Jones had just entered.  Instead of finishing his statement, he just shrugged as if the lieutenant’s presence was answer enough.

It didn’t make any sense.  From what she could tell, Jones was a Boy Scout.  She wouldn’t be surprised to find an Eagle Scout award in his history.  She’d known there was no way that he was being backed by Gold - even before she knew what she did about his history with the captain’s former wife.  But the mysterious benefactor… Emma didn’t know anything about him.  Yet.  It was possible that Gold was just an unfortunate middle man, or that they were both trying to force Jones into a position where he couldn’t get free of them.  It was possible, she supposed, that Jones was in on the whole thing and was playing her to get information.

Even as she thought it, the voice inside her head laughed at her.  No, Jones wasn’t involved with Gold or his backer.  If he was, then she would turn in her badge and gun and take up a job at the local Walmart.  Emma wasn’t good at people, but she was good at reading them.  It made her successful as a detective and horrible to play poker against, but she’d take the former over the latter any time.  A cop who couldn’t trust her gut was a dead cop and Emma liked breathing too much not to hone that skill.

Emma focused on Isaac’s retreating back as he headed for the file room - now he was definitely working for Gold, and not in the official capacity.  She’d do anything to have him far away from her and her investigation, if only for the drop in stress that would entail.

She almost missed the note on her desk, tucked away under the file marked K. Jones that she’d purposely left out.  Who had been near her desk?  And what did they want?  

Atlantis Marina, 8pm tonight.

It’ll be worth it.

Emma supposed she’d have to go to the marina to find out.  She wasn’t naive, but she wasn’t cautious by nature, either.  She would, however, be there well before eight in order to get the lay of the land.

Emma worked for a few more hours, digging into Killian’s past just in case her gut was wrong.  She finally dug past the insubordination claims that Gold seemed to file on a regular basis and burrowed deep enough into his file to find a redacted report of drunk and disorderly conduct that had never been closed or prosecuted.  Further digging, however, revealed that the date of the report coincided with the date of Milah Gold’s funeral, so Emma put it out of her mind.  If the man needed a little bit of liquid courage to say goodbye to a woman he clearly loved, then who was she to judge him?

Five o’clock came all too suddenly and Emma locked up the files she didn’t plan on taking home with her before signing out the ones she did.  With evening traffic, it could take twenty minutes or it could take forever to get to the marina, and she wanted plenty of time to walk the perimeter and see if she could get an upper hand on whoever had left the note for her.  At the very least, she wanted escape routes and a good vantage point of the entrance before whoever planned on meeting her showed up.  Emma texted the address to Ruby and Dorothy in case she needed back up, but declined their offer to come down and stake out the place.  She had a sneaking suspicion as to whose handwriting that had been, and didn’t think she’d need any of the precautions she was taking.

But Emma had been burned before.

The marina was well maintained.  The lights in the parking area and along the docks provided very few shadows that someone could ambush her from and there were men and women in security uniforms patrolling the docks at random intervals.  Emma found that she already had a reserved parking space in the guest lot, and the attendant there knew who she was - pointing out that the boat she was looking for was in its slip on B-dock.

The Jolly Roger.  

Emma could see it from where she was standing on another dock - she wasn’t entirely sure which dock it was - sitting jauntily in the water and inviting her to come aboard.  As if a boat could be jaunty and inviting.  There were lights on in the… she thought it was called a cockpit but wouldn’t lay money down on it.  But no one was aboard.

It wasn’t new by any means, but it was clearly well cared for.  The hull gleamed in the lights and the name on the back was crisp-lettered and pristine.  There were a few dings here and there along the hull and the railing, but the metal shined and the windows were streak-free.  She had a feeling that whoever owned the boat would be put off by the small imperfections, but was clearly proud of his - or her - ownership.

“You can see her up close, if you like,” Jones’s voice whispered in her ear.

She whirled around, fists up and ready to defend herself.  There was a moment of terrifying weightlessness as she stepped back, expecting her foot to impact solid wood and instead finding open air.  Emma’s eyes widened in surprise and her breath caught in her throat even as she flailed and caught Killian’s outstretched hands.  He pulled her close and Emma latched onto his shoulders, fingers tight in his leather jacket as she tried to convince herself that she was on solid ground again.

“Damnit, Jones!” she shouted in his face.  He was terrifyingly close.

He shrugged, the muscles under her fingers bunching with the movement.  She realized, a bit belatedly, that she still hadn’t let go of him.  Nor he of her.  Emma shoved him back, putting enough space in between them that her heart finally started to slow down.  It rankled her a bit that he didn’t stumble, just swayed with the push and stood tall.

She glared at him.  “I could have fallen in!”

Killian just smirked, something dangerous in his eyes.  “That’s a plausible excuse for grabbing me, but next time, don’t stand on ceremony.”

Emma rolled her eyes.  “You wish, buddy.”

He finally stepped back, although Emma got the feeling he’d have stayed there if he thought he could get away with it.  He clasped his hands behind his back, instead, and rocked back on his heels.  “I meant what I said, though.  You can see her up close, if you like.”

Emma just looked at him in askance.

“You… you did get my note, didn’t you?”

She pulled the crumpled piece of paper from her pocket.  “And how, exactly, was I supposed to know it was from you?”

“I signed it,” he explained with a funny little grin, taking the note from her and smoothing it out against his leg.  “See?”

Emma looked where he’d turned the paper over, the small caricature of a hook and a swan in the bottom corner.  She’d seen the drawing, of course, but she still didn’t understand.  She stared at him incredulously, before asking again,  “And how, exactly, was I supposed to know it was from you?”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly sign my own name, could I?” Jones shrugged.  “Not with your little shadow combing every piece of paper on your desk at all times.  It’s all very cloak and dagger, you see, and who’s better at that than a pirate?”

Emma glanced over her shoulder to the nameplate on the back of Killian’s boat.  “You had an unhealthy obsession with Peter Pan as a child, didn’t you?”

“Never liked the little demon,” he replied, matter of fact.  “Always thought that Captain Hook was the hero of that fairy tale.”

“Even with the waxed moustache and the perm?”

Killian smirked.  “You never read the book, did you?  Captain Hook was devilishly handsome, after all.  Like me,” he preened a little.

Emma just shook her head.  He didn’t need the ego boost - clearly.  “So what are we doing here, Jones?”

“I didn’t know how else to get your attention.  You’ve been avoiding me, lass.”  Killian shrugged.  “I thought…”

“We can’t exactly be seen working together,” Emma defended her actions.  “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

She totally had.

One of Killian’s eyebrows raised pointedly.  “You might find this a surprising attribute in a detective, Swan, but I’m actually quite perceptive and this” - he gestured between them - “this is avoiding me.”

Emma nodded in spite of herself.  There was no use denying what was painfully obvious anyway.  “So… what?  You thought you’d lure me here with a mystery and…” she shrugged emphatically, waiting for an explanation.

The tips of Killian’s ears went a little bit pink.  “One of the first things my brother taught me after I graduated the academy was to limit the amount of work I brought home with me.  I know that with Isaac lurking about you’re probably trying to throw him off and that’s got to be exhausting.  I thought that you… that we could use the Jolly as some kind of, I don’t know, an in between or something.”

Emma blinked.

Killian just shrugged.  “I want to help, Swan.  I need to help put him away.  For Milah.  For… for me.  We can’t exactly advertise that we’re working together, I get that.  But I can help you.”

There was a reason Emma didn’t work with a partner.  She did her own thing, her own way, on her own terms.  The only one who she risked being hurt was her and the only one who was responsible for the outcome of her cases was her.  She had worked with someone else a time or two, but not since she’d moved to Internal Affairs; she found it just wasn’t worth it.

But maybe just this once, with a case this big and a willing pawn in Killian Jones, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea.  The appeal of having someplace away from both prying eyes and her own sanctuary was strong.  Part of Emma still balked - she was better off alone, history had shown her that time and time again - but she pushed past it for the sake of her case.

“All right, Jones, let’s see this boat of yours.”

It didn’t take them long to cover the entirety of the aft cabin in paperwork.  Liam would have a fit if he decided to take her out for more than a brief afternoon, but seeing Gold’s demise come together piece by piece was worth the strife Killian knew he’d hear about.  Emma had already cobbled together a timeline of Gold’s career, listing cases and complaints alike along with his promotions and the men and women he’d promoted himself.  

Killian bristled when he saw his own name listed, the blue star next to his name signifying Gold’s personal involvement in the transfer.  “Swan, just so you know, this wasn’t… I didn’t…” he trailed off, still looking at his name on the timeline and uncertain how to explain.

Emma slid another paper over the top of that one, this one listing unsolved cases that Gold had sent to the Cold Case division.  “You can tell me in your own time,” she allowed with a small smile.

He nodded.  Killian couldn’t deny that the promotion had been a bit of grabbing the tiger by the tail.  He knew Gold had it out for him, would try his best to make Killian’s life miserable.  But Liam and David had already been in Homicide before Milah’s death and Killian had longed for the chance to work beside his brother.  Then he’d met Milah and thought that the price he would have to pay for falling for her was his dream of being partnered with Liam.  After her murder, he’d stopped caring how he got to Liam’s side, he just knew he couldn’t do it anymore without his brother.  Any of it. The transfer had seemed like the universe paying him back - a little - for stealing Milah from him.  And then Liam had been injured because of him and now… well, now it was all about taking down Gold.  Killian couldn’t deny that he didn’t really care what happened to his career after that.

Or to himself.

Maybe he should take Liam up on that offer to move to the private sector, after all.

“Are you even listening, Jones?” Emma’s annoyed question made him realize she’d been trying to get his attention for quite some time.

He shook his head apologetically, scratching behind one ear and attempting a smirk.  He could feel how forced it was and the look on Emma’s face proved that she wasn’t buying it either.  “Apologies, lass, I got a bit caught up in my head.”

“I said, it’s getting late and we should probably get out of here.  Do we need to pack this up, or…” she looked at him in askance.

Killian shook his head.  “No.  No one but myself and my brother have keys to the cabins and I’ll let him know that this is all here.”  He groaned internally at the idea of telling Liam about all this - the mess and what he was about to do next.  Regardless of Liam’s opinion on the matter, however, he reached into his pocket and handed her a keychain with a pirate ship on it.

Emma stared at it for a moment.

“It’s not going to bite you, lass.  I just thought that…” he shrugged.  “Well, you need access to the cabin and I might not always be able to get you here.  Smee is the parking attendant you met earlier; he knows to let you have the guest parking space whenever you’d like it and you’re on the list of approved guests with access to the boat.  No one will bother you.”

She finally reached out and snagged the key, turning the little ship over in her hands.  “It’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?” Emma asked with a smirk that made the tips of Killian’s ears go hot.

“The appeal of Neverland as a child - an escape where time would stop and I could have all the time in the world to figure out how to get what I wanted - it was intoxicating.  I guess it’s never really left me.”  He paused and raised one eyebrow.  “Although I still think the bloody demon of that island would have made life miserable there.”

Emma laughed, finally putting the key in her pocket after further inspection.  She followed him out onto the deck, but didn’t make a move to climb onto the dock again.

“And what did a young Killian Jones want that he couldn’t have?” she asked lightly, a glint of something in her eyes that Killian wanted to understand.

He shrugged in what he hoped was nonchalance.  That wasn’t a tale he was ready to get into yet.  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he deflected instead.

There was a look in Emma’s eyes that told Killian she might just understand what it was he and Liam had been searching for all those years - a home.

“Perhaps I would.”

tagging: @killian-whump, @gilliangrissom, @nothingimpossibleonlyimprobable

[secretlessvicki]

Charades and Masquerades

He was a devote Catholic. She was the direct descendant of Madame Marie Laveau. Could he bring her to the side of God and holiness? Or would she show him the ways of magic and sin? 

What happens when a string of murders in one of the most haunted cities brings together two people who never planned to see each other again? And how this all tie into an infamous treasure?

Prologue   Ch 1

Chapter 1

It was another night of tossing and turning for Lieutenant Killian Jones. Being aboard a naval ship never alluded to a good night's sleep. But it wasn’t just the crashing of the waves and the sways of the ship that always had Killian waking in the morning feeling just a tired as he had been when he went to bed.

The empty rum bottle that sat on his desk and the memories of abandonment and betrayal plagued his mind. His mother passing just before his sixth birthday. His father not returning home one night after work. And an endless string of foster homes only homing he and his brother for the paycheck not really caring how the boys fared. And then there was her.

“Get your bloody arse out of bed!”

A sudden splash of water woke Killian from his sleep. “What the fuck, Liam? You couldn’t have just woke me with an alarm like everyone else?”

“I tried. That blasted device has been blaring for half an hour.” He pointed to what looked like a previously working alarm clock. Now it was just a pile of wires and plastic parts all across the cabin floor. “Did you go through another bottle again? Killian, when are you going to stop all of your self-loathing?”

Liam Jones, older brother extraordinaire began tossing away empty bottles with a roll of his eyes. He had been there with Killian through everything. The morning their mother passed, Liam was there holding his baby brother as he cried into his shirt. When their father did not come home, it was Liam who watched over his little brother. The day he turned eighteen, Liam fought with everything he had to earn custody of Killian. It meant working two jobs while also making sure that the rebellious Killian attended school and was clothed and fed. By the time Killian was old enough they were both in their respective ports serving in Her Royal Majesty’s Navy.

“Liam, the bloody fucking sun is not even out. Why in God’s name do I need to be up before it’s light out?” The faint pounding in his head increasing with each blink of his eyes. He almost swore someone was wielding a sledgehammer behind his eyes.

“You know better than to take his name in vain, little brother. Did you forget everything you learned in Bible study?”

A sudden memory of a nun slapping a ruler against a chalkboard flashed in Killian’s mind. He didn’t remember everything but he knew the important bits. Jesus turned water into wine. The Ten Commandments. It’s not as if any of it had helped him recently.

“Are you going to tell me why I am sitting awake on wet bed sheets? We are suppose to be on liberty. That means sleeping in.”

“You are only sleeping in because you stayed awake all night. Now put a shirt on and meet me in the Mess. I’ll fill you in over breakfast.” Liam threw a pillow at his brother before leaving.

After a string of incoherent curses, Killian rummaged around his bunk to find his uniform. Without a window in the cabin, he took a guess at what the weather would be like. The coast of Ireland in April could always be deceiving and he was sure Liam was going to take them both out for the day.

It took Killian almost 10 extra minutes to get down to where he was sure his older brother was waiting for him. He could almost hear Liam drumming his fingers against the metal table each time he had to stop because a fellow sailor commented on his red eyes or the dark circles underneath. Every time he opened a bottle he would tell himself that he would only have a shot or two. But two shots would turn into an entire glass, and after two glasses Killian would ditch the useless tumbler and drink straight from the bottle. He knew what would happen. No matter how much water he drank or how many painkillers he took, the result would always be the same. One massive headache and a piss poor mood.

His mood was even worse when he walked into the Mess to find that Liam had a glass of some awful green concoction. It could only be one thing. Liam Brennan Jones’ version of a hangover cure. One thing for sure was that the bloody drink would taste absolutely terrible.

“What ever happened to a good English breakfast after a night out on the town?”

“First of all, you did not spend the night out on the town. You wallowed away in some pub all night only to drink yourself unconscious in your bunk.

Second, you can do whatever you please at the end of the month when you get discharged. Until then you will continue to follow not only the royal navy’s rules but mine as well. I will still be your older brother even when I am no longer your captain.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” Killian saluted. “In two weeks you will have a new lieutenant to push around.”

“Aye, sometimes I look forward to the day. But until then you are mine, little brother. Now drink up. I want you more coherent. Something big came about last night.”

“Younger brother.” Begrudgingly, Killian drank his hangover cure. He flagged down one of the steward’s for a proper breakfast, finally settling in for Liam’s big news.

“Are you ready?”

Trying very hard not to roll his eyes, Killian slowly nodded his head. The movement felt like his brain was hitting the inside of his skull but Killian managed not to wince. At least he hoped not.

“We found something!” Liam vaguely explained.

“We? As in you and me? Because I certainly do not remember finding anything of importance. Or do you mean the crew? If that is the case I must be far more hungover than I thought, because I was almost positive our latest mission was a recon.”

“Just shut it you git and let me explain. Petty Officer Morgan…”

“Oh you mean that American you have been chatting with in your free time?” Killian suddenly was more interested in this story. Especially when it involved his prude of a brother and a woman.

“It is not like that Killian and you know it. Get your mind out of the gutter so I can explain. She and I have been emailing back and forth since we meet when you and I were stationed at the U.S. Joint Reserve Base in New Orleans. Reylin is into history same as we are. In fact, she actually did a semester abroad at Imperial College the same time you were in your second year.”

“So she likes history. Sounds like the two of you were made for each other.”

“Stop it, Killian. Would you let me get to the point? She likes history and her favorite subject is lost treasures of the world. She and I have been talking about our hobbies outside of our respective navys and she mentioned looking into an old New Orleans legend. Jean Lafitte.”

If Killian hadn’t been interested before, he was certainly now. While he was not as enthusiastic about history as his brother, Killian Jones did have a love of pirates, fiction or real.

“So you two were talking about a man who was one of the lesser known pirates? What is so important about him?”

“What is important is that to the people in the southern states, Lafitte is not just a second rate pirate. There he is a legend. And before you interrupt me again I wanted to tell you that Morgan has been looking into an old legends about Lafitte. More specifically his last buried treasure.”

“And she found it?”

Pirates and buried treasures had not been what Killian had thought he would be spending his morning talking about. And honestly, he still wished he wasn’t, his bed and pillow were screaming for him to return.

“Not exactly. But she has been digging and she found coordinates to a possible location.”

“Liam, what does this have to do with us?”

“I was thinking that you will be discharged at the end of the month and I will be on leave from my tour. And what better bonding than going on a treasure hunt?”

Killian was thankful that in that moment the steward had brought him his breakfast. He was going to need more protein to get his brain functioning if he was going to deal with Liam and another one of his grand ideas of adventures. The last time the two of them spent bonding time together, Liam ended up in a naval hospital in Brazil after finding out he was highly allergic to a thorny plant in the jungle.

“You want to go on a treasure hunt?” Killian began scanning the room. “Are you pranking me? Or is this some type of documentary for National Geographic? You honestly think it is a good idea for the two of us to fly to the colonies to help a Yankee sailor hunt for an unknown buried treasure? Are you sure you are not trying to impress this lass? Because trying to become Indiana Jones sure sounds like it.”

There was silence between the men as Killian ate and Liam sulked. It was when Killian’s eyes didn’t seem so heavy and his proper posture returned that Liam spoke again.

“You are telling me that you do not want to go? Killian Jones- Mr. ‘I love a challenge’ does not want to help a pretty woman find a long lost treasure? What else would you be doing besides wallowing away in your apartment?”

What was he supposed to say to that? Killian huffed and slouched in his seat. He could tell that Liam knew he had won. 

The next week and a half was spent listening to Liam and Officer Morgan talk about what the possibilities were at the end of the coordinates Reylin had. Killian had to admit that it was all very interesting and that he often found himself wondering what the treasure could be. Realistically he knew that the chance of finding something valuable was slim to near impossible. But it didn’t stop Killian from reading up on Jean Lafitte in his spare time.

As it turned out there was more to the man than it seemed. He had no loyalties to anyone but the person paying him. He looted supplies from ships belonging to Britain, France, and America. But what was interesting was that much of the loot that was stolen was dispersed by Pierre Lafitte, Jean’s half-brother. From his reading, Killian could tell that Jean and Pierre were close. Enough so that he could see the similarities between these brothers and he and Liam.

Jean was the romantic type. A number of legends and tales told of his seduction of women and his charm. Liam had almost choked on his dinner one night when Killian read the latest biography. “Sounds like a certain young lieutenant I know.” He had coughed.

Pierre was more reserved. He was the brains of the operations. It was his job to make sure that all treasures were sold or taken care of. While Jean was out having fun raiding the ships, it was Pierre who was keeping them both out of jail. Until he unfortunately found himself behind bars in a rat infested jail in New Orleans that is. Killian kept that news away from Liam.

Late one-night, Killian sat at his desk lost in a rabbit hole of information. If he was going to go on this adventure with his brother and some American lass, he wanted to know what it was that they were going after. His search started with possible treasures that one might look for with pirate hunting. It was after one in the morning, that Killian ended up on a forum made up of men and women across the world that discussed possible leads in hunts, myths and legends, and even a few experts on famous lost treasures. One post in particular caught Killian’s attention.

The lost treasure of Jean Lafitte is considered one of the world’s greatest lost treasures. It is believed that Lafitte hid the treasure somewhere in the city with clues left behind for his brother to one day find. To this day it has never been recovered.

The Voodoo Queen of New Orleans herself spent much of her life dedicated to finding out what was in the lost treasure of Jean Lafitte. No one knows why she wanted the treasure so badly. Was it for the money? Was the treasure powerful? Could it have possibly been tied to the city? To magic? Was the treasure a person? Perhaps the treasure is the long lost Fleur de Lis.

There were more posts and comments that all led to the same thing. The Napoleon Fleur de Lis. It was a pure gold statue encrusted with the finest cute diamonds and rubies. The fleur de lis itself was priceless without even considering it’s history. Napoleon had the statue commissioned as a physical representation of his family crest. Before his exile the statue had gone missing only for it to turn up in the hands of the American government after the Louisiana purchase. The government then gave the Fleur de Lis to the city of New Orleans as a gift. Years later the very statue went missing again, never to be seen again. At the same time, Pierre Lafitte had been imprisoned for the murder of an American sailor (was later exonerated) and his brother had moved all operations to Galveston.  

This was it. It had to be it. The treasure that Reylin and ultimately Killian and Liam were hunting.

With a quick text message to the group chat between the members saying he found a lead, Killian sat back in his chair with a grin on his face. Maybe this whole treasure hunting thing wouldn’t be so terrible after all. It could be just the distraction he needed from his constant thoughts of her eyes. Or the three faint lines she would get on her forehead when he said or did something that annoyed her.

That night he fell into a restless sleep. Dreams of a conversation from a time long before his own flashed behind his closed eyes. But just before he woke the next morning, the mystery man in Killian’s dreams faded into an image of himself. Green eyes full of tears broke his heart as he spoke to her.

“I told my brother. He knows to come find you. Keep it safe.”

[angstymarshmallow]

Enamored Part 2

[A little note: Here is a half-thought out and half-scribbled quickly part 2. I really wanted to finish before tomorrow’s update because I would have probably lost all desire to finish knowing that trr’s next update will probably be great! This is mostly the rest of chapter seventeen with a mix of something different. Part 1 is here. Thanks for anyone that stuck by me and read this mess lol. ]

[Word Count: 5042 - Wow did I mention this is huge?]

Present

As Robyn slides out of the shower, thoughts of Drake momentarily cease at the sudden beep of her phone. The obnoxious ringtone blares twice before she sighs and rushes forward to grab it. Her fingers are still wet from her shower, and the small object nearly slips out of her grasp. At the last second, she manages to catch it just in time to notice her text.

It’s from Maxwell.

She supposes as her eyes skim his words, that she needs to hurry. To grab her suitcase and take one last look before putting it all behind her. Her old apartment. It’s forest gray-coloured walls; the scent of coffee that always lingered long after drinking it. It’s the last time for her to really take it in.

When she’s finally dressed, she pauses at the door and feels a little twinge of nostalgia at the last glimpse of her boxes. They’re all boarded up and ready for shipment. Donating most of it still seems like the better choice; it wasn’t as if her mother would need where she was and it isn’t as though her father cared enough to begin with. So they’re stuck here; ready to go to someone else who needs them.

Standing near the entrance her hand hovers by the lights.

Despite giving this place up – she had good memories here. Bad ones too but the good ones are what she thinks of now. They are the scratches on the wall across the kitchen, the flicker of the bathroom lights when she isn’t careful and the loud neighbours from next door that can never keep it down when they have company. 

She thinks she’ll miss all of it, and yet she knows skimming the room one last time, there is nothing left for her anymore.

-

Hours stretch and passes so fast that Robyn is barely able to keep up. They lead towards the end of another night. Another moment where they’re caught in betweens.

From meeting the press and informing them of her new position – to having dinner with Liam’s family; Robyn is more than ready to call it a night well before day meets night. The tension that manages to linger from the evening and its proceedings with Liam’s parents, are still present inside Robyn’s head as she met with her group of friends.

Although the topic of her rejection to Liam’s proposal never came up; she felt the unspeakable tension as though there had been an elephant in the room. And by the time they left; she was rushing past them to get some fresh air.

She doesn’t think she could take sitting there for one more second without feeling their eyes watching her every move. A friend. A duchess. A target on her back. Moving to Cordonia made her all of these things. Frustratingly enough; the second she even allows herself to think about it- she’s befuddled.

Once she rejoins with her friends; some of the earlier tension has vanished and she watches as Liam deftly switches his role. She blinks; wondering how he’s able to always separate his emotions in company – wondering if she can ever learn to be the same knowing the responsibility she’s been left with.

When Maxwell and Hana suggest a night out to celebrate their return, Robyn hesitates. Things are still fresh and every so often when her guilt slips away; she finds her eyes often looking for him often searching until they find him. She watches intently when she can; and can’t help but think that all she wants is a night with him. But as she feels Maxwell’s arm, slugging around her shoulders and Drake’s; she finds herself readily agreeing with a laugh.

It doesn’t take much to convince her anyway. Robyn has always enjoyed their little trips together away from the manor. She bumps shoulders with Maxwell and together they lead the charge towards the bar, calling for everyone’s favourites before the rest disperse to find a bench.

There’s a lot of cheering from what she remembers of the night. She pierces together as much as she thinks she can -  an abundance of laughter over the silly dances they do across the tale, and laughter that makes her forget everything the better half of yesterday. All she can think about; while she’s laughing and challenging Maxwell into a drinking contest – is that not too far from her, the man she’s confessed her feelings for feels the same. She’s giddy at the thought, can barely contain the smile she constantly feels – poking through and tonight, he’s allowing himself to be happy. Whenever she has the chance to sneak a glance; he smiles and engages earnestly with their friends.

And every time, Robyn forgets how to breathe. Only for the slightest of seconds as she watches a new side of Drake unfolds right in front of her – before seconds later, she can breathe again and sucks in a breath deeply.

She even manages to catch sight of Bertrand having a good time. A rare sight, she watches keenly from their table as he saunters over with nursing drinks in both hands.

Still buttoned up and prim, as he explains why he had been looking so glum for most of the night. When Drake lets it accidentally slip that Savannah’s coming back – his entire personality shifts and before they can talk about it; he brushes their concern aside. Despite their best efforts at imploring him to stay with them, he doesn’t leave soon after.

Hours blend together as less and less people trickle out.

Hana has finally managed to tell Neville how she really feels. Her true intentions of never accepting his proposal makes him flabbergasted and shocked. He had said something as an insult and Hana was swift to call him the hardest things she considers possible at the time –  callous and rude. Then a string of several other things Robyn hadn’t expected. And in simple Hana fashion – her sweet side is poison-tipped with fierceness that had the rest of them cracking up while Neville’s face turned stricken.

He blushes in embarrassment, making hasty excuses to leave.

No one follows him.

Robyn wraps her arms around her friend, cheering her on for finally standing up for herself. She knows it can’t be easy, but Hana isn’t the same woman that had begun this tour as a suitor, and neither was she. The adventures they’ve shared, their little moments taken from dress-shopping and nights they’ve spent together to sticking up to her parents - her experiences have all left her irrevocably changed.

Olivia even extends her a compliment combined with a look of appraisal before commending her for sticking up for herself.

Drinks and conversations flow freely as the hours continue to whizz by them, turning several moments into midnight. They several of it dancing on tables and chatting animatedly among one another. Laughing about things they might not have in the past, moments they knew would be impossible to share a couple months ago if they hadn’t met – until finally night has started becoming dawn before they’ve decided to retire for sleep.

Tucking her heels inside her hands, Robyn walks barefoot behind most of her friends. Too tired to keep up talking; she’s happily lost inside her own thoughts and has been thinking of tomorrow when she hears him singing. Eyes widening in surprise, she peeks from the corner of her eyes at Drake.

The noise she’s hearing is indeed him singing. Something she doesn’t realize she’d have the luxury of hearing again until the night. The tune is familiar and with his deeper octave, she finds it too hard to resist humming along with him.

It takes Drake a few seconds to notice her and as their eyes meet, he smiles. She narrows her own suspiciously at him. “Drake…are you – are you –” dare she say it? Can she risk his wrath if she’s somehow magically wrong? “Drake are you drunk?”

He stops for a moment, and although his face remains entirely impassive – it’s his sudden slur that convinces her. “Nooo way Tinsley. I don’t ever get drunk.”

She tries to muffle her laugh until he shoots her an indignant stare. “Maybe you’re drunk.” He stumbles a little and she moves by his side in an instant until he makes a gesture with his hands.

“Uh huh,” she replies smirking at him. “You’re right, you’re totally sober.”

Drake’s entire face lights up and her stomach flutters. “I’m just…” he trails off as if trying to find the right word. His smile grows wider by the second, “happy.” He takes a deep breath and lets out a laugh – it’s so rich and genuine that Robyn can’t help but grin as she glances back at him. “We’re finally home. Savannah’s coming home….” He gestures to her, “you like me for some reason.”

“Hey,” she bumps shoulders with him so fast that he almost struggles to catch himself. “Sorry,” smiles sheepishly at him. “There’s plenty of reasons to like you,” to love you really “but right now my biggest is how adorable you are drunk.”

His face pulls back into a scowl, “I am not drunk.” It doesn’t stay long. All Robyn has to do is imitate him in nearly a mildly decent Greek accent before he collapses into giggles.

Grinning wildly, Robyn joins in. “Okay, so you’ve definitely had more drinks than I thought.” Usually, she’s the one bad with liquor but tonight she has front row seats at watching Drake’s tipsy side. And so far, it hasn’t been disappointing. Although; most of the time she finds it difficult not to nice him, tonight her thoughts have been everything; and she must have forgotten to pay attention to how many glasses of alcohol he’s had. “But I suppose since we’re going back to the palace it doesn’t really matter.”

“No, so don’t be a spoilsport.” He sticks his tongue out for good measure before glancing up at the sky, lit brightly by stars. “Besides, I can’t help it. Things are going good,” his arm stretches up to the sky, “things are finally going good for everyone.”

“You’re right and it’s about damn time.” His smile is infectious, and soon enough she’s grinning too. Her arm is loosely around him as they walk, and this time there’s enough space between them and the rest of their friends for no one to overhear or disturb them.

“Hey,” he draws her out of her own thoughts with the note of excitement in his voice. His eyes glance down at her, filled with anticipation and warmth. “How about a palace tour?” He asks suddenly.

Her head tilts at the question. “I’m pretty sure I’ve walked around these halls long enough to know everything by heart.”

“Nah Tinsley–” he intercedes, holding her closer to whisper conspiringly. She shivers slightly as she feels his breath by her ear. “You’ve only seen the palace the way the royal family wants you to see it.” He tsked at her.

“Hmmm,” she pretends to think about it but in her heart, she’s already said yes a thousand times. She loves spending time with him, and seeing this side of him makes her want to linger around more. She wants happy and drunken Drake for as long as possible. “Let me guess, secret rooms – or childhood Drake and Liam stories?”

His face drops into a surprised open-mouthed gape. Then his face scrunches up a little before, shaking his head. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”

“Aww, but I’m really good at keeping secrets.” She winks at him for added measure and is rewarded with his blush at her teasing.

“So what do you say?” He hurries on, “you and me? And old portraits of stuffy people?”

“I could do without the stuffy old people but alright,” she gives him a smile. “I’d love to.” He beams a smile at her so quickly that she can’t help but giggle. “So where does this tour start?”

They’ve stopped walking completely until Drake takes her hand. “Just try and keep up with me Tinsley.”

She doesn’t respond, only shakes her head in amusement as they jog lightly into a side door of the palace.

It doesn’t take long for them to reach the first room – the ballroom that has Robyn staring up quizzically at Drake until he retells a story of his past. A story that doesn’t hide his pride as he reminiscences about playing soccer with Liam.

Her eyebrows arches, “you really mean to tell me it did that much damage?” She can’t really hide the disbelief inside her voice until Drake nods eagerly.

He steps closer and his hands sweep low to mimic the trajectory of a ball bouncing from the wall and unto the floor. “Whooosh,” he adds the sounds effects of it crashing and Robyn can barely suppress the urge to laugh but manages by the time he whirls back around to grin at her.

“To think, this top-secret palace history has been, ” her mouth twitches, “in front of my eyes this whole time..” To drive her point home, she gasps.

Drake laughs, and leans against the wall appearing smug. He almost stumbles as he comes up a few inches short.

She smirks at him. “You doing okay there?”

His head bobs up and down rapidly before he clears his throat. “Yeah, let’s keep moving.” Reaching for her hand again, they roam the halls again with each one looking as frustratingly similar as the last. Robyn has no concept of distinguishing them until he forces her to stop within another familiar looking hallway.

At first glance – she doesn’t see anything particular with it. Nothing stands out. “Uh, Drake?” She prompts timidly when she realizes he’s lost in thought. “What’s over here?”

He goes through a spiral of memories and with each word, his eyes spark. They come alive as he spares no detail and although the hall still doesn’t resonate with the picture he paints, she finds herself nodding along and hanging onto every word until he’s finished. She thinks, he makes a great storyteller. “I see,” she smiles up at him.

“But that’s not the only thing Robyn –” his brow furrows, “Tinsley,” he corrects himself quickly. He releases a sharp breath as he gestures wildly around them. The panelling, the rug that’s underneath their feet, the window that they catch over the horizon of sunlight poking through – “This is my faaaavourite view of the…h…the whole…palace.” He squints up at the window then slowly slide his gaze back to her. “I wanted to show it to you ‘cause it’s pretty. And Robyn….I mean Tinsley,” his mouth jaw goes a little slack before he fumbles to continue. “You’re pretty, so you and this view belong together.” He waits a beat, “naturally.”

His cheeks are flushed by the time he’s finished talking that has nothing to do with the temperature outside. Yet, they don’t waver as they might have in the past. They stay rooted on her and any mask that has been there in the past is gone now.

She thinks it’s the first time he’s ever admitted willingly to her that he finds her attractive. And though the compliment is simple, it makes her heart flutter knowing it’s from him. simple compliment makes her heat blossom into her chest. “Wow,” she sucks in a breath. “I almost went a lifetime without knowing that drunk Drake’s so poetic.” She teases, breaking whatever spell there is between, has broken as he makes a face at her.

“I’m not drunk.” His voice. “you’re just reallllyyy sober.”

She laughs. “You’ve got me there.” Smiling, she inclines her head. “Thank you for sharing,” she thinks she’s never seen him so happy before and every part of her wants to remember as much of this as possible tomorrow, “it’s seriously romantic.” She teases.

“Yeah well..” Drake trails off, but as he slides his gaze back to the window she catches his smile. He lifts a hand to run through his hair, “I, um. I thought you’d appreciate the scenery.”

She does. She appreciates the scenery in front her. His timid smile that stretches the longer they stand together; almost side by side -sneaking glances when they think the other isn’t looking. “It’s very unique.” She answers finally, lips curving into a smirk.

He makes a snort under his breath then stops short before lightly smacking his forehead. “Oh, wait!” His eyes scan around them, “this isn’t the spot.” His hand gestures wildly, and she follows along with the direction he points in. “It’s this window over here. C’mon!”

Trying to hide her amusement, Robyn follows behind him and smiles to herself as he captures her hand in his enthusiasm and steers her towards another window. There isn’t anything different about it from the last window they were at. Although, she is beginning to learn quickly that the windows don’t matter as much as the memories Drake shares with her. Memories, she wants nothing more than to relive with him. She pictures them as he speaks; hanging onto his every word. “So this is the secret spot you were telling me about?”

“Secret?” There’s a crease in his brow that Robyn wants to kiss away. He frowns and seems lost in thought for a moment as she shifts on her feet expectedly. Slowly, she watches acknowledgement dawn on his face and his eyes brighten. “Oh!” He grins at her, “I remembered the other funny thing about this hallway.”

She doesn’t interrupt. Her eyebrows arch.

“Kiara’s room is over here.” He gestures in its direction and Robyn feels a frown forming at his declaration.

She doesn’t know why it bothers her that he knows where her room is, but there’s no denying that it does when she hears her name on his lips. Even more frustrating he seems excited about the prospect of going inside there at this time of night. “Maybe that isn’t such a good idea,” she begins carefully.

His lips tug into a pout. “Why not?”

She doesn’t want to say it’s because she’s jealous. It’s ridiculous really – Drake has never shown any implicit interest in anyone else – but she doesn’t exactly want to lie to him either. “I think that’s a secret we can save for another time.” She answers instead, giving what she hopes is a convincing smile.

“Okay.” His brow furrows again before he suddenly beams at her. “There’s still one more stop.” He holds up a finger for emphasis and she itches to giggle.

“Okay, shoot.”

“It’s better if I show you.” He says insistently, taking her hand again before maneuvering past several hallways. “Let me take you to our last stop.”

The moment they’re across the other side of the balance; Drake releases her hand to shove open two largely birch doors of heavy wood. He ushers her inside despite her attempts to stop and peer anxiously inside.

As her eyes scan the large area in awe, she sighs in awe. Several aisles of books stretch from either side; surrounding her with the idea that she could spend a year in here and that would still not be enough time to read all these books. She wanders over to a particular section and notices the collection of dust on one of the shelves. “Whoa,” she breathes. It doesn’t look as if anyone’s been in here for weeks.

Turning back to grin at him, she points at a book in particular. “You surprise me Drake. I didn’t take you for a library kind of guy.”

He snorts, as though he didn’t find her joke particularly funny. “Oh yeah, I read past the covers every now and then.”

“I’m mostly kidding, it’s just,” she bites her lower lip, “I can see myself spending days in here and forgetting the outside world exists.” Absently, she browses through a couple aisles and pays the most attention to Cordonian traditions and history. “Did you bring me here to read to me?” If he was sober, she’s certain he would have scowled at her but instead he laughs. “Because I’m very interested in men that can read me a good story, just let me snuggle up to you first.”

When she doesn’t hear a response, her eyes drift in his direction. She watches as his figure disappears into another row and her feet follow quickly before her mind can.

His back is turned as he wanders endlessly along shelves; brow knitted in concentration and nearly walks into a carved pillar as he traces his fingers nimbly across the spine of several books.

“Uh, Drake?” She calls out timidly.

She doesn’t think he hears her. His mind is so lost into thought that his only acknowledgement is his shoulder shifting to move something by the side of the pillar. “Where did it –”

Robyn’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the slight rumble of something behind there. The motion kicks up dirt, and she covers her nose as a panel in the wall slides open. What in the world –

“Found it!” Drake whirls around to grin at her; ignoring the open-mouthed stare in return. “Well what’re you waiting for let’s go Tinsley!” He doesn’t wait for her, instead he walks steadfast ahead and Robyn scrambles to keep up with his longer strides.

-

If someone had ever whispered into Robyn’s ear that the palace has so many rooms and …secret passages she probably would have never believed them. And yet, standing behind Drake and watching as a place she has never seen open up to her – she supposes the idea isn’t as farfetched as she ever believed to begin with.

“Welcome,” his voice drops and he extends his arms out in exaggeration. “- To my secret passage.”

She whistles, and jumps a little when she hears the dull echo of her own voice. “Impressive,” she glances at him quizzically, “but where does it go?”

His smile disappears into a slight frown. “It’s a dead end.” He shrugs, “that part’s no fun. The cool part is just…this passage.” He gestures behind him as though for emphasis. “It’s like,” his smile returns brighter than ever as his eyes drift to her. “It’s like a special hideout. That’s what I used it for, growing up.”

She listens, nodding emphatically as he speaks. The spark inside his voice doesn’t disappear but there’s a slight bitterness in his tone as he continues. “Whenever I got too fed up with all the phony smiles…and parties…well,” he looks away, “let’s just say this is where I come. Where nobody could find me.”

“…Not even Liam?” She can’t stop herself from asking.

He smiles ruefully. “No, not even Liam. He doesn’t know about this place.”

There is a part of her that revels in this. A part of her that grows hot by the sudden dip and urgency inside his voice. He’s sharing this with her and only her. She knows that has to mean something. Something important. She doesn’t want to break the magic she feels surrounding them. She doesn’t want him to recede into himself if she pushes too hard, but she has to know. No, she needs to know. “But...now I know.” She waits until he meets her gaze, “why did you bring me here Drake?”

His cheeks mottle red, but he doesn’t look away. There’s an intensity in his dark eyes that makes her feel light-headed. “I figured since you’re gonna be a duchess and all….” He clears his throat, “if you ever get tired of dealin’ with the court…” he trails off for a moment; before his lips curved into a smile. “You can hide out here too Robyn. You can use this as a safe space to get away from it all.”

Her breath hitches. “Dammit Drake.”

“What?” For a moment, his eyes flash in concern and he takes a step closer. “You okay?”

“Yes, it’s just –” how can she explain without blurting out everything she’s ever felt for him? How can she explain without the fear of him running away again? He’s never been as open and honest with her as he’s being right now and that’s because of alcohol and not his own self-perseveration. She has a feeling his own self-preservation would never let him. “You did it again.” She tries to stick to something simple.

“Did what?”

“You called me by my first name,” she inclines her head at him, grinning until realization dawns inside his eyes. “Is it growing on you Drake? Am I growing on you?”

“You know the answer to that already.” He seems to pause for a moment, thinking before letting out a brief sigh. “You can already imagine why I use your last name.” He runs his fingers through his hair, “I started calling you Tinsley because I didn’t want to care about you. I didn’t want us to be as close as we are now,” he looks away. “I didn’t want to…get used to you.” He makes an insufferable sigh under his breath. “But then you kept sticking around, despite me thinking that you’d give up and leave. And then you just kept being you, stubborn, crazy –” his face twists into a smile, “gorgeous, adventurous you. And then after that,” his face falls. “I guess I didn’t want to you to know how I feel about you.”

Oh, Drake. Her heart flutters.

“So now I guess calling you Tinsley is just my thing.” As though to second guess himself he adds, “our thing.”

Robyn clears the sudden lump inside her throat, “well as far as our thing goes – I like it.” She smiles at him. “I’m so used to it that hearing you call me Robyn is –”

“-Kinda weird right?” He interrupts with a laugh. “I can’t believe I called you that.”

Shaking her head, she grins. “Well, thank you for telling me that at least.” She doesn’t think she could ever get used to him not calling her Tinsley. After spending months of bantering about it – it’s natural. It’s real.

“No, thank you.” He replies with a grin.

“You mean…you’re welcome?”

“No, no.” He waves a hand dismissively. “I mean, thank you for going on this tour with me.” He shrugs as though it doesn’t mean much but she knows better than to accept his abrupt change in demeanor.

She knows she’s learned far more about Drake tonight than she has in the past several weeks, and she only had to thank liquor for it. “Five-star rating,” she says, holding up a hand for emphasis.

 “Then, I guess my work here is done.”

“It wasn’t very hard, I’ve been told that I’m very easy to impress.” She suppresses the urge to yawn but barely and although she tries to be subtle, she has a feeling he’s noticed.

“We should head back.” He yawns too and despite her protests, Drake ushers her back towards the entrance of his secret passageway.

As they walk; Robyn can’t quite keep the smile she feels off her face. She tries to, but given their circumstances - gives up entirely. She sneaks glances at him instead, as they talk about nonsensical things on their way back. She doesn’t know if she should consider this their second date – but already it’s been one of the best dates she’s ever been on.

By the time they’ve reached in front of her room, she doesn’t want to say goodbye. Although the rest of her feels tired; her mind is awake and aware of Drake’s presence nestled so close beside her. “Do you – do you want to come inside?” The words tumble out before she can stop them and she watches his cheeks grow stark red.

A hesitant beat of silence stretches between them that makes Robyn wish she’d kept her mouth shut.

“Maybe not tonight.” Drake answers finally, still blushing from her invitation. “It’s just – I’m not all here.” He points hazardly at himself. “And if we’re doing, what I think we’re doing -”

Her own cheeks grow red and she can’t look at him in the eye anymore.

“Then I don’t want to miss any second of it.” When she stares up at him, there’s an intensity inside his eyes that reflects back at her.

“Can I get a hug instead? And we can pretend I didn’t just blurt that out-loud?”

He laughs, running his fingers through his hair. “You know I want nothing more Tinsley, but I want our first time to be special…because you’re special.”

“So poetic of you,” she mutters.

“Hey! I can have my moments,” his eyes sparkle as they envelop her into a hug.

It’s so warm, so perfect inside his arms that Robyn feels her eyes closing of their own accord; shutting out the rest of the world as she listens to the sound of his heart. It’s steady and comforting until she realizes he’s leaning sleepily into her.

“You’re…comfy,” he mumbles above her head.

She hides a smile into his chest. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.” Reaching up, she tangles her hands inside his hair and listens to the slow hum of satisfaction that rumbles from his chest. “You sure you don’t want to come in?” She asks when he pulls away. “Your room is awfully far away.”

He rubs his eyes sleepily. “It is, isn’t it?” A yawn.

She yawns too, slipping her hand into his before tugging him into her room. “It is.”

“But I shouldn’t impose..” he mumbles; voice tinged with sleep.

“You aren’t.” She responds, as she closes the door behind them.

“A gentleman wouldn’t…” he trails off when he realizes she’s pulling him into the direction of her bed.

“A gentleman can keep a lady company.” She finishes for him.

His response is unintelligible.  Somewhere between a grumble and a sigh, she helps him into her bed before tucking the sheets around him. His eyes are already closed by the time she makes it over to the other side and slips in beside him.

Unable to sleep right away, she turns to peek at him. When she realizes he’s managed to remain fast asleep, she watches him for a moment. The relaxed expression on his face. The slow rise and fall of his chest. She keeps her eyes on him until sleep begins taking her under, and the last thing she remembers seeing is his lips curving into a familiar smile as she nestles beside him.

-

[isthatbloodonhisshirt]

Gone

Sterek A-Z Challenge: Gone  

Derek was getting frustrated. He was getting frustrated, because he needed to get their resident research expert to help him with something, and he had literally spent the last three hours looking for him.

Which wouldn’t have been weird, if not for the fact that he had shown up at Stiles’ house—climbing through his bedroom window, as usual—around three in the morning and found him suspiciously missing.

The house was empty, the sheriff probably out on duty, so Derek made himself at home, taking a seat in the living room with a beer in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. The irony of that was that the beer had been hidden so Stiles couldn’t find it, though the scent made it clear he knew exactly where it was, and the chips were hidden so that Noah wouldn’t find them, though the scent made it clear he also knew exactly where they were.

Getting comfortable on their couch and turning on the television, Derek managed to distract himself for an hour while waiting for Stiles before getting fed up. Tossing both the beer and chips away—knowing it would probably cause a war between father and son over who had what—he wandered back up to the bedroom and scowled at the still-empty bed.

He couldn’t for the life of him figure out where Stiles could possibly be at now-four in the morning. It wasn’t like he had a life outside the pack, and while he hadn’t checked with all the others, he knew for a fact Stiles wasn’t with any of them.

Inhaling deeply, nostrils flaring, he turned slowly, following the most recent scent out of the house. Stiles had used the front door—unsurprising, since most people tended to use doors—but Derek climbed back out the window to avoid having to figure out how to lock it. Stupid, when he thought about it, considering the open window but he didn’t dwell on it.

He followed Stiles’ scent to the bottom of the driveway, where it disappeared into nothingness, only gas and dirt hitting his olfactory system. It made sense Stiles would take the car wherever he went, but it annoyed Derek because it was virtually impossible to track scents that way.

So, he’d wandered around Beacon Hills for two hours after having waited in the house for the one, trying to find Stiles. By six in the morning, he hadn’t managed to locate him, which was what led him to Scott’s house.

As he’d suspected, Stiles wasn’t there, and Scott was passed out in bed drooling on his pillow. He didn’t have time to deal with an unconscious Scott, so he grabbed the blankets and wrenched them off him, forcing the other werewolf to wake with a startled snort, tired eyes snapping open and flashing red when he turned to see who was attacking him with cold air.

“Derek?” he slurred, seeming to still be mostly asleep. “What’s going on? What time is it? Is someone hurt?”

“Where’s Stiles?”

“Who?”

Did they know more than one?

“Stiles,” he said again, stressing the name. “Hyperactive weirdo, usually running into danger armed with a baseball bat and some sarcasm?”

It took much longer than Derek would’ve liked for Scott to wake up enough to comprehend the words escaping his mouth, but after a few seconds of angry glowering, the other werewolf registered his questions.

“Isn’t he at home? Sleeping? You know, like normal people do at six am on a Saturday?”

“I was there. He isn’t. Where is he?”

“I’m not his sitter,” Scott grumbled, reaching for his phone. “Did you try calling him?”

“No, I thought I’d send up a bunch of elaborate smoke signals and hope he found his way to me.”

Scott grumbled something about Derek spending too much time with Stiles lately before tapping at a few things on his phone and putting it to his ear. He frowned when it went straight to voicemail, Stiles’ overly cheerful greeting almost painful to listen to, even second hand.

For one, panicked moment, Derek wondered if something had happened to him. He’d been keeping that thought buried deep during the past few hours, but a concerned look crossed Scott’s face and the emotion surged forward. What if something had happened to him?

Stiles was human. He was fragile, and good bait to lure out not one, but two powerful Alphas. Anyone could’ve shown up and dragged him forcefully out of bed, kicking and screaming and causing a racket.

Actually, now that he thought about it, someone definitely would’ve heard him throwing a fit, not to mention there hadn’t been any foreign smells in the house. Just Stiles and his dad, a little bit of Scott, and even Derek himself. Malia’s scent had faded, thankfully, since they’d broken up months ago, but even if it had still been there, it still would’ve been normal.

Nothing weird or out of the ordinary.

So where the fuck was he?!

“Oh,” Scott suddenly said, looking at his phone.

“Oh?” Derek asked impatiently.

Scott looked up at him, winced, then set his phone down. “You won’t find him today.”

“I need him,” Derek snapped.

The younger werewolf narrowed his eyes, and when he replied, he had more venom in his tone than Derek had ever heard from him before. “Well too bad because you won’t get him today. Whatever you need, find someone else to help you.” He started to lay back down, then paused. “Not me. Someone awake and willing to help you.”

Derek wouldn’t have chosen Scott for this, anyway. He really just needed Stiles, nobody else would do. He was used to his methods, and he liked the way Stiles tried to figure things out aloud, it helped Derek think.

Having the other teen flailing around, waving a pen in one hand with a marker behind his ear and ranting about weird theories and how things interconnected before throwing an arm out a little too hard and falling out of his chair with a bang—Derek was too used to it.

He was spoiled, and he knew it. He liked being around him, even if he ignored the millions of reasons behind why. Like the fact that he’d been very happy the first time he’d noticed Malia’s scent was fading from his skin—something made worse when he’d actually smirked at finding out they’d broken up. It had been inappropriate to do, especially considering Stiles had sounded miserable about it when he’d been telling him, and had proceeded to call Derek an asshole for being so happy to see him miserable.

He couldn’t help it. In the past, it had been his pack. He was the Alpha, he had his three betas, and Scott and Stiles. Scott wasn’t one of his betas, but he was still in the pack, and he and Stiles came as a unit. They’d been a good pack. Small, controlled, focussed.

Then more people had been added. Allison, Lydia, Kira, Malia, Liam… It was too many. Even though he’d lost his betas and Allison was gone, it still somehow felt too crowded. He wanted things to go back to how they had been, maybe when Scott had first turned.

Him. Scott. Stiles.  

Actually, he could do without Scott, but he was useful in a pinch, so he supposed he’d let him stay in his mental pack. Still, he missed the closeness.

The pack was too full of drama now. He hated it, and he hated how much of Stiles’ attention was split. Everyone went to him for research, he was the idea man, the almost-expert—which was saying something considering he hadn’t known the supernatural world existed until his best friend had joined it.

Realizing he was just standing there scowling down at Scott, who’d laid down facing away from him and was resolutely ignoring him, Derek growled and turned to leave before noticing the blanket on the floor. Feeling vindictive for Scott being so cryptic, he picked it up and left the room with it, hearing Scott muttering profanities after him.

Dumping the blanket on the living room couch since he wasn’t a complete asshole, he headed outside, scented the air, and then began walking. He wasn’t sure where else he should go, so he just went around the pack’s houses despite knowing he wouldn’t find Stiles.

Thankfully, he wasn’t at Malia’s, and though he’d suspected it, he also wasn’t at Kira’s. Liam wasn’t even in town, so that was a no-go, and Derek had a hard time nearing Lydia’s house without her mother noticing so he left that one for now.

Making his way to the station instead, he wandered in to talk to the sheriff in case Stiles truly was missing and was informed the man wasn’t in. He had the day off.

That wouldn’t have been so weird, if not for the fact that both Stiles and the sheriff’s cars were gone. If they were together, they would’ve driven off together. Something weird was going on.

Derek sought out Parrish. He didn’t particularly like any of the deputies at the sheriff’s station, but Parrish was tolerable because of his own supernatural inclination. He tried to weasel information out of him, but the deputy knew as much as Derek did. The sheriff had apparently booked the day off months ago, but hadn’t mentioned it to the station at large until the day before when he’d advised he wouldn’t be reachable for the day.

Annoyed at another dead end, but marginally satisfied with the knowledge that Stiles likely wasn’t kidnapped and/or dying in a ditch somewhere, Derek decided to try Lydia’s again.

This time, her mother was gone and he wandered up to the house, knocking on the door. Lydia was the one who answered, seeming annoyed at seeing him.

“Scott said you might be coming by,” she said with an almost exasperated sigh, giving him one of her condescending looks of superiority. “Stiles isn’t here. You won’t find him today, just leave it alone.”

“I need him,” Derek snapped, irritated. “Tell me where he is.”

“I don’t know,” she replied back curtly, bristling at his tone. Why was everyone on edge about Stiles today?

Derek gave her an annoyed and disbelieving look, which had her stiffen further and point an accusatory, manicured finger at him.

“Don’t you eyebrow at me. Don’t you have a corner to go lurk in somewhere? Go bother someone else. Stiles isn’t here.”

She slammed the door in his face.

Frustrated and wanting some answers, Derek tried to go back to bug Scott, but the shit had left the house and while Derek could try and track him down, he didn’t want to be looking for two people, so he let it go.

He did stop by the clinic to see Deaton, though, just in case Scott was hiding. He wasn’t, and Deaton politely told him that he regrettably did not know where Stiles was when he was asked.

People gave Derek a wide berth after his visit to the clinic, presumably because the large cloud of doom above him was legitimately going to become real if he came across magic any time soon. He just wanted Stiles, was that too fucking much to ask? Sure, he could probably look this up himself, but Stiles did it better. And he was better at stringing clues together. And he just—it was his thing! It was all the human had to contribute to the team, Derek couldn’t just do his own research, then Stiles’ purpose would cease to exist.

Stiles might even get offended. Maybe he’d think Derek was trying to steal his contribution to the pack.

No, Derek couldn’t do the research. That was encroaching on Stiles’ metaphorical territory.

He was about to try looping back to the Stilinski house once more when a thought occurred to him and he changed directions, heading closer to the heart of town. Within twenty minutes, he was walking out of the elevator, looking around before slowly moving towards the closest nurse’s station.

“Hi,” he said, trying for his best smile, knowing that the ladies at the police station melted when he did that. It worked on the nurse, too. She was an older woman, likely married, but she still got all flustered and stumbled over her words, asking how she could help him. “I’m looking for Melissa McCall.”

“Derek?”

He turned at his name, seeing the woman herself, and moved towards her immediately. She looked panicked for a moment, quietly asking him if everything was okay and who was hurt. She was a woman ready for bad news, so Derek was somewhat pleased with himself for not having to give her any.

“I’m looking for Stiles. Do you know where he might be?”

She gave him a weird look, probably wondering why Derek was asking her. When she opened her mouth to likely tell him to ask Scott, he interrupted her.

“Scott said I wouldn’t find him today.”

“Wouldn’t—” She cut herself off, then checked her watch. “Oh,” she said, just like Scott.

“Oh?” he pressed, trying to sound polite but certain he just sounded impatient and annoyed.

“Sorry Derek, but you won’t find Stiles today,” she said, and Derek realized she’d been looking at the date on her watch. “Or the sheriff.”

“And why is that?” he asked through gritted teeth.

For once, finally, someone actually gave him an answer. “It’s the anniversary today.”

“Anniversary?”

“Of Claudia’s death, Stiles’ mother.” Melissa crossed her arms, clipboard held in one hand and let out a small sigh. “Both Noah and Stiles don’t do well today. With others, or each other. They both disappear for the whole day, no one knows where they are, and they like it that way.” Uncrossing her arms, she patted his shoulder gently. “Sorry Derek. Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait for tomorrow.”

Derek watched her walk away, somehow feeling hollow. He hadn’t known. Every person he’d managed to speak to today had known instantly that he wouldn’t find Stiles because it was that day. Derek didn’t know how he’d never found out before. He’d known Stiles for a few years, enough for this anniversary to have passed a few times since meeting him. So how had he not known?

He left the hospital without speaking to anyone else, almost wishing he’d never found out so he could just keep being mad at Stiles for being AWOL. Then again, if he’d started snapping impatiently at him the following day for being missing, that probably wouldn’t be received very well.

When he reached the street, he realized he didn’t know where he wanted to go. He’d spent the better part of the day looking for Stiles, and now knowing he wouldn’t find him, he didn’t know what he was to do with the rest of his day.

Checking the time, he realized it was almost two, which probably explained the hollowness in his stomach given he hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before. He decided to grab something from a food truck, since it required the least amount of interaction possible while avoiding having to cook food himself.

Sitting on a bench in the town square, he ate slowly, watching people walk by and listening to snip-its of conversations while the wind steadily picked up, turning the air an almost biting cold despite the time of year. His mind strayed back to what Melissa had said about how the sheriff and Stiles didn’t spend the day together and somehow, that bothered him. Grief wasn’t supposed to push people apart, it brought them together.

Derek knew that first hand. Having lost virtually his entire family in one fell swoop, he and Laura had clung to one another almost in desperation. To know that Stiles and his father didn’t share their grief together…

He supposed everyone grieved differently. He’d become more closed off and guarded. Laura had become stronger and more trusting. A contrast, he supposed, but everyone was different.

Standing and tossing his food wrapper out, he started wandering back towards the loft, wondering if Scott had ever even tried to spend any time with Stiles on this day. He probably had, but if Stiles didn’t want to be found—or didn’t want company—Scott would likely respect that.

Derek was just about to turn to head down another street towards his loft when a scent in the wind caught his attention.

Stiles. He could smell Stiles.

Turning, he inhaled deeply, trying to determine where it was coming from. It was difficult to pick up a solid direction, given how strong the wind was blowing and how many people were out, but he stayed focussed on his scent and slowly began working his way towards it.

Ten minutes later, and Derek found himself standing by the road beside the cemetery. The day was too bright and cheerful for someone to be in such a depressing place, but rain and gloom were reserved for the movies. In real life, bad things happened regardless of the weather.

Moving slowly between the rows of tombstones, Derek made his way towards the middle of the fourth plot before he finally saw him.

Stiles was in front of a modest looking headstone, sitting cross-legged with what looked like some kind of camping blanket wrapped around him. Derek was surprised to hear the silence. He was under the impression Stiles would be talking a mile a minute, bringing his mother up to speed on everything that had transpired throughout the year, but he wasn’t. He was just sitting there, silent, shoulders hunched.

Derek moved forward slowly, coming up beside him before stopping, looking down at the engravings on the stone. He knew Stiles was aware of his presence, but he said nothing, so Derek didn’t, either.

There were fresh flowers on the grave and a backpack beside where Stiles was bundled in his blanket. Derek could see a bottle of water poking out the top, and the dark circles under the teen’s eyes suggested he’d been there since before Derek had thought of showing up at his house. It made him wonder if Stiles had come by the previous night, sat down, and not moved.

“How’d you find me?” Stiles asked after almost fifteen minutes of silence.

“Werewolf.”

“Right.” He said nothing else. Didn’t even ask Derek to leave.

It was unnerving, and after almost five more minutes of silence from Stiles—from Stiles!—Derek hesitated before asking, “Should I leave?”

“If you want.”

“I don’t.”

“Then do whatever you want to do,” Stiles said, voice seeming tight, as if he were about to snap at Derek for daring to exist.

Melissa was right. Stiles wasn’t good with people on this day.

Derek decided he didn’t care, because Stiles shouldn’t sit there being miserable by himself, so he took a seat on the hard dirt beside him and the two of them stayed silent, staring at the tombstone. It was depressing, in Derek’s opinion. Even though he’d lived in the burnt out remains of his house for a few months, at least he’d done it because it reminded him of the good times. A happier life.

There was some punishment in there, too, but really, he was just glad to have fond memories of the destroyed mansion in the woods. What Stiles was doing, sitting here, in front of a piece of stone…

“Tell me about her,” Derek said quietly.

“Why?” Stiles snapped.

“So I can know her like you did.”

“She’s not someone I want to share with you,” he said darkly, eyes still on the grave. “I don’t like talking about her.”

“Why not?”

“Because it hurts,” Stiles spat, finally turning to him, eyes ablaze with anger. “Because losing someone you care about hurts, Derek. Why the fuck do you think?”

“I think I might have some experience with loss,” Derek replied. He’d tried for sympathetic, but felt it had come out more dry than anything.

Some of the fight seemed to leave Stiles’ expression and for a split second, he looked stricken, as if suddenly realizing who he was speaking to. The moment passed quickly though and he turned away from Derek. He didn’t apologize, but he muttered that there was a reason he stayed away from people on this day.

Derek didn’t mind. Everyone grieved differently, and if Stiles didn’t want to share, he wouldn’t force him. He just sat beside him, shifting slightly so that one of his knees bumped against Stiles’ leg. Not demanding, just offering comfort, if it was wanted. It likely wasn’t, but he didn’t really care.

Stiles smelled like heartache and loneliness. He looked miserable and depressed. His heart and breathing kept doing weird hitches that would’ve concerned Derek any other time.

After almost an hour of sitting there, Derek felt stiff and was amazed at the fact that Stiles hadn’t moved. He was usually annoying with his flailing and fidgeting, talking a mile a minute and being generally obnoxious.

It was something Derek had begun to find endearing, and this quiet, miserable, lonely Stiles didn’t suit him.

He was contemplating the easiest way to shift positions without disrupting Stiles too much when suddenly, he spoke.

“She was a terrible baker.”

Derek turned to him, about to ask what he was talking about before it clicked.

He was talking about his mother.

“All baking?” Derek asked, using the opportunity to shift a little so his legs weren’t quite so stiff.

“All baking. She made a cake for my birthday once. At least, I think it was supposed to be a cake. It looked like a brick of charcoal by the time she took it out of the oven.” A soft, sad smile formed on Stiles’ face at the memory. “She made cookies for a bake sale once, too. They broke one Ms. Freake’s teeth. Mom was so embarrassed that she made another batch to try and make it up to her. Probably not one of her better ideas.”

“Everyone has to be bad at something,” Derek said quietly. “My mother couldn’t sew. She managed to stitch a shirt to the pants she was wearing while fixing a button. Button didn’t stay on, and shirt ruined her pants.”

Stiles actually smiled at that, turning to look at Derek. He seemed to be coming back to himself, returning to the Stiles Derek knew and loved.

Well, not loved, but was used to. Enjoyed having around. Liked spending time with?

Maybe loved. He didn’t dwell on it.

Stiles continued then, beginning to talk a little more about his mother. Derek asked questions, being sure to keep things polite and trying not to pry. Stiles answered most of them, and redirected when he didn’t want to answer others. He asked Derek about his family, too, and while the werewolf didn’t like talking about them, he made an exception. Stiles was doing the same with him, it seemed only fair to return the favour.

The sun had begun to set by the time Stiles rooted through his bag for some food. He pulled out a granola bar, and when Derek asked if that was all he’d eaten that day, Stiles shrugged and admitted he usually didn’t eat much when he came out to the cemetery.

Derek left him then, but only to see if the food trucks were still out. One of them was, and he got some mac’n’cheese with bacon, closing both cartons tightly to ensure they would stay warm before heading back to the cemetery. Stiles actually gave him a genuine smile when Derek held out one of the containers, sitting back down beside him.

The two of them ate in silence, but it was a more comfortable one than earlier. Stiles eventually began talking about his mother once more, recounting a story from middle school where she’d almost killed his father with macaroni and cheese. Derek liked watching the way Stiles slowly cheered up the more he spoke about her, and when they’d finished their dinner, the teen actually flailed one arm, freeing it from the tight confines of the blanket wrapped around him.

As night fell and the air chilled more, Stiles offered to share the blanket with him. Derek wasn’t particularly cold, but acknowledged that Stiles might be getting a little chilly. Being a Werewolf, he ran hotter than most so he scooted closer until he was pressed against Stiles’ side and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and around his front, joining with Stiles’ part so that they were both fully covered.

Silence fell once more, and Derek really thought that they should be leaving when it began growing darker and darker, but nobody came to tell them to get out. Stiles also didn’t make any move to leave.

So, Derek stayed with him. He could tell his presence seemed to be soothing Stiles, less agonized scents escaping from him, and eventually Stiles fell asleep with his head on Derek’s shoulder.

He didn’t want Stiles to stay out all night, but somehow felt like this was a ritual for him. Midnight to midnight seemed about right, so he waited in the silent, dark night, listening to Stiles’ heart and feeling his breath along his jaw while he slept.

At ten-past-midnight, he nudged Stiles awake. He was groggy and a little grumpy, but when Derek told him the time, he deflated and struggled to get his stiff limbs to move the way he wanted them to. Derek stood and held a hand out to him, hauling him to his feet. He gathered up the blanket and their garbage, then hoisted Stiles’ backpack over his shoulder.

“I’ll wait for you at the jeep.” He figured that Stiles would want to say goodbye, so he left him to it, wanting to give him some privacy.

When he got to the car, he found it unlocked. It made sense, no one would steal this piece of junk. It was held together with duct tape, was older than Stiles, and everyone knew whose car it was. You’d have to be an idiot to steal the sheriff’s son’s car.

He put the backpack and blanket in the back, then threw the trash out in a bin near where Stiles had parked. He got behind the wheel, more awake than he knew Stiles was, and when the other finally made his way out of the cemetery, he didn’t argue when he saw Derek in the driver’s seat, just handed over his keys.

The drive back to the Stilinski house was conducted in silence, Stiles staring out the window the entire time. Derek parked the jeep on the road, noticing the cruiser in the driveway. That meant the sheriff was home, too.

“Thanks,” Stiles said quietly.

“No problem.”

“I don’t mean for the drive home.”

“I know.”

Stiles nodded once, then opened his door and exited the jeep. He made no move to take anything out of the back, likely just wanting to go to bed and forget the day had ever happened.

Before closing the jeep door, Stiles paused and turned towards Derek, but kept his gaze lowered. “Sometimes, I forget.”

“Forget?” Derek asked.

“That she’s gone. That it’s just dad and me. I forget that she isn’t just out.” He clenched his jaw. “I think she’s coming back.”

Derek nodded slowly. “Sometimes, I forget, too,” he admitted. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Stiles.”

Pressing his lips together, Stiles muttered another quiet thanks and then shut the door. Derek waited until he was safely in the house before exiting the vehicle and beginning to walk home.

When he showed up in Stiles’ room the next day around noon, having come in through his window, Stiles flailed in fright and fell out of his chair before insisting loudly and emphatically that Derek was an asshole who wanted to give him a heart attack.

Derek glowered at him and demanded he research something for him, hovering impatiently until Stiles stopped being flaily and annoying.

Neither of them brought up the previous day, but it was something Derek knew would stay with him.

He’d already programmed the date into his phone for next year, and this time, he would know where to find him from the get-go without spending most of the day looking for him.

Derek wondered if Stiles liked bagels.

END.

[lifeonashelf]

CHIODOS

It’s nearly impossible to expound on the “process” of writing without coming across like a self-important shithead. I only mention this because I’m about to attempt to do the former without doing the latter. Though I’ve maybe already hamstrung myself by referring to the act of pressing buttons on a laptop as a “process”—and I certainly haven’t helped my case by putting quotation marks around “process,” nor by using the word “expound.” Come to think of it, that “nor” is also ringing awfully pompous to me, even if in a technical sense “nor” was the grammatically correct word to use there... And there I go informing you what’s “grammatically correct,” which makes me sound like a total asshole.

Nevertheless, making this text be a thing is indeed contingent on a sequence of mental formulation and ritualistic preparation and elementary discipline, and when you put all of those things together, the noun which most accurately describes the result is indeed “process” (I consulted my thesaurus for a less ostentatious term, but only an officious wanker would describe writing as a “procedure”).

The first aspect is probably self-explanatory—“mental formulation” is basically just a douche-y way of saying “thinking about stuff.” Naturally, I have to develop an idea in my mind that I think is worth putting into words before I, you know, put it into words. Despite the schizophrenic tangents these pieces often swerve into, I assure you a significant amount of forethought goes into what they should ostensibly be about before a single letter is typed. So no matter how insensible the missives in Life on a Shelf may seem at times, I assure you that all of them are hatched from an embryonic guiding vision which was subjected to vigorous cerebral computation before I expelled it onto the page. Or something.

My “ritualistic preparation” these days involves brewing a pot of coffee while my laptop boots up, then stepping out onto my balcony to smoke a cigarette. I assume other writers have their own routines (although I can’t fathom how anybody gets anything done without coffee and cigarettes). As for me, a Camel Blue and five minutes of pensive silence are the ideal trappings to activate the creative headspace I need to be in to get down to business, and a glug of Pacific Northwest Blend with plenty of creamer supplies a constructive intermission whenever I need to gather my thoughts before finishing a sentence… like I just did after I typed those ellipses.

These elements are easily managed—I think about stuff all the time, and I’ve been known to smoke cigarettes and drink coffee even when I’m not writing. In fact, “elementary discipline” is the sole truly daunting component of the “process” (“pretentious fucking quotation marks again”). Though you might imagine the most challenging aspect of being a writer is generating quality material, this is absolutely not the case. Have you ever browsed the Romance section at a bookstore? Next time you do, select any novel with a bare-chested cowboy or highlander on the cover and read the synopsis on the back; you will promptly ascertain that something as otiose as quality never factored into that author’s process. Admittedly, I’ve never written a Romance novel, but I’ve read enough of them to deduce their methodology: devise a serviceable plot which strikes the delicate balance of sappy and rapey that is essential to the genre, concoct a couple names like Liam O’Shaughnessey and Analisa Winthrope, then start cranking out pages. Whether or not the finished product turns out any good is basically irrelevant; it got written. And ultimately, that’s all that matters.

Which brings us to the crux of the issue, my friends: the only difficult thing about writing… is actually writing. As in, sitting down and fucking doing it. Whether you have ideas or not. Whether you have time or not. Whether you even want to or not.

I am battling against all of those things at present. I don’t have any concrete concept of where this piece should go, despite having already listened to the trio of Chiodos discs I own two times each. I suppose I do technically have time because I’m not at work and I’m not asleep—however, it is currently 2:49 a.m., so I’m only a couple hours away from officially being up Stupidly Late. And if I’m being totally honest, I don’t particularly feel like writing this right now. Actually, I haven’t much felt like writing anything lately.

Popular legend asserts that Jack Kerouac authored On the Road in a single marathon, chemical-fueled session. That particular work has of course accumulated a mythic significance, and the integral way its unorthodox genesis factors into the iconography of The Beat Generation’s magnum opus cannot be overstated—there’s just something irresistibly romantic about the notion of a writer so driven to immortalize his masterpiece that he hammered away at it non-stop until he purged the whole thing out of his head and onto the page. On the Road’s putative origin story is such a renowned facet of its existence, it hardly matters anymore that the accepted account of Kerouac composing the novel in one fever-dream sitting is pure hyperbole. It actually took him three full weeks to type the thing, and he was only able to do it that quickly because he had been sketching out the manuscript in his journals for several months beforehand. I’m not pointing this out to belittle the impact of Kerouac’s most revered literary contribution—although I personally found On the Road prodigiously underwhelming when I finally read it, I still concede that crafting an entire novel in three weeks is a duly impressive feat. Even so, for our purposes here, I would like it known that the quixotic notion of writers routinely hunkering down and hammering out text in a frenetic slit-jugular gush is absolute bullshit.

The truth is this: writing is almost never borne from lightning-in-a-bottle surges of inspiration. The vast majority of prose is instead borne from endless, maddening hours spent agonizing over a single word. An entire afternoon spent obsessing over one sentence that will inevitably undergo further alteration when you re-read it the next afternoon and realize it’s still not sitting quite right. Days and nights and months and years whose elapses become measured in pages—days and nights and months and years spent toiling in seclusion. Writing is lonely, punishing work that yields limitless frustration and only sporadic satisfaction. It is the most bi-polar of artistic expressions, a drug that poisons as often as it cures, and you never know which trip you’re in store for from one fix to the next. To be a writer is to give your heart to a mistress who demands steadfast devotion while she repeatedly punches you in the face, yet you keep coming back for more because every now and then she gives you a really awesome kiss instead. Asked what advice they would give to aspiring wordsmiths who wanted to know the secret to living a happy life as a writer, one prominent author is said to have remarked: “Don’t be a writer.” This quote is possibly apocryphal, but when I heard it, I believe it was attributed to Sylvia Plath—or maybe I just assume Sylvia Plath said it because she ended her life by sticking her head into her fucking oven. And, frankly, I don’t think she chose an entirely unreasonable course of action. Because, goddamn, this shit really hurts sometimes.

I am not Jack Kerouac. I did not shape my debut novel in one sitting, or even in three weeks. It took me five grueling years. Once I garnered the interest of an agent, I spent another several months editing my tome to the more marketable length she advised me to trim it to, then spent an additional several months patiently waiting while she shopped it. It was a protracted and sometimes excruciating interval. But one of the things that kept me afloat while I was laboring on this intensive undertaking was my presumption that its consummation was bound to feel like the afterglow of an epic make-out session.

Regrettably, it has not.

Since I finished the book, I have instead found myself in the grip of an acute postpartum depression. I do not feel triumphant, I feel lethargic and uninspired. This is a turn of events I did not foresee—throughout the half-decade I spent striving to complete that project, in the back of my mind I was simultaneously making grand plans to commence a new endeavor, and to subsequently start churning out huge chunks of pages on this one (or at least finish the goddamn letter “C”). And now, at last, for the past few months I have had several hours a day to fill with whatever artistic activities I choose… but I haven’t particularly desired to spend any of those hours doing anything artistic (the most significant feat I’ve been able to muster thus far is re-watching the first three seasons of Miami Vice).

I think I know what has instigated this listlessness. While I was working on the novel, my exclusive goal was its completion; the success or failure of that mission rested solely in my hands. However, my present goal is considerably loftier: I want the thing to get released so I can begin the career I’ve been chasing for two decades… and this is something I have absolutely no jurisdiction over. The outcome of that mission will be decreed by the prospective publishers who will determine the course of the rest of my life, faceless strangers who have the capacity to shatter all of my dreams simply by emailing the word “pass” to my agent.

Which many, many, many have already done.

I am incredibly grateful to be as far along on the course as I am. I am incredibly grateful that a representative at the most prestigious literary agency in the world read something I wrote and found enough merit in it to decide, “this guy doesn’t suck.” I am prouder of the novel I produced than I have been of anything I’ve ever created, and there are passages in it that are so good I can hardly believe I’m the one who wrote them. The manuscript represents an impeccable embodiment of the vision I had when I first sat down and started plucking away at it all those years ago, blissfully unaware of the weight and scope of the expedition I was about to embark on because it was a journey I had never taken before. I bumbled my way through the early chapters as I struggled to gain purchase on the story I wanted to tell, I gradually got to know my characters, and along the way I fell in love with some and grew to despise others, just as I hoped my eventual readers would. Writing the book was a revelatory experience—I became intimately acquainted not only with my craft, but also with the vastness of my passion for it. I drew upon reserves of endurance I did not even know I possessed, consuming innumerable days grinding on the text for six hours straight, breaking away only to go work an eight-hour restaurant shift, then coming home and writing some more until the sun came up before finally collapsing into my bed to sleep for five hours so I could wake up and do the exact same thing again the next day. It took literal and figurative years off my life, but I wrote a novel. And even better, when it was finished, I realized I had somehow written one that I think is pretty goddamn fantastic.

But I’m not basking in victory at the moment—I’m fucking terrified. Because now, after dozens of rejections, there is an increasingly strong chance that no one will ever read my pretty goddamn fantastic novel and this aspiration I have been working toward my entire life will culminate in failure.

I understand that every successful writer surely weathered numerous rebuffs before someone believed in their work enough to green-light their publishing career. My cognizance of this should probably provide me some measure of solace, perhaps assure me that I am in good company and merely going through another step of the “process.”

Except that’s not how I feel right now at all. Right now, I feel like I did the best I could, but the best I can do simply isn’t good enough.

And since we’re putting it all on the table here, I can freely admit that some of my melancholy stems from all of this happening while I’m counting down the final weeks of my thirties. I’ve never placed much significance on age-related milestones—sure, I was depressed when I turned 30, but that was mostly because I was still recovering from a recent break-up; I was also depressed when I turned 35, but that was mostly because I started that birthday eating alone at a Denny’s at two in the morning, which is an inherently depressing way to kick off your birthday irrespective of the year. I realize that being 40 is roughly as inconsequential as being 39 in the scheme of things. Only, it’s kind of fucking not.

It’s not so much the age itself that unsettles me—most of the time, I still conduct myself like an 18 year-old with an advanced record collection and an excessive proportion of grey in his beard; I’ve even grown out my belly and my hair again, so whenever I put on a Slayer shirt I don’t look a whole lot different than I did when I was actually 18. No, the aspect of turning 40 that I find discomfiting is purely internal: I can’t help myself from holding the general assumption that someone who has been on this planet for 40 years should probably have their shit together. And I know I do not. In almost every conceivable realm of my existence, I am behind the curve of innate anthropological evolution: I have not married or procreated, my current vocation is in an industry where even my superiors are at least a decade younger than me, and I still regularly stay up until 5 a.m. eating Doritos while I binge-view Friday The 13th films (in case you’re thinking of investing some time in the franchise, be cautioned that Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan is not merely the worst entry in the series by a massive margin, it is an absolutely unredeemable piece of shit; I’ve only watched that one like 20 times).

When you’re young, 40 seems inconceivably ancient. And no matter how intimately you stay in touch with the edition of yourself who thought that way, sometimes 40 seems inconceivably ancient when you’re 39, too. That clichéd adage “you’re only as old as you feel” delivers no comfort whatsoever on the nights you come home at three in the morning after trudging through nine hours of the food-service work you’ve been slogging in the trenches of for ten years, when you’re depleted and sore and desperately wishing you had some other skillset to realistically earn a decent living, and you evaluate your throbbing feet and your aching back and your weary brain and conclude that if you truly are as old as you feel, then you might have accidentally blinked and turned 65 during your shift. I’m uncertain if I’m old enough to accurately classify myself as old, but I am certainly too old to accurately classify myself as young, and I am old enough to be painfully aware of this.

Consequently, I’m probably also too old to be listening to Chiodos, an archetypal emo ensemble whose musical ethos predominantly evokes a more symphonic incarnation of My Chemical Romance, with intermittent screamy-growly vocals and plenty of requisitely-unwieldy song titles like “I Didn’t Say I Was Powerful, I Said I Was A Wizard”. It’s unlikely I will ever see Chiodos live since they split up in 2016, though I can presume with minimal imprecision that if I did go to one of their shows I would be older than every other person there. Tellingly, the group’s eldest member was only 30 when they disbanded, which suggests that even the dudes who actually played in Chiodos deemed their music unsuitable for people my age.

Despite my cultural incompatibility, I do like Chiodos, and I think a few of their tunes may even merit the designation of awesome. I don’t know if this justifies owning three of their records—the only one I spin with any regularity is 2014’s Devil, mostly for the scorching cut “Ole Fishlips Is Dead Now”, a balls-out metal opus whose bridge section is as thrillingly brutal as its title is silly. Come to think of it, there are a lot of things about the band’s sonic and imagistic aesthetic that strike me as silly, so I’m not sure I entirely understand why I like them. Further, I’m not sure I’m even supposed to like them. In a very real sense, Chiodos embodies the epoch when I officially stopped being part of the demographic that music for young people is aimed at: their debut record—2005’s All’s Well That Ends Well—was released the summer after I graduated from college to presumably take my first steps into proper adulthood (although, I spent most of that summer smoking pot and playing Tekken with my then-girlfriend from two in the afternoon until sunrise, which may not have necessarily qualified as “adulting”).

As such, my initial awareness of Chiodos was primarily defined by my not being aware of them at all. They were exactly the sort of outfit that headlined the Vans Warped Tour the very first year a line-up for that festival was announced which forced me to concede I hadn’t heard of any of the bands performing at an event I had once attended religiously. I don’t think I even registered this sea-change at the time (I think I mostly just grumbled, “dude, the Warped Tour line-up sucks this year”). Yet as Chiodos and I continued advancing on our separate paths, I gradually became conscious that my alt-rock era had officially come to an unceremonious end and a legion of skinny-jean-and-eye-liner-wearing dudes with injudicious haircuts and a multiplicity of neck tattoos had seized the mantle. Since this new crop of youth-medium-t-shirt bands—Falling In Reverse, Sleeping With Sirens, Pierce The Veil, et al—looked so ridiculous to me, I naturally assumed they also sounded ridiculous; upon further inspection, many of these bands do, indubitably, sound ridiculous. However, somewhere along the way, I began to accept an uncomfortable truth: my inability to wholeheartedly appreciate the music of the alt-young is more my fault than the bands’.

It would be extremely narrow-minded of me to sum up what we’ll call the emo scene—for lack of a better term—as “loud songs about girls” (especially since the inclusion of pretty songs about girls between the loud songs about girls is precisely the reason so many girls like the bands in this genus). Nonetheless, on a fundamental level, the vast majority of the music in that canon is indeed characterized by myopic lyrical musings about assorted stages of the boy-meets-girl-boy-loses-girl paradigm. Even the heaviest track in the Chiodos catalog (the afore-mentioned “Ole Fishlips”) features a chorus that begins with the lines: “I want to forget you / You’ve broken everything I love, took all my light and turned it into dusk.” Granted, that’s a damn solid stanza, but it’s not one I can presently relate to. Those words don’t evoke anything in my current existence—the last time someone took all my light and turned it into dusk was a full five years ago; I can barely remember what that felt like now, let alone what being in love to begin with felt like. As much as I appreciate some of the music crafted by acts of Chiodos’ ilk on a purely “that rocks” level, it simply doesn’t resonate with me on an emotional level. The most pressing concerns in my world aren’t centered around whether any of my foxy co-workers like-me-like-me or not; I’m a lot more worried about how I’m going to pay my rent in a few years when my body is too broken down for me to be their co-worker anymore.

Which brings about a more imperative revelation that is just now dawning on me: there isn’t a whole lot of modern rock I can relate to. People of my advanced age are ostensibly supposed to listen to bands like Coldplay, whose music has never spoken to me at all—near as I can tell, most of their songs are either about how exhilarating it feels to discover a great new organic juice bistro or the simple pleasure of trying on an Abercrombie & Fitch v-neck that fits you just right. There aren’t too many rock frontmen writing tunes about wrestling with an uncertain future while the mounting impediments of middle age conspire to diminish their tenacity. Maybe that’s why most of the new records I get excited about are still by death metal bands, whose tunes eschew any musings on situational angst or starry-eyed ardor in favor of graphic elucidations of the various phases of the deceasing process (being violently killed, decomposition, the ensuing sexual defilement of one’s corpse, etc.). Perhaps it’s depressing that I think about dying a lot more frequently than I think about girls these days, yet the fact remains that my particular juncture of the mortal cycle is sorely underrepresented in the contemporary rock register. Aerosmith’s “Dream On” was written way back in 1973; what the fuck have you done for me lately?

When I hear a twenty-something vocalist plaintively bemoaning insecurity about his place in the world, it doesn’t elicit a poignant response from me anymore—now I just sort of meh-shrug because I know he has plenty of time to figure his shit out (and, besides, I find it difficult to sympathize with the amorous woes of any dude with flawless cheekbones who belts out those songs every night to a sea of female fans so devoted to him that they’d willingly gouge out the eyes of the person standing next to them if he told them they could touch his penis afterwards). An audience of that singer’s peers is wholly in synch with that species of nebulous life anxieties, so they are undoubtedly buoyed to ascertain that a musician they esteem is going through the same trials as them. But I am no longer in that audience, no longer a peer. I can hardly blame any of those bands or their fans for my being a man staring down his 40’s; they didn’t do that to me, time did. Regardless, I have become increasingly incapable of forging a sincere connection with them, which makes it tough for me to take them seriously since they ply their trade via an art-form that is the most singular connective tissue of my being.  

I’m of course minimizing for humorous and dramatic effect. There are plenty of more recent outfits whose work has invigorated me over these last few years (if you want me to name names, I’ll happily toss out Modern Baseball, White Lung, Pity Sex, TV Ghost, Moon King, Thee Oh Sees, and Warpaint, among others). Still, I am perpetually reminded that as I segue into my future, most of the truly significant musical figures in my life are destined to remain those who came into my life in my past—especially when I consider that out of the six upcoming concerts I currently have tickets for, not one of the bands I’m going to see was formed in this century.

Chiodos was a very good band. Perhaps even a great one. They authored some creative, impressively-technical music that was executed by a cast of clearly skilled players. Devil is a consistently killer record from start to finish. Judging by how many of their stylistic flourishes I’ve noted in the work of several similar outfits that arrived in their wake, Chiodos is probably terribly important to a large number of people a generation removed from me. Nonetheless, as much as I enjoy a lot of their tunes, Chiodos is just not terribly important to me—I am writing about them here simply because they are the next band in my library.

What is important to me, however, is overcoming this dismal miasma that has settled over me. I have no desire to spend my 40’s the same way I spent most of my 30’s: ever-crawling dejectedly onward, all the while recognizing my destiny like a beacon on the distant horizon and wondering when I will reach it, inexorably waiting for the life I want to live to finally begin. After facing numerous setbacks—the worst being a deal that was actually on paper awaiting signatures, one that my agent was forced to pass on to protect me because of an untenable small-print proviso which ceded absolute ownership of my work to the publisher—the status of my authorial career is thus: my best option now is to craft another novel and restart the process from scratch. The challenge this poses is fresh and staggering: now I know precisely how difficult it is to write a novel, how long it takes, how much of myself will be devoured along the way. And I will have to plunge into this undertaking without any assurance that eventual success will ensue, since it did not the first time.

Yet if I have any prayer of meeting that challenge, first I have to dissipate this fog that has enveloped me. I cannot complete the task until I begin it in earnest. So maybe, just maybe, if I can coax myself to finish an essay about a band that doesn’t mean anything to me, I’ll be able to coax myself back to pursuing the desire that means everything to me.

It’s time for me to sit down again. And fucking do it. Whether I have ideas or not. Whether I have time or not. Whether I even want to or not. Like chaste Analisa Winthrope—who initially resists the brutish advances of that notorious rogue Liam O’Shaughnessey, until she beholds the throbbing nucleus of manhood beneath his kilt and finally yields to the humid yearning in her loins—I must succumb to my passion.

Because writing isn’t something I do. It’s what I am. Sure, those punches in the face are never pleasant. But, man, when I get those kisses instead…

This probably isn’t the best installment of Life on a Shelf I’ve ever composed. It might not even be a particularly strong one.

But that’s basically irrelevant. It got written.

And right now, ultimately, that’s all that matters.

 April 5, 2018

[hey-i-wrote-a-story]

Chapter 38 Little To Show

It was already midday by the time Scott’s pack was gathered around his kitchen, leaning over the center island listening to Lydia’s cell phone, set to speaker.

           “So where are we?”, Scott asked. The others looked on expectantly. Kira, Stiles, Liam, Lydia, and Malia were all there listening intently.      

           Mr. Deaton’s voice answered back. “I’m afraid we have very little to show in our research, beyond what we already know. I’m uncovering more information about Orchard Ridge, the Willoughby family, even some news items about the night of the original monster attack. But beyond that…” His voice trailed off, a hint of exasperation in his tone.

           “Mom?”, Kira asked. “How about on your end?”

           Mrs. Yukimura’s voice came through from her side of the conference call. “It’s not for nothing that the monsters were known as The Unspoken. The vast majority of the lore has been either lost or is under protection by sources I couldn’t even begin to imagine, much less locate. Everything that I have found mostly tells us that the amount we already know about the creature is a miraculous amount.”

           “But not miraculous enough to tell us how to stop it”, Stiles observed.

           “There is only one thing that both Mrs. Yukimura and I have been able to confirm”, Deaton began. “But it’s the same conclusion we’ve come to before.”

           “I thought we were looking for an alternative”, Scott said quickly.

           “I’m not sure we’re going to find another way, Scott. Certainly not in the limited time that we have. ”

           “What are you guys talking about?”, Liam asked

           Deaton paused for a moment, then answered, “There is one way we have found to send it back.”

           “Good!”, Liam said, excited. “Let’s do it! What do we need? How do we—“

           He didn’t make it any further before Mrs. Yukimura said, “It would require a sacrifice.”

           The room went silent as the pack’s members stared at one another. This was not what they wanted to hear. Stiles finally broke the silence. “I don’t suppose you’ve learned we can go the route of toads or mice or a really big fruit basket.”

           Mrs. Yukimura’s voice was flat and humorless. “No.”

           Something occurred to Deaton. “The other three kids. Are they with you?”

           “No”, Lydia said.

           “I sent them outside to play”, Stiles said, glancing into the back yard to see the three of them seated around the base of a tree, apparently caught up in conversation.

           Lydia added, “We didn’t know what you were going to find, so we thought it best that we knew first.”

           “A wise decision”, Mrs. Yukimura said.

           In the back yard, their backs to the house, Kaitlyn, Aadesh, and Freddie sat transfixed on a small purple gem that Kaitlyn held suspended from a thin gold chain. Inside the gem, tiny crystalline particles were slowly evaporating. The gem glowed softly as every word spoken in the kitchen echoed through the gem for the trio of friends to hear.

           Her voice tinny and slightly distant, Mrs. Yukimura’s voice echoed through the gem, “A wise decision.”

           “Yeah”, Freddie said. “Wouldn’t want us doing anything stupid.”

           “Like summoning a killer monster from another dimension”, Aadesh griped, absently plucking blades of grass from the ground.

           Kaitlyn shushed them both. It was hard enough to make out what was being said without having to restrain their remarks. The voices continued coming through the gem, its interior crystals rapidly running out.

           “There’s more”, Deaton said.

           Stiles rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Of course there is.”

           “The level of sacrifice necessary to return a creature this powerful back where it came from would require something…more than human.”

           There was a heavy pause the hung in the air as they processed that statement. Scott said, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

           “I’m afraid so.”

           “What?”, Liam asked. “What is he saying?”

           Mrs. Yukimura explained. “The sacrifice needs to be someone supernatural.”

           Another pause. The three friends in the back yard looked at each other to verify they had heard that right. Judging from the look in their eyes, they had.

           Back in the kitchen, Stiles said, “So that could mean someone like a wendigo, or a druid.”

           “Or a banshee”, Lydia said.

           “Or kitsune”, Kira said.

           “Or a werewolf”, Scott said, completing what they were already thinking. In order to save everyone whom the monster could hurt, would the sacrifice have to be one of them?

           “The range is wider than that”, Mrs. Yukimura continued, “for what this is worth. In term of a supernatural sacrifice, that could also include anyone who has been touched by the supernatural in some way. Their connection would have to be significant, not just a passing encounter, but—“

           “That could mean any of us”, Stiles said, including himself in his statement.

           “Or anyone like us”, Liam interjected.

           “No”, Scott said firmly. “I’m not going to accept that somebody else has to die in order to stop this thing. There’s got to be another way.”

           “I’m sorry”, Mrs. Yukimura said. “But there is no other way.”

           As she spoke, Deaton’s eyes drifted to the book nearby on his desk. The monster guide book that Scott had lent him. The pages were still open to the illustration he had been studying earlier. A thought occurred to him. “About that…”

           “Yeah?”, Scott said. He could tell from his boss’s voice that the wheels were turning in his head.

           In the backyard, Kaitlyn’s gem burned out. Its interior crystals burned up, it was now a lovely hollow piece of costume jewelry, but of no use magically.

           “Damn it”, She muttered.

           “What do you think he was gonna say?”, Freddie pondered aloud.

           “Do you think whatever it was would make an difference?”, Aadesh asked.

           Back inside, Scott pressed Deaton. “What are you thinking?”

           “I’m thinking that I need to be sure about something before I say anything else. Stay vigilant and watch out for each other. I’ll contact you as soon as I know more.”  With that, he hung up.

           The mood in the kitchen went from doubtful to dismal. Their options, currently being only one, were less than appealing. Mrs. Yukimura spoke again, catching a few of the pack off guard. They had almost forgotten she was still on the line.

           “Dr. Deaton and I believe that it would be a good idea to return to the farm for one last search. You are looking for alternative solutions. You may find something there.”

           “Scott and I already checked”, Stiles said. “We didn’t find anything very helpful.”

           “But you didn’t have me”, Lydia said.

           “Our thoughts exactly”, Mrs. Yukimura agreed. “If any of us could pick up on something lingering there—“

           “—it would most likely be a banshee”, Lydia said, completing her thought.

           “I’ll go with you”, Malia offered.

           “Just be careful”, Mrs. Yukimura urged. “And take heart, It’s not over yet.”

           As the two girls moved to leave, Scott stepped closer to them. “We’re going to find another way”, Scott said, trying to reassure his friends. “We will.” Malia and Lydia nodded, then left. Those left behind found it difficult to agree with Scott’s statement, so they said nothing.

           In the back yard, the three friends sat in silence. After the quiet became too difficult to bear, Aadesh spoke up. “Maybe we should just let them do whatever it is they’re going to do. They always come up with a cool plan, don’t they?”

           “You gotta admit, they do”, Freddie agreed, thinking back on the stories of his heroes’ adventures. “Like slipping the mountain ash into those pills, or the time they—“

           “How’s everyone been sleeping lately?”, Kaitlyn interrupted.

           The boys looked at each other and their eyes conveyed that which they had chosen not to mention. They both looked at Kaitlyn to find that her expression matched theirs.

           “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Me too.”

           Aadesh bowed his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “When things get really bad, it always comes out in our dreams.”

           “It’s been that way for all of us”, Freddie remarked. “Ever since—“

           “Ever since I started accessing my visions”, Kaitlyn said, nodding. She looked to her two remaining friends, locking her eyes on both of them. “It’s time to make some hard choices.”

           The two boys didn’t contradict her, but they didn’t jump in to agree with her, either.

 Stiles strode through the door of his house trying to stay focused and trying to stay as positive as Scott. The former was not that much of a challenge, as fear and desperation often honed Stiles’ focus. That latter? Yeah, that wasn’t happening. He figured he’d grab some food on the run and then get back to the business of brainstorming a way out of this impossible situation. I never thought I’d miss the days of obsessive homicidal grandfathers and psychotic alpha packs, Stiles mused to himself. It’s kind of hard to anticipate the thoughts of something that doesn’t exactly think.

           Stiles stopped midway across the room when a strong aroma struck him. Someone had been cooking. And it smelled really good. Stiles quickly made his way to the kitchen, where he found his father setting out food onto the unusually clean table.

           “Um…Dad? What’s going on?”

           “What’s going on is dinner. And your timing is perfect, which is rarely the case. Plates and silverware are there on the end. Set the table for three.”

           Stiles was already responding to his dad’s request before he even considered what he was doing. “Shouldn’t you be out monster hunting instead of playing Suzy Homemaker all of a sudden?”

           “We’ve got every man on this and there hasn’t been a peep about your flying whatsits in hours. I have no idea when we’re going to have the chance to eat again once disaster strikes—which it always does—so why not enjoy the fleeting moment of quiet while we have it?”

           Stiles found it difficult to argue with his father’s logic. “That actually makes pretty good sense.” He looked at the third plate even as he set it down, arranging the fork and knife on either side of it. “Who else is eating?”

           “Oh, Malia’s around here somewhere. She might be upstairs. I tend to just expect her now. It makes her unannounced appearances less jarring.”

           “I think she said she was going to grab a coat she’d left here before taking off with Lydia.” Stiles looked at the plate of steaming, well-cooked, and deliciously seasoned individual steaks at the center of the table. He sniffed. It smelled fantastic, but he still couldn’t place it. “That…looks suspiciously juicy and well-marbled, as well as having most likely been up and walking around at some point in the recent past. I thought we were eating healthy now. What is--?”

           The sheriff cut off his son’s question by setting a large spinach salad to the left of the steaks, and a dish of steamed broccoli and asparagus on the right. “We have plenty of greens, don’t worry. Call your girlfriend and let’s eat before something out there blows up or rises from the dead.”

           “Sure. But what kind of steaks are--?”

           Malia was at the foot of the stairs about to stride past the kitchen before either Stilinski knew she was there. “I’m meeting Lydia in a little bit. We should be—“ Malia stopped, her face was lit up with joy, her smile a mile wide.

           “Deer!”

           Stiles felt his eyes bulge. “I’m sorry, what?”

           Malia was in her seat in a second. “Oh, this is fantastic! Thank-you!”

           The sheriff smiled at his son. “Venison. I was getting a little tired of pizza.”

           Stiles smiled back and took his seat beside his girl. As breaks in the chaos went, this was most definitely a good one. And if this did end up being their last meal, Stiles would be hard-pressed to think of a better one. The sheriff passed the steaks around, Malia snatching the first one eagerly. As Stiles began to lift one of the succulent steaks onto his plate, Malia was already munching down hers with gusto.

           “Mmmm! SO good! I’ve never had one cooked before. This is great!”

           Father and son shared a look that signified a sudden decrease in appetite. Stiles set the plate down and slowly pushed it away.

           “Maybe I’ll start with the salad”, He said.

           “Me too”, his father agreed.