#maybe i need to start hiding weapons under my clothes again just to feel safer i used to hide blades in my bra when i was crazy in 2020

[derpinette]

as soon as i want to relax i start thinking about how vulnerable my vitals are

[lonely-lost-soul]

Under the Floorboards Pt. V

(Technoblade X Reader): Pt. I, Pt. II, Pt. III, Pt. IIII, Pt. V, Pt. VI

    Alright so maybe you spoke too soon; the four of you were going to do great things, minus Tommy. Technoblade had finally agreed to let you join Tommy and him on an adventure into L’manberg. The plan was to crash their festival, and ultimately attempt to get Tommy’s discs back from Dream and Tubbo. You expected your first adventure into the country to be fun, if anything you’d get to steal some shit, what you didn’t expect was to be thrown in the middle of a public dispute. 

Clearly, you underestimated what ‘getting the discs back’ actually entailed. 

You and Technoblade were back to back swords drawn, surrounded by about thirty people in the ruin of what was once deemed a community house. Technoblade never would’ve agreed to let you come if he thought the confrontation with Dream was going to be this serious, he assumed they’d watch from afar. If things got to dicey Tommy and him would rush in and he’d have you stay behind to watch from afar. If only he could’ve predicted someone blowing up a random building would cause such turmoil. 

Nothing could ever come up Technoblade.

   “Yah know when you first invited me out to partake in a festival for some reason I didn’t expect to be attacked by like thirty people.” You chirped a hesitant smile on your face as Technoblade made a confused sound. 

   “You definitely should’ve expected it,” Technoblade grumbled, barely taking his eyes off of Tommy and Tubbo’s argument. You watched Techno’s back but you couldn’t help but eavesdrop on the boys conversation as well. As much as your heart broke for the two war-torn children, you had your alliance first and foremost with your boyfriend. You also couldn’t help but feel this conversation should be happening privately but here they were airing things out seemingly for the first time in front of everybody. Speaking of your boyfriend, your attention was drawn back to him as he caught Tommy’s attention, “be very careful what your decision is here Tommy.” 

You narrowed your eyes and took a step in front of Technoblade, he made his classic ‘heh’ sound as you did so. You felt his hand grip your forearm and tighten trying to hold you back in case you wanted to do something stupid. 

   “Tommy, come home with us.” You held out your hand to him, the one Technoblade didn’t have a hold of obviously. “Phil’s waiting for us, we’ll get your discs back together as we planned.” The smile on your face could part the cloudiest of days and it broke Tommy’s heart, she had given him something that he hadn’t had since the war with Dream began.

A home. 

   “(Y/N),” That’s the first time he used your name, the first time you weren’t just Ms Blade. It broke your heart and you whimpered a little bit, “thank you for everything you’ve done for me. But I can’t go back with you and Technoblade. I don’t like what I’ve become, this isn’t me. I’m sorry. I hope one day we can be friends again. Tubbo give Dream my disc.” You leaned back into Technoblade in disbelief, Tommy had just betrayed Technoblade right before your very eyes. The man who gave Tommy the clothes on his back and a place to stay when no one else would. Weapons to help him fight against Dream when everyone else abandoned him, even though they all treated Technoblade as a weapon he still went out of his way to help Tommy. Your hands clenched into fists at your side as Dream let out a roaring laugh collecting the disc from Tubbo. He called the two children stupid right to their face and no matter how angry you were with them that was harsh, it’s like everyone in this country forgets that they are children. Children fuck up, it’s how they learn and it’s in their nature why does no one here understand that. You looked up at Techno your eyebrows furrowed and you pressed your lips tight but he didn’t take his eyes off Dream, he had different priorities in mind. 

Protecting you from the Dreamon if anything went south. 

Dream continued to mock and criticize the people of L’manberg before turning to you and Technoblade. The mask he wore may hide his facial expressions, but it couldn’t mask the unadulterated glee in his voice. Technoblade pulled you behind him as Dream stepped closer to the both of you, you felt a growl rumble in Technoblade’s chest, 

   “That’s close enough.” 

   “Down boy.” Dream mused, holding up his hands to show faux innocence. “I have no issues with the both of you. Tomorrow, with your help, Technoblade and woman.”  

   “(Y/N).”

   “Don’t tell him your name.” Technoblade gaped at you and you only could huff in frustration, 

   “Better than just being called woman! Plus Tommy already said it.”  

With an eye-roll Dream continued his speech, “With the help of Technoblade and (Y/N) L’manberg is going to be a crater. We’re blowing it sky-high.” Dream turned over to face Tubbo once again, “I had to pretend to be friends with you, to get the dumb disk back! I don't care about you. I'm not your friend. Okay? I cared about getting the disk back, and I got the disk back. I got it back. And that's-that's- that's the only thing that really matters. You can't even run your nation right. RANBOO IS A TRAITOR. ONE OF YOUR MOST TRUSTED FRIENDS.”

Your eyes widened as you spotted another child looking horrified, it was the half enderman from the butcher gang. You’re adopting him next.

   “NO, IT IS TRUE. READ THIS BOOK. READ THIS BOOK. There's his memory book. He was meeting with Techno and Tommy and told them EVERYTHING. The proof’s all his own memories! He writes it down! You can't even run your own nation correctly Tubbo. Listen. Tubbo, you, I mean you, ... L'Manberg is weaker than it's ever been, and it's because of you! You have- you have destroyed everything. You have ruined your friendships. You have ruined L'Manberg's allies. You have just-you are a horrible president Tubbo.” Dream continued as Tubbo looked sick to his stomach, you felt just as nauseous.

   “YEAH, YOU SUCK TUBBO!”

   “TECHNOBLADE!” 

   “What?” He flinched at your tone, “he’s right!” 

   “They’re children,” You tried to argue but Dream cut you off by stepping in between you and Technoblade. Your pulse skyrocketed as you were separated, and you made sure an ender pearl was at the ready. Tommy looked at the both fo you nervously, but there was a spark of hope in his eyes when you defended Tubbo. Tommy turned over to Tubbo who honestly looked just as shocked that a partner of Technoblade’s would defend him, espeically considering he had tried to kill her a few days prior. Tommy had hope that he wasn’t completely dead to you.

   “Techno. Got any withers?” You watched a sickening smile spread across Techno’s lips he picked at his nails. 

   “I got a few.” 

   “Good. Then I’ll see you all tomorrow when the L’manberg loses its last cannon life,” Dream announced before disappearing into the wind. The citizens turned to face you and Technoblade, he only had to utter a single word:

   “Run,” Before both of you pearled away from the wreckage of the community house. 

Technoblade scooped you up in his arms as he made his way through the Nether portal back to his base. He was much faster than you were and you didn’t fight him on wanting to make a quick getaway. You both were silent on the way back to his base, bottom line was you didn’t know how you felt about what just went down. On one hand, destruction was your middle name and you weren’t going to oppose blowing a government to smithereens with your boyfriend.  

Nothing could be more romantic than that. 

Yet at the same time, unlike Technoblade, you felt the guilt eat away at you. These were people’s homes, and lives you’d be destroying tomorrow. Most of the citizens you had no affiliation with, which you were grateful for, but those you did you almost couldn’t justify blowing the country up. Tommy was by all accounts dead to Technoblade and by that extent you as well. Still, you didn’t want to see him physically dead, it wasn’t his fault he got corrupted by the government and a homeless teletubby.

You were starting to sound like Technoblade now too.  

You made a sound of distress and Techno glanced down at your form, his face flushed as you nuzzled your nose against his neck. 

   “You okay princess?” 

   “No…” You answered with a sigh, you reached out and twirled a strand of his pink hair through your fingers. “Tommy’s gone, we’re going to blow up a country tomorrow. I feel bad for the people we’re gonna leave homeless. So, no I’m not okay bubs.” The socially awkward man winced a little as he battled with what to say to you, he tends to forget you both aren’t the same person. For as much as both of you agree, you were still different from him, you had more empathy than he could ever wish to have. 

   “You don’t have to come.”  

He watched a frown appear on your face as you pulled away from him. You clicked your tongue in distaste, a sure sign that you were about to pick a fight with the blood god. You were one opponent he could never seem to defeat. That did not come out the way he intended. 

Time to backtrack before he got his ass handed to him. 

   “What I mean is, you have no affiliation with L’manberg. You have no prior issues you need to settle with them so technically you can stay home tomorrow, no one would blame you. You’d be safer away from the explosions, I’d feel better with you at home.”

   “That way you’d only have to worry about Phil tomorrow right?” 

   “Well, that’s part of it,” He stated bluntly, never one to be dishonest. “He has only one life and he’s going to want to fight, he has a lot to avenge. The government drove his eldest son mad, enough that Phil had to kill him. He’s one of my oldest friends, I wanna look out for him and protect him.” You couldn’t help but sigh softly at his response, you brushed your thumb across his cheek fondly. 

   “You’re wrong.” 

   “Eh?”

   “I do have something I want to fight for, I want to fight for what I believe is right. Let’s face it Techno the way everyone’s treating those children is sick. Dream manipulated Tommy and used Tubbo to get what he wanted from him. I know you did what you thought was right for Tommy but he’s a product of a war-torn country, they all are. Now, that doesn’t excuse his betrayal but… did he even know what the right thing to do was in this situation, does he even truly know what peace is? I want to fight to protect those kids. They deserve to know peace, true peace away from bloodshed and war. If I can I want to give them that.” You watched Technoblade’s jaw tighten, “I’m going with you tomorrow but I’m not going to kill the children.” 

   “I don’t think I can ever forgive Tommy.” He sighed adjusting his grip on you a sure sign he was nervous, “but I love you.” Techno kissed you once again, it was long and tender you watched as the apples of his cheeks turn red after you both pulled away. He took a breath, “You’re unstoppable and you’ve never stopped me before so I won’t do the same for you. Just stay safe. Please. You need to come home with me tomorrow I won’t settle for anything else.” 

   “I will. I promise.” You pressed a light kiss to his cheek, and he hummed gently in response. “I love you Technoblade, I’ll fight beside you. Till the end of the line.”

   “Till the end of the line,” He repeated as you both approached the snow-covered house to convene with Philza Minecraft himself.

~~~

Hi guys! Officially feeling a bit better, enough to get a small part out before I work on the next chapter. I hope you like it, thanks so much for reading and your amazing feedback. Also, thanks so much for your kind words and well wishes! Also, also, If anyone ever makes fanart of this story (I doubt it would happen) please tag me and let me know. I love to make art myself and always wanna support other artists! Thanks Again!

[strawberrysoup]

Pocketful of Posies || Chapter 4

You’d been hiding for years and years now; from your family, from society, from alphas and packs. Suppressants were dangerous but effective and necessary for an omega who refused to be owned—but no suppressants were strong enough to fool the nose of a super soldier, who together with his pack would stop at nothing to bind you to them forever. 

pairings: dark!Avengers x reader chapters: 4/? status: WIP warnings: A/B/O dynamics, power imbalances, noncon and dubcon sexual situations, loss of autonomy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat — this is a dark!fic, read at your own risk. not beta read (AKA there may be additional changes)

hey guys! i made a ko-fi! if you enjoy this and have some cash you could spare to help me out with my bills, id really appreciate it!

You wondered idly at his eyes, glancing between the brown and the blue with the kind of intent that betrayed the anxiety welling in your chest. His hair was short too, the last time you’d seen him in the papers it had been long. He was incredibly, uncomfortably handsome and your heart pounded, that stupid bitch lurking in your hindbrain was practically preening under his stare.

“Are you coming back to me little love?” He asked softly, frowning when you flinched back—you were so traumatized, the alpha couldn’t imagine what had happened to you, “focus on me now.”

“Her eyes clear?” Peter’s voice echoed slightly, coming from above, “they were so cloudy earlier.”

“Much clearer,” the blue eye and the brown eye crinkled at the corners, the blond smiling down at you in his arms as he made his way up a set of stairs, “I’d wager you’re even listening to me by this point.”

“Everyone needs to go through their clothes and pick out some things to offer up for the nest,” Steve didn’t sound like he was talking to anyone, rather to the room at large, but the prime’s voice coming from further than Peter’s, “she’ll need lots of options, we might have to fix them up for the first few weeks.”

“How is your nest building instinct, my love?” Thor rumbled, the sound traveling through his chest and vibrating down to your bones, “hopefully better than your submissive instinct, hm?”

There was a snorted laugh you couldn’t ascribe to anyone in particular and the whole thing made you bristle, every hair on your body was standing on end. Did they think it was funny? You were shattering into pieces, shards swept into a hurricane and scattered. You weren’t wearing your own clothes, your own skin didn’t smell right. Everything was wrong, sitting 10° off the proper axis. The thoughts spiraled —they would find all of your suppressant stashes, all of your weapons, the few things you’d taken when you ran away from home. Every second you spent in this house, your odds of escape plummeted.

You were transferred to a different pair of massive arms, Steve carefully restraining yours to your sides when you started to squirm and hushing you softly, “shh, precious, you’re okay. Let’s get you settled in. Thor, Nat just texted Carol that she and Clint should be here in the next half hour. Any ideas on Loki?”

The surface he laid you on was one of the softest things you’d ever felt. Your body practically melted over the ultra-comfortable mattress, white noise filling your brain with static for several long moments. When you came too, you instinctively inhaled deeply through your nose before yawning so hard your jaw cracked. If only there wasn’t a fucking alpha prime laying on his side directly next to you, one arm settled with a comforting pressure over your waist while the other propped his head up, you’d be quite comfortable.

A sudden flash of light jolted you from your fuzzy state, sitting upright abruptly only for the blond to firmly and smoothly force your back to the mattress again. His fingers traced swirls into the skin of your waist while he shushed you and you winced when his hand travelled higher over your ribs, thumb brushing a goosebump inducing arc over your flesh.

“S-stop,” your voice cracked as you reached down, pressing firmly against his arm—blood draining from your face as you realized his arm kept the hem of the oversized shirt you wore pulled far over your waist, “oh my God, get off—”

“Loki should be here shortly, I contacted him just after she ran out of the lab,” Thor stated from where he stood at the edge of what you realized was a bed the size of most bedrooms.

It was built into the floor in the corner of the room, a sea of pillows scattered across the surface and mixed in with blankets and sheets. It smelled—you realized you felt lightheaded almost, surrounded by the scent of the two alpha primes and their entire pack, it smelled so overwhelming. The back of your mind screamed that it smelled good, it smelled painfully and damningly good.

“I brought up some bags.”

Your head snapped to the stairs, watching a man with short brown hair come into view. He was shorter than Steve or Thor but still taller than Peter, built similarly to the finely toned young alpha. There was no extra bulk to the man, although you could see the bulge of his muscles through his long sleeved shirt. A delta, you would guess at a distance; there was plenty of dominance in his stance, but the he looked built to seduce rather than restrain.

Steve’s arm tightened around your torso, fingers carefully cupping the curve of your ribcage and pressing you more firmly into the bed. The prime was all too obviously meant to restrain, especially as he shifted, manipulating your uncooperative limbs until you were cradled in his lap while he sat against the wall behind the bed. His grasp was so entirely inflexible that you wondered what his bones were made of, his muscles—he didn’t strain for a moment, not even when you attempted to throw your entire body weight to the side.

“Any of those got a collar in ‘em, Buck?”

The prime’s hand came down over your mouth just seconds before you shrieked. The muffled noise sent shivers down the spines of the alphas in the room, the one holding you no exception. It wasn’t sufficient though, the pitch was critical to the sound’s efficacy and you couldn’t reach the proper volume. Lips pressed firmly into the side of your head, Steve still holding you so carefully you could barely move.

“Got a couple, here,” the brunet man, Buck, dug through the plastic shopping bags he’d set on the floor near the wall.

“Hey, hey, come on baby,” Peter had an obvious and serious aversion to your discomfort, emphasized by the way he quickly slipped onto the bed and plastered himself against Steve’s side so that he could wrap his arms around you, “they’re not choke or shock or spike collars, I promise they’re just pretty omega collars Bucky and Carol picked out. You’ll feel so much safer with a collar on, omega. Just hold still.”

The shift from Steve holding you down to Peter was almost unnoticeable, a shocking revelation. You swore you could sit on the kid and he’d end up a pancake, there was no way he should be able to hold you in place while you tried to thrash. One of his legs crossed over yours in Steve’s lap, the young alpha contorting you both until your forehead touched his and your body was curled with your neck extended. The hand over your mouth shifted and the scents changed, the newest addition belonging to the delta who must’ve been on the bed behind you.

“Here you go doll,” his voice was gravelly, a strange tone that sounded almost underused with a very slight burr that reminded you of an alpha’s purr—minus the calming pheromones.

“In the meantime,” Thor joined the crowd on the bed, shifting to settle just to Peter’s right and carefully avoiding Steve’s outstretched legs, “No shrieking, little love.”

The alpha command washed over you like tar, your chest seizing. Your vocal cords felt suspended, the more you tried to shriek the more painful the sensation got. The hand that hand been over your mouth slipped down to your chin, tipping your head back carefully as leather circled your neck. A reedy, whistling whine escaped your lips and Peter’s cheek was immediately rubbing against your face, down your neck and over the collar being tightened around your throat. He was scenting you, trying to provide comfort by drenching your skin with a protective perfume.

“Oh baby don’t make that sound,” he murmured, lips brushing over your face as the others shifted around the pair of you, “it’s for your own good, omega—”

“No!” Your voice rasped with the cry, “get it off! I won’t stay here, I won’t—”

“Regulate your breathing, precious, the collar will make you feel more secure,” in the shift Steve had ended up with you sitting on the bed between his legs, his ankles crossed to trap your lower body tightly while his fingers twined with yours to restrain your arms, “maybe it needs to be tighter? Bucky, is it pressing the hormone glands firmly enough?”

There was some shuffling and mumbling and you whined as the collar got a notch tighter, only slightly restricting your breathing. It was just this side of uncomfortable, walking the edge of distressing and you were forced to quickly calm your frantic breaths lest you hyperventilate—there was no telling what they’d do if you passed out, if you couldn’t control your breathing and fainted. You could feel the leather pressing the nodes on either side of your neck, causing a reaction that pumped your body full of chemicals. They were meant to induce intimacy and trust in an omega while alleviating stress, the constant oxytocin and endorphin production that flooded the system resulting in a low-grade addiction. Or so you’d hypothesized.

Omega physiology was a trash compactor of undesirable traits but the hormone set up was abhorrent, the limbic system an evolutionary disaster—two pituitary glands, two scent glands, and the thyroid were all located in the neck, the hypothalamus in the brain with the hippocampus and amygdala. You didn’t know the history of the collars, you didn’t have a head for timelines, but you knew that omega subjugation wouldn’t be so easy or convenient without them. It was like long term sedation with highly addictive chemicals; omegas didn’t stand a chance when their own body’s chemistry was used against them.

“This is inhumane,” you managed to choke out, between the rage and fear and high the collar caused you could barely keep your teeth from chattering, “I’m a human being, of sound mind—I can think for myself and protect myself­—I don’t need or want a pack, I don’t—fuck, please listen to me!”

Your voice was weak and raspy, no wonder the omegas you always saw were so docile; your breathing was somewhat restricted, your vocal cords unable to reach full range. Even if Thor hadn’t given an alpha order you wouldn’t have been able to shriek, speaking was exhausting. The command would wear off in an hour or two and it wouldn’t even make a difference. How were you supposed to argue your suitability for autonomy if you couldn’t talk?

“Of course you’re of sound mind, love—”

“No, shut up!” You croaked, eyes flashing to Thor’s surprised face, “listen. Would you treat a beta this way? If I was any other presentation this behavior would be abhorrent—it would be illegal! Please, you’re superheros aren’t you? Be rational, for a moment, please!”

You didn’t realize Bruce had joined the group in the attic until he spoke, “betas don’t have a physiological requirement for physical contact with other presentations, sweetheart.”

A green light went off in your brain, a shine in your eyes as you looked at the doctor, “w-wait, wait I would argue—” your voice cut out for a second and you cleared your throat the best you could, desperation sitting in your stomach, “I would argue that your wording is inherently biased. Omegas don’t have a physiological requirement for contact with other presentations; their bodies require chemicals that it doesn’t naturally produce, the same way we require amino acids to survive—”

“You know your stuff, don’t you princess? Where’d you go to school?” Tony Stark emerged into the attic, still wearing the immaculately pressed suit he’d been in earlier, “you know, before you dropped out and went into hiding.”

“It’s disrespectful to interrupt someone when they’re speaking, you duplicitous bastard,” you spat, the presence of yet another delta setting your teeth on edge.

“Oh yeah, hey Buck did you meet y/n? She really hates deltas,” he was grinning, the asshole.

“Is y/n your real name, sweetheart?” Bruce asked, tossing Tony a stern look, “We found several IDs in your things, all different names. The contract we got from the cleaning agency listed your name as y/n.”

It took you a moment to think through the question—and another minute after that to remember which name you used while in Ontario. You real first name, fake last name. Fake age, maybe? Or was that the Quebec ID? Did your real name even matter at this point? It had been so long since it had meant anything to you (other than being the easiest name to respond to properly, but you could train yourself to answer to anything).

“My name is inconsequential,” you finally responded, eyebrows furrowing, “we’re debating the ethics of kidnapping people, remember?”

“That sounds like biased wording if I’ve ever heard it,” Stark snorted, “try preventing a vulnerable omega from being killed in the streets.”

“Over dramatic, no basis for fact, denied,” you snapped angrily, quickly turning your attention to Bruce, “come on, listen man! You’re subjugating the entire omega population based on inherently incorrect medical assumptions from two hundred years ago or something! The only scientific causation between modern omega theory and actual omega statistics is that the overall population of omegas has dropped dramatically since the induction of Omega Law!”

“There’s no proof that’s causation, sweetheart,” Bruce’s arms were crossed over his chest, “the odds lie in the favour of correlation.”

“We would know if any studies had been done! There have been less than twenty official studies regarding omega biology in the last ten years!” Begging—you were begging, you could hear it, “there haven’t been any studies done regarding the effects of the other presentation’s interference in omega behavior on their physiology! We know more about Olinguitos than we do omega’s chemistry and those’ve only existed in main stream science circles for the last six years!”

“You need to calm down omega,” Steve’s voice was one octave away from a purr, “you’re getting frantic and your heart rate is through the roof. You’re going to hyperventilate.”

“Y’all think she might be more comfortable if she wasn’t being surrounded on all sides by strangers?” Sam asked sarcastically from the stairway as he came up with a tray, his facial expression riding the fence between irritated and amused, “Peter, Bucky, back up guys. Thor, you really gotta be right there when Steve’s got the poor thing completely restrained?”

Hope was like a gut punch, bile rushing up your throat only for you to swallow it back down—gulping with the collar around your neck caused enough discomfort that you realized eating was going to be difficult. Your eyes locked on Sam as the bodies around you shuffled once again. Bucky and Peter both slipped off the bed, the young alpha sulking while the delta calmly returned to the bags he’d left sitting in the corner. Thor wasn’t so gracious as to outright back off, but he did scoot about a foot back on the bed.

“Alright sweetheart, first things first, are you hungry? Dinner’s gonna be about an hour so I brought up some snacks. If Steve let’s go of you, do you promise not to try to run off?” The man approached the edge of the bed, holding the tray against his hip, “we can have a discussion.”

Suspicion lanced through you, there was no way the offer was as innocent as it seemed. Most of the time engaging with people who wanted to have discussions didn’t go well but you weren’t sure what your alternative option was. There was no reason to test their patience at this point so you nodded slowly, feeling Steve’s chest press into your back as he sighed. He lifted you carefully and set you down onto the mattress, far more gracefully than any alpha prime had the right to be as he climbed off the bed.

“Now can at least some of you get out?” The alpha turned to stare back at his packmates still cluttering the attic, “please?”

They were all still for several seconds before Thor and Steve exchanged a heavy glance and both nodded, turning respectfully and walking down the stairs—another shocking display that made your heart stutter. An alpha prime silently acquiescing to the request of an alpha in front of their pack, signaling that others should follow, was a sign of an incredibly strong pack. It meant strong, competent leadership, respect, and consideration. Too bad they still considered you little more than an animal.

Bucky and Peter followed with mournful back glances, Tony moving to join them looking more exasperated than saddened. Bruce went to follow but you immediately felt a prospect of hope leaving with him.

“W-Wait, Bruce—right? Bruce, you’re rational, a scientist? Please, stay, let me debate this with you—”

“Hey! I’m a scientist too! I have PhDs!” Stark balked immediately, tossing his hands up as if to emphasize the aggravation her attitude was causing.

“Tony, don’t—”

“No, you stay too!” You cut Sam off when the alpha began to admonish his pack mate, “you’re an asshole but you understand fucking logic, I’ll take it.”

“What about me?” Peter squeezed eagerly back onto the landing, “I have three masters and—”

“Peter no, no more alphas in here please,” Sam stared the younger alpha down for just a moment with a stern eye, “please?”

Peter groaned but turned back, trudging down the stairs like a teenager. The air felt clearer when all that was left in the room was a three people other than yourself, the two scientists and the alpha. Part of you felt increasingly panicked, as if somehow the quiet setting was more ominous than the previous. The other part of you realized that this particular group was far less likely to violate you while you sat half naked on a bed than the others.

“Okay now,” Sam toed off his shoes before stepping onto the bed, carefully bringing the tray with him to set on your lap before he sat down, “let’s slow down for a few minutes. I know I don’t understand what you’re going through, but my little sister is an omega so I do have a little more knowledge than most of the pack. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on from your perspective.”

Burning frustration lit a path down your spine—this alpha might’ve seen omegas as more than pets, but he certainly spoke down to you like you were an irrational child. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on from your perspective?

“From my perspective I’ve been assaulted and terrorized and falsely imprisoned for I don’t know how long now!” You spat, practically vibrating in irritation, “you’re trying to justify this treatment because I’m an omega but my designation doesn’t mean I deserve to be treated like something to be caught and stolen! I want to leave, I want this horrible collar off my neck, and I want my stuff back! And if you tell me to calm down, so help me God—”

Sam’s mouth snapped shut from where he’d started to speak, immediately folding his hands into his lap and clearing his throat, “right, no telling you to calm down. Got it. Now, where are you from?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you grit your teeth slightly when the alpha sighed, “I want to leave, now.”

“You can’t leave sweetheart, not unless we get everything figured out. If you have an alpha, we’ll need to get you back to them. If you don’t, we certainly can’t just let you go back off on your own—it’s way too dangerous.”

“No it isn’t, I’ve been on my own for years and I’m fine! Not once have I had any problems, not until now!”

“Yeah, unfortunately for you our beta here has an alpha rage monster inside of him who managed to catch your scent beneath the suppressants,” Tony looked almost proud as he slung his arm over the beta’s shoulders, tugging him slightly, “if Bruce didn’t tip off Steve, who knows if he would’ve caught it.”

“Wow—Jesus Christ, you make me want to punch you in the face,” you snarled, hands clenching into fists in your lap, “I’m not a helpless omega, I’ve been happy, do you understand that? Do you know how rare it is for an omega to get to be happy? It’s like winning the lottery. Please, I like being happy. Please just let me go.”

“Sweetheart it isn’t rare for omegas to be happy,” Sam was frowning like you’d dropped a suicide note on his lip, “there are so few of them, they’re taken care of like royalty, baby.”

“Plus, omegas in packs are statistically less likely to suffer mental illness—”

“God, would you shut up about that?” Bruce’s eyes went wide when you snapped at him, “that study was trash, the bias was overwhelming and it hasn’t been replicated since. Omegas in packs wear collars that force their bodies to over produce oxytocin and when that’s removed they go insane from withdrawals. The same happens with the chemicals produced by the other presentations’ pheromones; instead of being given supplements to make up for the absence omega’s bodies are left to wilt. It has everything to do with medical malpractice and nothing to do with omega nature! There’s nothing happy about that!”

“Look, there are obviously places where the known biology of omega’s has holes,” Stark admitted, one hand in his pocket while the other was held aloft, “There’s a lot we don’t know, but what we do know is that when omegas are left to their own devices they end up dead.”

“They end up kidnapped, raped, and forcibly bonded by alphas!” If the collar had allowed the pitch you would’ve been shrieking, “By alphas who’s packs rape and bond the omegas, too. The only danger to omegas are the other presentations!”

“That’s why they have to be protected,” Sam emphasized his words with a dose of calming pheromones, and you snarled.

“Stop trying to manipulate me! All your doing is inhibiting my ability to think and feel for myself—do you not see how cruel and insane that is? That you’re literally attempting to—”

“This is a lot of ROR rhetoric,” Bruce sighed quietly, obviously aiming his words to Tony but you picked it up.

“There’s no such thing as ‘radical’ omega’s rights! We just want to be allowed to exist without our lives and hormones being constantly controlled by outside forces that we never chose!” Your voice broke towards the end and you realized tears were welling in your eyes—this conversation was not going your way and hope was dwindling rapidly, “why is that so hard to understand? That chemically controlling another human being is inhumane?”

“Alright, alright, let’s take a second and calm down,” Sam requested sternly, eyes widening when you immediately hissed, “Not just you, ‘mega. Everyone, including me, okay?”

It was truly a battle to fight down the ire rising in your throat, nearly choking you at the collar. You wondered cruelly if he’d treated his sister like she was an infant her entire life, if this was his bedside manner for omegas. The poor thing was probably so addicted to oxytocin she was barely alive.

“Please, let me go,” you begged quietly, squeezing your eyes shut against the tears, “if you have any humanity in you, let me go.”

When you looked up at him again, the doleful look on his face made your heart crumble to pieces.

“Lots of omegas are apprehensive at first, baby,” his voice was gentle, low and forlorn, “when you first present… my sister was seventeen. She was in so much pain and she begged for help, for almost a full week. When she came out of it she could barely remember how bad it had been but we remembered. The agony she’d suffered because she didn’t have an alpha through the process—we couldn’t let that happen over and over again, could we? As her packmates how could we let her endure that? She was upset at first, but now she has a pack that waits on her hand and foot, a whole slew of babies, anything she could ever ask for at her fingertips.”

“She was upset at first,” your heart broke for Sam’s sister, where ever she was, “you realize she was only able to be upset at first, right? Because after a while, she probably stopped being able to process the usual scale of emotion she enjoyed before you allowed her to be given a chemical lobotomy and sold her off—seventeen, God, she never even got to live and you’re talking about her like she’s some sort of success story?”

The look in the man’s brown eyes was getting darker and darker the longer you spoke but a dam had broke and your mouth kept moving, hoarse sounds barking borderline cruel words in fast succession.  

“I hope her ability to feel betrayal went first so she didn’t have to deal with the memory of her family auctioning her off like fucking cattle. Success story,” you scoffed, lips lifted in a fang flashing snarl, “that wasn’t a fucking success story you knottedheaded piece of shit, it was a cautionary tale.”

[slytherinbarnes]

Sub Rosa [91]

vii. the queen’s gambit

Pairing: Bellamy Blake x reader

Word Count: 10.6k

Warnings: anxiety, fighting, death, mentions of blood, mentions of self inflicted violence (not in the traditional sense??? if you need clarification, let me know), torture, injuries.

Summary: after a failed escape attempt from bardo, you discover that you are more valuable to them than you could have ever imagined.

a/n: i literally can’t believe we’re in the 90s!!! we don’t have many episodes left which is very weird bc i feel like I just started sharing sub rosa with yall! i’m so excited to share the ending, but so sad that it’s nearing the end! the taglist for this series is open! I hope you enjoy, please let me know what you think!!!

previous chapter // season masterlist // series masterlist

You wake slowly, your mind trying to catch up to the events of the last few hours. 

Bellamy’s death hits you before anything else, just as painful as the first time. Then Gabriel’s betrayal follows, and as you start to open your eyes and comprehend what’s happening, you feel someone lifting up your shirt. Your eyes fly open and your gaze lands on someone from Bardo, who is staring down at the scar that the Azgeda assassin gave you in Mount Weather. They look up at you in surprise as you sit up, their hand dropping your shirt as they step away from you, hands lifted in surrender. “I’m sorry, I was changing you and I just noticed your scars.”

You ignore the person and look down, your clothes different than the ones you were wearing before. Your disciple suit is gone, your clothes from Skyring too. In their place is a shirt from Bardo, their symbol on the front, and a pair of pants to match. You’re barefoot, and the knife that usually sits strapped to your thigh is missing too. In a state of panic, you reach up to your neck, relieved to find your necklace still with you, and one glance at your finger reveals your ring hasn’t been taken either. Your eyes search the room quickly, finding your clothes in a pile nearby, your boots beside the pile, your knife on top. You quickly jump off the examination table and cross the room, running over and grabbing your weapon. You pull it from its holster before you spin around, facing the person in the room, taking in the fear in their expression before you snap, “Where are my friends?”

“They’re being examined by the medical team in the rooms nearby.”

“Examined? Why?”

They look terrified of you, their voice shaking slightly as they glance down at the knife in your hand. “Standard protocol for new arrivals.”

Your brain is running at a million miles a minute, trying to process information as fast as it can, but ultimately you know you need to get out of here. Your friends are in rooms around you and you are trapped on an unfamiliar planet, with no access to the Anomaly Stone. But maybe if you can cause a distraction, your friends can get to the Stone Room and go for help. You’ll be trapped here, but it’ll be worth it if the others can escape and bring an army back for you. You have the layout of Bardo memorized, and you have a general idea of how to cause enough chaos to get them out of Bardo, you just need to free one of your people so they can free the rest. You look back to the Bardoan in the room, noticing for the first time that they’re young, probably a few years younger than you. They're part of the medical staff in some capacity, and they look terrified, clearly not a fighter. Something about them reminds you of Clarke, back before she became Wanheda, when she was young and naive and just wanted to save lives. But that similarity is the reason you decide to spare the person from the distraction that’s forming in your mind. “Where is Octavia Blake?”

“Across the hall. But you can't get out of here, they have Bardo on lockdown.”

“Who’s gonna stop me, you?” They shake their head and you nod once. “Good, because I don't want to kill you, but I will if you get in my way.”

They say nothing, keeping silent and backing up against the wall, clearly believing your threat and more than willing to allow your escape. You reach for the button that activates the door, but stop when the medical aid calls out, “Wait, there are guards!”

You pause, turning to look at them. “How many?”

“One outside each door.” You run the math, figuring there are at least 6 guards outside. You're sure that you can take them, but it'll only raise suspicions earlier than you can afford. You’re trying to figure out a plan when the aid mutters, “I can help you.”

You give them a skeptical look. “And why would you do that?”

“To prevent any more killings.”

You watch them closely, looking for any signs of deceit, but you find none. They seem genuine in their pursuit to prevent any more disciple deaths, and though you don’t care about the disciples dying, you do care about staying under the radar for as long as you can. Which is why you nod at the aid, accepting their help. “Fine. What do you have in mind?”

They cross the room slowly, both of you suspicious of the other, before opening the door to a supply closet. They dig around for a second before pulling out a small canister, holding it up for you to see. “Knockout gas. We’ve been perfecting it in preparation for the Last War, so there’s always some laying around in here.”

They hesitantly walk closer to you, reaching out to hand you the canister, and you take it with a nod of thanks. But you’re well aware that you can’t leave them conscious, so you look at them with regret and mutter “sorry” before swiftly knocking them out. It’s probably safer for them this way anyways. You cross the room again, back to the door button, and you hit the switch. As the door slides open, you pull the pin from the canister and toss it down the hall. You hear a yelp of surprise followed by the thudding of bodies, and you wait a solid minute before pulling your shirt up over your mouth and nose and venturing out into the hall. All six guards are unconscious and taken care of, so you cross the hall to the other door, hitting the button that opens the door to Octavia’s room. 

Your eyes find her quickly, falling on Octavia, who is sitting in the middle of the room, looking at you in surprise. Beside her, a doctor looks at you in fear before tuning and running towards a panic button on the wall. You grab your knife and throw it towards him, the blade going clean through his hand and stopping him in place. He lets out a cry of pain as he stares at the knife, and you cross the room in record time, knocking him out and grabbing your knife before turning towards Octavia. She’s looking at you in confusion, trying to figure out what’s going on. “What are you doing?”

“Getting us out of here. Can you stand?” She nods and stands with no issues, and you continue, “Good. You need to get the others and get to the Stone Room. They should know how to get there if you don’t.”

She shakes her head, immediately disagreeing with your plan. “What about you?”

“I'm going to cause a distraction so you can get to the Stone Room and then back to Sanctum with no resistance. Tell Clarke what’s going on, and bring back our army.”

You don't wait for her to accept your plan before you start to turn away, your mind thinking of the limited time you have to pull this off. Octavia grabs your arm and stops you, pulling you to look at her. “La lune, you can’t.”

“I have to. Bellamy would want me to keep you safe.”

“He’d want me to keep you safe.”

You counter, “Then get the others and get out of here. You can come back for me.”

“There’s so much you don’t know. You’re not safe here.”

You shake your head, pulling your arm from her grip, already backing away. “Octavia, there’s no time. None of us are safe here. You can catch me up on everything else later, but for now, I need you to get the others and get back to Sanctum, please.”

She hesitates, clearly wanting to tell you now, but she understands the limited time you have so she nods. You turn and run from the room, snatching a few grenades off the fallen disciples as you jog down the hall. You mentally pull out the map of Bardo that you have memorized, just in case something like this happened, thinking that the oxygen farm might be your best bet for a distraction. It’s far enough away from the Stone Room, and it’s an important resource, so they’ll be eager to protect it. You run towards the farm, passing no one on the way, confirming that they really have locked down Bardo. You reach the farm with ease, hitting the button to open the door and stepping inside. 

It’s raining, the drops of water landing on your face and running down your cheeks like tears as you look to the sky. It’s easy to imagine that this is Earth and you are home and Bellamy is just around the corner, waiting to dance in the rain with you. But the weight of the grenades in your hands reminds you that this isn't Earth, and Bellamy is dead, and you are on a mission. You immediately pull the pin from one of the grenades and toss it into the trees nearby, taking off running as fast as you can to put distance between you and the explosion. An alarm immediately goes off, likely thanks to some sort of fire alert system, and you throw more grenades as you run through the woods, keeping your path random and erratic. You toss the last of your grenades into a clearing before you slip into the trees and turn to face the door.

You hear the doors to the farm slide open and you duck down behind some brush, hiding yourself completely from view and watching as a large group of disciples files into the farm. “Spread out and find her before she gets us all killed.”

You back away and slink into the shadows as the disciples break up into pairs and start to search for you, starting at the grenade explosion sites. You situate yourself behind a few large trees and hold your knife tight in your hand, crouching and waiting for a disciple to come your way. Your anxiety grows with each passing second that you spend hidden, the anticipation of an impending attack starting to wear you down, but just when you think you can't take it anymore, you hear a twig snap nearby. You peer around the tree, watching two disciples walking your way, scanning the brush around them. One is walking slightly ahead of the other, giving you the perfect advantage, and when the disciple steps within arms length of you, you step out from the trees and grab him, quickly shoving your knife into the space between his suit and his helmet, right into his neck. You feel blood rush over your hand as you pull the knife out, the other disciple turning towards you in shock. 

They have enough time to process their partner's body hitting the ground before you close the space between you and kill them too. You look around, searching for any other nearby disciples, but with none of them close by, you use the moment to quickly strip down the disciple closest to your size and slip into their suit. From there, you walk off in search of the other disciples, not bothering with ghost mode since they’d be able to see you anyways. It doesn't take long for you to come across another pair, both of them turning towards you as you approach. “Any sign of her?”

You use your mind to activate your weapons system, lifting both of your arms towards them as you mutter, “Yeah, I am her.”

And then you kill them both.

You’re able to do this for 6 more disciples, taking them out before they even realize what’s going on. Unfortunately for you, someone stumbles onto the first pair of dead bodies, one of them stripped from their suit, and they announce, “She has a suit! Everyone gather in the clearing!”

You’re about to slink back in the shadows and rid yourself of the suit in question when a pair of disciples appears from the woods behind you, grabbing your arm as they walk past. “Come on, newbie, clearing’s this way.”

Your anxiety spikes as you wonder how you're going to get out of this, your body being led into a group of disciples that all seem to want you dead. As soon as you arrive in the circle, a disciple in the middle of the group, clearly the leader, looks over everyone gathered around. “Is this it? Where are the others?”

Someone answers, “Dead.”

The man practically growls with anger, “Helmets off, I want to find her.”

There’s no way for you to avoid unmasking as everyone pulls off their helmets, because if you don't do it, they'll know it's you. If you do it, they'll know it's you. With no other options, you pull off your helmet too. Everyone is looking around, trying to find a face they don't recognize, a face devoid of tattoos, and it only takes seconds for them to realize you’re the imposter. The remaining 12 disciples all turn towards you, lifting their arms and training their weapons on you. “You! Drop the knife!”

You shake your head and bite back, “Not a chance.”

“Fine, any last words?”

You feel a flash of fear as you start to wonder, is this it? Is this where you die? But then you think of Bellamy, killed on the same planet, waiting for you in the stars, and you get a sense of peace. You can die knowing you did whatever you could to save your friends and get them home. That’s your tribute to Bellamy. You couldn't save him, but you could damn well save the rest of your family. You tip your chin in defiance, glaring at the leader of the group, anger written all over your face. “Yeah, go float yourself.”

His glare deepens, a sneer contorting his mouth as his arm takes aim at your chest. You close your eyes, waiting for the blow, waiting for death, waiting to join Bellamy, but it never comes. Instead, the moment is interrupted by someone yelling, “Wait! We need her!”

Your eyes pull open in surprise and confusion, your gaze landing on a man in a long white cloak with white hair, walking quickly towards you. Anders. All around you, weapons start to lower as Anders yells, “She is Clarke Griffin's twin! If we want to get the Key, we need her alive.”

Clarke? Your mind latches onto a memory that’s flying past, a snippet of conversation from Bellamy’s death video. Let him go, and I'll tell you everything you want to know about Clarke. You turn your gaze towards Anders, noting his excitement as he says your twin’s name, and you spit, “Clarke? What the hell do you want with Clarke?”

“She’s the Key to everything.”

His tone is reverent, serious, hopeful, and your stomach flips in fear. You know something is wrong, something about this isn’t okay. You know that if it comes down to it, Clarke will do anything to keep you safe, including putting herself in danger. She's all you have left in the world, your only blood family left, and you can’t let her do that. Which is why you lift the knife still gripped in your hand and hold it to your throat. A dozen disciples lift their weapons towards you in alarm, but Anders freaks out and yells, “Weapons down!”

You glare at him, “I won't let you use me to get to her.”

“Miss Griffin, please. You don't understand.”

“And I don't care to. You already took the love of my life from me, I won't let you take my twin too. If this is how I have to keep her safe, then so be it.”

As your grip on the knife tightens and you prepare to slit your own throat, Anders interrupts once again. “Wait. Before you do something reckless, consider this.”

On cue, a group of disciples marches your way, your friends held in their grip. Gabriel, Echo, Octavia, Hope, Diyoza, all captured and held at gunpoint. You pause, your grip loosening slightly as you look at them in alarm. Octavia mouths an apology to you before Anders mutters, “Interesting. We thought your friends might be your weakness. Put the knife down, or we kill them all.”

You look at him in shock before turning to look at your friends. Octavia is nodding her head, encouraging you to drop your knife, and Gabriel is too. But beside him, Echo is shaking her head, a glare on her face, telling you to follow through with your plan, silently telling you to protect your sister over the rest of them. But you love all of them too, and you can't stomach knowing that you’d be the reason they all die. You fight back a sob as you turn back to Anders, resigning yourself to your fate. “Fine.”

You drop the knife, and no less than six disciples descend on you before it even hits the dirt. As you watch Anders, your expression one of defeat, he smiles a little. You can't interpret it, unsure if it's meant to be smug or genuine happiness or what, but you don't get long to think about it before the disciple leader mutters, “Lights out.”

You turn towards him just as someone hits you in the back of the head, hard, darkness quickly swirling at the edges of your vision. His smirk is the last thing you see before the darkness swallows you whole. 

-

The next time you wake, it’s with a groan.

Someone mutters your name as soon as they hear you stir, and you hear them shift towards you as you slowly pull your eyes open, fighting against the pain radiating from the back of your head. 

Your eyes fall on Gabriel, who is staring down at you with worry. “Cielito, are you okay?”

You look at him in confusion before you abruptly sit up, looking around the room, suddenly remembering the danger all of you were in the last time you were conscious. “Where are the others?”

“I don't know. They took them to a different cell block.”

“Are they okay?”

“They were the last time I saw them. We’re being taken care of, meals and beds and supplies, so I’m assuming we’re worth something to them.”

You nod, taking the information in, already aware of your worth to them. A worth that stems from their fascination with Clarke, though you don’t understand why they’re so enamored with her. You open your mouth to ask Gabriel if he’s heard anything, but as you do, you’re suddenly cut off by the doors to your cell opening and a swarm of disciples moving inside. Two men grab Gabriel and pull him away from you as two other guards grab you, both of you sharing a look of alarm. “What are you doing? What’s going on?”

“Let me go!” You kick and fight against them, but they hold you tight in their grip, practically dragging you down the hall behind Gabriel. “Where are my friends?”

“Doubt they'd call either of you a friend after what you’ve put them through.” His words make you panic, your mind imagining the worst. Your friends tied up and tortured, all because you failed in your mission to save them. You start to fight harder, slipping from the guard’s grip slightly, but they readjust their hold on you and grab you tighter, their fingers squeezing bruises into your arm. Gabriel yells back towards the other cell blocks as you are dragged away, clearly in just as much turmoil as you are. “No, no, no! Echo! Hope! I'm sorry!”

You and Gabriel fight the entire time you are led down the hall, and you only stop when the guards pause outside of a door, waiting for it to open. You freeze as you realize where you are, you and Gabriel exchanging a worried look as the doors to the Stone Room slide open. The guards release Gabriel and step back, but they keep their grip firmly on you as a white clothed figure steps into view.

Anders.

He smiles at Gabriel before turning to extend you the same greeting, but his smile drops into a frown when he sees the guards at your side, still holding you tight. “Release her.”

“Sir, with all due respect, she is dangerous. I don't think we should-”

He cuts the guard off with a raised hand. “I didn't ask what you thought. Release her.”

The guards let you go, though they still seem hesitant to do so, despite the demand by their leader. Once you're free, Anders again smiles, greeting you both. “Dr. Santiago, Miss Griffin.”

You and Gabriel stand frozen in the doorway, and he motions you closer. “Come, please.”

The two of you move hesitantly closer, and your eyes fall on the only other person in the room, the conductor. Gabriel’s gaze shifts to the Anomaly Stone, which Anders quickly takes note of. “Miraculous, isn't it? A gift from those who have transcended, or so we believe.”

Gabriel questions, “Transcended?”

“The Shepherd teaches us that winning the Last War brings upon the final evolution of a species. I thought Orlando would have taught you that.” You turn towards Anders at the mention of Orlando, and Anders watches you and Gabriel carefully as he continues, “He hanged himself in the cabin.”

He turns and motions to what appears to be a body, covered in a sheet, your eyes missing it earlier. But they don't miss it now, because your gaze is locked on the form as your brain struggles to process the words. He hanged himself. He hanged himself. He hanged himself. Gabriel shifts beside you, uncomfortable, but Anders continues speaking, ignoring the heavy feeling of grief in the air. “It appears we need to rethink our penal system. We lost 35 disciples thanks to you and yours, 10 from Miss Griffin just in the last day. I sent the others off to Nakara, but I thought that you both might like to say goodbye.”

Gabriel mutters, “I'm sure Hope and Echo would too.”

“We have different plans for them.” 

He motions towards the body again, encouraging the two of you to move closer. You glance up at Gabriel, and he reaches out for your hand and pulls you closer to Orlando's waiting body. You both kneel on his right side, and Gabriel whispers, “La muerte es la vida.”

“May we meet again.” Tears well up in your eyes as you look down at the covered body, imagining what Orlando must have felt as the four of you left him behind on Skyring. Clearly it was painful enough that he hanged himself because of it, and you feel guilt start to press heavy on your chest. Another person led to Death, thanks to Wanlida. Her presence is beginning to feel like a curse again, the way it used to, no longer offering you the comfort it did on Skyring. She doesn't care that Orlando is dead, but you do. Because he was your friend, and this is your fault. You reach out tentatively and rest a hand on what you think is his chest, your voice barely a whisper when you say, “Please forgive me.”

You feel tears tighten your throat and attempt to choke you, and Gabriel squeezes your hand, which is still held tightly in his own. You look at him with tear stained cheeks and nod, letting him know you’re okay, and he nods back before turning his attention back to Anders. “Is Nakara your heaven?”

The Anomaly powers up nearby, and you and Gabriel stand, stepping away from the body of your fallen friend as the green glow quickly grows and takes Orlando’s body before receding again. At Gabriel’s question, Anders turns to look at the two of you in surprise. “He left that out too, did he?”

You and Gabriel exchange a look, suddenly realizing that Echo really was right. Orlando was your friend, but you were never his people. Five years on a planet with him and he only ever told you what you needed to know, despite all of you telling him everything about your lives before him. Anders takes in your shared look before he continues, “No, we don't believe in heaven, doctor. Like I said, we believe in transcendence.”

“Transcendence through the stone?”

You look away from the two men, your mind blocking out whatever they're saying, uninterested in transcendence or the mystery of the Anomaly Stones. And as you look away, your eyes lad on an imperfection on the floor behind Anders. Black and charred, in the exact place where your fiance last stood before he was killed by one of the disciples. And now you think that the 35 dead disciples aren't enough, because you want to burn Bardo to the ground. Its existence has brought you nothing but trouble from day one. You feel tears prick your eyes, but you work hard to keep them at bay, not wanting Anders to see you crying, not wanting the people of Bardo to know that this is something bothering you, because when you destroy them, you want them to be surprised. You don't want them to suspect the anger hidden deep inside of you, or the anguish that you're keeping buried, so you work hard to keep your mind off of the spot on the floor.

Anders aids in your distraction techniques when he says a word that makes your blood run cold. “Because you don't want to be executed.”

You look over at him in alarm, digging through your subconscious memory to figure out why he’d say that. You finally find Gabriel’s question that prompted the response, something along the lines of why should he help the Bardoans with the stone. Gabriel senses your rising tension and squeezes the hand that is still in his own, before he levels a serious look at Anders. “I don't want my friends to be executed either.”

“Well, that's up to them.” He walks around the stone before stopping on the other side and watching Gabriel closely. “Given your history with the stone, I would like you to help us unlock it. We'll share our knowledge, you'll share yours, and all you have to do is say, ‘yes’.”

Gabriel turns to look at you, his gaze asking what you think. Your mind runs through the information you have. Clearly, you know next to nothing about Bardo and the disciples, thanks to Orlando. And if you want to destroy this place, having an inside man, with loyalty to you, is the best way to do it. Which is why you look at Gabriel and nod once, letting him know you think he should do it. Gabriel turns back to Anders and jokes, “Do I get a robe?”

Anders cuts him a look, so Gabriel adds, “Yes, I’ll join your cipher team.”

Satisfied, Anders nods once and smiles, but you start to realize that things aren't adding up. You and Gabriel were separated from the others for a reason. Because you serve a greater purpose to them. But you know next to nothing about the stones and have little to offer them for scientific advancements, so what use do you have to Anders and his people? “I don't know anything about the Anomaly, and you clearly know that, so why am I here?”

“We need you to tell us everything about Clarke Griffin.”

“Clarke?” Your brows furrow, just as confused as the first few times they mentioned Clarke, not understanding why she’s so important to them. “What does Clarke have to do with any of this?”

“She's the Key to everything.”

You shake your head, growing frustrated. “But what does that mean?”

“Tell us what we want to know, and we’ll do the same for you.”

You feel a wave of realization pass over you when you catch on to what he really wants. Sure, he wants to know about Clarke, but it’s more than that. “You want my memories.” 

“Yes.” The door to the room slides open on cue, and a group of disciples walk in, moving towards you. “We’d prefer if you went willingly, but we’ll take you by force if necessary.”

You remember your earlier desire to destroy Bardo, and your need to stay cool and calm. And despite the fact that you want to scream and cry and fight every Bardoan in this room, you put on a brave face, tip your chin in defiance, and mutter, “The guards aren't necessary.”

Gabriel looks at you in alarm, not expecting your willingness, turning his gaze to Anders. “No. No way, she isn't going to M-Cap. That thing is torture.”

“Only if you fight it.” Anders turns to you, waiting to see your reaction to the same thing Hope said to you 5 years ago. You stay calm and shrug, “I won't.”

You turn to look at Gabriel, this time squeezing his hand in reassurance. “I’ll be fine. Have a good first day, doctor.”

He must sense something in your gaze, and because he trusts you, he drops it. You let go of his hand and turn to follow the disciples and Anders from the Stone Room and down to M-Cap, your mind remembering the path easily, thanks to your years of studying the map that Orlando drew. As you step into the room, the disciples stay outside and motion you inside, towards a man in white, his back turned to you as he sets up the machine, which has clearly been fixed since Echo used it to kill a man. The man in the room turns towards you when he hears you approach, and you're surprised to see Levitt standing there, watching you with a blank expression. You almost react, but then you remember that you aren't supposed to know each other, so you copy the same blank expression on his face, and follow Anders inside of the room tentatively. He looks at the other disciples over your shoulder. “We’ll be done in an hour.”

They nod and close the door behind them, leaving you, Anders, and Levitt alone, and he motions towards the M-Cap chair. “Please, take a seat Miss Griffin.”

You do as he asks, sliding into the seat, the leather cool against your arms. You lean back a little, resting comfortably, as Levitt begins to attach straps around your wrists and your torso. You look at them warily, and Levitt catches sight of the look. “Don't worry, these are more to help you than hurt you.”

You give him an unconvinced nod, and he finishes up with the restraints, turning away from you and pulling a pair of glasses down onto his face. He begins fiddling with a hologram that only he can see before Anders looks over at him. “I want to see what she sees.”

Levitt spreads his arms wide and a large holographic screen expands in front of them both, big enough for Anders to see everything that Levitt can. He turns and tugs a weird helmet over your head, pinning you in place, and he gives you a look before turning away again. You don't have time to interpret what it means, because Levitt asks, “You're in an endless desert with a vast purple sky. A hand reaches out for your own. Whose is it?”

A million faces flash through your mind on hyperdrive. Your brain thinks of the deep blues and purples of the sky overhead, dotted with stars, and you turn your head to see Bellamy. His hand lifts and points back to the sky, and you follow his finger to see the Ark in the sky overhead, your dad’s hand reaching out for yours. He takes it and turns you around, turning you to face your mother, who smiles and offers you a flower. As you look down at the flower, it transforms into the ones around Shallow Valley, that Clarke used to sit and sketch for hours. You look at your twin, a vast purple sky behind her, the desert of the dead zone stretched around you both, and Anders exclaims, “There! The Key!”

Levitt grabs onto Clarke’s photo from the stream of passing faces, and you grunt a little as the M-Cap machine connects with your mind. It’s not painful, but it’s uncomfortable, like someone’s hand is in your head and holding your brain, their grip tight enough to put pressure on your entire skull. You decided instantly that you hate the sensation, and you want to fight and disengage the link, but that’s not the part you should be playing. But then you remember that you shouldn't be thinking about the part you're playing while your brain is hooked up to a machine designed to read the memories in your head, so you switch to thoughts of Bellamy, his lips on yours, hoping the intimacy is enough to get the two men out of your head. 

“Bring back Clarke. We need to know everything we can about her.”

Levitt turns back to you, his voice soft when he asks, “What’s your earliest memory of Clarke?”

Your brain starts moving backwards, landing on a memory from age 10, until you remember one even younger, age 8. But then another memory pops into your head, back to 6, then 5, before finally settling on 4. Your father is holding your hand tight in his own, leading you towards your shared room with Clarke, his expression frantic. He takes you to the hiding spot in the closet, moving the false door aside to motion you inside, but you plant your feet and refuse to be pushed inside. “No, dad, I don't want to hide!”

Your father kneels down to get into your line of sight, trying hard to hide the anxiety in his expression, though he does a poor job of it. “La lune, I know you don't, but the Chancellor is on his way right now, and he can't know about you. We talked about this, remember?”

“I remember, but I don't want to.”

Suddenly there's movement to your left, and Clarke steps into the room. She looks over at you, just as upset that you have to stay hidden, her expression identical to your own, in more ways than one. She crosses the room to you, something held tight in her grip, and she lifts her hand to offer it to you. It’s a bear, crudely stitched together, almost creepy, but it’s Clarke’s favorite, the one she sleeps with every night. “You take it, Mr. Stuffings will keep you safe.”

You shake your head, not wanting to take your twin’s most prized possession. “Clarke, that's yours.”

She pushes it towards you again, into your hands. “But when you have to hide, he’ll be yours.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods, and you step forward to hug her, wrapping your small arms around her. “Thank you, Clarke.”

She hugs you back before you step back, turning to your father, “Okay, I'm ready.”

He nods and you step into the hidden location, watching as he puts the false wall into its place, plunging you into darkness.

When the memory ends, your brain comes back to reality shockingly fast, suddenly conscious of your surroundings again. You're covered in a thin layer of sweat, already exhausted after one memory, and you already want to cry at the thought of how many more memories they’re going to want from you. Levitt turns to you, a proud smile on his face. “You’re doing great.”

But across the room, Anders disagrees. “That memory gave us nothing. We don’t know anymore about the Key than we did before it.”

“Sir, all due respect, sifting through memories takes time. There could be information about the Key that we need from the early memories, we can't rush through these.”

“She must have thousands of memories of Clarke. It’ll take weeks to go through all of them.”

“Probably.”

Anders sighs and steps away from the hologram, “I want everything in the report, and I want reports daily. Anything urgent or important comes to me immediately, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Anders turns and exits the room without another word, leaving you and Levitt alone. He lets out an audible sigh once it’s just you two, turning to look at you in relief. “I’m glad all of you are okay.”

You counter, “Why did you tell us to go to the surface if it's not survivable? That man Echo killed said we’d need rebreathers.”

“You’d survive for at least a few hours. Long enough for me to figure out how to get all of you out of here. Though, you got pretty close with your plan. The others made it to the door of the Stone Room before a disciple stumbled upon them by accident. They knocked her out, but she had already alerted the others.”

“Great.” You don't know what else to say. Almost freeing your friends is not enough. They're still here, half of them god knows where, and a reminder of your failure isn't helpful. “Where are they? Are they okay?”

“They’re okay.”

“When can I see them?”

“You can’t.”

You give Levitt a skeptical look. “Why not?”

“Because all of you play different roles in Bardo now. The others will be prepped for something different, and any fraternization between you is discouraged.”

“Just discouraged? Not banned.”

“For you, consider it banned. Anders values your memories and the information about the Key that you can offer us.”

You give him another look. “Which means that I can use my status to negotiate a visit with them.”

Levitt shakes his head, stopping any ideas before they have a chance to form. “It means that you will be kept away from the others, with the exception of Gabriel. There is a consensus that you’ll get reckless in an attempt to protect your friends, and that you may cause more trouble if given the opportunity to see them. Anders doesn't want to risk that.”

You roll your eyes, annoyed at the situation you’re in. “Yeah, imagine getting separated from nearly everyone you love, on a strange planet where your fiance was murdered months before, and then trying to escape. Can’t imagine why anyone would do such a thing.”

Levitt ignores your sarcasm, his expression softening. “I’m sorry about what happened to Bellamy. We never wanted anyone to get hurt. But your ways are strange to us. We don’t love individuals, we value the collective. Your constant attempts at escape, which often result in a myriad of disciple deaths in the process, set us back further and further in our preparations for the Last War. We need your information and we need every disciple on Bardo to fight, so we can’t risk you seeing your friends and attempting another escape.”

“Then it seems we’re at a crossroads, because I don’t understand why I should help you.”

Levitt gets a fearful look on his face, and he leans closer to you, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You can’t say things like that. If they hear you, they’ll start killing your friends to get you to comply. I know you don’t want that.”

You look at Levitt and the fear he has, and you start to think that maybe the Bardoans aren’t as advanced as they think they are. You’ve only ever killed people to survive or save the people you love, but they’re willing to kill people, your family, just to break you. And after losing Bellamy, you can’t stomach the idea of losing anyone else. Which Levitt must know, because he takes your softening demeanor as a sign to continue. He does offer you an apologetic look though. “I don’t like digging in your head any more than you like being here. But it’s something we both have to do. And if there aren't at least five memories in the report, Anders will get suspicious. I don't want him to kick me off your case the way they did with Octavia.”

You sigh, knowing you don't have much of a choice. Better that Levitt is sorting through your memories than someone else. For the rest of your time that day, and every day after that, Levitt sorts through your memories of Clarke. He starts as far back as he can and works through the memories in your head, skipping the ones that aren't relevant, though he does tend to sit through some of your memories with Bellamy, the concept of love unfamiliar to him. And every day the disciples have to practically carry you back to your shared room with Gabriel, M-Cap draining your energy even when you're not fighting the machine. And every day Gabriel worries about you the second you are unceremoniously delivered to your room. He keeps you awake long enough to eat whatever meal is provided to you and then he watches over you as you sleep. You know he does, because the bags under his eyes are dark and visible, and he always looks worried. You try to encourage him to worry about you less, not wanting your mental torture to torture him too, but he never listens and he continues to worry.

Still, all things considered, your time in Bardo is not bad. At least, not until your 6th day of M-Cap. Levitt has now made it to your memories in Polis, when Clarke put the Flame in her head to stop Alie. Clarke has just pulled the kill switch and everyone is coming to. Bellamy has just appeared at your side and the two of you are kissing, but as the memory plays out, Levitt mutters, “Wait, stop.”

The sound of his voice pulls you back to the present, and you turn to look at him in confusion, but he doesn't look your way as he rewinds the memory that just played out in your head, zooming in on something in the background. As you and Bellamy pull away and your eyes open, they catch sight of something on the throne, despite it not being your focus. There, Clarke sits, your mother now removing the Flame from your twin’s head and pressing it into her hand. Levitt spins around to look at you in complete shock. “Clarke doesn't have the Flame anymore?”

You look at him in confusion. “No, why would she?”

“In Octavia’s memories...I never saw…”

He trails off, and you put the pieces together quickly. “Wait, you’re telling me that Clarke is the Key because of the tech in her head?”

Levitt nods slightly, stunned, and you continue, ”And you never looked in Octavia’s memories beyond this to know that Clarke took it out?”

You're careful not to mention Madi, realizing that if the Flame is this important to them, Madi could become a target next since she had the Flame most recently. Levitt nods again, confirming that the Bardoans obsession with Clarke stems from something that hasn't been relevant in years. You can't help yourself, but you laugh. Loud, deep, full of disbelief. Everything you've been through, the days of M-Cap that have drained you, all for nothing. Levitt turns to look at you when he hears your amusement, his expression worried. “No, you don't understand. The reason you've been safe until now is because we thought Clarke had the Key. But if she doesn't, then all of you, you and your friends, are useless to us.”

The laughter dies in your throat as you look at him with fear. “Levitt, you can't tell them.”

He turns back to the screen, already moving things aside, shifting, editing, deleting. “Trust me, I did not allow Octavia to punch me twice just to throw it all away now. I’m erasing this from the report, but from now on, you can’t let me into your head.”

“You’re saying that I have to fight the machine?”

He turns to you, shaking his head. “You can't fight the machine, because your brain will hemorrhage. But you can beat the machine by repeating a single phrase over and over, like the one that Bellamy used to say to you.”

“Tell me about the stars.”

“Right, good. We’ll begin tomorrow, but for now, get some rest.”

He walks to the door and lets the disciples in so they can carry you back to your room, back to Gabriel, your anxiety higher than usual after an M-Cap session. Because now you are hyper aware that your survival, the survival of your friends, and the survival of the people you love, all depends on your ability to beat a machine designed to dig through your memories or kill you trying. 

-

The next morning, the disciples lead you back to M-Cap, your hands damp with sweat as you think of the task ahead of you. Beat the machine, save those you love. Easy, right? Except it’s not, because when the door opens, Levitt is in the room waiting for you, like usual, but a second figure clothed in white is in there too. Anders turns towards you with a smile, some of your previous memories playing out on the screen behind him. “Miss Griffin, nice to see you again.”

You nod at him awkwardly, not sure you can trust your voice to stay strong as you face the prospect of beating the machine in front of Anders. You cross the room on shaky legs and plop down into the chair you’ve sat in for the last 7 days now, and Levitt turns to face you and prep you. He senses your fear and gives you a reassuring smile, but through his teeth, he whispers, “Pain.”

You look at him in confusion, but he just shakes his head, letting you know he can't say anything else, leaving you to mull over his words. Once the machine is ready, he begins with the same question he always does. “You're in an endless desert with a vast purple sky. A hand reaches out for your own. Whose is it?”

And just like every other day, your brain cycles through a scroll of faces, and Levitt picks one to begin. This time, it’s your father, his smile bright and happy. Beside you, Levitt mutters, “Good. Neural link is engaged.”

Anders moves closer to you. “I’m curious, some of the reports mention that you call Clarke ‘shining star’. Why is that?”

You glance at Levitt from the corner of your eye, and he gives you a look, reminding you of your conversation the day before. So you fight against the memory that threatens to rise to the surface, you, your mother, and Clarke all on your couch, your father standing across from you, and you start to repeat, “Tell me about the stars. Tell me about the stars. Tell me about the stars. Tell me about the stars.”

The memory playing on the screen nearby stutters, before disappearing, and through your repeated words, you can hear Anders ask, “What is she doing? Bring the memory back!”

“She's trying to block the machine.”

“Why?”

“I don't know, sir.”

Anders glares at Levitt, “Turn it up.”

“But sir-”

He cuts off Levitt’s disagreement. “Do it. Now.”

You glance at Levitt as he dials up the machine, and he flashes you another look, his mouth moving over a silent word, unseen by Anders. Pain.

Pain? It must mean something because Levitt wouldn't risk telling you twice if it didn't. But you are pulled from your thoughts by Anders' voice once again muttering, “The shining star.”

Again, a memory starts to take shape in your mind, your family together, three perfectly wrapped boxes held tightly in your father's hands, and you attempt to use the phrase to resist the memory. But you know which one it is, the allure of it too strong to resist, wanting to relive the moment again. A small box held in your small hands, your dad’s grin is wide and bright, and it makes you feel happy too. But your conscious mind still fights. This memory is meaningless, pointless in the quest for information on Clarke. But if you can't resist this, what will happen when the important memories come into play? You again remember Levitt’s words, the pieces finally falling into place as you realize why he is repeating the word pain. He wants you to hurt yourself.

After countless days spent in this chair, you know there are sensor spikes situated all around the helmet. They serve a dual purpose of relaying information while also keeping the helmet steady in one place over your head. But these sensors are sharp enough to injure someone, because you watched Levitt accidentally cut himself on one a few days ago. Which is why you quickly tip your head to the side and scratch the spike along the side of your head, something warm and wet dripping down the side of your face as you cry out in pain. But you don't stop there. You lift your head and move again, dragging the spike through the already open wound, injuring yourself further, repeating the process over and over again until Anders finally growls in frustration, “Enough. Send her back to her cell.”

Levitt nods and retrieves the disciples, and when he broaches the subject of bandaging the cut on your head, Anders says something about letting Gabriel do it before he storms out of the room. Levitt gives you an apologetic look as two disciples lift you and half carry you from the room, your feet dragging beneath you, but you don't have the energy to care, already drained from your fight against the machine and the pain you had to cause yourself. You are escorted back to your room quickly, Gabriel standing as you are pulled into the room. His eyes find the black blood on the side of your face with ease, his expression shifting to one of horror. “What happened to her?”

The two guards plop you onto your mattress and attempt to leave again, but Gabriel grabs the closest one and spins around, pushing them against the wall. “What did you do to her?”

The second disciple grabs Gabriel and pulls him away from his partner harshly, Gabriel stumbling in an attempt to keep his balance, and the disciple snaps, “She did it to herself, doctor. First disciple Anders said you can clean her up.”

He reaches into a pouch at his side and grabs a small first aid kit, which he tosses at Gabriel before both men turn and leave the room. Gabriel scoops it up and closes the space between you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” You wave your hand, trying to push away his concern. But his worry persists as he reaches out to gently grasp your chin, tilting your head so he can get a look at the cut down the side of your face. “Did you do this to yourself?”

“Yes.” He cuts you a look, so you add, “I had a reason.”

“What reason could there possibly be to do this?”

He reaches into the first aid kit and begins pulling out supplies, including a suture kit. Your eyes dart from his busy hands to the cameras in the corners of the room, wondering how much you can say. You tilt your head down, keeping it low so they can’t see your lips moving, and you drop your voice to a nearly inaudible level. “They’re watching, but Clarke isn't the Key.”

“What do you mean?”

“They think she's important because she has the Flame in her head, but they never went far enough into Octavia’s memories to see that it was for a couple of hours on one day over a hundred years ago. If they find out the truth, we’re all dead.”

Gabriel looks at you in alarm, careful to keep his head low too as he preps the sutures. “And the cut…”

“Was to beat the machine. Anders was in the room today and I couldn't keep him out of my head. This was the only way to do it.”

Gabriel nods once, letting you know he understands, before tipping your head back into the light, giving him a better look at your wound. As he begins to stitch you up, the cut starting near your temple and dragging back and down into your hairline, he mutters, “How long can you keep this up before they realize you’re no use to them and kill you?”

“As long as they think Clarke is the Key, they won't risk losing me.”

“I don't like this.”

“I don't either, but it's the only way for me to keep all of us safe. We have to figure out how to get off of Bardo before it’s too late.”

Gabriel nods, lost in thought, probably working on a plan to get all of you out of here. He finishes up your stitches, checks over the wound and cleans it up a little more before nodding with satisfaction. “Okay, you’re good to go.”

“Thank you, Gabriel.”

He glances at you, a smile on his face as he repacks the first aid kit. “No thank yous needed, cielito.”

You smile at the nickname and lean back into your bed, the drama of the day starting to catch up to you. You feel exhaustion weighing heavy on your lids, dragging them down, and before Gabriel can say another word, you’re already fast asleep.

-

The next morning, you are dragged right back into M-Cap, this time a little harsher than before. Anders is in the room, and Levitt is gone, replaced by a different man, but you know better than to ask why. You can only hope they haven't done something to him. As you are led over to the M-Cap chair, you work hard to keep your expression neutral and hide the fear that you feel creeping up your spine. They lock you down in the chair, attaching every restraint, which they have never done before. 

Once you are held down and the machine is up and running, the new man turns to you, his expression blank, and asks the same question Levitt used to ask you. “You're in an endless desert with a vast purple sky. A hand reaches out for your own. Whose is it?”

Your mind starts to cycle through faces and memories, and you feel your anxiety spike, not even wanting Anders to get the neural link engaged. Which is why you jam your head wound into the sensor spike again, dragging down the wound and breaking Gabriel’s stitches, just like Clarke did years ago in Mount Weather. Your pain levels rise, blocking the machine from engaging with your mind, and Anders breaks his calm nature long enough to growl, “Try again.”

With your pain levels on the rise, you decide to combine the two methods to beat the machine, and you scrape the sensor over your wound as you repeat, “Tell me about the stars, tell me about the stars, tell me about the stars.”

Anders keeps you in the room for hours, trying to get through to your brain, before he finally gives up and sends you back to your room with a group of angry disciples. Gabriel stitches your wound again when you return, his look disapproving, though you know he doesn't mean it. He just hates that you have to bear the weight of this on your own. Just like Clarke, you are now bearing it so they don't have to. 

That night, when you’re laying in bed and Gabriel is asleep, you start to realize that maybe the reason the phrase doesn't work well for you is because you aren't concentrating on it enough. But the problem with concentrating on it is the slew of memories associated with the phrase, memories that Anders can use to link you to the machine and forcefully dig through your mind. But maybe, if you use the same phrase in Trigedasleng, your mind will have to focus on it and the translation more. There’s only one memory associated with the Trigedasleng translation, when you and Bellamy were watching a brewing civil war from the windows of a tower in Polis. But fighting one memory is much easier than fighting the countless others you have of Bellamy asking you to tell him about the stars.

The next day, as soon as the disciples come to take you, you begin your chanting. “Tel ai hashta skaifaya. Tel ai hashta skaifaya.Tel ai hashta skaifaya.Tel ai hashta skaifaya.”

You focus on the words, the translation, making sure it’s correct each time you say it, which gives Wanlida time to close the door to your memories, locking them away where Anders and the others can't reach them. You repeat the words the whole way to M-Cap, you repeat them as they strap you down, you repeat them as they try to probe your mind again. And after another long day of attempts, you come out on the other side successful. Your memories are safe, your stitches in tact, and the knowledge of the Flame is still safely tucked away. 

The process repeats for the next few days as they try to break you and get back into your head, but with a combination of pain and your mantra, they never even successfully link the machine to your mind. By day 3, you’re feeling pretty proud of yourself when you are delivered back to your shared room with Gabriel, a smile on your face, which he quickly takes note of. “I have seen you smile like that since Skyring.”

You feel a wave of guilt when you realize that you’re smiling so soon after losing Bellamy, your brain temporarily forgetting that he isn't back on Sanctum with Clarke. He’s dead and gone, and you’re smiling like nothing happened. Your expression quickly drops, and Gabriel seems to regret saying anything. You don't want him to think it's his fault, because it's not, which is why you answer his question anyways. “I beat the machine again.”

“And you didn’t rip out your stitches to do it.”

You nod and he smiles, just as proud. He’s about to ask you something when the door to the room pulls open and no less than 10 guards file into the room, walking towards you. The air in the room is menacing, and you get a sudden thought that this is it. You were wrong about them needing you. You outlived your usefulness, and now they’re here to kill you. At least your memories will die safely along with you. Gabriel must have the same fear that you're about to die, because as soon as they reach for you, he starts to yell and fight. “Leave her alone!”

You watch him knock two guards aside, and you do the same, hitting the man to your left in the throat, choking him. You twist your arm out of the other man’s grip before grabbing his helmet and curling our fingers beneath the seam, grasping at the safety latch that keeps the helmet in place. You find it easily, removing the helmet from the man’s head and using it as a weapon to knock him out. 

You can hear the grunt of fighting behind you, and you turn around to see Gabriel struggling with a circle of guards around him, all of them tugging, pulling, and grabbing at him. You start to attack them from behind, knocking them back one by one, but just as you start to get the upper hand, more disciples flood into the room. You feel someone yank on your arm hard, and someone else’s fist connects with your face, knocking you off balance. You manage to catch yourself at the last second, only to be tackled to the floor, someone pressing down on your back and pushing your face into the floor as they work to restrain you. 

You feel a pair of cuffs latch around your wrists before you are harshly yanked back to your feet, gravity making you realize that blood is now dripping from your stitched up cut. The black liquid runs down the side of your face and neck, disappearing beneath your shirt, as you turn to face the door. There Anders stands, looking over you and Gabriel both, a disapproving look on his face. “See? Their bonds need to be broken, otherwise they will never be like us.”

You look at Gabriel in alarm, blood dripping from his nose, a bruise already blooming around his eye, both of you sharing a look of fear. Anders motions to the guards holding you, pointing them towards the door. “One day, you will both understand. As will the others.”

You are being led towards the door, and at the mention of your friends, you start to fight. “The others? What about them? What do you mean?”

You've heard no mention of them in ages, and both you and Gabriel know that asking about them is useless, because they'll never tell you anything. Anders shakes his head in disappointment at the frantic tone of your voice at the mention of your friends. “You are all so attached. That is not our way. We have to break your bonds, and there's only way to do that.”

And then he motions for your guards to take you out the door. You start fighting against them, trying to get back to Gabriel and the safety of your cell, but they hold you and him tight, both of you fighting uselessly to escape. “Gabriel! Don't let them kill me! Gabriel!”

He screams back, his voice just as desperate, “Cielito! I'll find you! Just don't fight them!”

You heed his words, letting some of the fight drain from your body, suddenly aware that you’re wasting your energy on them. It’s useless to try to escape in this moment, and you could need your energy later if things get worse, which you are starting to suspect they will. So you drop your fighting down to a milder level, mostly allowing the disciples to carry you off, your mind and eyes taking in everything around you. They lead you to the elevator and direct it to the sixth floor, one that you haven't been to before. You rack the map in your brain, trying to figure out where they're taking you, but the only thing you can remember on this floor is the adolescent training, and you’re sure that can't be where you’re going.

But sure enough, they lead you to a door labeled “training” and hit the button, the door sliding open to reveal a large room, a gray mat stretched across the floor. Inside of the room is a group of people, and they all turn towards you at the sound of the door opening, the disciple on your left announcing, “Sorry to interrupt. First Disciple Anders wanted her to join the other trainees.”

Your brows pull together in confusion, your mind convinced ten seconds ago that you were being led to death. But instead they brought you to training? You shift your gaze over to the trainees, and the crowd parts a little, revealing four familiar faces that you haven’t seen in a couple of weeks. Your jaw drops in shock as your eyes move over the four women: Octavia, Echo, Diyoza, and Hope, all of them staring back at you in happy surprise. Octavia is the first to break the silence, her voice full of happiness as she looks at you and whispers, “La lune.”

-

next chapter

[hunidlo]

Call of Fire

CHAPTER 5 - The Quarry

Rating: M

Word Count: 3K

Pairing: The Mandalorian x F!Reader

Warnings: slow burn fic, language, this chapter is quite safe :)

Summary: You’re still not sure whether you should trust the Mandalorian. Both of you have your secrets and none of you is willing to share them with each other just yet.

Previous Chapter  //  Masterlist

***

“Mando!” you hear someone shouting across the parking area as you and your armour-clad companion descend the ramp. “Didn’t expect you to be back so soon.”

You landed on Nevarro just moments ago.

“I need to refuel and repair my ship,” the Mandalorian replies and grabs the man's outstretched forearm to greet him.

“My people will get right on it” the man gestures towards some mechanics nearby and they immediately get to work. “Shall we?” he tilts his head and shows the way with his hand.

The Mandalorian nods and you all walk to the city.

“I don’t think I’ve had the honour yet,” the man says, turning his head to you. “Grief Karga, I am one of Mando’s dear friends.”

Friends? You did not expect the Mandalorian to have a friend given his hostile demeanor. Moreover, the plural indicates he has more than one. Who would have thought.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” a grunt comes from under the bescar mask.

Karga lets out an amused chuckle, “Of course I am.”

You give Karga your name in return, smile a little, and shake his hand.

His face expression suggests he’s expecting you to elaborate and tell him more about yourself or your relationship with the Mandalorian but you just silently blink at him. You are not even sure what your reply should be. What are you to the Mandalorian? His passenger? Probably. But you do not intend to share more about the circumstances that made you into one or your destination for that matter. Fortunately, he doesn’t ask more questions when you don’t provide the information. 

“Hope he has been treating you nicely,” Karga continues after a couple of moments.

“You mean this?” you ask, pointing at your bruised face which he’s clearly referring to. Thanks to the ointment the Mandalorian gave you, it is now looking significantly less painful than it did yesterday but it’s still undeniable that someone has whacked you pretty hard. “Would be much worse, if it wasn’t for him.”

The Mandalorian turns his look to you for a brief moment almost as if surprised to hear you actually admit he saved your pitiful ass from the bandits. 

Yesterday you told him some nasty things and blamed him for your friend’s death but the fire and rage are now gone and you feel like yourself again—like a rational person who knows the Mandalorian was right about him being the reason why you are still alive now. 

“Is that right?,” Karga says and looks at the Mandalorian, his eyebrows raised. “You have to tell me all about it someday but right now I’d like to talk to Mando here alone for a moment if you don’t mind. Why don’t you look around the city in the meantime? You have to try Murr’s sandwiches. He has a stand just down this street. Tell him, I sent you.”

“O-Okay,” you smile hesitantly at Karga and turn to the Mandalorian. “How do I find you?”

“I’ll find you. Don’t leave the city,” he says.

You don’t like this solution very much.

He does not wait for your consent though and before you can come up with a response, both men disappear in the crowd, leaving you on your own in the foreign city.

Well, if he leaves you here, at least he has decided to do so on an inhabited planet, right? 

“Okay, you can do this,” you try to reassure yourself as you walk towards the marketplace. You have never visited a foreign planet in your adult life and already feel lost and out of place. “You can do this.”

------------------------------------------------------

“I didn’t think you’d be the type to bring a date along with you,” Karga says when they arrive at his office. “But good for you, my friend, she seems—”

“The deal’s off,” the Mandalorian is fed up with the chit chat.

“Wait ... What? Why?”

“How many tracking fobs did you give away this time?”

“Only one. To you.”

The Mandalorian sighs, puts hands on his hips and shakes his head. “The deal’s off,” he repeats resolutely.

“Come on, Mando. Talk to me. What happened? Have you found the quarry?”

“Yes.”

“Well? Where are they?”

The Mandalorian sits down on one of the chairs, leans back with a relieved sigh and puts his legs on Karga’s desk, crossing them. “You’ve just sent her to buy a sandwich,” he says bluntly.

“What? Her? Fuck, Mando!” Karga starts panicking while his armour-clad friend remains stoic and lazily folds his arms behind his head. “What the … I told you the quarry might be dangerous. Why isn’t she in carbonite or in binders?”

“She’s not dangerous. I know for a fact that she has never held a weapon in her hand.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It can’t be her,” the Mandalorian growls.

“How can you be so sure? What do you actually know about her?”

The Mandalorian takes a second to think. “I watched her, saw her with the villagers … her friend … she’s no killer.”

“She might not be a killer herself, but she’s the reason people are dead—.”

“She’s a fucking farmer ...,” the Mandalorian finally erupts and both men stare at each other in complete silence for a few seconds.

“Why did you bring her here, then?” Sensing the growing tension—Karga decides not to push the heavily armed men in his office any further. "Wouldn’t it be safer to leave her on her planet and say you haven't found her?”

“Things got … complicated,” comes from under the metal helmet glumly.

“Not again …”

“This wasn’t a regular job for the guild and you know it. I agreed to do it as a favour to you,” the Mandalorian reproves.

“I know and I didn't mean to sound ungrateful … Let’s assume you are right. What is your plan now?”

Taking his boots off the desk and bending over to rest his elbows on his things, the Mandalorian contemplates his reply for a beat, knowing damn well he might regret his decision. “I’m not turning her in. You can tell your friend on Carajam they hunt the wrong person. She’s not an informant for the Empire … or whatever’s left of it.”

Karga sighs deeply. “Okay, I’ll think of something … By the way, why did you ask whether I gave away more tracking fobs?”

“Someone attacked us. I think they were tracking her too.”

“Then you know they won’t stop looking for her.”

“Probably.”

“So what are you going to do?”

”Not sure yet. She wants me to take her to her parents—to Hoth.”

“Mind to elaborate?”

“That’s all I know, she only cares about getting to her parents. However … I do have a feeling she might be hiding something.”

“Told you …”

“Having a problematic relationship with your parents doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a threat to society.” The Mandalorian leans back again and fidgets with his gloved fingers unconsciously.

“Hoth, you say?” Karga places his index finger against his lips, thinking. “Tell you what … get her to Hoth, see what you find there, help her find her parents, find out as much as you can about her and then you can decide whether you’ll turn her in or let her go. I won’t question your decision then and will deal with Rungrell.”

------------------------------------------------

You walk through the marketplace. Never have you been to such a city. The only place comparable to this one was the fishing town on your planet that you visited several times when you joined the men who ventured there to buy some new tools and equipment for farming. It wasn’t as lively though. There are various vendors selling food and gadgets you have never seen in your life, and you feel like stopping at each and every one of them to find out whether their goods could be of any use to you.

You haven’t bought anything so far other than the sandwich Karga has recommended to you. The vendor was a nice elderly Cerean called Murr who—having heard about who sent you—gave you the most expensive sandwich he had for free. Karga was right, it was delicious. The last food you ate was what the Mandalorian gave you several hours ago. It was some processed food that no doubt was nutritious, but far from tasteful.

It’s been nearly two hours since the Mandalorian left you in the city all by yourself and you are wondering whether he will ever come back for you. 

What will you do if he doesn’t? Will you be able to find someone else on this planet who would give you a ride to Hoth? Maybe you could ask Karga, he seemed nice and trustworthy enough—and apparently has connections around here—maybe he would be able to help. Yes, that is what you would do. You don’t have much credits but you could find a job here, work for a couple of months and then pay someone with a ship. You will not give up on your quest to find your parents, that’s for sure.

Despite having an emergency plan, you cannot help but feel a bit sad and disappointed about the possibility of the Mandalorian leaving you behind without even saying goodbye. Sure, he has no responsibility towards you and was right when he said that he didn’t agree to take you to Hoth. Still, you wish … you want to spot him leaning against one of the sales stands or the buildings on either side of the street so you eagerly keep looking around hoping to set your eyes on the familiar man in shiny armour. If nothing, you should at least thank him.

You stop at the stand that displays and sells all sorts of trinkets and lucky charms, of which most look like useless junk. You do not even pay attention to any of the items—being too lost in your thoughts when you hear a modulated voice—almost a raspy whisper—coming from behind your ear. “You’d better buy a pair of good boots and some warm clothes instead of browsing through trash …“

The Mandalorian is standing behind you, leaning over your shoulder to look at the counter in front of you.

You sigh at the familiar sound, smile in relief and turn to face him. 

“... Unless you want to freeze to death, that is …” he finishes, his visor now trained down at you.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” You try to hide the fact that his proximity still gives you the chills with a light teasing tone.

“Nothing,” the beskar-clad gunslinger says, not moving a muscle to give you more space, ”but I thought you wanted to go to Hoth … and Hoth is an icy planet.”

“Oh,” you squeak, dumbfounded, “I didn’t know.” Really. It did not occur to you that Hoth might have a different climate than the one you are used to. Sometimes your naivety surprises even yourself. You have never seen snow. There were winters on your part of the planet but they were rather mild and dry. It never snowed there. “Where should I … Can I get anything that I need here?”

“I think I might know a place.” He turns swiftly and strides across the marketplace to a shop in one of the dark alleys.

“So you’re gonna take me to Hoth then,” you breathe out, trying to keep up with his pace. 

“Do I have a choice?” He doesn’t sound particularly happy about it but he isn’t angry either. 

That’s a pleasant turn of events, you think.

“Well, you could have left me here. In fact, I thought you would.”

“I come to Nevarro quite often, meaning every time I’d be here, you wouldn’t stop bothering me about taking you to Hoth.”

“That’s probably correct,” you laugh softly but still can't get rid of the feeling that there’s more to it than he lets out.

It seems that this shop sells anything one can think of. You can see all sorts of tools, spare droid parts, small machinery, devices and even second-hand armours. Apparently, the Mandalorian is a regular customer here, judging by the friendly yet respectful way the owner greets him. 

The vendor needs to go through almost everything she has in stock but finally manages to find what you need and sells you a warm light blue jacket, boots, woollen hat and a pair of mittens.

“I guess I should buy some food for the trip too,” you turn to the Mandalorian, holding the last credits you have in your open palm when you leave the shop. The garments cost you more than a half of your credits but you don’t want to live off of the Mandalorian’s supplies so you just hope what you have will be enough.

“I already took care of that. Let’s go,” he utters.

“But …”

He senses your objection. “You said your parents were rich, didn’t you? You can pay me later.”

So, is this his motivation for helping you? Credits? He didn’t seem interested when you tried to buy him the first time, telling him your parents were rich.

“Okay.” You try to supress the thought of what his reaction will be when he finds out you were lying to him.

It’s a strange feeling—walking a couple of steps behind the Mandalorian, accompanying him to his ship and seeing all the people in the streets trying to get out of his way as soon as they set eyes on him. You wonder whether it is the armour and mystery of a masked assassin or whether they actually had the chance to witness what he’s capable of. It’s like they know that he can be a lot of trouble when messed with and for some reason, being part of his crew now and getting the same respect as he does emboldens you. It seems like they fear you too, just because you are with him. You secretly wish you had this kind of vibe when the bandits came to your village.

You make a couple of quick steps to catch up with him. “I heard Karga calling you Mando ...” You try to initiate a small talk despite knowing that the Mandalorian isn’t a talkative type per se. “Is that a name I can use to call you too since you’ve not given me your real one?”

In fact, you do not even expect him to give you his name. During the couple of days you have spent in his presence, you learnt he prefers not giving up too much about himself so the simple hm that you get from him as an answer is enough for you to continue. “So Mando, have you ever been to Hoth before?”

“No,” he says shortly.

“Neither have I. Well, you already know that …” Idiot, you scold yourself for making such a stupid comment. “Overall, I haven’t been to many planets in my life.” For an unknown reason, you progressively get more and more nervous.

“I figured.”

Of course he did. How could he not …

“You travel a lot?”

“My job requires it.”

“What’s the nicest—”

“What are your parents doing on Hoth?” he cuts you off unexpectedly. 

You practised the answer to this question when you were on your own in the marketplace today as you had a hunch it might come up sooner or later. “Um, my father was a pilot, he served in the Rebel Alliance.” You can’t lie, yet you have done it several times now with Mando, hoping he can’t see through it. “My parents left me on my mother’s home planet to make sure I’m safe. That was fifteen years ago. I was told there is a Rebel base on Hoth, my parents should be there.” Okay this part was true.

“Why now?”

“Hm?” You look at him puzzled.

“Why have you decided to look for them now?” he clarifies.

Is he going somewhere with all these questions or is he just genuinely interested.

“I learnt their location only after Zulu died. She wanted me to reunite with them. I just wish to see them again, that’s all.”

The Mandalorian stops in his tracks and looks at you, his head slightly tilted to the side in suspicion. You have no idea what is going through his head, however, you are glad he doesn’t ask any more questions for now and continues walking after a beat.

“You’re good to go,” the Morseerian mechanic announces when you get to the ship.

“Thank you,” Mando replies simply.

Wow, apparently he can be polite when he wants to.

You help him load the supplies and prepare for take off. 

“Here,” Mando comes to you when you put down the last crate, holding a package in his hands, offering it to you.

It’s …

“A towel?” You blink at him with wide eyes.

Well, that’s a surprise.

“You mentioned, you didn’t have time to pack.”

“No … I mean yeah. Um, thank you.”

If someone had asked you a day ago what your opinion of the silent, always grumpy Mandalorian was, you would have probably said he was an uncivilized jerk and you regretted ever setting foot on his damn ship. But now … he gave you a towel—such a small, meaningless gesture and yet you can’t help but smile at him with gratitude.

He climbs up to the cockpit without a word, leaving you in the cargo hold still staring at the piece of fabric in your hands—perplexed.

When you eventually join him, he’s already pressing some buttons and typing coordinates, getting reading to take off.

“Buckle u—” he turns to you only to see that you are already seated and have fastened your seat belt.

“I'm a quick learner,” you smirk.

You cannot see his expression but you’re quite sure he’s smiling now, judging by the little puff he makes—almost resembling a gentle chuckle—before he turns back to the control panel and takes off.

***

Previous Chapter  //  Masterlist

[sh1tbird-shantytown]

Ah thank you for answering my Stommy ask i loved it a lot. Can i get some more Stommy.

Okay so like what if Tommy finally sees what Steve's doing with the kids amd the mindflayer and acts like he's down to help and he is he wants to help steve.

But at the same time he has a bit of a breakdown infront of everyone and his whole bad boy persona drops and he's scared he didn't expect this, he didn't believe in anything like this before and he doesn't understand how steve does it.

Can i get some Johnathan being sympathetic to Tommy and sort coming to an understanding with him, and they get eachother, (i like to think that Tommy isn't rich like steve and is more like the byers than everyone thought. Like he comes from a broken home and all the fancy clothes he gets from steve)

Ooo and some tommy and johnathan being like ugh "rich people"

Will and Tommy moment though where will is like :O and Tommy takes him under his wing like Steve did with Dustin

Whoa this is long. Im so sorry. I hope you have a good day.

stommy for sure. thanks, hun!

===

He didn’t expect it to happen. He never really did, he would get a call from Hopper or Joyce or Dustin usually. Cancel everything and go play near death whack-a-mole for a few hours. He’s gotten real good at it at this point. Tommy was suspicious, started asking questions.

“Where are you going off to?” he’d shown up at the Harrington house. Steve wouldn’t let him in, his bag of monster hunting supplies and his stained nail bat poking out prominently. “Or do you have someone in there with you?” Tommy moved his head around to search behind Steve’s shoulders.

“No, Tom,” Steve put his hands up, “Some stuff just came up. An emergency.”

“Is your mother in the hospital? Is your father back home and he’s sending you out for errands so he can invite his side chick over—“

Steve leaned against the doorway, unamused, “—Come on, Tom, that’s not funny.”

But Tommy didn’t stop, “—Is Dustin sick? What’s so important that you had to cancel twice on me this week? Huh!” Steve closed his eyes for a brief moment, collecting his bearings. He stepped out and closed the door behind him.

“Look,” he slowly took Tommy’s hand, the other watching with clear suspicion. “I would much rather stay in with you and watch your stupid drama movies.” The other’s face twisted a little but he listened. “Hopper needs me right now, important, top secret, emergency.” He squeezed Tommy’s fingers a little with every accentuated word. “It’s best that you don’t know, you’re safer that way.” He had hoped that would get Tommy to back off. Wishful thinking.

Tommy shook his head and crossed his arms defiantly, “I’m coming with you for sure now. You don’t get to keep things like this from me now. No secrets.” Steve opened his mouth but Tommy pinched his arm, interrupting him. “No secrets! Okay? You don’t get to go risk yourself, or whatever you’re implying, and leave me in the dark!” Tommy stomped his foot and Steve had the mind to assume he’d been paying attention to all his sisters way of dealing with their own boyfriends. Tommy cupped both sides of his cheeks when Steve sighed. “I am your boyfriend,” he made Steve look at him. Tommy looked concerned, face wrinkled and cheeks pale. “I deserve to know.”

His shoulders sank as he gave in, “You’re not going to like it. Probably won’t even believe it.”

Tommy glared, “Try me.”

Steve went back into the house and grabbed his bag. Tommy quickly noticed the bat, obvious about it with his wide eyes not meeting Steve’s own and instead on the spikes peaking out over his shoulder. He didn’t ask yet though. Instead, he followed Steve all the way to the BMW and then got in the passenger side.

Steve looked over at Tommy sitting rigidly before starting the ignition. There were intense lines between his eyebrows and his lips were being abused by him biting them. He started gnawing on his fingernails when Steve made a decision.

He stepped out quick and Tommy startled, “Where are you going now?”

Steve leaned back in, antsy, “I’m going to get you a weapon.” Tommy looked like he desperately wanted to ask, Steve waited, but Tommy just sat back with his leg bouncing. He sighed again and Tommy glanced over at the noise. “You don’t have to come. It’d be better if you just stayed here until I get back.” Tommy folded his arms, leg still going up and down due to the weight of his hand not lessening it.

“Like hell I am,” he grumbled, “Go get me something if it’s so necessary.” Steve’s shoulders and ankles were tense and locked a little in place. This wasn’t going to end well even if Tommy believe him. He wasn’t supposed to add anyone else to the group. All he had as an excuse was Tommy’s unrelenting behavior and how immediate and stressed Hopper had sounded when he called. The excuse that maybe more help was necessary.

So Steve went to the shed and found a chain. A long iron chain that his father had used to hold the fence gate between theirs and the neighbors’ yards shut. He went back to the car with it in hand. When he sat back down Tommy stared wonderingly at it. Steve dropped it in his lap, the sound heavy as it slipped slowly to the car floor and clanked together.

“Can you still lasso?” he asked quietly. Didn’t want to trigger Tommy into some spell of hysterics.

Tommy swallowed and his eyes grew even more serious than before, “Yeah, yeah I can still lasso.”

Steve looked from the chain to Tommy’s face a few times, “Can you do to the same with that as you can a rope if we need you to?” He’d seen Tommy lasso, done some himself in the summers on the Hagan farm. Their small farm that housed loads of milk cows. It was a nice escape, mostly outdoors and their house was rundown only a little. Obviously warn from love and family and sweet time. Something real against the Harrington’s artificial capsule.

Tommy nodded again, “I can make it work.” When Steve didn’t catch Tommy’s eye for another minute or so, he started out to the Byers’ house. He could tell Tommy was trying to pay attention to the route but he kept messing with the chain. Steve knew he was forming it around to form the lasso correctly. Had seen Tommy sit on a bale of hay and mess with a rope the same way.

They pulled up to the dusty driveway and Tommy finally looked up with recognization, “Who exactly is involved in all this?”

Steve parked and neither of them moved, “Well, we’ve got all the Byers, Mike and Nancy Wheeler, Lucas Sinclair, Dustin, and Hopper”

Tommy glared over at him and opened his door, “What kind of shit have you gotten yourself into?”

Steve only smiled thinly and he stepped out to grab his bag from the backseat before heading up to the door. Hopper was smoking and watched him as Tommy slowly gathered his chain.

“What did you do now?” Hopper didn’t sound surprised.

Steve could only shrug, “He insisted.”

Hopper took a drawn out puff, “Well you should have resisted.”

Steve turned his neck to glimpse as Tommy closing the car door, “You trying resisting a Hagan and then get back to me.”

Hopper raised a brow and flicked the ash off the filter, “Just keep him by you and make sure he doesn’t get hurt. I don’t want to have to explain to his parents.”

Steve rubbed his upper arm as Tommy walked up to his side, “Why would I get hurt? And what’s wrong with my parents?” he ordered defensively.

Hopper sighed and squished the cherry out in an outdoor ashtray balanced on the porch railing, “Nothing, kid. Your father just doesn’t like me.”

Tommy muttered something Steve only just barely caught, “You just can’t leave an innocent drunk man alone on a Friday night.”

“What’s that?” Hopper’s eyes narrowed. Tommy folded his arms and didn’t respond, only shook his head once.

Steve looked between the two. He knew Tommy’s father liked to drink sometimes. Mostly after a long day working on harvesting hay bales and tending to their cows. Knew his mother and Tommy’s sisters hated when he did. Tommy didn’t know how to feel, got mad at Steve when he tried to sympathize. A few of their fights had ended in Tommy throwing the fact that Steve’s father was never really around back in his face. Yelling he wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t. Not the same way.

“What’s the code?” he asked to break the heavy tensions, to at least try. Instead a new sort of shadow surrounded them.

“Orange,” Hopper took his hat off and rubbed his forehead, “Looks like more strays are picking off cattle at night. We need to go catch them.”

Tommy perked up, “Cattle? So you do know what’s been picking our calves off?” he shouted. “What is it? Why are you hiding it from the town? Us farmers!” He was livid and when Steve touched his arm to comfort, it was whacked away. He stepped back, a bit betrayed. The adrenaline in Tommy must have picked up already. He only acted like this when he was wound up tight and angry. Hopper was silent for a long moment as Tommy huffed his breaths in and out, upset.

He turned around to the house and said, “You’re about to find out,” before the door opened and closed.

“What is going on, Harrington?” Tommy asked, desperate now. Desperate for answers he hadn’t asked for. Made Steve annoyed that he allowed himself to get pent up again. Out of control of himself, the opposite of what they’d been working on. He took Tommy’s hands gently, at least thankful for Tommy allowing that much.

“I need you to take a few deep breaths, Sweetheart,” he used his calm tone. Used it for the kids when they got too scared sometimes. “This isn’t going to get any easier, so if you want to step out, do it now.” He waited and Tommy didn’t move, didn’t really do anything besides stare at him. “Is that a no?”

“I’m not leaving,” Tommy stated stubbornly.

“No one would think any less of you,” Steve said deeply, “We all wish we didn’t have to deal with this shit. You can go back home, you wouldn’t be able to tell people about this. The government will confiscate you otherwise.”

Tommy scoffed, “So my father isn’t some crazy conspiracy theorist.” Steve didn’t answer, didn’t really want to, didn’t think he needed to.

“It’s scary, Tom.”

Tommy puffed out his chest, “I don’t care. I’m staying with you and that’s final.”

The door opened and Dustin started yelling, “Son of a bitch, why is he here, Steve? Get your ass in here, we need to start planning!” Steve turned and Dustin started attempting to drag him up the porch. “We’ve got target on three different farms tonight.” He stopped and Steve almost tripped on the last stop. He asked Tommy, “Dont you live on one?”

Tommy’s shoulders rose, “What’s it to you?” Dustin glanced at Steve, who was giving a warning glance, shrugged his shoulders and headed inside again.

Steve grabbed the door and held it open for Tommy, “Come on then!” Tommy ran up and into the house, the warm waft of heat blown into their faces. Joyce met them first, Dustin rushing back into the other room.

She eyes Tommy worriedly, “Did you tell him anything yet?” Steve shook his head. She wasn’t mad, she instead waved then in more, “Well then we have quite a bit to catch you up then, huh?” she smiled welcoming. Walked them in through to where everyone was already staring over a map of Hawkins. Red circles around what Steve assumed were the farms being threatened.

Nancy’s face twisted, “What’s up with this?” she gestured to Tommy and his chain clutched in his fist.

“He wants in,” Steve shrugged and stepped forward to look at the map between Hopper and Dustin, “Not like we couldn’t use the help.”

Nancy scowled, “We can manage.”

“Yeah,” Mike butted in.

Steve glared at her, “Let it go, Nance. He’s here and that’s it, please.” She looked at Johnathan but John looked at Tommy just as openly as his mother had.

“You know how to throw that?” he looked at the dark chain links.

Tommy nodded and pointed to the west circle, “That’s my farm. Well, my dad’s.” He looked sheepish, like he was admitting something.

“Cool,” Steve heard Will whisper.

Johnathan smiled more just as Nancy’s frown deepened, “Didn’t know you were in the lower levels like us.” Tommy frowned and Nancy scolded John with a slap to the arm. “It’s just cool is all,” he defended himself from her onslaught.

Tommy grew confused, “Cool?”

John nodded, “Tuff,” he grinned. Tommy smirked and eased down, comfortably joining Steve by his side.

“So do I get the backstory or what?” Everyone else looked at Hopper.

The man rolled his eyes but relented, “Keep up,” he pointed at Tommy gruffly. The boy nodded and Steve planted a grounding hand on his shoulder. “When Will went missing he was actually trapped in a different dimension. There’s El, who isn’t here right now, she was an experiment.” His voice with filled with distaste. “ She has powers, telekinesis. She’s resting right now so she can—“

“Which is stupid,” Mike snapped, “She’s not ready—“ Lucas and Dustin elbowed him to shut him up.

Hopper didn’t even look at the kids, “She’s getting ready to fight the bigger problem, the mindflayer. Something that likes possessing people. Watch out for that,” he tipped his hat back. “But there are big dogs from that other dimension sneaking in like your average coyote onto farms. So we have to go out and clean them out.” Steve eyed Tommy’s face which was stoney. Hopper turned back to the table and map when he fingered Tommy had at least taken all of what he said in through his ears to process eventually. “We’re hitting it by groups. Joyce and I will go to Merrill’s. Nancy, Johnathan, Will, and Mike are going to Tinnerman’s. Steve, Tommy, Dustin, and Lucas are at Hagan’s. Got that?” he looked around. When no one disagreed he backed away.

Steve took his bag off and set it on top of the map, “You still have that tire iron?” he asked Dustin as he took out his lighter.

“Yep,” the kid nodded, “Still behind the house, I’ll go get it,” he ran off.

Steve only had to look at Lucas for an answer, “Got my pockets full of rocks and marbles this time.”

Steve smiled small but assuring, “Good.”

Everyone walked off to retrieve their own weapons or start their own vehicles. Except Steve and Tommy. Tommy was pale and his eyes were greyish.

“Hey,” Steve rubbed a thumb across his freckled cheek, “What’s going on in your head?” he whispered.

Tommy looked up and took in a shaky breath, “I’m ready to kill some monsters?” The questioning tone didn’t surprise Steve, the words did though. He didn’t ask, didn’t want to over work Tommy’s mind already. Not when they still had a long night ahead.

===

The Hagan property was the smallest of the three Hawkins farms. Fencing behind them that was meant to keep cattle on grounds, then a big barn, then the Hagan house. But it wasn’t meant to be called “small” either. The cattle were safe in the barn as long as they all stayed attentive and ready to kill off any demodog invaders. Simple, all in a days work. But Tommy was shaking like a leaf and Steve heard rustling from their right.

He stepped ahead a few steps just as Dustin and Lucas yelled out at the shadow creeping out of the trees. Tommy cursed loudly, so much so Steve feared Tommy’s mother would wake from it all the way in the house. He swung his bat to stabilize himself and then went to town on the thing’s neck, back, and head. It went down quick and others started coming out more and more. Lucas slung-shot his own ammunition and Dustin kept them back with Steve’s lighter and a can of hairspray.

“Can you get that one, Tom?” he shouted over the growls of a new dog as one ran past him to the fence.

It was a pretty quick success all things considering. The carcasses laid around Steve in wide diameter, gunk sprung all over the grass and tree bark. But as silence carried no more sounds carried out from the darkness.

He faced the group, Dustin parking things back into Steve bag and pulling out water bottles. Lucas was trying to wipe the sweat from his face.

Then Steve caught sight of Tommy standing still. Too still. He panicked.

“Tom?” he whisper yelled as he ran up to him. Grabbed his arms and then his head, “Tommy, are you alright?” Tommy’s pale face reflected streaks of luminescent tracks in the moonlight. His eyes looked frozen wide. “Hey,” he wiped away the tears with his thumbs and made Tommy make eye contact. Which seems to blow him out of his stupor. He started breathing sporadically. Steve hugged him and started breathing in and out exaggeratedly. “Match me, Sweetheart,” he whispered. Breathed in and waited as Tommy matched it. Exhaled and patiently listened.

By the time Tommy was lax against him, exhausted and adrenaline all gone, Steve had decided they were done. He snapped his fingers to grab Lucas and Dustin’s attention.

“Yo, call Hopper and see what they’re up to, please,” he threw one of Tommy’s arms over his shoulders. Started leading them back to his car a little ways away. Tommy wouldn’t speak, Steve had the mind to assume he was in shock. Knew the feeling himself. But the amount Tommy was still partially immobile on his own was concerning. “Can you signal to me how your feeling, Tommy? What can I do for you?” he asked as he opened the car door and worked his boyfriend into the passenger seat. He knelt on the wet road, his jeans getting damp at the knees.

Tommy finally made eye contact on his own and pressed his lips together, “That was scary.” Steve nodded understandingly. Tommy continued, “This is fucked,” he sat back and forcibly enclosed Steve hand in between his own. Steve distantly heard Dustin yapping to someone on the walkie talkie. “How do you all do it?” he asked exasperatedly. He deflated and shook his head, lost, “How do you do it all? You were amazing back there, didn’t hesitate or flinch.”

Steve smiled and leaned up to give Tommy a kiss to the cheek, “No one is going to be upset with you Tommy. We don’t even have to mention it. The important thing is,” he stepped back, “That we’re all safe and the dogs are done with.”

“But—“

“We won’t hold it against you,” he promised and Tommy closed his mouth slowly. Nodding in agreement a little reluctantly.

Dustin was messing with the dials on the walkie when he left Tommy there, “I’m gonna go clean the mess up, you two get in the car and wait.

Lucas stepped up though, “I’ll help.” Steve gave him a look but he persisted, “Please?”

He rolled his eyes, “I guess you’d be better help than Dustin.”

“Hey!” the other scolded.

Lucas flicked him, “Please, you gag every time the goo gets on you.”

“I wonder why!” Dustin called back as he got into the car with Tommy.

===

It was a few weeks later and Tommy was a little more comfortable in the Party and their occasional missions to take out other dimensional monsters. Tommy was good with the chain when he wasn’t completely petrified. Caught and wrangled multiple dogs out of the way on occasions. Sure he stopped out a few time but they didn’t fight him about it. Knew he knew what he couldn’t handle.

He was teaching Will a thing or two now. They each sat on logs in the Byers’ backyard with ropes in their hands and on their laps. Steve watched as he leaned against the back door doorframe with Joyce. Johnathan had tried to follow along but had quickly knotted his bad. Had encouraged them both instead as Tommy directed Will step by step.

Then, Steve joined them as they worked on tossing and capturing low tree branches. Tommy lassoed them all and Steve got some. But Will grew his skills fast apparently because he was right behind Tommy, grasping all the practicing targets with concentrated ease.

Tommy fist bumped the kid and Steve used his height to pull the rope back down, “Good job, Byers!”

“I was actually good at it,” Will beamed proudly. Tommy slung an arm over Wills shoulders and headed towards the house as Joyce called for dinner.

“You know, you should come take Steve’s place on the farm over the summer.” Will bounced on the souls of his feet a bit at the excitement and giggled when Steve scoffed dramatically.

“I’m just rusty.”

Tommy chuckled, “Come on, Byers One and Byers Two, let’s leave the Rich Boy to clean up.” Will laughed and followed him loyally.

Johnathan stood with a definite nod, “Agreed.” Steve stopped to watch them race to the house like they were all young boys.

Tommy fit in just fine.

[irishmacguirefucker]

Meeting Tilly Jackson

A.N: (So originally this was going to be for my au but I realized that if I wanna write Tilly in my AU i need to properly understand her background. We don't have a lot of specific details in the game, so i wrote this. Essentially its how Dutch found Tilly and took her in. She’s 14 in this. I will probably have a part 2 soon. Its a little dialogue heavy)

(TW: Sexual Assault of a minor is mentioned but nothing happens, blood)

Wordcount:  3110

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Tilly Jackson has a family. They may be a little odd, different than what everyone else might consider a family, but a family nonetheless. Dutch and Hosea her father figures, Susan Grimshaw a motherly presence. Sisters in Karen, Mary-Beth and the other women of the camp, brothers in Arthur and John and most of the other men. The titles don't matter so much as the feeling of safety and comfort and appreciation among them. She missed her late mother of course, but she hoped on some level her mother would be happy with how things turned out for the girl in the end. Being kidnapped at the age of 12 was nothing short of traumatizing, and for a long while, things only got worse. The Foreman gang was the opposite of a family. They were nothing to her but the people who stole her away from her mother claimed to own her. The ones who tried to take advantage of her. The night that Malcolm Foreman tried to make advances on her and she killed him was the night she would consider herself grown. 

She's not sure exactly how long she was alone, it must have been under a year. She went to find her mother only to hear of her death, and with nowhere else to go she just kept running. The further she made it the less likely that Anthony Foreman would find her and pay her back for what she did to his cousin. She knows that it was early spring when she left. The snow had barely been off the ground, she supposed that no longer being wrapped in a ratty cloak and scarf was the reason that gang member thought to make his move. 

Dutch found her just when it was beginning to get cold again. 

Despite considering herself grown, her body disagreed. The shoes she ran away in were already ill-fitted, and by that autumn they were practically falling apart. Her toes stuck out the front. She had done her best to steal clothing off people’s clotheslines, but they rarely fit.

Dutch caught her doing just that. He had been watching the property of some well off folks, planning on casing it with Arthur later that week. He watched as a girl no older than 14, snuck out from the tree line in a torn-up blouse and a too-long skirt.

She was clearly not experienced in stealing as she tripped over her skirts up the property, but she made it to the side of the house mostly successfully. She quickly tore down a long dress and an undershirt and quickly started back to the tree line. She stared wistfully at the property's large orchard and nearly turned her course towards it before hearing the owner of the house open his front door and stealing away into the forest. Even from a distance, Dutch knew what that hesitation meant. She was hungry.

Dutch was hardly one to let a promising little thief like her starve in the forest, so with a passing glance at the house he stood from his hiding spot up the hill and mounted the Count.

Tracking was never one of Dutch’s strongest abilities but she made it rather easy, with footprints in the mud, a scrap of fabric where her clothing caught a branch, etc. Eventually, he reached a spot where she seemed to trip and fall, and then there were a few drops of blood here and there as he followed. He knew he was getting closer, the blood wasn’t dry. He dismounted his horse and began leading him forward when suddenly she jumped out from behind a tree wielding a large rusted hunting knife. 

“Don’t come any closer! You can take your clothes back, here.” She kicked over the items he had just watched her steal. “Don’t tell the law, and I’ll disappear. I don’t have anything more to offer you.”

Dutch grinned, she was strong-willed. But he also observed that her cheeks were sunken in, and her skin was dull. She was visibly malnourished, and there was blood dripping from one of her small hands. He hoped it was a branch she cut herself on and not that dirty knife of hers.

He put his hands up in a friendly gesture.

“I’m not the man you robbed earlier, don’t you worry. I watched you steal that dress, you’re quite the little thief.” 

She was doing a damn good job of hiding her fear, but Dutch was experienced in seeing past such facades. She didn’t seem scared of the weapon she was holding, as the young and inexperienced often were when they wielded such an item. She just seemed scared of him. 

“Why did you follow me, it ain’t your things I stole. I have nothing to give you, so you best just leave me be.” She didn’t stutter, her high pitched voice remained unwavering and strong. Dutch tried his best to look unthreatening, something he didn’t find himself having to do often. 

“Well, I myself was planning on robbing that house myself later with a few of my friends, perhaps I just wanted to see if you had any advice for me as a seasoned visitor of that property.”

She didn’t believe him and didn’t lower her knife, but she didn’t run either. Good. “Now if I reach for something in my saddle bag here are you gonna come at me with that big old knife?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

Dutch smiled. “Well if you and I are gonna talk business I thought that maybe I could pay you for your time, little lady.”

She finally lowered the knife a little, seeming less afraid but very suspicious. “You wanna pay me for information on that house?”

“I do. Information is worth a lot to us outlaws, you should know that well Darlin’” He slowly turned to the horse. Even if she did attempt to stab him, she wouldn’t get to him before he could turn around, so he wasn’t worried. As he was digging through the saddlebag she spoke up behind him.

“Don’t call me Darlin.” 

He smiled at her bravado but kept looking through the bag. “Well, you’ve yet to give me something else to call you Miss. Ah! Here it is!” He turned back to her holding a small stack of cash and a wrapped parcel. 

“Yeah, well neither have you!” There’s that reminder that he’s talking to a child. They’re always so petulant. John had been just the same, though a little more rabid. “Well, I’m Dutch, Dutch Van der Linde.”

He studied her face for any sign of recognition, but there was none. Good, less reason for her to be afraid of him. She didn’t give her name just yet. 

“Are you with the Foreman brothers?” She asked boldly. “I won’t let you take me back, I’ll kill you before you get me back there.” That would explain her fear, she wasn’t just a thief. She was a runaway from another gang.

“Now I’ll tell you right now Miss, I’m not with Anthony Forman or his little gang. The only gang I’m with is the Van der Linde gang, and I promise me and mine won’t bring you any harm.”

“You...You lead a gang?” She was shaking, it was starting to get colder as the sun was setting. 

“I am, but we aren’t like those bastards you knew. We’re just good people, looking to live free.”

Then he did something bold, a gesture to help her feel safer in the presence of a gang leader. Hopefully, she would be a little more at ease. “Do you mind if I sit down Miss-” 

“Jackson. Tilly Jackson.”

He smiled. “Miss Jackson. Do you mind if I sit while we talk? Tracking you was quite a little adventure.” 

“Go ahead, I guess.” 

“Thank you, Tilly.” He sat down on a log just to the side, and she lowered her weapon fully but gripped it tight. “Now, go ahead and take this.” He took a couple of bills and tucked them into the string around the parcel. She stared at it suspiciously.

 “I didn’t tell you nothing yet and I ain’t stupid mister Van der Linde, why are you giving me this.” 

He smiled and leaned forward to place the parcel on the ground in front of him, between them. 

“As I said, you’re quite the thief and I think you could help me out. Doesn't hurt to butter up the informant. There's some food in the package, I thought you looked a little hungry.”

She seemed to stare at the parcel longingly and something clenched in Dutch’s cold heart. The poor girl must be starving.

 “I…I don’t have no info for you, Mister Van der Linde. I just needed the clothes.” She seemed disappointed to be saying it, but she didn't lie to him like he thought she might.

“Well...maybe you could just keep me company then Milady. Good company is hard to find among us outlaws, as I’m sure you know.”

In a flash, she was back two steps and her knife was raised once more.

“I ain’t that kind of girl. you can keep your fucking money and go pay a real whore for your damned “company’”

This was the opposite of the outcome he was looking for, and entirely at the fault of his own poor word choice. He should have known better, there are only a few things that can happen to a young girl in this country to put her on the run and make her fear good company. 

“Now listen here, Miss Jackson. I am not that kind of man, I wouldn’t take advantage of you like I’m sure the bastards in Foreman’s gang tried. It’s like I said it, my gang is just good men looking for freedom and money. You can leave right now if you want and I won’t stop you, or you can stay and eat some, and I promise I won’t even look at you funny.”

She stood frozen, knife gripped tight. She seemed to be weighing her options. Dutch had yet to pose a threat to her, his weapons remained holstered. He hadn’t even tried to come close to her. She steeled her nerves and spoke again. 

“Then...Give me one of your guns. If you really ain’t gonna try nothing then give me one of your pistols and if you try and do anything bad I’ll shoot you.”

In any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have even considered it. But this wasn’t some criminal who he was wringing for information. This was a terrified little girl who was too afraid of the man in front of her to even eat food when she was starving. He slowly reached for his left holster and pulled out the pistol. He made a big show of flipping it in his hand so that his finger stayed away from the trigger as not to scare her, and he placed it beside the parcel. Gently he pushed them both over with his foot and sat back on the log with his hands beside him. 

She stared at him, and quick as lightning she grabbed the items from the ground. She backed up to her spot and slowly sat on the ground. The pistol was too big for her hand, and her other hand was getting blood on the side of the wrapped meat. Slowly she unwrapped the piece of dried venison, not breaking eye contact with the man sitting before her. “Why are you being so kind to me, I ain’t never heard of a ‘Good’ outlaw, we’re all just killers and thieves.”

He took note of the word ‘we’ before killers and thieves. Perhaps there was a reason she was so steady holding that knife. “I suppose no truer words have been spoken Miss Tilly, but I was never the type to watch a young lady suffer…You know, I found my son Arthur when he was about your age. The boy was just starving in the streets, stealing what he could. Quite like you are now.”

She didn’t respond, just stared at him a moment longer before taking a large bite of the meat. He hadn’t seen someone eat so ravenously since he fed John for the first time.

It took a lot of talking to get her to let her guard down. She didn’t reveal much about herself, other than that her mother died and she wasn’t part of the foreman gang, she was just there. Though the tension in her shoulders slowly sapped away as she filled her stomach and let herself calm down. They spoke for a few hours and he tried his best not to treat her like a child, god knows they hate when you do that. He couldn’t help but notice that she just seemed so sad. Once all that fear subsided and she spoke more freely, it was clear that she was lost. She mentioned her mother’s death with deep sorrow, her eyes going glassy before she seemed to catch herself and move on. 

Eventually, her hand stopped bleeding, and he tried to catch a look at it as she gestured. The sun was nearly set and he would have to get back to camp before they went looking for him.

He told her as much and he watched that deep-set sadness seep back to her features. 

“Oh… well. It was nice to meet you Dutch.” She used his first name for the first time. He stood up and she did as well, wincing as she used her injured hand to push off the ground.

“You know... you could come back with me and let our doctor take a look at that hand. Well...she ain’t exactly a doctor, but she can fix it. We wouldn’t want that getting infected, it’s far easier to be an outlaw with both hands.”

She wanted to go with him, he could see it in her eyes. Good friends are hard to come by when you’re a child with no home. 

“And perhaps, you could stay awhile. Learn how to be a real outlaw instead of a dress thief.” She seemed offended at the comment, a funny little scowl crossing her features. She was thinking about the offer, and he hoped it sounded at least a little better than sleeping alone in the forest. 

“If I come to your camp….nobody's gonna try and touch me?”

 “Absolutely not my dear, if they try I’ll cut off their hand myself.” She seemed to giggle a little at the notion, a sound he would take pride in. She sobered up and asked; 

“And I can leave whenever I want? I ain’t gonna let anyone try and say they own me ever again.”

“If you come to camp, Tilly Jackson will remain a free woman, but you’ll have a home to come back to if that’s what you would like.”

He watched her hesitate a little longer. Some coyotes barked in the distance and she shivered.  “Maybe just for a little while. Just to try it.” 

“And you can leave whenever you want.” he reassured.

“And I can leave whenever I want.” She repeated it back like she was convincing herself. He turned his back to adjust the Count’s saddle and give him a sugar cube, and he heard small footsteps come closer to him.

“Um. Can I give him one? He’s real pretty.” Dutch turned and she was at his side, staring at the large animal. She was even smaller up close, and he could see that her bones stood up against her dark skin.

“You know, I think he would like that. Now here, take just one of these and put it in your hand flat. Don’t worry, he won’t bite you.” She went to take it from his hand before realizing her hands were full with the knife and Dutch’s gun. 

“Oh. Here you go, Mister Dutch.” She tried to hand him back the gun. Bravely he thought, to give up her best defense, but he didn’t take it.

“I’ll tell you what my lady, It’s gonna be a bit of a ride to get back to camp and I don’t want you feeling like you can’t hold your own. You hold on to that one just until we get back, alright? We can put your knife in the bag safe and sound.” She obliged, putting the hunting knife gently in the saddlebag and holding on to the pistol. Then Dutch gave her the sugar cube and she held it out to the horse gingerly. The Count had no such hesitation and stole the treat from her hand quickly, the softness of his nose near her fingers making her giggle.

“Now, I think we might just be ready to move! Can I help you up milady?” He said, with a ring clad hand extended like a butler. The gesture made her giggle more and Dutch was happy to see the sadness put aside for a little while. She took his hand in her much smaller one and let him lead her to the side of the saddle.

“Now, can I lift you or do you want to go stand on the log over there?” She could read the underlying notion. The hidden meaning of ‘Do you want me to touch you’, ‘is it okay if I lift you’, etc. He was being more considerate than anyone she had ever met. She took a deep breath and put a little trust in him.

“You can lift me if that’s okay.”

“It would be my honor milady.” He lifted her onto the horse’s rump and tried not to think about how light she was. How he could feel her bones through the layers of her shirt. Once she was settled, he climbed up himself. Before they got going he pulled out his canteen and an apple from the bag. 

“Here. Dinner will be done by the time we get to camp and there’s no reason you should go hungry back there, that just wouldn’t befit such a distinguished young lady.” She accepted the food, and he set the Count into a walk to get them out of the underbrush. Once they were on the path he pushed into a more brisk pace, but he wouldn’t risk trotting with her back there, the count’s trot could be rather rough and she’s so thin she would just be thrown off.

It would be a long ride back to camp at this pace, but it just gave him more time to get to know her and tell her about camp. 

[shewantedtobeasecretgirl]

10. Bathroom wall (Part Three) a.k.a. a queen bee, Prince in the shower and a backup Casanova

In the previous parts: The bunch spends a free evening in a bar, where local girls are trying to get closer to the band members. Dave suggests Jeff that he should make Judy jealous but she’s too busy with being outraged about a girl named Claudia dancing with Stone. Finally, Claudia backs down; after a fight with Stone, Judy reveals to Karrie, that her made-up stories about Stone had to do something with her reaction. In the meantime, Mike is feeling sick and refuses Karrie’s advice to take his health issues more seriously. She also shows him pictures of Effie but Mike’s evening ends with a surprising twist. Judy tries to calm down with the help a relaxing shower but she gets unexpected company in the common bathroom… 

@shadowsonoureyes I think I almost completed your drabble challenge 😉

“I got a lion in my pocket and baby he's ready to roar…”

God, I wish this was only a nightmare and I woke up suddenly realizing nothing of this madness has happened actually, maybe I could even laugh at the whole setting. But now, laughing is the last thing I feel like doing, I’ve been standing here since who knows when, I’m freezing, I wanna finish my shower, I wanna dry myself, I wanna get out of here… this with the lots of “wannas” sounds like some random lyrics of The Ramones… But as things stand at the moment, I’ll grow old and die here because this skinny hippo has been splashing beyond the wall for at least fifteen minutes, performing the longest and most inconsistent mix of Prince songs ever, deliberately altering the lyrics, changing the range of lines or even skipping some of them whereas repeating other ones infinitely like a broken record player.

“You got the horn so why don't you blow it…”

Actually, I’ve even started playing with the idea of turning the water on again, maybe this capybara enjoys listening to his own voice enough not even to hear it. But no, that’d be too risky. But I could definitely get rid of the shower gel bottle to be able to rub along my body against cold, I’ve been squeezing that little plastic flask at full strength since he entered here, as if it could help me become invisible. I slowly stoop to place it on the ground in the corner feeling like a compromised spy who’s ordered to put her weapon down without making any suspicious or ambiguous move; but due to the slippery surface under my soles I lose my balance and as I catch towards the wall to prevent myself from falling I drop it… and it lands with a loud crash in the metal shower tray. Fuuuuck… I freeze immediately and perk up my ears holding my breath trying to figure out if he heard it too… of course he heard it, it was as ear-splitting as a rocket launch but maybe he was too distracted and…

“Is somewhere there? Who’s that?”

He heard it…

“Who’s that? Scully? Is that you? Don’t be so shy, we’ve known each other for ages, I’ll even wash your back if you need help…”

Okay, Judy, you can’t hide any longer, you have to find out something, anything… what if I just ran out with a battle cry and grabbed my towel and… okay, maybe something more discreet would be more adequate.

“Scully? I’m coming over…”

“NO!!!” I scream.” It’s not Scully… it’s me… Judy…” I manage to reveal my identity only for the third attempt since my voice won’t obey and insists on sounding comically high-pitched. “And thanks but I’d skip the offer, I can reach my back.” Jesus, I don’t know why I’m babbling this, it’s like…

“Oh… I didn’t know it was you. Actually, I thought I was alone, you were so silent… I couldn’t even hear the water running at you…”

“Because… because… it wasn’t running since… it’s a part of my shower routine, I begin it with hot water then I turn it off and stand a few minutes until I start feeling I’m freezing, this method works wonders on the blood circulation…” I basically yell the end of my bullshit excuse since I turned the water on in the meantime to finally put an end to this awkward situation. Unfortunately, when I turn it off, I can hear he’s still humming, seriously, how much time does he need to dry his balls?

“Anyway… you were right.” he speaks up out of the blue.

I was right? Meaning what? You’re a pervert? You’re a bitch who would bang everything that moves?

“The acoustics in this room are truly excellent.”

You don’t say…

‘I’m flattered by the fact that once in a blue moon you are willing to agree with me. And, uhm, I’m ready with my shower and as you’ve probably already noticed, my towel is hanging on the wall on the other side so… so I’d feel honored if you left…”

“If I left?”

Yes, I mean get the fuck out you pig, you heard it well.

“Why would I leave? I want to enjoy these fascinating circumstances a little bit longer…“

I should have known this wouldn’t be easy, this must be like a dream come true for him: holding me hostage, taking advantage of my miserable situation…

“But seriously, just listen: I really get a dirty mind whenever you're around… Awesome!”

I roll my eyes so hard that I can see my own frontal lobe… Being forced to listen to Stone’s falsetto serenade while being butt naked, fuck, I didn't know what I was missing in my life until now.

“What do you want? Should I sing a fuckin’ duet with you for my freedom?”

“That’s not a bad idea, actually… what about Together Forever by Rick Astley?” I hear him snapping with his fingers and giggling at his brilliant idea.

“Well, the performance of Under Pressure would sound more honest from my mouth right now…”

“You’re just so negative, nothing can please you today seemingly. But as a sign of my generosity, I’m ready to give you that towel.”

How can a voice be so irritating? This nasal tone with the mannered Northwestern accent makes sound everything what he says extremely annoying, I could punch him even for citing the headlines of a newspaper.

“Ha-ha, very funny, Gossard. But let’s skip your cheap tricks and move your aaa…self out of here.”

“Cheap tricks? I don’t think there’d be anything interesting to see here, plus, you’re forgetting about a very important factor: I’m out here wearing a towel whereas you are in there wearing nothing so it is me who makes the rules. But, again, I’m a genuine guy so I give your towel to you, all you have to do is to ask me.” the pain in the ass goes on with his rant.

“Okay. GIVE ME THAT FUCKIN’ TOWEL!” I scream angrily stomping of helplessness.

“Why do you have to be so rude? You’re hurting my sensitive soul all the time; if you want me to cooperate, you have to be kind and ask me nicely.”

Once I get out of here, I’m going to fuckin’ kill you, I swear, I’m going to kill you ten times, I’m going to kill your reincarnated bodies too even if you will be reborn as a cute kitten or a baby giraffe…

“GIVE ME THAT FUCKIN’ TOWEL! Please?” I yell again and append a fake, cheesy appeal to my words.

“You see? It sounds immediately completely different.” he snickers satisfied.

“Okay, but we have to clear the logistics first. I think the least awkward way would be you standing facing the door, handing the towel backwards to me and I would reach out for it and…”

“Do you really think I wanna peep?” he asks with amused smugness in his voice.

I do? I don’t? Shit, there’s no right answer to this question, I mean, I’m not interested in him at all, I don’t care what he might think about my look, my body, I don’t even know whether he would think anything at all or he’d just act neutrally like I wasn’t a woman or human at all but fuck, I’m a human, I’m a woman, I could be the possible subject of a guy’s interest too and when I mean “a guy” I don’t think necessarily about him although he’s a guy too…

“I don’t give shit about what you want, what I want is to minimize the level of my retinal damage by not seeing your face, so please do me a favor, turn away from me and give me that goddamn towel.”

By the time I’ve finished the sentence, a pale body with something bright blue at waist-level appears on my horizon with funny side-sliding steps. He’s standing with his back to me, as far as I can judge it even without my glasses, my assumption is only based on the dark trail of his hair on his back. Or he’s an aberrant psychopath who covered his face with his hair to deceive me. He pulls my towel off the wall… okay, that means he’s truly facing the opposite wall unless his shoulders are especially flexible… damn, he reaches it backwards to me lifting his arm to the same height… I’m still not sure about his exact posture…

I slowly walk to the edge of the shower tray, hesitating for a few seconds which one of my body parts I should keep covered before reaching out for it. With a deep sigh, I opt for my breasts and try to grab my towel but there’s still almost a one-yard distance between our hands.

“Stone… you’re too far… could you come closer?” I moan in agony.

“Interesting… until now, you wanted me to go away and now you’re asking me the opposite. Or you’re just trying to trick me into touching you and then get me arrested for sexual assault… no, Camden, I don’t buy it. Anyway, walking backwards is dangerous, what if stumble and fall and break my neck? It’d be safer if you came out of your hiding place, you can’t spend the rest of your life there when I’m gone, I don’t care…”

I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this but I obviously have no choice… I approach him with sneaking steps while terrible thoughts are chasing each other in my mind… What if he can rotate his head 180 degrees like owls? What if he’s got extraordinary eyes like chameleons and due to his particularly developed peripheral vision he can see basically everything around him?

As I finally touch the terry cloth fabric, I immediately tear the towel out of his hand and wrap it around myself. His arm swings automatically back to his body as if it was pulled by a spring and while I pull back into my shelter to dry all my body parts, he keeps standing at attention on the same spot.

“Ahem… I’m ready so… you can go…” I make an attempt to get rid of him.

“You’re not a quick learner… and you’re pretty ungrateful… I haven’t heard the magic word yet.”

I can’t believe this. And I can be grateful to him for not humiliating me even more…

“Thanks…” I mumble.

“I didn’t understand it… it’s strange, the acoustics in that corner must be different, it absorbs sound waves…”

“Thank you, Stone Almighty Gossard, nothing could express my eternal gratitude, you’re my savior, I’d be nothing without you, from now on, I’m your slave!!!” I shout paying special attention to my articulation.

“Could you hear the echoes too? Much better.” he clicks with his tongue satisfied and disappears from my sight with the same hilarious moves he made earlier. “Good night, Judith, and if you happen to have erotic dreams this night, please keep them for yourself, I’d feel embarrassed if you told me about it…” he adds and as I open my mouth for some snarky retort, I hear the door slamming.

Finally. This… prick is just unbelievable, after his performance at the bar he thinks he did me a favor by not behaving a like a perv? And erotic dreams? Come on, I’d rather puked myself to death of his sight.

I have to use the awkward choreography I invented earlier to get back to my stuff I left on the chair, although I myself don’t really understand either, why, I’m alone after all... As I lean down for my glasses, my fingers reach out for… nothing. They’re gone! I grope the whole chair along… still nothing! I put down the shower gel bottle and try to crouch down to check the floor under the chair, which is not easy to do at all without exposing my intimate body parts. I keep adjusting the towel with my left hand while I try to scan trough every inch of this goddamn place with the other one and I’m about to drop the freakin’ towel when I hear a weird noise from behind my back. Snorts… silent snorts… like someone was suppressing laughter… oh shit. That moron, that son of a bitch… he’s Satan, I told it.

I straighten up as fast as I can, I can only hope he didn’t see my backside or my nipples or… why can’t I die here and now without more suffering?

As far as I can see him without my spectacles, he’s leaning against the sink and checking me out with folded arms.

“Taking away my glasses? That’s the most creative idea you could find out? Seriously, where are we, in third grade maybe?” I attack him but in the meantime I realize I should calm down, seeing me being upset is probably his favorite entertainment. “Okay, Gossard, go ahead. I don’t know why you crafted this vicious plan with trapping me here, taking away my glasses, stalking me… let’s get over with it, whatever you want…” I shrug resigned.

“Firstly, I didn’t know you were here, I just came in since I have the right to have a shower too. Secondly, I have nothing to say to you, it is you who should talk.”

“Me? Do you think I want to have a chit-chat with you here and now? Are you completely nuts? Just give back my glasses and get out of here!”

“Well, that has a price.” he answers irritatingly slowly, I can hear clearly he’s grinning.

“Is this a blackmail?” I scream outraged.

“Why do you have to use always such tough words? It’s a… mutually beneficial offer. You want your glasses whereas you also owe me an apology and I’m ready to accept it.” he explains with fake generosity.

“I’m not gonna beg you, you idiot.” I hiss between my teeth and grab towards his hands but I’m not fast enough to catch him off guard. He raises his arm high before I could get my property back and smiles down at me with a smug expression.

Does he want me to bounce like a puppy? Well, I won’t. Actually, the only possible weapon that comes to mind is as childish as his stupid little trick but the end justifies the means… But I have to be quick since my one hand is busy with keeping the towel around my body and I don’t want to grope him for too long time either. But he didn’t leave me any other choice, unfortunately.

“Fine, Stoney…” I pretend giving in. “You’re right. So listen to me carefully because you’re not going to hear this from me too often…”

“I’m all ears.” he spreads out his free arm.

Piece of cake.

“Sooo…” I approach him cautiously “Stoney, I just want to say… TICKLE ATTACK!!!” I yell and poke my fingers between his ribs.

The effect is beyond expression. He immediately doubles over letting out a wide range of animal sounds and it only takes a few seconds to tear out my spectacles of his hand maintaining the offensive with my other hand.

“Ha, victory!”I yell chuckling at his convulsion but as I hear a weird noise over his whining, I immediately stiffen. “What was that?”

“What’s… what?” he asks still groaning.

“Didn’t you hear that? I think someone slammed the door…” I stutter as I place my glasses on my nose. “And that means someone had opened it before… and maybe saw us…”

“Bullshit. And even if it happened as you think, all that could be seen was you committing sexual harassment on me so…” he smirks sassily leaning back against the sink.

What an obnoxious asshole. And he’s also wearing flip-flops, which I’ve always hated on men, seriously, I could slap him with them…

“Sexual harassment? I would rather jump on a male tapir than engaging into an erotic intermezzo with you!” I tuck my hair nervously behind my ear.

“You and a tapir? I wish I could see the offsprings…” he keeps grinning and flips his wet hair back… actually, it’s surprising, usually, he’s not a big hair washer. A tiny waterdrop is swinging on the end of one of the dark strands that are wavier than usual, this must be their natural state… then the drop slowly falls on his shoulder and follows the line of his collarbone, changing direction at his neck only to gain momentum and now it’s pulling a trail along his flat stomach and…

“Ahem…” he clears his throat “shall we go? Or do you want to examine my naked body for a while?”

“Let’s go” I start like I was waking up from a dream and I can feel my cheeks are burning for some mysterious reasons. “But you go first, I don’t want to make myself ridiculous in front of more people tonight.”

“Okay, okay…” he walks out with lazy reluctance. “All clear!” he shouts and I put my head out of the door to check he’s not trying to trick me again. How can he walk so leisurely, isn’t he bothered by the fact he’s almost naked? And why did he wrap that towel so tightly around his waist that it shows every curve of his…body parts…?

“Do you want to spend the night in there?” he suddenly turns back and I can only hope I managed to look away fast enough.

“No… no…I’m coming…” I mutter and follow him in duck walk, squeezing my toiletry bag.

He stops at his door and leans with one shoulder against the door jamb, of course he wouldn’t miss out my clumsy performance.

“Wow, gracious. You were born to the catwalk.” he giggles.

“Shut up or I scratch your eyes out!”

“Okay-okay but I hope we can agree that we’re even.” he waves an imaginary white flag.

“We are. And I say now good night before you happened to die under unclear circumstances.”

“Good night, Miss Hundred Pounds of Concentrated aggression.”

His audacious grin mellows into a boyish smile and I don’t know if I am only hallucinating or for a fragment of a second, he scans me from head to toe…

He pushes himself away from the wall and disappears in the dark room, leaving me frozen in the hallway. I stumble back to my room and I plop down on my bed. But what was that stare? He was probably just mocking me as usual, he’s surrounded by beautiful girls and he must find my dwarf body structure ridiculous. But he said we’re even… I stare at the toiletry bag on my lap, although I didn’t turn on the light, its pattern is clearly visible in the street lights filtering through the torn curtain. Musical notes, treble keys… wait. He claimed he didn’t know it was me in the shower. But who else in the bunch would have a bag with these motifs? He knew it was me. He knew it and he still came in. He wanted to humiliate me, it wasn’t just an embarrassing coincidence. Stone Gossard, we’re everything but even.

***

„These piggies are so cute.”

“Yes, they are totally adorable.” Layne agrees observing them with a tender smile. “Look at their mom, how patiently she’s bearing as they’re pestering her… geez, some of these little fuckers are pretty aggressive… look at that one!”

He points at a spotted piglet which is the greediest in the bunch; I don’t know much about domestic animals, I can only guess he’s a tiny boar. He’s tossing away all his siblings to get free access to his mther’s teats and even after he gets one of them, he keeps her poking with his power outlet-shaped nose. Well, moms are the most patient creatures on earth, I’m sure I’ve caused a lot of trouble to mine too…

“I wonder if we can stroke them, their hair seems to be so fluffy…”

“A bit later, now it’s mealtime. Their mother is very protective of them, she would bite your fingers off… I think she’s going to pass out in a few minutes, you can try to grab one of them while they’ll be playing around her.” the farmer-looking guy answers. He can’t be much older than us but he speaks in a slow, prudent manner, which makes him sound like a grandfather. He must be an employee of this place… whatever this place is…

“Effie would love them.” Layne remarks, still fascinated by the nursing process.

Effie? Layne knows Effie? Interesting.

“Is she here too?” I stutter confused.

“Of course, dude, you bought her here, remember?” Layne glances at me and raises one eyebrow.

“Really? And where is she know?” I scratch my chin still not understanding how she got in the picture.

“She stayed in the house. She was interested in the greenhouse and the gardener happened to be there, you couldn’t drag her away from the orchids. Seriously, Mike, are you stoned our what? You should take more care of your girlfriend if you want to take this thing between you seriously.”

Girlfriend? Effie is my girlfriend? Okay, that sounds strange too not that I want to complain…

“And… what’s that house you mentioned?”

“Shit… I’m not gonna help you out with weed ever again, this stuff has obviously terrible side effects on you, you’re like a drunk goldfish. Hey, Jer, tell to this asshole where we are!” he shouts at his approaching bandmate.

“Estamos a la hacienda Cantrell, hombre! This my ranch! And in a few hours, we’ll be eating the best food you’ve ever tried, Consuela is the most badass cook in the entire world! But we have the whole afternoon, I want to show you my new golf course, we could even play, I have tons of golf clubs, I can lend you one of them…”

Wait, something’s wrong here. I know they have their share of success because of this Seattle madness too, not that they don’t deserve it, they are a fuckin’ amazing band but I never knew Jerry had a ranch, I mean, it must have cost a buttload of money and however much I like him, I must admit he’s not that type who prefers savings to poker, dope and strippers.

“How… how long have you owned this… this huge farm?” I wave around clumsily trying not to sound too stupid.

“For like… ages…? Hahaha, man, I know my beautiful maids drive every man crazy, that was my point when casting them and choosing their uniform. But you can’t complain either, I checked the little blondie out, nice catch! That cola bottle-shaped body, damn…” the skirt-chaser underlines his words by drawing the mentioned contour in the air flashing a filthy grin. I don’t like this tone, I don’t like the idea of Jerry talking about Effie or looking at her, fuck, I don’t even like the idea of any member of Alice In Chains staying in the same state as her for more than three seconds.

“But first, we have to choose the dinner. Which one do you want?” the guitarist nods towards the pigpen and knowing his dirty humor, I’m not sure whether he refers to any food-related or he’s called hookers or what?

“How… how do you mean?”

“Mike, this is definitely not your day, just pick one!” Layne giggles glancing amused at his bandmate.

“But… what?” I still don’t get where this whole thing is going.

“Geez man, okay, I”ll do it for you. Come on, little dudes, it won’t hurt, I promise you!” Jerry leans over the fence and grabs two piglets by the skin around their neck.

“No, no, are you trying to say we’re gonna eat them? No, never, this is the cruelest thing I’ve ever heard, you can’t…” I protest shocked but the asshole doesn’t give a shit about me and carries the two victims under his arms to the pickup standing close to us. He ignores the desperate squeals of the poor little things: he throws them in the truck bed and climbs after them.

“Jerry, where are you going? You can’t… stop, don’t do that, man!” I yell almost crying but he just keeps laughing with that typical, pedophile Santa Claus laughter of him.

“What do you think, for what purpose do I breed them? They are cute and all but just think about a crispy, red, roasted pig spinning on a skewer over the fire… yummy… Consuela has a secret recipe, it’s delicious. I takes hours to prepare it, though, but I think I can keep myself busy until then, you know, that blondie is waiting only for me…” he winks and I catch to my stomach. Effie… Jerry… no, that can’t happen, I think I’m going to vomit, Jesus, this is terrible…

He pats the side of the truck bed twice, signaling to the driver that he can start the engine.

“Yes dude, until the pork gets ready, I’m gonna bang Effie… bang Effie… bang Effie… bang Effie…”

His words get mixed with the squealing of the piglets and the roar of the engine and the terrible sounds keep echoing in my head distorted by the Doppler-effect until the car disappears on the horizon.

“Bang Effie… bang Effie… bang Effie…”

…

I wake up with a start. My heart is beating so fast that it almost rips my chest, the blanket is soaking wet of my sweat, even my hair is stuck to my head and neck. This was the worst nightmare I’ve had in the past years… wait… if it was a dream, why can I still hear the snorts?

I slowly turn my head in the direction of the sound and suddenly, everything falls into place. The girl with whom I spent last night is snoring next to me… Her red lipstick and black eyeshadow is smeared all over her face making her look like a slutty panda bear and the little stream of drool in the corner of her mouth makes it even worse. Thus passes worldly glory… not that I have any right to criticize her look, I must look like crap too and honestly, I also feel like that. My head is about to explode, my intestines are burning… but I can only blame myself and that bottle of pure vodka we consumed last night together. At least the sex was satisfactory... yes, satisfactory is the best term, not more, not less. The beginning was creepy, though, with those weird outbursts of her about her nonsense prohibitions… I mean, who the hell wants to do stuff like that? Poor girl, she must have had hard sexual experiences. But that cowboy roleplay could have been even good with the hat and slight bondage elements and all… but her exaggerated behavior kept it in conditional. After all, we both got what we wanted and I don’t have to feel guilty. I didn’t force her, she offered, I just played along… it was basically her who fucked me. I don’t know if it had anything to do with me being the guitarist of Pearl Jam but even if it has, come on, is that really such a terrible crime if the “also ran” member of the band takes advantage of his situation once in a blue moon? The girls are never cueing in front of my hotel door, I deserve to have blast when a rare occasion occurs for some mysterious reason. And I don’t owe anyone any explanation, the guys and Eric are not my chaperones, I’m a single guy with needs and I can’t live in a fantasy world for good, pathetically sobbing after someone I haven’t even met yet, right?

Hydration. That’s the first thing I need right now. The only problem is that she’s sleeping with her limbs spread in four different direction and her left arm happens to rest on my chest. Shit, I wish I had left after we finished it as I always do after one-night stands, it spares both the girl and me awkward morning scenes, these things are not about romance, anyway. But this time the sex was intense and the booze was kick-ass so we both must have passed out after getting on top.

I try to slide out of the bed basically in horizontal position placing the pillow on the same spot where my upper body used to be hoping she’s sleeping deeply enough not to notice the change. I freeze when she lets out a few louder snorts after my maneuver but after a few satisfied smacks, she calms down and keeps snoring. I tiptoe around the bed to collect my clothes and I found all of them except my boxers… fuck, she must be lying on them. After a few seconds of hesitation I get dressed without them, they’re clean since I didn’t have any “accident” yesterday so trying to get them back is not worth risking.

I silently walk out in the kitchen and immediately spot a few bottles of mineral water on the counter… but taking one of them would be stealing, right? But if I turned the water on, she might wake up… I open all of the cupboards until I find a larger glass and turn the water tap cautiously until a thin spout starts running from the pipe. It takes a while until I fill the glass with this method but I gulp the content of it with one breathe in a blink of an eye.

My rumbling stomach directs me to the fridge, even if I don’t want to take anything, I can check its content, right? The cool breeze feels unbelievably good as I lean into it… let me see… further bottles of water, some milk, a piece of moldy cheese which probably isn’t supposed to be moldy, expired yogurt and a bunch of bananas. Shit, banana is my favorite fruit, the best resource of potassium and I’m dying to eat one. But I decided not to steal anything… but come on, it’s only a banana.

As I’m about to leave the crime scene, I notice a notepad and a pencil on the table. Maybe… maybe leaving a note would be a polite way of giving an explanation for what I did, right? Yeah, that’s it! Okay… “Dear…” Fuck, what was her name? Clarissa… Claudette… CLAUDIA! “Dear Claudia,” Shit, this is going to be harder than I thought… should I thank her for the sex? “thanks for the evening. I didn’t want to wake you up so…” so I ran away like a coward “I decided to say bye in this note. I was really hungry so I served myself with a banana.” and last night I served you my banana, Jesus, I’m a gross pig. “Sorry for doing it without asking, as an apology, I drew you another one.” I try to sketch the schematic picture of a banana but it looks like a nonfigurative or even phallic symbol from any possible angle. Shit, I can’t leave it like this. Luckily, the pencil has a quality eraser on the top so I can make the terrible scribble disappear and correct the message. “I drew you the only thing I can draw:” I close my eyes to recall the logo I’ve copied everywhere more times than anything else… “KISS” at least I can still do it… I go over the message again, I think it’ll do the trick. “I wish you the best, Mike”. I stop in the kitchen door on my way out. Even a KISS logo can’t undo a theft. I should offer her some compensation… I walk back and grab the pencil again. “Ps. Next time we come to Charlotte, I’ll invite you for a coffee.” But what if we bump into each other anywhere else? “Of course I also invite you in case we encounter anywhere else.” Okay, ‘Cready, you don’t have to write an epistle, you don’t have to surpass Tatiana, just leave finally before she wakes up. But what if… what if she doesn’t like coffee? Now that I glance around, I can see no coffee machine here… “Ps2. In case you don’t like coffee, my offer applies to tea or soda too, of course.”

Okay, enough, she won’t even notice, who the hell takes inventory about bananas? I shake my head, take a deep breath and sneak out of the apartment.

***

Coffee. The first thing that comes to mind in the morning. I know I drink way too much coffee but caffeine addiction is sort of an inevitable outcome if you’re a rock musician at nights and an espresso guy at daytime. Of course the receptionist or janitor or whoever confirmed my initial aiming: this shitty motel doesn’t sell any food or drinks apart from the broken vending machine in the corner of the lobby. He also said I can take all of its content if I manage to fix it. No, thanks, the late seventies-looking chips bags with their probably fossilized content aren’t particularly tempting.

I’m heading to the bistro on the other side of the street, it’s probably not much better than that place but a coffee without hair in it and a decent breakfast would already satisfy my needs. On entering I must admit, the smells are better than expected and as soon as I take place in a booth, a polite waitress appears at the table handing me a menu and producing a cup out of the blue. She immediately fills it with the hot beverage I was longing for. A cigarette would feel good with it too but there’s no one around I could grub from…

I’ve taken only a few sips of my precious drink when I see a familiar hat appearing at the entrance and in a few seconds, its owner plops down opposite me, munching a banana.

“The prodigal son has returned, huh?” I remark with a wide grin.

“I know you missed me, just admit it.” he answers with a deadpan. “God, I’m starving…” he grabs the menu and begins to study it.

“A coffee, sir?” the waitress emerges again and spills coffee in his cup too without waiting for the answer. “What can I get for you?” she inquires helpfully as she pulls a small notebook with a pen out of the pocket of her apron.

“One Aspirin and a bullet in my head, please.” Mike groans with a dark face.

“Excuse me sir?”

“Give us a few more minutes, please.” I try to send a “don’t ask” signal with my eyes and it seems to work because she leaves with a confused nod.

“The last time I saw you, you felt sick. But somehow you must have resurrected like a phoenix from its ashes since you were out all night… so… go ahead.” I lean back but my bandmate is avoiding my gaze, turning his head around like he was distracted by the interesting furniture of the diner.

“Look, it’s Judy over there!” he shouts pointing at the counter.

“Mike… no… please…” I groan in pain but it’s too late.

“Hey Jude!” he shouts and waves frantically.

Great… I bury my face into my palms.

Unfortunately, Mike comes to the brilliant idea of stretching his leg along the seat he’s sitting on while she’s approaching us; so by the time she gets to our booth, her only option is sitting down next to me. Which she isn’t willing to do, she’s just sending reproving looks at me until I realize the reason of her reluctance is my right arm on the backrest. When I remove it, she slides in the booth as far from me as possible, she’s probably sitting with half butt on the air.

“Hi Judy.” Mike greets her pulling his small metal flask out of the inner pocket of his jacket.

“It’s six o’clock in the morning, you’re not having vodka.” she tries to tear it out of his hand without even greeting us.

“Easy Jude, it’s empty, okay? It’s just a bad habit that I keep checking it.”

“Anyway, I doubt he would begin the day with spirits, seeing he was drinking the whole night…”

“What?” she screams outraged.

“Jesus, are you blind? He’s, like, the quintessence of hangover, circles under the eyes, grey face, he looks like a dirty dish cloth…”

“Jesus, guys, do you really have to talk so loud??? Anyway, thanks Stone, you know how to compliment…” Mike moans rubbing his forehead with his hand.

“I’m just telling the truth. Come on, tell us how did you get so fucked up… or… no… I don’t want to know the details.”

“You probably think I got wasted with a few local dudes I don’t even know and I fell asleep in the corner and when I woke up, I realized someone had drawn a dick on my cheek.”

“You left out the pissing-and-puking part but yeah, sort of. Ouch!” I whine when she tosses me with a strict face at full strength in the shoulder. “What’s wrong with you, do you think he’s a saint or what?” I complain.

“Don’t even listen to him, unlike him, I’m interested in the details. So tell me… were there pubic hair on the dick too?” she leans closer confidentially, flashing a cheeky smile and however much annoying I find her, I can’t help snorting.

“Jesus, six of one, half a dozen of the other.” Mike rolls his eyes. “Anywayyy… I wasn’t with some unknown dudes… but I wasn’t alone either…” he shrugs with a mysterious smile.

“Okay, you’re getting a vasectomy. That’s final. I don’t want you to get sued by teen moms from every single town we stop in.” I shake my head.

“Not that I’m the Casanova of the band, are we going to talk about the favors you’ve done to Seattle’s female population too? Do you begrudge me it or what?”

“I’ve had a long string of girlfriends, so what?”

“What?” our band parrot squeaks in again.

“A long string? There’s a herd of them!” Mike goes on.

“Just stop!” she screams and we both fall silent, surprised by her sudden outburst. “I’m new here. Explain.” she adds in a mellower voice.

“Judith, maybe you should improve your “reading between the lines” skills. My colleague is trying to say that he spent the night with a female acquaintance, I guess we can call her like that with some euphemism. And I recommended some fertility restrictions regarding Mike’s wasted adventures are like the cliché bad examples in sexual education videos.”

“As if you…” my bandmate is about to reply but he gets interrupted by the returning lovely waitress, and honestly, I don’t mind, somehow I don’t want him to reveal my dating history before the girl who never misses any occasion to point out my flaws.

“Did you manage to choose in the meantime?” she inquires.

“I’d like to have… scrambled eggs with ham and a sesame seed bun, fresh orange juice, pancakes with maple syrup, a peanut butter sandwich and chocolate chips with vanilla ice.” Mike reads enthusiastically.

“A sunny-side up with bacon and a cherry pie á la RR.” my neighbor lists.

“A vegetarian cheese plate and I’d like to try that deliciously sounding pie too.” I smile at the waitress.

“It’s even better than you think, Sir.” she winks back at me and as I watch her collecting the menus, I can see Camden’s disgusted face from the corner of my eye.

“Sooo… a Twin Peaks fan, huh?” I nudge her. “From now on, I’m gonna call you Nadine, it suits you in every sense.”

“Nice try, Bob… Anyway, Mike, if this is your hangover appetite, what is your normal state like? I got nausea even of listening to you…”

“I burned a lot of calories last night so…” he grins proudly, making me cackle up.

“Here we are, I want details!” I imitate a drum snare with my palms on the table.

“Jesus, guys, are you really going to disc…” Miss Prudery clucks in but luckily, my bandmate ignores her whining.

“It was… wild.” he smirks firmly.

“Wilder than that escort girl in L.A.?” I giggle since this is one of my favorite stories with which I tease Mike from time to time and it’s also a great topic to outrage this first communicant next to me.

“What? Mike? You’ve paid for sex???” Bingo.

“How many times I have to tell that…” Mike pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers with a nervous gasp. “Judy, it wasn’t the way you think… when I was living in L.A. with the Friel brothers, I met a nice waitress at a concert venue… we sort of hooked up, she’d visit me at the record store I’d work at… she was busted all the time so I’d lend her my spare money, I mean what I didn’t spend on booking gigs for us… and Chris Friel tried to warn me gently that every time I’d give her money, we’d sex afterwards… and once we ended up in a strip club after a gig and I found out she was a stripper, she worked there, I mean, she was dropping her clothes right in front of me… and she wasn’t only stripping. So I realized that what I thought to be a friends with benefits situation was actually a prostitute-client relationship, she was just too good-hearted to enlighten me. Stone, are you happy now???”

“Awww, Mike, this is so sad… but it’s also somehow so sweet… I hope you got a discount at least. But what’s with that girl from last night? What’s her name?”

“Someone has suddenly become curious, interesting…” I throw in.

“Errrr… her name was…”

“Jesus, Camden, you know nothing about one-night-stands, don’t you?” I ask to buy Mike some time but to be honest, I don’t know what to think seeing the industrial amount of condoms I found in her toiletry bag last night. Either is she a wild cat and a really god actress at the same time or this tour is like a project for her to get rid of her virginity. Ten times at least. And Jeff Ament has the honor to assist. Jesus.

“Why, I only asked…”

“He doesn’t know shit about her, let alone her name.”

“You banged…” she yells but realizing everyone looks at us, she suddenly takes the volume back “You had sex with her and you didn’t even ask her name?” she whispers between her teeth.

“Why? Names are overrated. Anyway, she introduced herself, I just… can’t remember her name anymore. And she didn’t even care about my name either.”

“Judith, I understand this is new to you, you probably insist on swapping business cards before petting and ask the guy even to show his ID before the penetration but in most cases, these things are going in a simpler way…” I use the occasion to torture her a bit and she starts reddening so much that I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

“Hey Stoney, don’t mock her! Jude, there’s nothing wrong with being cautious. I mean, the social security number can even be useful in case your partner suffers a sex injury.” he tries to help her out clumsily and glances at me for reassurance.

“Yeah, let alone the blood type in case he needs a transfusion after the experience.” I scoff.

“Could we go back to Mike’s experience?” she squints towards me with popped eyes making a nervous gesture. “I hope you had protection…”

“Jesus, of course, she was prepared…”

“She??? Mike, how can you be so irresponsible, it’s always the guy’s task, I would never ever… go out with a guy who expects me to provide him with condoms, Jesus…”

Ha. The little liar…

“Are we seriously analyzing these details? I mean, how was the chick?” I exclaim, earning one more toss arriving from my right side.

“She was… nice. I mean, she had that crazy vibe… It was weird, everything was okay until we left to her place, we drank, we played pool, she started flirting, I reciprocated it and so on… At one point, she threw herself on me, by the time I realized what’s happening, she was basically already licking my tonsils… not that I minded. So she dragged me to her place.”

“That doesn’t sound that bad…” I grin.

“Something tells me there was a “but” in the story…” the queen of condoms reacts ignoring my remark.

“Well yeah… she disappeared in the kitchen to bring more booze, so I turned on the TV, I thought some decent erotic channel wouldn’t hurt in the process but I stopped at a documentary, it was filmed in Kenya, I think, with beautiful shots and interesting narrations… she came back at the part on mating lions, she asked me if liked it, I found her question odd but I answered “of course” and she got completely hysterical.”

“How… how do you mean?” she asks fidgeting anxiously with her coffee mug.

“She… she freaked out saying she couldn’t believe I’m into that too. It so strange, out of context, I guess it was probably some dark secret with his ex, so I didn’t ask.”

What a coincidence!

“Interesting, the same…” I reply but a nervous little hand beats me in the thigh under the table. What the hell is she doing?

“Go… go on Mike, and what happened after that?” she inquires with a forced smile.

“I managed to calm her down, switched to Playboy channel, and you know… we begin to get  into the thing on the couch… but my stomach started rumbling, I was starving since I hadn’t eaten the whole day. So I asked her if I could grab some food before we… you know… and she almost begin to cry, explaining she never mixes food into sex, it was so incoherent, I couldn’t even understand what’s happening…” he recalls causing me a lightbulb moment.

“Jesus Mike, I know why she acted like that…” I exclaim chuckling since it I know this is more than a simple coincidence, his story has too much in common with my conversation with Claudia. Actually, now that it’s not about me, it actually sounds funny. Hilariously funny, I can’t stop shaking of repressed laughter… But those restless fingers pinch me in the thigh this time and when I turn right to challenge her, all I can see are two, huge, warm, brown eyes, begging me concerned… and suddenly I realize what they are trying to say.

“And why?” Mike asks back. Okay, I have to find out something, and I have to do it fast, think…

“Because… because… she chickened out!”

“Yes, that must have been the reason.” she agrees as quickly as possible. Okay, crisis averted.

“She didn’t.” Mike smirks. “She finally allowed me to grab some snacks and then… mature content.” he illustrates with fitting hand moves the events. “Okay, she turned out to be into rodeo roleplay, which was new to me but… after all, it was fun.” he shrugs not too convincingly.

“Was she wearing boots with spurs?”

“Damn, Camden, you always grasp the most important details…”

“She wasn’t… but she had a hat made bondage stuff to me but it was fine.”

Our meals arrive in the meantime but somehow the consumption of my vegan cheese plate seems to be incompatible with the picture of the naked Mike tied to a bed and ridden by Claudia only wearing a cowboy hat.

“A lot of people are into it but of course, there are different levels.” our troublemaker plays the expert with her mouth full.

“It was the enjoyable level bondage. Anyway, she had one more outburst, when we were finished.” he tells stuffing a considerable pile of scrambled egg into his mouth. “After the action, she went out to the bathroom but she threatened to slit my throat if I’d follow her. Like, why would I do that?”

I snort but I manage to fake a cough fast enough not to be noticed by Mike and abused by the travel-size Terminator.

“I don’t know, shower sex?” she shrugs casually munching too. Like she knows.

“Yeah, but that’s a good thing, isn’t it? Whatever. Anyway, guys, how was your night?”

“Terrible.”

“Awful.” we answer at once.

“Why, was it because of the motel or…?”

“I had nightmares… I mean, during that one single hour I slept. I didn’t really dare fall asleep because of the cockroaches… and I kept dreaming about them.” she begins to play with the food pushing it around on the plate.

“Stone, you had nightmares too?”

“Oh, no… although I had every reason to do so. I don’t know, the bed was uncomfortable.”

There’s an awkward silence. Mike devotes all his attention to his food and honestly, probably neither of us minds that he stops asking about last night. Anyway, as for the Claudia thing, she was right. He was proud of his conquest, facing him with the fact he was only a backup target would have totally ruined his confidence. I have to warn Scully too, he’s such a gossip. And Ed would certainly disapprove it but come on, Mike just wants to enjoy being the member of a rock band. He doesn’t fuck girls in every bush we pass by, I don’t think he should be executed for it. Jeff isn’t better either, drooling over you colleague, how immature and irresponsible…

“Hi Jeff!”

Speak of the devil. Anyway, why is she so suddenly so enthusiastic of seeing him?

“Hi guys. Wow, that looks good.” our bassist leans over to check my plate while Mike pulls his leg back to leave him space. Of course he couldn’t do that a few minutes earlier, so typical.

“If you ask me, it tastes better without Mike’s bizarre sex adventures but it’s a matter of taste.”

“Bizarre sex adventures? Something tells me I have to catch up.” he laughs. “How are you, Judy? You disappeared tomorrow so early.”

“Thanks, I’m fine, I was just…tired. Look, Jeff, I was thinking… if you wanna hang out today before the show? I mean, you said you’d show me a few chords and…”

I can’t believe my ears. What made her change her mind? If Dave’s jealousy trick worked out, I have to re-evaluate my knowledge about dating.

“Sure.” Jeff’s face lights up. “Anytime.”

“Aaaanytime, Juuudy…” I mock. ”Just don’t forget to put some money in his G-string.” I add mumbling.

“Jesus, Stone, you’re gross!” Mike drops his fork annoyed.

“I’m the gross? Remember, Mike…” I’m ready to remind him of his various drunk performances but as the debate is about to get heated, Eric shows up in the diner followed by Ed and Beth.

“Guys, we have a problem…”

[zippiestdraws]

Choking Curiosity CH 5

read on ao3

ftm reader x michael myers

The dense weave of the hoodie slows the blade, but only makes the kill more intimate as Michael adds more pressure. He watches it slowly cut through the fibers and dig into the flesh underneath until it gives, sinking sharply into the sternum of one of the vandals. The night is late and in broad view on a suburban sidewalk, help is so close but snatched from his victim’s reach with his large hand pinching her cries in her throat. Her shrouded companion lies crumpled and bleeding in the grass of someone’s front yard. His hands were warm with the blood thickly lubricating his blade, the tang of it growing in the air.

In the climax of the kill, his adrenaline drew on the memory of his knife tantalizing your body. Standing beholden of his work and wiping the blade on the arm of his coveralls, the action had given way to his decision. His patience broke and he’s done with watching now.

There wasn’t a plan, but Michael is satisfied with running on instinct.

*** You didn’t tell Quentin what you saw. It went against your better judgement, but it would make you sound crazy. “There’s someone in your house now. Dressed in a sheet.”

You couldn’t sleep with it on your mind, but neither could Quentin so the two of you traded sleepover talk until you passed out. At one point you were tired enough to share how you ended up here after being cut off from everything you once knew. You must have fallen asleep during his story, you only recall him telling you that he came out here to escape something.

Using his phonebook and house phone, you were able to schedule a locksmith to change your locks urgently. Before that appointment, however, you needed to meet Laurie at the coffee shop she chose as the ‘crowded public place’.

Quentin offers to drive you, but you insist that he’s done enough for you and that it isn’t too far if you head out early. You almost regret it, running on so little sleep, until you remember Quentin would be driving on even less.

Looking around awkwardly, trying not to obstruct the counter in front of the entrance, you see Laurie stand from one of the central tables and wave you over to one farther in the back by the restrooms.

She gets down to business quickly, asking for all the details quickly after greeting you. You mention the little things before adding up to what happened last night. The relief you feel when you see that she believes you is emboldening, so you tell her about the tape you set up and even the sheet ghost.

“He isn’t dead.”

“Wh-who?”, You fiddle nervously.

Her steely gaze steals your breath as she talks in a voice laced with anger.

“Michael Myers.” Laurie drops a pile of papers onto the table and starts to slide each of them individually in front of you. “Two years ago on Halloween, he murdered my friends and tried to kill me.” A tear runs down her cheek and she wipes it away with vitriol before composing herself and gesturing to the papers.

Newspaper clippings.

A headline over a black and white print of a mask. The papers are littered with annotations in red marker. You look closer and read the important pieces. Sightings, disappearances, homicides…

“All in the last two years. There’s no killing the boogeyman. And there’s no stopping him if he wants you dead.” Her eyes hold a determination that makes you squirm.

She’s succeeded in making you scared at least.

“Well what do I do?”, your voice escalates a little in panic.

She looks at you with pity.

“Get a gun.” she says solemnly.

You promise to keep in touch and leave feeling the weight of a target on your back.

*** Michael treated the occasion as any other day, except perhaps indulging in a more noticeable amount of food than normal, until he heard your keys in the door.

You came back from work much later tonight. Perfect.

Your footsteps trailed lazily up the stairs and Michael positioned himself where the door would swing into the wall. The knob turned and he waited.

It snapped back into place, ruining his anticipation. He listened carefully for your next move. Quiet steps to the bathroom. Pause. You were running.

He yanked open your bedroom door but you were already outside.

He was careful enough. How did you know?

Maybe you were smarter than he gave you credit for. Minimally impressed, Michael went downstairs to observe through the living room window. You were in the neighbor’s yard, but you had to return eventually. You had nowhere else to run.

He distantly remembers two halloweens ago, the opposite, the neighbors had shut the porch lights on Laurie.

You looked back to where he stood and Michael didn’t bother to hide.

Time passes sluggishly as he watches for your exit. Before it comes, the sound of sirens growing closer aches in his ears. He should have expected you to call the police, but a storm cloud rumbles inside him anyway. Michael stays in place until you pass out of his view crossing the yard, then leaves knowing there is nothing to find.

The pasty cop trespasses the threshold with his flashlight and gun in front of him. Michael can see you in full view under the streetlights, watching your insecurity like a voyeur.

You shuffle uncomfortably in your work clothes, listening carefully from the curb until the sweep of the house is done. Standing just off the porch, the officer writes on his notepad with an uninterested posture. The specifics of the conversation don’t reach until your voice raises at the tone of accusations toward you.

This new vibrancy of expression draws Michael forward before a second car pulls to the curb. He can see your anger fester as you sling an indignant remark at the back of the retreating pig, earning a quick exhale of amusement.

You pushed the cops away, but you also brought them here. The multitudes you contain confuse him. He wasn’t interested in killing you just yet, but you won’t get away with this that easily.

If you hadn’t had Michael’s attention before, you definitely had it now. You leave in the other car, to his surprise, but he can keep playing cat and mouse.

*** He was satisfied to toy with you last night. Michael smiles minisculely at the thoughts as he woke. Sleeping in a car gave him a crick in the neck, but he massages it away and climbs into the front seat.

He’s stolen a car before and it’s not hard.

Timing must be on his side, because you exit the house before his eyes, the sunlight streaming onto you and the autumn leaves like a picture. Michael peels off his mask, his hand landing on the stick shift ready to follow suit. His eyes leave you long enough to meet a pair of aviators sitting on the dash and he dons them before bringing the car to life.

*** The car engine dies as you enter the shop, the windows casting a glare, but not enough to shield the clueless people within. A wave of blonde catches his attention and he sees a familiar face wave you over. He feels nothing.

Then you will be prepared. So will he. *** When you get home, the branded car of the locksmith is already waiting out front. You apologize for keeping him waiting and you unlock the front door, silently feeling safer to not enter on your own.

The handyman gets to work quickly and you make yourself busy by scrounging together his payment. You’re more than happy to loiter nearby as the locks are changed.

You’re happy you can cross this repair off your list, but the feeling of being exposed when you’re alone again doesn’t leave. You ignore it to change out of your not quite “walk of shame” clothes.

Peeling off your shirt as you walk up the stairs, you’re temporarily blind and stumble on the last step. You toss it onto the floor of your room ahead of you and make for the rest of your clothes until a force from nowhere throws you back onto one of the walls, knocking the breath out of you.

You grunt at the shock and Michael pounces.

Your eyes shoot open wildly and you manage a small gasp before a large hand cuts you off around your throat. The intruder towers over you and gets close, casting a shadow upon his prey before you feel yourself rise and your toes no longer reach the floor.

The white mask from the photographs stares into you, eyes indiscernible in the darkness underneath. You kick out at him, desperate to break his grip. Your arms aren’t long enough to reach his face and beating at his arms and hand prove futile.

Michael watches as your face shifts from surprise to anger and then to fear as you realize how very mortal you are. Your warm pulse races ever faster underneath his fingers.

He could very easily kill you, and the urge itches pleasantly in his hands. But then the fun would end. He tries to squash the small desire that’s been slowly infecting him like a virus. You should be nothing to him, he wants you to be nothing, it’s normal for him to feel nothing.

His hands flex and you hiss underneath him. Your fighting hands slip off him and you dangle helplessly on the edge of consciousness. Your eyes don’t focus on him, but some point elsewhere, in a resolute way.

Your body hits the ground as Michael’s head screams at his hands for releasing you. He steps back from you, watching stiffly as you sputter back to life on the floor.

You don’t even register what’s happening, heaving and rubbing your throat when he leaves. When your clarity returns, you scramble on your knees to slam the bedroom door behind him and lock it.

He could be a snitch. Michael gives in to the feeling you won’t be calling the police after yesterday. Frustration consumes him and he grits his teeth at you wresting his control from him.

Tears are running down your face and you don’t feel them until you wipe them away. You’re alive. Why didn’t he kill you? Laurie said there was no stopping him if he wanted someone dead. Michael Myers killed without remorse.

Your head swims when you lift yourself off the floor. Right now you need to find a way out. You really wish you didn’t leave your bat by the back door. You have no phone, no weapons, and you’re on the second floor. Even if he didn’t catch you after jumping out a window you definitely can’t afford a trip to the hospital right now. The only way out is through.

Looking around your room, you find nothing that would make for good defense, but you’ll have to make do. You pull your shirt back on and unplug your cheap reading lamp from the wall to hold it by the base.

Every noise the door makes while unlocking and opening makes you flinch. Your bare feet pad across the floor silently to the stairs, stepping carefully to avoid the creaky parts of the boarding.

Every step is full of adrenaline as you hold your life and a lamp in your hands. You peer over the railing as far as you can into each room along the central hallway as you descend. You’re three steps from the bottom and crane your neck to peek around the corner of the archway next to the stairs.

You see blue coveralls and black boots and twist to run silently back up the stairs.

Michael takes two large steps to the stairs and grabs your leg with his left hand as you run, watching you fall hard on your ribs and the lamp goes clattering down around you.

You feel your ankle released and scramble up the stairs on all fours, turning around at the top to see your tormentor standing at the bottom looking up at you as if it were a game.

The two of you are at a standoff, you breathing heavily over the softer sounds of his breaths behind the mask.

You hear your own voice croak in an unfamiliar way. Your throat throbs painfully.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”, you don’t know why you ask.

His head tilts at you curiously, stealing your breath.

Michael doesn’t know the answer either, he does know this is the first time you’ve spoken to him and the words resonate in his skull.

“Have...have you been living here?”, you rasp quieter this time.

His arm flexes, and you see the shine of a knife changing position in his right hand. Your pulse races and you look back into the eye-holes of the mask. This time you can see further.

The sun is setting and painting an ethereal and gold waning light from behind his fit form. One eye deep blue and another pale against the sclera lock with yours.

You lose yourself looking harder, until you blink and he’s moved away, walking heavily down the hall into the house. You stay put, listening.

The back door squeaks open and shut, and you’re alone with your adrenaline.

[secretsofthedarkestkind-arch]

Part three of the episode 1 ramble. Triggers are marked from what I know. We’re about half way through the episode. 

Part One

Part Two

word count: 1,820

@storieswrittcn​

A/N: I know in the history class scene Stefan saves Elena from Will ‘Jackass’ Tanner but for the purpose of where this verse is going and how Lee’s character is it needed to be Lee. 

Lee was laid back against the headboard of her bed, school books spread out in front of her with a pen between her teeth. She had changed out of her clothes once they’d gotten home from the Grill. She was lounging in a pair black sweatpants, a black tank top putting her tiger half sleeve tattoo on display, and socks. Her hair up in as much of a bun as she could get it. The vampire flipped through a few pages of a textbook that was in her lap. She had not missed high school. Not even a little bit. Lee glanced at her cell phone that laid silent beside her; she wasn’t sure if Katherine’s radio silence was a good or bad omen. 

“You promised.” Lee looked up as her hearing picked up Zach’s not so happy voice. She took the book off her lap, tossed the pen, down and made her way toward Stefan’s room. Curiosity gets the better of her. The brunette leaned in his doorway, eyes landing on the newspaper in their distant nephew’s hand. He didn’t know she was there but Stefan did. 

Stefan took the paper from his hands, reading over it quickly. “This was an animal attack,” Stefan shakes his head looking back at Zach. 

“Don’t give me that. I know the game.” Zach stands his ground, defensive. “You tear them up enough, they always suspect an animal attack.” He’s not wrong. “You said she had it under control.” Stefan’s eyes meet her’s briefly over the man’s shoulder. Lee pushed off the door-frame and entered the room more, tongue brushing over her bottom teeth. Stupid, stupid human. “You said, you drink animal blood.”

“He does.” Lee comments, leaning in toward Zach, the words ghosting over his ear. He only jumps slightly but his heart pounds roughly against his ribs. Good. She doesn’t stop, coming to stand beside Stefan.

“And she does,” Stefan defends her. She had more control than one would ever suspect, it something done out of necessity. Lee couldn’t make a damn mess on the run or leave a trail. Neither bring up the fact it could be Damon. That’d just cause more panic from the man.

“If it’d been me, there wouldn’t have been a body to find. I can promise you that.” She dares their nephew to argue with her. Zach swallows roughly, looking away from her to Stefan--the safer of the two in his mind. Stefan turns away from him, doing what he had been doing before Zach charged into his room.

“Please, Uncle Stefan. Mystic Falls is a different place now.” He nearly begs, it’s pathetic to her. Stefan glances at Lee before turning his head to look at Zach once more, “It’s been quiet for years, but there are people who still remember.” Those words sound like a threat to Lee, but she knows what he’s talking about. Those people are the reason Lee was worried about Damon leaving the trail of bodies. But what does Zach know about all this? She’s going to have to do some digging later. “And you being here, both of you, it’s just going to stir things up.”

Lee gives Stefan a meaningful look that screams I told you so. Stefan shakes his head, at both of them. “It’s not my intention.”

Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions, is the first thing to come to Lee’s mind. The second, The road to hell is paved with good intentions. She doesn’t voice either of these quotes.

“Then what is?” Zach asks. “Why did you come back? After all this time, why now?” How is Stefan going to explain this one? Oh I just want to get to know the girl who looks identical to the vampire psychopath I fell in love with in 1864. Lee snickers but swallows it down as much as she can. That’d go over well.

“I don’t have to explain myself.” Stefan contends. 

Zach glances at Lee, “Then what about you?”

“I’m here because Stefan asked me to be.” Lee shrugs. That’s all their nephew is getting out of her. Then again that’s not even the true reason she’s here. 

Zach sighs and looks between the two, “I know you can’t change what you are. But neither of you belong here anymore.” That Lee can agree on. This isn’t her home, isn’t where her heart lies. She has avoided Mystic Falls as much as she could for the last century and a half. She’d been given the world and hadn’t looked back. 

Stefan actually looked hurt by the man’s words, “Then where do I belong?” For a nanosecond, Lee remembers Stefan hadn’t had the guidance she had when she’d woken up in transition...hadn’t had a partner to go through their new extended life with who already had so much experience. For an instant, Lee feels like a child again and feels for her lost older brother. But then it’s over. Lee remembers every cruel word or look, every time he brushed her aside or pretended she didn’t exist. Being alone had been part of the punishment for his treatment of her, a promise her lover had made good on.

“I can’t tell you what to do. But coming back here, was a mistake.” Zach turns to leave, tossing the paper down on the small ottoman of Stefan’s chair. 

“Stef…” Lee starts, willing to play the feeling sister.

“Don’t. Just don’t, okay?” Stefan doesn’t look at her, instead looking where Zach had just been.

“Okay,” She says softly, she squeezes his shoulder before following Zach’s lead and leaving him alone. If only she’d stayed or hidden in the shadows instead of going to her room, she’d have seen Stefan go to the cabinet that held all his old journals to pull the one from 1864 out. She would have seen him open it to a picture of Katherine.

-----

Text [To My Heart:] What do you know about Zach’s connections to the counsel? He just made a veiled threat that Stefan didn’t catch.

----- 

Lee’s pen moved across the notebook paper in front of her, she wasn’t usually one to doodle. But she figured a normal none attention seeking teenager shouldn’t be able to sketch/draw as well as she could. So here she was, ignoring the infuriating man who was her history teacher as she doodled. The Battle of Willow Creek, easy enough.

She could pass this class with her eyes closed. Her eyes did snap up as Mr.Tanner made a comment that got under skin. “Cute becomes dumb in an instant, Ms.Bennett.” She could see the embarrassment on Bonnie’s face. Lee felt her eyes narrow, a snarl tug at the corner of her lips. Wouldn’t be making comments like that if you didn’t have your tongue or if I ripped your throat out, would you Mr.Tanner?

“Mr.Donovan. Would you like to take this opportunity to overcome your embedded jock stereotype?” He gibed. What was this guy’s problem? Maybe Stefan would put aside his saintly act and help her hide the body.

“It’s okay, Mr.Tanner, I’m cool with it.” Matt didn’t even let the man’s words phase him. Good for him. A few students chuckled and a forced hmph left the teachers lips.

“Hmm. Elena?” Lee waited for it. What gibe would he send the brunette’s way. She glanced over at her brother. “Surely you can enlighten us about one of the town’s most significant historical events?” Lee bit the inside of her lower lip. His tone was demeaning, like he knew she would fail.

She tried to think of the answer, the vampire could see the wheels turning. Elena shook her head, “I’m sorry, I--I don’t know.”

“I was willing to be lenient last year for obvious reasons, Elena,” The pen in Lee’s hand snaps. Thankfully it was so low on ink it didn’t get all over her or her desk. Oh, I’m snapping this guy’s neck. Fuck whether or not Stefan helps me hide the body. “But the personal excuses ended with the summer break.” The hurt on her face, the waves of it were rolling off of her. 

“There were 346 casualties, unless you’re counting local civilians.” Lee states, a smug smirk on her lips as she leans back into the chair. Eyes daring him to question her. She feels the eyes of her brother and Elena on her, but doesn’t look away from the poor excuse of a man in front of her.

“That’s correct,” His eyes travel between Lee and Elena before settling on Lee. The vampire can see he isn’t pleased. If it’s because someone actually knew the answer or if it’s because she answered out of turn, Lee didn’t know or rightfully give a damn. “Miss…”

“Salvatore. Lee Salvatore.” Lee tilts her head a little. There’s a modest smile tugging at the corners of Elena’s lips, almost as a thank you. 

“Salvatore.” Elena’s eyes go back to the asshole in front of the room. “Any relation to the original settlers here at Mystic Falls?” Lee really should have seen that one coming.

“Possibly. If they are, it's very distant.” She answers vaguely. Last thing they need is someone to find pictures from 1864.

“Well, very good. Except, of course, there were no civilian casualties in this battle.” Is he really trying to save face? A low dangerous laugh brushes past her lips softly.

“Lee,” Stefan warns, his eyes begging her not to do what he knows is coming.

Lee raises the hand from her side slightly to stop her brother. If Stefan is going to just sit there, that’s on him. Way to protect your girl, big brother. “Seriously?” She looks at the man in front of her in disbelief. “Where exactly did you get your degree?”

“Excuse me?” Mr.Tanner asks, his voice laced with anger.

“Lee!” Stefan says louder this time.

“Hush, Stefan.” Lee grounds out, her eyes never leaving their teacher. “Actually, there were. Twenty-seven to be exact. Confederate soldiers fired on the church, Fell’s church. They believed it was housing weapons. They were wrong.” Lee shuts her notebook that’s on her desk, knowing after this she’s either going to be thrown out into the hall until the period ends or she’s going to be sitting in the principal's office. This man is too petty to let this go. “It was a night of great loss. The founder’s archives are stored in civil hall if you’d like to brush up on your facts, Mr.Tanner.” The look on Elena’s face is priceless--it’s almost one she recognizes. Bonnie is trying her best to hide her amusement but failing. Stefan looks like he could throttle her. There are a few students chuckling. “I’ll just see myself out.”

“Mm-hmm.” 

Lee grabs her satchel from the floor as she moves toward the front of the room and out into the hallway. At least he hadn’t told her to head toward the office.

[kinghoranshit]

The Watchers (1D) - 72 Hours

Part 4

“We’re gonna die,” Zayn declared. "We are fuckin dead."

I reached out to lightly hit him on the arm and I signaled everyone to stay quiet. Whoever managed to turn off the security system and power knew we were in the bunker somewhere, but didn’t know where. We still had the upper hand for the time being. There were pretty good odds that it would flip sides though. 

“Stay here,” I whispered. 

My right hand hovered over the switch knife as I got up from where I was crouched. I let out a deep breath and made my way down the hall to the front. Slowly, I pulled the knife and pressed the button to open it. There weren’t any shadows that I could see from where I stood; they were probably trying to draw us out. 

Hunters could be so stupid. 

From the corner of my eye, I saw movement upstairs. Carefully, I went up the steps and peeked around the wall. There in plain sight was a hunter looking into the bedrooms. I crept up as close as I could get, then wrestled them into the nearest bedroom. I held them in a sitting-lock position with my legs holding down theirs and my arms under their pits.

“How many more?” I questioned. 

They didn’t budge so I tightened up on my arms and positioned the knife close to their neck. “I said… How many more?” 

“Too many,” they chuckled. “You’ll lose.”

I laughed under my breath. “You underestimate me, clearly. Give me a number… Or don’t, you’re dying either way.” 

It took another minute or so of me tightening my grip before they huffed, “Fifteen.”

“Thanks,” I grunted and sliced their throat with the thin blade. Their body rolled around as they frantically tried to stop the flow of blood. I shook my head with a small smirk. Enjoy the slow death, fuckhead. 

A group of sixteen, eh? Of course they managed to find us. Sixteen people splitting that prize money? They all wouldn’t have to work for the rest of their lives.

I didn’t bother wiping the dark liquid off the tip and made my way back downstairs. There was a creak that came from the living room and I wished that the layout had been more closed off now. Whoever it was definitely saw them.

It wasn’t hard to miss the tall figure holding an axe; they looked into the kitchen from where they stood in the living room. All of them had gotten up from their chairs, prepared to run, but when they saw me they didn’t. I held a finger up to my lips as I snuck up behind. 

“Fucking do something!” Liam yelled, and I cursed. What a fucking moron. 

The figure whipped around and growled at the sight of me. “A Watcher.” 

“In the flesh,” I smugged. 

Immediately, they tried to throw the axe at my head. I ducked as I ran, then slid between their legs and hopped onto their back. I dug the knife into one of the main airway valves in the neck before they grabbed my shoulders and chucked me across the room.

I coughed at the loss of air in my chest and cautiously got up from the shards of glass that were the remnants of the coffee table. I felt the cuts stinging my skin, but didn’t have the time to mull them over. The figure returned with the axe and stalked toward the guys, despite the knife that stuck out. I can’t imagine that feels great.

I launched and latched onto their body. I kicked the hand that held the weapon to get them to drop it. Then I drew a handgun with a silencer on it and shot them in the foot, then the head; double tap. 

“Two down, fourteen left,” I remarked, no sense of relief, and began to assess the bits in my arms. The vest and crossbow prevented any larger incisions. 

“How many?” Niall deadpanned and lowered himself into a chair. 

“That was… fucking awesome.” Louis laughed. Despite everything? I’m not surprised.  

I glared at Liam. “You want to yell again? Let them know exactly where we’re at?”

He made that kill a lot harder than it should’ve been. 

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms in response. 

“Katie, let me sterilize those cuts.” Maddy opened her kit and found rubbing alcohol. Arguably my least favorite thing to apply to an injury. 

“No, I’m fine.” I shook my head and gestured to her to put it away. “Save it for them.”

The ringing in my ears returned and I swallowed. The whites of everyone’s eyes were apparent in the dark and it was unsettling, but as long as I saw six of them grouped together, I was doing my job.

I heard the death star whisk past before there was a cry of pain.

“Fuck... My fucking side! What the fuck?” 

“Under the table!” I ordered and shoved chairs out of the way. Harry helped me drag Louis underneath, and Harry had to hold him down to stop his shaking. The steel star had ripped through his clothes and flesh to create a gash that was grossly deep. 

“Maddy,” I clenched between my teeth. 

“I’m on it,” she replied and used the only towel she had to soak up what blood she could. I watched her do a process of using a lighter to crust the sides of the skin to stop the staunch flow before I set my focus on taking care of the new hunter.  

There were two actually, and one of them brought it upon themselves to crouch down and reach for Niall who was closest. 

“Ah, help! Katie!” He kicked as much as he could, but that didn’t stop them of course. 

I threw a switch knife into one of their hands and shot the exposed chest with a bullet, then their forehead; always double tap. I didn’t get to the other fast enough as a bullet plunged into Niall’s arm, causing some blood to splatter onto Maddy’s back. Her stance didn’t falter in the slightest as she finished Louis and put herself in line of fire to get Niall.

These hunters had terrible aim. Something told me they probably weren’t the real threat out of their group. I threw my body into their skinny legs to throw them off balance and wrestled my way up to shoot them in the heart twice. 

Twelve.

I took a couple deep breaths to slow my racing heart. I pulled my blade out of the dead hand to put it away, and reloaded my handgun before holstering it. 

Niall whimpered in frustration and bit his curse words as Maddy finished digging the bullet out. I felt for him, but a bullet into the arm wasn’t the worst damage; it was child’s play to be honest. 

Louis grimaced in pain from where he continued to lay, sweat coated his face and neck. He was definitely out; there was no way he could run if we needed to. I guess the kitchen was our base for the remainder of the purge. I needed to gather their weapons and get more ammo from the vault. 

"Katie?" he rasped. 

"Louis, save your breath." He would need to get safer medical attention if he survived. 

He barely shook his head. "N-no… I l-love… you."  

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Louis, this is not the time to confess love. We still barely know anything about each other. Don't be cliche." Maybe I felt it too, but it really wasn’t the time.

"A fucking Watcher, eh?" 

I huffed and looked in their direction. "You bet your fucking ass. If you want them, you'll have to go through me." 

"Gladly." 

They made a running start at me with their weapon of choice; a machete. A classic. I chucked my switch into their privates before drawing my gun to put two bullets in their chest and head. 

Eleven. 

This sending one or two in at a time is a different method, especially for a large group. I can only guess they thought it would be more terrorizing. It would be if I didn't know their count. To be completely fair, that first hunter could’ve been lying to me. It was a number to focus on though. 

"Harry, if we have to move, I need you to carry Louis. Niall, here is my other gun. I need to get more ammo." 

I didn't wait for a response as I pulled the knife out from my last kill and kept it in my palm. I flipped it around in my hand as I went to the closest vault; the hallway closet. I decided to take another gun on top of the ammunition. A yell from the living room had me sprinting. 

I couldn’t help laughing at the sight of another hunter stuck in a bear trap. It snatched his ankle pretty good. 

“You’re a fucking moron,” I stated as I held my gun to their head and pulled the trigger. Then I put another in their heart.   

Ten. 

Quickly, I pulled their ankle out of the claws and reset it before I went back to the table. I gave Niall more ammo and reloaded my own. Then I grasped my crossbow and loaded it up with three arrows. 

“Okay, as far as I know there’s ten left. They’re probably saving best for last so I beg of you, listen to me, okay?” 

All of them nodded. My eyes switched back to Louis and his eyes were barely open. 

“Maddy is there anything else you could do for Louis?”

“I’ve got proper surgical gear and anesthetics in my room. If I can get up there, I could get it cleaned up better and resew it, and give him a good ass high to numb the pain.” 

I smirked. “Deal. I’ll go first. Niall, I need you to hold down the fort here.”

“Are you mad?” Liam remarked. “You can’t leave us alone. Niall just only started to shoot that weapon.” 

I cocked my head and narrowed my eyes. “You really want your bandmate to die from his wound? Niall has a pretty good shot. You’ll be fine and if you feel so inclined to protect your own life, there’s a machete or axe right there.” 

Thankfully, the trip to get Maddy’s bag was uneventful. I even got a glance out the open door and there was nothing out there. It was definitely unsettling. 

She stuck a needle of some anesthetic in Louis’s arm first before she began to clean it up once more. There was no way that wasn’t going to leave a mean scar. A great story for the future.

I took the liberty to sanitize my own scratches and it was now I felt the cut on my cheek. There was blood in my mouth. I only wiped it away and used some gauze to cover it up. I popped a couple pills to subside the pain that my adrenaline had been hiding. It’s been quiet for a while. I hated that. 

My head snapped up at the noise of more whispers that weren’t the voices of our group. Slowly, I stood and made my prepared aim with my crossbow. It was time to get multiple in one. I followed them down the main hallway into the other room that was opposite of the living room by the front. 

“Tell your friends I say hi,” I stated and when they turned around in slight surprise, I pulled the trigger. The metal heads went straight into their necks, then I grabbed my pistol to get one in the head and the other in the heart. 

Eight. 

“Kat! They came from the back!” Niall yelled and then were the sound of a shot. Who knew if that was Niall or them. Considering no one is yelling in pain, I had a good guess that it missed the intended target. 

I snatched the arrows and felt the little splatters of hot liquid on my hands. I restrung them and ran for the kitchen. I barely took the time to aim before I pulled the trigger and missed. 

“Fuck!” I muttered. 

This time I chucked the crossbow at their head and made a run start to kick them in the chest with both feet. I sprung back up and used my switched blade to slice their neck. 

Seven. 

I loaded up the crossbow again and strung it across my back. I observed everyone. We were still in the same state as before. They waited longer that time before they sent more in, but now they were coming in more than one way. We needed to hydrate, and maybe eat something. Luckily the refrigerator still had bottles of water in it. 

“Drink up,” I ordered and tossed everyone a bottle before I took my own. 

“Kat, let me take a look at the cut on your face.” 

I looked at Maddy with a small smile. “It’s fine. There’s seven left, at least that’s the number I’m down to. How’s Louis?”

I overlooked the exhausted group; Louis was better, but he needed to be in a real hospital facility after this. I couldn’t help reaching out to lightly touch his fingers.

She shrugged. “He can’t lose any more blood, but what he lost initially is enough. If the wound opens back up, or he gets another, he won’t survive.”

I let out a deep breath. “Okay.”

His fingers tightened around mine a little as his eyes reopened to glossily gaze at me. A little smirk crossed his lips. “We will manage, love.” 

I smirked back with a shake of head. I opened up my bottle of water and took another sip. I had to be careful not to drink it too fast. 

“Niall, how’s the arm?” 

Niall laughed under his breath. “Better than ever… Never thought that I’d actually be shot.”

“No one does,” Harry remarked with a small scoff. 

Zayn raised his eyebrows. “You said there’s seven left?” 

I nodded. “That’s what I’ve counted.”

“Do you think the others will come?” Liam asked. 

“I don’t know, but part of me doesn’t like that we’re sitting ducks now. We should try to figure out how to get the power back on.”

“What about the breaker?” Maddy suggested. 

Niall pointed to her. “Oh yeah, I think I saw it in the basement.” 

My jaw tightened as I thought. We might be safer in the basement. Less entrances, they’d have to look a little harder to find us… maybe, the basement might be the first place the next ones think to look. It was still better than this kitchen. And if we could get the power back on, that meant the security system would reboot itself. My watch said it was four am; we just needed to make it another four hours. 

I cleared my throat. “Let’s go. Everyone.” 

As we all began to get up and make our way to the basement, there was an arrow that shot down the main hallway and stuck into Liam’s leg. His cries were louder than either of the rest who were injured. 

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

I used my own crossbow to aim and fire toward the figure that was standing on the front porch. I aimed once more and shot another before I drew my pistol as I crept closer. They were dead. 

Six. 

It was then, though, I knew I made my greatest mistake of the entire purge. 

I swallowed and held my breath lowly as I saw the rest of the hunters surrounding me outside. My dad's words rung in my head, I could run and probably lose them. But I couldn't leave the boys and Maddy like that; I was assigned to protect them, at whatever cost that may be.

“Kat?” Niall called. “Everything alright?” 

I nodded. “Just go, I’ll be there soon.” 

There was hesitation before he and Zayn helped Liam move downstairs. Harry, Louis, and Maddy were already downstairs. I waited until I heard the door close to assess my situation more. There were one on each of my sides, another machete and gun, and four on the ground, stars, two guns, and knives. I definitely needed to take out the two closest to me and make sure none of the groundies make it up the porch stairs. 

“Before we kill you, we have an offer. Help us kill them. You’ll live and maybe we’ll give you a cut of the prize money.” 

I snorted as I looked the hunter with the machete up and down. They were playing with it; spinning it around in their hand. As if that was meant to scare me. A machete was one of the least scary weapons imaginable. There weren’t many weapons that did cause my skin to crawl; it was being at complete uneven odds. I could say, though, that I was at my best fighting game when the risks were high.

“Hmm, let me think about that… No.”

I ducked to dodge a bullet and rolled toward them. I threw my switchblades into the leg and stomach of the machete. Then I grabbed the ankle of the pistol with my feet before I gripped their shirt and tossed them over the railing. I couldn't forget about the stars; those were more deadly than a bullet wound. 

“Get ready to lose a limb!” The machete was swung at me and I dove between their legs to avoid it. 

“You know, if you’re trying to kill me, announcing your attack isn’t the smartest strategy.” I drew my pistol to use the last of two shots to put a bullet in their forehead. I made my double tap and quickly switched out the packets before I ripped my bows out of the kill that led me here and loaded my crossbow. I ducked down behind the railing for a little bit of protection as I thought of my next move. 

Five. 

Something grazed my ear and I bit on my lip. The fucking stars. I didn’t have to touch that area to know I probably had a chunk missing and it was bleeding.

Here we fucking go. 

I launched myself over the railing and made a rolling stop before I aimed my crossbow and my arrows serrated the skin of two hunters; stars and a gun. Actually, one of my arrows went through their eye socket. I could see the sun rising behind them. I counted my breaths with my steps as I continued to take their attacks. 

I lost my pistol from one of them hitting me and I was now relying on a little bit more hand on hand combat. I did take a good couple punches to the face, which definitely reopened the cut on my cheek, and to my kidney, and a small paring knife in my shoulder. I used the knife hunter as a shield when the stars decided to throw another my way and they tore part of their mate’s arm. 

The sound of their pain-filled cries was like music to my fucking ears.

I took a knife from their stash and silenced them in one go. Then chucked it into the star's heart area to end them finally. They’d all had larger statures; I wasn’t surprised since they were the last of the litter. 

Finally, I was down to one. The hunter I’d thrown over the railing. They’d joined the fight, but began to back off when their numbers started to drop. Slowly, I gripped my crossbow and loaded it with bloody gut arrows. My hands looked disgusting right now. I’m sure the rest of my body didn’t look any better. It was a mixture I couldn’t wait to wash off later. 

I licked my lips before I aimed it in their direction and cocked my head. “Last one, eh?” 

“I will leave. The money doesn’t mean that much to me. I was just doing this for shits and giggles.” They shook their head and raised their hands in the air. 

“I’m not laughing,” I remarked and pressed the trigger.

Zero.

I sighed as I scoured the area, to make sure they were really the last one. I gathered my gear before I went inside, noting the lights were back on. Instantly, I shut the door and was grateful to hear the mega lock click. Then I let myself finally fall to the floor in fatigue and I closed my eyes momentarily. It wasn’t long as all the injuries pulsed at once and I grimaced at the most prevalent one; my shoulder. 

“Maddy!” I yelled. “I need you.” 

There were heavy footsteps that came from under me before the basement door burst open to reveal Niall, Zayn and Maddy. 

“Oh my god! Kat!” she exclaimed, immediately beginning to attend the small sustained injuries. 

“You… You fought with a knife in your shoulder?” Niall lightly gasped. 

“Well,” I grunted deeply as I held down my arm and Maddy slowly pulled it out. “You never pull out a knife if you don’t know what it possibly hit. Trust me… I’ve had worse.” 

Zayn gestured in the direction of out front. “How many did you fight out there?”

“Six… There’s none left.”

“Fuck, mate,” he breathed. 

I couldn’t stop the tears that slid down my cheek while Maddy finished wrapping it up. Now, she attended the cuts on my face and cringed when she looked down at my leg. 

I cleared my throat. “What is it?” 

“Kat, you had a death star hit the side of your thigh.”

“I, uh… I don’t remember that one happening.” I willed myself to look down and didn’t bat an eye at the sight of my own shredded up skin, the black particles of my leggings mixed in. “Can you get that cleaned up?” 

“I’m gonna-I’m gonna go back downstairs. I can’t take any more of this,” Niall announced and fled to the safety of the basement. 

Zayn pointed in that direction. “Uh, me too…”

I snorted. “How’s Liam’s leg?” 

Maddy shook her head. “I’d say it was equivalent to Niall’s bullet wound.” 

“So… nothing?” 

Both of us laughed. I waited patiently while she finished, then helped me stand up. Walking would not be a cake walk until it healed in the upcoming months. We limped to the kitchen and eyed the bodies that littered the floor, along with broken glass and weapons. 

“Should we move them elsewhere?” Maddy asked. I was shocked with her directing that question to me, considering I knew this wasn’t her first purge. 

“Let’s wait until the purge has been called, then we’ll toss them outside.” In the off chance that there were more outside, we needed to keep that front door closed. It registered that two of them had come from the backside entrance and I went to find the culprit exit to close it off, resetting the bear trap. 

Maddy left to I assume go get the rest to come back up stairs as they all resurfaced. Liam’s expression was less than thrilled, though it softened after he took in my current state. I only rolled my eyes; he didn’t deserve a better response to his behavior. 

Despite not opening the front door, I still directed everyone who could to move the bodies in a more fashioned pile and sweep up all the broken glass; we didn’t need anymore avoidable injuries. 

Everyone collapsed into their own chair while Louis laid on the couch. I looked down at my watch and felt all the relief of the world. There was only one minute left. 

The blue hue filled the living room and my eyes scanned the hologram of Rump. “I am here to announce that the 100th year of the bounty purge is now over. No more violence may commence. There will be consequences if you choose to do so… Officials will be stopping by to take count of those who haven’t already been turned in. Until next year.” 

There was a small flash before it returned to the normal lighting. Not that we needed it anymore, we could open up the windows for more natural light. 

“So… who wants breakfast?” Harry asked with a small smile and clapped his hands once as he stood. 

Next and last: The End

[Masterlist]

[haloud]

any other rose

ao3

With Dad in a coma and Flint nowhere to be found, Alex takes a leave of absence from Roswell to check on the other ducks in this particular row. He goes alone, though Kyle offers to come with him, puffing his chest up like that jock he used to be, only this time it’s to protect Alex from theoretical threat, and it’s frankly fucking adorable. He doesn’t even tell Michael he’s leaving until he sends him a text at a rest area a hundred miles away to tell him he’ll be back within two days.

This is something Alex has to do for himself. He needs information, something more tangible than what he can read off his computer screen, before he declares open war. His family may be hateful to the core, maybe, maybe, but a lot can change in relatively little time, and Alex just—can’t keep walking blind not knowing who his actual enemies are.

As Flint so eloquently put it, Alex has always been the black sheep of the family. His brothers, well, they toed the line much more skillfully, and grew closer together because of it. When Alex sets out to track down his two oldest brothers, he first runs into a wall. The eldest, Harlan? His military records check out up until the very recent present, then he just disappears. Definitely concerning, but maybe he just turned into a doomsday prepper and is living in a bunker made out of nonperishable food somewhere in the Midwest.

Robert, in contrast, doesn’t appear to be hiding his tracks at all. His whole life unspools for Alex in a perfectly neat paper trail—which is funny, because Robert is the one who hasn’t spoken to anyone in the family since 2013, making the possibilities frankly endless. Deep cover? Maybe, but his credit card activity is bland and consistent every statement Alex rifles through. A fight or falling out with Dad, Harlan, or Flint? Well, Flint doesn’t have the backbone to really ‘fall out’ with anyone, and if it was a fight with Dad then the old bastard would have taken it out on the rest of them tenfold. Harlan is a distinct possibility, but what might be so bad that both of them would drop off the grid, with Robert maintaining a convincing facsimile of civilian life?

No, there are two possibilities that Alex deems actually likely.

First: Robert is as neck-deep in conspiracy, murder, and torture as Dad and Flint, and he cut off contact with the family as a minimalization of risk. If one arm of Project Shepherd gets discovered, then a manufactured estrangement offers plausible deniability that the others had no knowledge of it whatsoever.

The second possibility has Alex pacing his floor at three in the morning more nights than he’d like.

(Why? Why? The world went dark around him as he stared at his computer screen with his hand over his mouth, staring at the name of a niece he’s never met. Aubrey Alexandra Manes. Why?)

A phone call would be too much warning, would give Robert time to hide or come up with a story. So Alex just finds his address, gets in the car, and goes searching for answers. What he finds is a simple ranch house six hours out of Roswell, one with a flag hanging from the porch and a slightly overgrown yard full of soccer goals and Barbie jeeps and other childhood detritus.

Maybe Robert knew to expect him somehow; maybe he just wasn’t expecting a car in the driveway at this time of day and therefore came out to inspect it. Either way, Alex doesn’t even make it up the porch stairs before Robert opens the door and brings them face to face for the first time in a long, long time.

“Alex!”

The shock would almost be funny, if Alex wasn’t bracing for either a punch or a bullet.

“Hey, big bro,” he says, curling his mouth in a deliberate smile. “It’s been six years since I got a courtesy Christmas phone call. What’s new in your life?”

Face thunderous, Robert steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him. “Cut the crap. Believe it or not, I’ve been following your career. I know you could find out anything you wanted about me, and hell, I know you probably did. So it’s you that needs to start talking.”

Alex nods pensively. Reevaluates. Strange, to be properly estimated by a family member. It is true, though—Alex never would have gone in blind, and the research he did produce some interesting results.

Six years ago, Robert stopped coming to holidays. He stopped picking up the phone. He made polite, manly excuses whenever their dad pressed him, but he made those excuses every single time. And what did Alex find when he went looking? A birth certificate for a little girl, dated 2013; immunization forms; preschool and elementary registration; another birth certificate dated two years later. Aubrey Alexandra. So yeah, Alex knows, as if the yard cluttered with toys wasn’t enough of a clue. What he doesn’t know is why, so that’s what he’s here to find out.

“What’re their names?” Alex asks casually. He keeps his hands still at his sides, empty and loose. Not a threat. He has no interest in making Robert fear for his family, and if he’s being generous, he knows that Robert has no more reason to believe Alex isn’t working under their father’s orders than Alex has to trust him.

“Hope and Aubrey,” Robert says, the like you don’t already know hovering understood between them. He takes a step forward and shoves his hands in his pockets, shrewd soldier’s eyes scanning Alex just as much as Alex scans him. It’s a little strange, more so than Alex expected, to discover that Robert actually is a stranger now, not frozen at eighteen and stocky and mean-spirited.

Robert doesn’t move forward like he’s making threats. He presumably came outside because he felt either surprised or threatened by an unexpected vehicle in the driveway, but he isn’t even wearing a holster. Not even the suggestion of a weapon on his person. Is he the kind of military father who locks his guns away? Their dad was never that conscientious—presumably because it builds character for a little kid to accidentally shoot himself; either that or he just assumed his boys were too scared to go near anything of his. A fair assessment.

But what is a fair assessment of Robert? Maybe he just thinks girls can’t handle exposure to guns—safer parenting, to be sure, but still indicative of a toxic mindset. After all, Robert would’ve gotten suspended three times for snapping girls’ bra straps if dear old dad hadn’t intervened every single time.

“And are they why you’ve been MIA all this time?” Alex asks, point blank.

“You’re going to have to tell me why you’re here before I give you any information about my children. That’s non-negotiable.”

“Fair.” Alex holds his hands up in surrender, then lowers them as Robert takes another step his way.

“Are you here because of dad.” The question falls flat, like he doesn’t really want the answer. Robert’s face is inscrutable, his tone still thinly pleasant, but something darker lurks beneath the surface.

“In a manner of speaking.” Alex tilts his head and looks his brother up and down. Robert’s put on a little weight since the photos Alex saw from his last deployment; he’s got laugh lines around his eyes. They’re all of them getting older, but Alex—once again wrong-footed, and he’s getting increasingly frustrated with himself—Alex never expected Robert to wear his age so openly. “I’m doing a little reconnaissance. You see,” this time it’s Alex who steps forward, “Last time I saw Flint, it was in a secret torture prison our father has been running for decades, and he had a gun to my head. Harlan appears to have gone off the grid, so one can only guess what’s going on there. Which leaves…you. I thought it was high time we had a little reunion, bro.”

Genuine shock flicks over Robert’s face, and his eyes dart up and down Alex’s body as if looking for injuries. He is a military man, however, so the emotion is quickly replaced with more grim impassivity. “What kind of information are you looking for? Are you in danger right now? God damn it, Alex, my family—”

“Aren’t home at the moment, and I will happily be long gone before they get back. This is about our family, not yours. Hope won’t need to be picked up from school until 2:30, and your wife takes Aubrey to Tiny Tots ballet classes after preschool from one to three every Monday and Thursday. No one knows I’m here; if you’ve really been following my career, you know I know how to cover my tracks. I didn’t come here to make threats, Robert.”

“Then why are you here? You seem to know pretty much everything already.”

Alex feels a pang of…actual guilt at the fear lurking on Robert’s face, in his defensive posture, in the way he clenches his hands compulsively in his pockets. Rattling off his kid’s routines like that…might have been an excessive show of force, and Alex grimaces at himself. Robert is a soldier, sure, but somehow…somehow Alex forgot that not everyone has been unraveling earth-shattering revelations for the past year. He dug into Robert’s life remembering the dick who did shit like flushing his toothbrush down the toilet and dying all his clothes pink because he was ‘basically a girl anyway, right?’, and he did it expecting to find yet another monster with Alex’s same blood pumping through his veins.

He needs to remember: high school. Ten years to the left. Alex nods sharply to himself. He went about this the wrong way—it’s a reunion, not an op. If it goes poorly, he walks out of here with better knowledge of his enemy and the exact same amount of family he walked in here with. Nothing to lose.

“I just needed to see for myself, I guess. The reason why you haven’t even talked to dad in over half a decade. Or me. I don’t know about Harlan and Flint, but I’m guessing they’re getting the same treatment?”

Robert thinks for a minute, then he jerks his chin towards the rocking chairs squeezed into the corner of the narrow porch. “I’m not inviting you inside just yet, but I’ll get us some beers. We can sit out here and talk.”

Alex takes a seat in one of the rocking chairs and rests his hands on his knees. In between the two large chairs are two little ones, painted all kinds of crazy colors, sponge-stamped with bunnies and butterflies and dinosaurs. A pang of—something echoes deep in his chest. Can you be nostalgic for something you’ve never, ever had?

“Okay.”

Robert sticks a beer in Alex’s face. It’s already open; Alex sniffs it, swishes it in his mouth, holds it on the back of his tongue before swallowing. Well, if Robert was keeping undetectable poisons around on the off chance he got to slip it into Alex’s drink, he probably wouldn’t be walking around without a gun. Alex takes a real swig and waits for Robert to start talking.

His brother doesn’t look at him, just stares into the middle distance as he says, “You might remember Alanna, my wife. I think you met her a couple times.”

“Of course. Dad didn’t ‘approve of her family,’” Alex says with a thin, sarcastic smile. The real reason, of course, is that Alanna is black, but Jesse would never be so uncouth as to say something like that outright. No, it’s always dogwhistle central with that man.

Robert snorts and spits in disgust, the largest show of emotion he’s displayed since Alex pulled into the driveway. “Yeah. Fucking hell. You and I both know how deep Dad’s hatred runs. For everyone and everything that doesn’t march to his fucking tune.”

Alex folds his hands in his lap and does a terrible job of keeping the knives out of his voice. “Of course. I just wasn’t sure how you would approach the topic. Of hatred, that is, since I was the only member of the family not invited to the wedding.”

It’s surprisingly difficult to get the words out. How many times is he going to have to go through this? First with Flint, now…Robert may not have pulled a gun on him (yet), but it’s still a piece of Alex’s soul that gets chipped away bringing up this old pain. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of being the black sheep,’ Flint said, and the answer is, frankly, not fucking likely, considering the standards set by the other Manes men past and present. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to be alone, doesn’t mean he didn’t feel the lump in his throat and the pain in his chest when he saw the wedding pictures on Facebook and realized he was deliberately excluded.

Alex clenches his fists on top of his knees and gets pissed at himself for showing even that much of a reaction.

Robert cuts his eyes away, clenching his jaw. Finally, he says, “Fuck. God damn.”

“No, I get it.” Alex forces a laugh. “Couldn’t have the gay gaying up your big day. We’re not here to talk about me. Forget I brought it up.”

Shaking his head sharply, Robert says, “I’m airing old shit, and I’m doing it once, then we’re getting back on topic. I didn’t invite you to the wedding because Dad already invited himself, you had just gotten stationed far away from Roswell, and I didn’t want to put you back in his path. That’s the sum of it. End of story.”

An ugly laugh, a real one this time, busts out of Alex’s chest. God, that’s even more rich than Flint’s bullshit about protection!

“I’m serious,” Robert snaps. “’Lanna opened my eyes to a lot of shit, okay? I won’t pretend I was some kind of amazing fucking ally back then, but I wasn’t afraid of your gaying, got it?”

And Alex wants to fight back. He does. He’s still owed a fucking pound of flesh. But in the back of his mind, he thinks—Aubrey Alexandra. And it gets him back on track. It even lets him see the humor, because, come on, Robert saying gaying like that is pretty fucking funny.

“Okay. Apology accepted,” he says, one last snark because Robert never actually apologized, and the way he looks away again says he knows that. “Tell me more about Alanna.”

“Right. Well. So anyway, she knew what she was marrying. Dad gave her the fucking creeps, but she married me anyway.” He fiddles with the label of his beer and quite obviously tries not to smile. “And we did the happy family thing for a while. I was deployed; the distance was hard. She felt a lot of pressure to be the right kind of military wife, but she had zero support. I was wrapped up in myself. The missions, the medals. I was a shitty husband, a shitty partner.” He drains his beer, then stares at the bottle like its emptiness is a personal betrayal. “Between deployments, she gave me the ultimatum. Couples counseling—completely non-military—or that’s it.”

“You went to a therapist?” Alex blurts. Robert? The guy who would lurk outside the guidance counselor’s office and trip kids if they came out crying? Maybe Alex should have done a deeper dive into whether or not Robert could have had alien contact.

Robert snorts and shakes his head. “I deserve that. God I was an absolute fucking cock as a kid. And as an adult. But Alanna gave me something to fight for, and damn if she didn’t push me to fight for it. I don’t know. I didn’t understand half the crap the shrink said. But I listened. Followed orders. Not so hard.”

“But you still had some contact with dad in that time. You didn’t go radio silent until several years after you and Alanna married.”

“He’s not an easy man to say no to. When his number would come up in my phone…”

Robert’s jaw clenches hard and tight. Alex hopes he has good dental.

“I always picked up. Autopilot. But the shrink helped me realize trying to be like Dad was…well, in real terms, ruining my fucking life.”

Damn. Alex is gonna find this therapist and send an annual fruit basket.

“And then Alanna got pregnant?” he prompts; Robert nods curtly.

“Changed my whole life. Scared me shitless, too, I don’t mind telling you. I was just working out how fucked our whole upbringing was, and now it was my turn? God.”

“So that’s the story? That’s why it’s been six years since you acknowledged any of us?”

Robert looks at him dead-on for the first time since they sat down. He looks like Dad. He really does. The same squarish face, the same thin mouth, the same soldier stoicism. But there’s a softness in the next words he says that Alex never once heard come out of their father’s mouth, and it shakes something in Alex’s very core.

“I got kids of my own now, man. And I work with kids too, or around them. Eighteen, nineteen years old. And I think about how dad treated us. I’m not exposing Hope and Aubrey to that. Not ever.”

“Good reason to avoid Dad, then. But what about the rest of us? Harlan, Flint? Me?”

Shrugging, Robert says, “I talked to Harlan a while longer, since we were closest as kids. But he got weird, man, I don’t know. And Flint…ended up I couldn’t trust him one bit. If I talked to him at all, he’d hand the phone over to Dad, and I didn’t want this shit getting that messy.”

“And me?”

Aubrey Alexandra. A little slice of Alex’s world has been disorienting and surreal ever since he read that name. Aliens are one thing, but having a niece that’s carrying his name—Alex doesn’t know how to live in that world. He has to hear it out of Robert’s own mouth, this brother he didn’t know he had at all.

A huge sigh gusts out of Robert’s chest. He goes back to staring into the middle distance. It’s a long while before he says, “I told you already that I’d started realizing Dad was fucked up.”

He cuts off there like there’s something physical blocking the words, and Alex waits for him to continue.

Finally, he says, “That was a hard thing to come to terms with. I always thought Dad was what made us into men, you know? If times were hard, well, they had to be, to toughen us up. But it turns out Dad was just an abusive fuck. So then what good is any kind of lesson he ever taught us? What good is being any kind of man he’d be proud of, when I’ve got ‘Lanna and two baby girls I could be making proud instead?” He sighs heavily. “So that’s why. I wanted them to be proud of me, and there’s nothing to be proud of in the way I treated you. The way I let you be treated. I thought about calling you up, but I was too damn cowardly to dial the phone, and somewhere along the line I convinced myself it would be better if I just let you live your own life without fucking bullies sandbagging you.”

Alex takes a moment.

In that moment, Robert runs his hand over his close-shaven skull three times. He bounces his leg, stops himself, and bounces again. He brings his beer up to his mouth like he’s forgotten already that it’s empty.

And Alex just…breathes.

Flint carried his orders like absolution so he could sleep at night. With Robert being such an unknown after six years of radio silence, Alex thought he was prepared for all eventualities this reunion might come to, but turns out he wasn’t actually prepared at all. Not for the reality of the two little rocking chairs, allowed to be bright and clumsy. Not for a version of his brother that sees the world with open eyes.

“You going to say anything?” Robert finally says gruffly.

“I saw Aubrey’s birth certificate when I researched you.” Alex swallows and tries to wet his throat with the beer, but it’s gone flat. Ugh. Still, he won’t back down. “Aubrey Alexandra.” Saying the name out loud chokes him up, just a little bit, and he forces it back down like he learned to do a long time ago. “You could have just called me.”

Robert ducks his head to hide his own too-bright eyes, and that sheepish, honest gesture cracks deep in Alex’s chest to feed some very small, very young part of him.

“Yeah,” Robert mumbles. “I know I should’ve—asked you. Or just not. But I was all emotional ‘n shit. It felt right at the time.”

“All right.” Alex shoves his emotion unceremoniously aside. He has the information he came for, so it’s once more time for action. The fact is that no matter how skilled Alex is at covering his tracks, his presence has the possibility of putting Robert’s family in danger. Until Dad is dealt with for good; until Flint and Harlan are neutralized; Alex can’t be a part of his brother’s life, or his wife’s, or the lives of his nieces.

Something else to fight for, then. As if he needed more motivation.

Alex gets swiftly to his feet, and Robert mirrors the motion.

“You’re leaving?” He blurts out, and something like grief, chased by acceptance, runs across his face. God, Alex almost wants to do a double take every time he sees honest emotion in eyes like those. But it’s time he gave credit where credit is due.

“I should,” Alex says. “I promised I wouldn’t put your family in danger before I heard your story, and I intended to keep that promise no matter what you said to me. But now it is imperative that you listen.”

He puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder for what may be the first time in their entire lives. Robert swallows.

Alex says, “Do not change a single thing about your routine. Do not tell anyone I’ve been here. When it’s safe, I will contact you—and at that time, it’s your decision if you want me in your children’s lives or not.”

He can see every single question in Robert’s face. Pride and anger tense him up, but, miracle of miracles, Alex also gets to watch him let them go.

Fruit basket. Seriously. Maybe an Edible Arrangement, for the actual miracle worker.

“How much danger are you in?” Is all Robert demands, voice still gruff with emotion.

“No more than usual. Don’t you know I love to live dangerously?” Alex says breezily, but Robert doesn’t unclench. Great, just what he needs—another person in his life taking his safety seriously when there are things that need to get done. Alex gives a fond roll of his eyes and lets his hand fall off Robert’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says, honestly, as Robert follows him off the porch and to his car.

“Pretty sure you don’t get to thank me for anything ever. I basically owe you for life.”

“Well, then, get started on your debt and give me that ‘you’re welcome’ you owe me just now.”

“You’re welcome.” He hesitates, swallows a couple times. Then he raps the top of Alex’s car and chokes out: “Drive safe, kid.”

Alex drives home in a different world than the one he drove up in. He barely notices the miles fly by, and when he gets home to Roswell, everything still looks the same, no matter how impossible that is.

Still, life goes on. A week later, a letter comes for him at the base. The return address makes him furious—how’s Robert made it this long if he can’t follow a simple order for his own good?—but he can’t hold onto that anger as soon as he sees what’s inside.

The thick envelope contains three sheets of paper and a fridge magnet—just a generic #1 Uncle! design, but it still hits him hard right in the chest. The first page of the letter is covered in small, need script he doesn’t recognize—Alanna’s, most likely. The next page he unfolds is covered in a child’s deliberate print, and he puts that aside too, gently, reverently, so he can read it later and savor every word. The last page is covered in drawings, big and bright; god, he’s gotten more medals than he knows what to do with, but he’s never felt as honored as he does now by the fact that clearly Aubrey busted out a brand-new pack of markers for this. And the magnet—he’s going to put these on his fridge, like that’s something that exists in his life—and now it does, this part of his family he thought was closed off to him forever.

And his world is different now. A little brighter, a little bigger, a little fuller.

Now all he has to do is protect it.

[it-is-reigning-men]

Most of the Time [Jeff Hardy x Reader]

Request for Anon: Where you live in North Carolina for just the summer and one day this guy comes sputtering through on his motorbike because he ran out of gas in your front yard. You help him out and get to know him and then he disappears until some days later he comes back and asks you for a ride. (This is when he was younger btw!)

A/N: For once this isn’t smut!! wow !! I hope y’all still enjoy my fluffy stuff. Plus a teeny bit of angst. I actually really enjoyed writing this out, though I took a lot of breaks because certain parts got rocky.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of drugs/rehab

You needed the time alone.

It was weird to think that, when you were always complaining about the feeling.

That didn't change the fact you just needed to find something - god knows what - without any therapists or disappointed mother or fake friends to go giving you their "ancient wisdom."

After a lot of the usual yelling and door slamming, you'd managed to convince your mom (or really, your dad to talk to your mom) to let you have the old summer home in North Carolina. Maybe the thing that got her to let up and not force you along with them on vacation was that she thought the old house would get you to recall just how angelic you used to be. Or maybe she was just tired.

Whatever the reason, you didn't blame her. You were tired too.

...

The house wasn't huge, but it wasn't no 300 square feet; it was cozy as you remembered it, and honestly, what made it so comforting was having it all to yourself. You plopped down on the couch, curling into a blanket before switching the TV on. It only had the basic cable channels, but you weren't really watching it anyway... the dull noise helped you relax.

Days went on languidly, and it wasn't long before boredom set in. Contented boredom, but boredom nonetheless.

During the last week of your first month there, you emerged from the house and sat on the porch, eyes running over the grass of the front yard. It was hardly a yard, with long, dry pieces of grass sprinkled about.

You went around back to see if the lawnmower was still there. Indeed it was.

"Could use some... cardio, I guess."

Wheeling the thing out front, you managed to flatten out a good 2/3 of the yard before the damn motor died out; you were frustrated enough from spending at least ten minutes trying to get the thing running, so you left it outside.

Dragging your feet all the way back indoors, you splashed your face in the bathroom sink, before peeking into the mirror's medicine cabinet for some painkillers.

Okay.

So you weren't surprised the bottles you found were extremely expired, but you were more upset that you'd dived for medications even though your head was just barely throbbing. Maybe it wasn't even throbbing at all.

Weak.

You sighed, swiping all the contents of the cabinet into the trash can and tying the trash bag with a knot so you could dispose of it completely.

When you got to the porch again, chucking the small bag of garbage into the pickup bin, your ears picked up on something odd. A sort of sputtering, and it was getting closer.

The sputtering turned into an audible 'fuck.'

Well, maybe that was just the guy.

Staring blankly, you leaned against the porch fence as a young man rolled right into your yard from god knows where. The house was off of any main roads, but nearby a few forest trails, but nobody had ever bothered you till now.

He didn't even notice you as his motorbike's dirty wheels skidded onto your partially trimmed grass- just kept cursing to himself as he kicked the side of the vehicle.

"Great day, yeah?" You called, watching him dismount and snap his head up to look your way.

"The.. the damn greatest," he called back breathily, unclipping the strap of his helmet as he stepped to the middle of the grass.

"You just gonna stand there?" You taunted.

The man stripped off the helmet, finally, and tucked it under his arm, brows furrowed with a few drops of sweat rolling down his temple. His platinum blond and... blue streaked hair was pressed down, but after running a hand through it and giving it a pull there and a head shake here, it fluffed up a bit.

"Well, can't exactly ride off into oblivion like I intended now." He flickered his eyes fiercely back at his bike. "Ran outta gas."

You figured.

And you decided you liked his hair.

"And here I was thinking you were my shitty Fairy God Mother coming to pay me a visit," you drawled, rolling your eyes and trotting down your porch steps. He chuckled and started to raise his hand as if to get a proper greeting, but you walked right past him toward his bike.

"Nice to make your acquaintance," he huffed, not really offended.

"Opposite of likewise to you, peacock. You ran over my gorgeous lawn." You peered over the bike at the gauge, just to make sure it really was running on empty and this guy wasn't just some psycho trying to get into the house. Not that doing this was any safer, but hey, you had little to lose.

The man pivoted around to look at the 'gorgeous lawn,' and couldn't help the face he made.

"What, not pretty enough for you?" You reiterated, but the amused smirk he tossed you said he knew you were kidding.

"So, do ya think I could ask for some help?"

"Depends what kind."

You locked eyes, tiny smiles melting over your faces. You didn't always get along with people right away, and you'd been on and on about wanting privacy... but at least this interaction wasn't between you and a couch.

"Whatever you're offerin'," he blew a strand of hair from his eye. "But maybe some gas would be nice. At least enough to get back into town?"

"Or you could just walk and I could keep your bike."

He paused.

You laughed.

"Kidding. Lucky I got some extra gasoline in the shed," You walked right past him again and he turned your way. Just as your foot touched the porch steps you stopped again.

"...One sec," You felt a bit dumb going back and forth but something occurred to you just before you wasted your time.

Kneeling by the dirt bike again, you inspected the wheels closely.

Shoot.

"Damn." You sighed.

The man walked up, leaning over next to your squatted form to see.

"What? Oh," He narrowed his eyes. "Shit."

There was a small, jagged rock lodged in the back wheel, the air seeping out every passing moment. At this point the wheel looked a little flatter than it's twin.

"I guess I gotta drive you into town then, sir." Your tone stayed bland, but honestly you didn't mind the mini mission. Shit happens to everyone, after all.

"You don't mind?" He was genuinely surprised.

"Not like I have anything else to do. I'm out here all alone."

You made eye contact again, leaning briefly against his bike.

"I guess I shouldn't have said that. I don't know you. You could be a creep." But you didn't get that impression. And even so. You did take self defense classes a year or so ago, and he wasn't a huge or very bulky guy.

The blond rolled his eyes, chuckling.

"I don't know if it helps any if I promise you I'm not."

"Not really, but it reminds me that I should check you for weapons."

He cocked his head, the twitch on his lips suggesting he wanted to smile.

"Seriously?"

You nodded, stepping up to him, grasping he was just barely taller than you.

"You gonna pat me down or ya expectin' me to strip?"

You brazenly flickered your eyes down his form, fully realizing it would be rather hard for him to hide anything in his clothing; his top was as skin tight as an active wear-long sleeve could be and the pants were more typical biking pants that were a tad puffy with padding and pockets. Plus, you weren't actually that paranoid and you'd been stabbed once before.

Long story.

But anyway.

He lifted his arms along with his eyebrows, expectantly.

"I don't mind. I just wanna fix my bike so I don't have to bother a nice lady anymore."

You smirked, but kept your hands on your hips.

"Pretty sure our short encounter has been enough for you to grasp I'm not a typical 'nice lady,'"

Shifting your eyes down at him once more, you cheekily patted his elbows to get his arms to lower.

"But unless that lump in your pants is a gun, I think you're safe enough for a ride into civilization."

He knitted his brows before checking himself in a fluster.

"- Made ya look." You poked, leaving him bewildered as you jogged in the house to snatch your keys before meeting him at the side of your car.

"You sure got a sense of humor," He lulled, sliding into the passenger seat.

The car stuttered to life, and you hooked your arm over the back of his seat to twist your body around to back out into the pathway and get going.

"Thanks," Only when you were turning to get onto the dirt trail did you register you still hadn't gotten the guy's name. Now that was funny.

"I got a few questions for you, lucky man." You stayed with the improvised nicknames, yet.  

"Shoot." He leaned back into the seat, eyes wandering past the dash onto the road ahead.

"You know the type of wheels you need?"

"Yeah, o'course."

"You have money to pay for it?"

He flashed you a look. "Yes. I wouldn't ask that much of ya."

You pursed your lips, keeping eyes trained forward as you maneuvered around the trails and the small residences that went toward the main town.

"...and your name?" You finally asked, like it wasn't oddly placed in priorities here.

His green irises sparked with bashfulness and he snorted. Looked like he had forgotten about the formality as well.

"Jeff." After smiling at your side profile, he continued. "Hardy."

You tossed the name around mentally a few times before locking it in the vault.

"That's your full name?"

"It's Jeffery Nero Hardy, if you must know."

Well you didn't have a must, but Jesus, that was a name. Cooler than your's, unfortunately.

"Cool." Is all you said.

He gave you a minute of silence before nudging your response with a hum.

"Oh!" You acted embarrassed, making another turn. "It's Y/F/N. I didn't pick it."

"Ya make it seem like it's a bad name," Jeff propped his cheek onto his hand, leaning into his door's armrest. "It's not."

Though the casual compliment was welcome, though unasked for, you felt a tingle in your chest at the smirk playing at his lips. You noticed it in the reflection.

The fact was, town— or at least the auto shop you were headed towards— was still at least twenty minutes away, so there was time to burn and for some reason you wanted to keep talking to this Hardy guy. By all accounts you loved indulging in peaceful quiet, but it was like you couldn't help it. The guy, who literally rolled into your world, pulled you away from the alone time you begged for and you didn't even mind.

Maybe you had taken those expired meds without realizing it.

Ugh.

No, you didn't, but this feeling reminded you too much of the cheesy-as-all-hell story one of the girls from group therapy had divulged about the fling that saved her life. This was not going to be a fling. And you weren't in any dark place that you craved stopping your life short. And you weren't interested in him.

You were stopping right now, though, because of the stop light.

"So, Y/N," Jeff abruptly crashed through the silence, eyes continuously (perhaps unintentionally) glancing at you. "Why're you livin' up the hillside all alone for, anyhow?"

Apparently he believed he earned himself some questions because you'd asked him some. He didn't, but you weren't enough of a bitch to ignore him.

"Not living up there. Just staying. It's actually just a Summer home."

Jeff nodded once, "That's nice."

You coughed into the crook of your elbow, clearing your throat.

"I just needed time to clear my head and... be independent. People were always in my ear or on my case back where I was coming from." You wrinkled your nose, recalling all the times before recent you had wanted to run from it all and be free to mess yourself up if you wanted. Granted, you were grateful to be how you were now, but that would never change how it happened.

"I hear that. I was so caught up gettin' distance between me and my problems that my bike ran outta gas."

"Kudos for carelessness and being a loner," You held out one hand for a fist bump. "Cause me too."

He bumped it eagerly, shifting in his place. "I guess we're just similar souls, then."

"Hah. Yeah. Since I'll... probably never see you again after our little adventure, I guess it wouldn't hurt to share a bit. It's not often I get to have conversations with complete strangers who don't already have an opinion of me." You said, not quite sure of the decision.

Jeff's attention dialed in on your voice, completely willing to listen you speak all day. He felt largely the same magnetism toward you, even if the acquaintance had only been around an hour long.

It took half of a song on the radio for you to fully gather your thoughts to deliver a short version of your life story, but you did it.

"So... I'm only just getting into my twenties, right,"

Jeff made a mental note that you were both in the same age range.

"But I've gotten into some bad shit. My own fault, really, but not so much my decision to get stuck with it. Drugs'll do that to a naive body. Any... body, actually."

Jeff's head perked up, although his gaze went down to his hands again, something stirring. No wonder something felt familiar.

"I just got cleared from rehab, thank the Gods for getting me out of that place, too white and clean and perfect. But at least I'm better than I was— sober and all. But my family sure ain't treating me any different." Your grip on the wheel tightened, and you hated that the back of your eyes felt warm; you shook off the feeling and stayed alert.

"You ever get a feeling like that?"

Jeff knew he had, but he asked. "Like what?"

"Like you're alone even when you're surrounded by people? Whether they love you or hate you, doesn't matter, it's just you."  

Jeff was sure there wasn't ever a statement that resonated with him so purely - but you'd said it like it was right from his own brain.

"Too often. Most of the time I kinda wish I had someone who got me," He sorta half smiled, seeing your eyes in the rear view mirror. The sadness in them made him feel terrible, like he knew you. "And it's kinda scary how alike we are. 'Cept I ain't totally clean just yet..."

You braked harder than was necessary when you reached the last light before you'd be at the shop.

"Still fightin' my demons. And stubborn enough to want to do it without any pro help. I like being in control of my own self." He breathed in one strained breath, daring to look up at your curious face.

"At least you're trying it. The only reason I'm around is cause my parents forced me into the help."

"At least you're better. Forced or not."

"I wish I had your self-determination. Maybe then I'd have gotten here myself and not have to feel like shit and get shit on by my folks."

"Sometimes ya need somebody to get on your case. God. Self-determination... more like self-sabotage." It was like he was just now wondering why he was running in the first place. He missed his family, but when your body's got unhealthy chemicals stirred in he supposed one didn't make great choices. "I'm just a stubborn ass." And that too.

For some reason you both hacked out a laugh.

"You did end up broken down on my lawn because you were too much of an ass to stop for gas, that's all I know."

He came out of the slump and cracked a grin at your blunt remark.

"If ya can even call that a lawn."

Finally you rolled into the minuscule parking lot of the auto shop, and you turned off the car.

"Oh, sorry, didn't know you had high lawn standards." You playfully rolled your eyes, popping open your door.

"I do. You should see my place sometime." He got out.

"Don't think I know you well enough for that." You chuckled, swinging your keys on your finger as you walked up to the open garage.

"I'm actually a pretty skilled with the lawn mower." Like that was something that sounded cool; when he said it all confident you were almost convinced it was.

"I'll believe it when I see it. Maybe if you're so enthusiastic you could repay me by finishing up my grass, then."

You weren't serious but he was nodding at you while you two browsed the tire selection. At one point one of the workers asked if you needed any help, but Jeff was already tapping his desired tire obnoxiously loud.

"This is the one. Go ahead and keep the change." Jeff was fetching his wallet from one of his side pants pockets, handing over (hopefully not too much over) the correct amount of cash to the worker without so much as looking up at him. The worker counted the money to be sure he wasn't being under paid but made to help Jeff out as soon as he put the money in the register and correctly rung up the tire.

"I'll bring it out to your car, si—" The man went over to the item, only to have Jeff hold up a hand and grab it himself. Not like it was a car tire or nothing, but it wasn't the lightest thing on earth.

"Have a good one." Jeff called, walking toward where you were leaning by the door, simply observing.

"You don't slow down, do you." You rose your brows, opening the door for him to get back outside.

"Nah. Probably why-"

"You broke down on my nasty lawn, yeah yeah." You shook your head and sat back in your car seat, looking back at him through the window as he put the tire into the bed of the trunk. It'd be fine till the house.

"You say I don't slow down, but I don' think I ever met a girl with as sharp a tongue as you, Y/N." He returned to his passenger seat, rubbing his hands together.

"I think that was a compliment." You readjusted your mirror, corners of your lips curling up. "Thanks, peacock."

...

It was the same time getting back to the house, and the conversations were far less angst-ridden. It was the kind of conversations people try to have with their family's during road trips, with the stupid eye spies and the jokes and then the comfortable silence.

You still didn't understand why it was that way. Why you were more in tune with this random guy than you'd been with anyone 'close' to you in your life... at least in the last two or three years.

It was refreshing.

But sadly? Short-lived. Figures it would be too good for you, huh?

You helped Jeff get the wrecked tire off and replaced then filled up his tank with the extra fuel you had, since you weren't in need of it yourself. For once your apocalyptic preparation paid off. After that there really wasn't any reason for him to stay.

"Well ah..." Jeff trailed off, wetting his lips briefly and getting shy suddenly. It was cute.

Geez. Now you felt like blushing. Stop.

He sorted his thoughts and swung his legs over his bike, hands planing on his thighs and not the handles, however.

"Thank you. Not just for the bike, either." He smiled, tugging at the roots of his dyed hair a tiny bit.

You frowned only because of the ambiguity.

He shook his head, turning his helmet in his hands after unhooking it from the handle bars. "Ya gave me a good talk. Hope I wasn't too bad a company, either." His tone stayed chipper, but it was obvious he was a little disappointed.

He didn't think he'd have to leave so soon, but he didn't want to bother you longer.

"You weren't. Despite my first impression of you." You snorted, crossing your arms.

"And what was that?" He queried, brows arched.

"Dumb blond. If that even is your real hair color."

He feigned great offense, mouth agape.

"Harsh, Y/N. Real harsh." Jeff slid his head into the helmet, flipping the visor up so he could still keep eye contact. "And I really am blond. Just not this blond."

"Figured that much. I ain't dumb."

He really loved that spunky little grin you did. But that was why he couldn't stick around any longer— goodbyes weren't his thing and he thought, maybe if he got going he'd be able to move on from this encounter without obsessing over it too much. God knows he didn't need more distractions when his career was on the line.

You hated how heavy your heart felt, but you still smiled politely enough and raised a hand for a finger-wiggle of a wave.

"Bye then," you almost called him another nickname to try and dull the distant despondency. "Jeff."

The biker nodded, closing his eyes in a deep breathe.

"Just so ya know," He touched a hand to the visor of the helmet, this time avoiding your eyes. "I liked ya from the beginnin'."

You damn near froze in place. But he drove off after that, disappearing right back into the clearing. Just like that.

"...What an asshole."

A hand clapped over your mouth when it started to smile. He was an asshole but his last words to you were nice. In a way.

Hard for anything to be nice when it's there and then gone.

Going back inside and flopping face first into the couch, it was cool and comfortable; but all at once you felt lonely again. Again, because in the short time you were with Jeff you had felt alright — miraculously one guy made you feel more at home than a house with parents or a visiting room of friends.

... ... ...

Three days passed and you liked to tell yourself you'd already started forgetting all about the peacock boy.

You had not, but nobody was stopping you from lying mentally.

The front yard stayed half mowed because you were one: lazy, and two: it reminded you how Jeff had joked about doing it for you. You wondered how his yard looked, since he seemed so proud of it. Unless that was a joke.

It wasn't a lie that you wanted to know more about him— you didn't know anything, not really, except he made you talk, he was funny, he got your rude humor, and he... he was rolling up to your porch right now. The noise had sounded all too much like it had days ago, only louder because the bike wasn't breaking down this time. He twisted the handles to further get your attention, since you were still staring out at him from the window.

Stepping over to the second step of the porch stairs, you had nothing to say.

Jeff removed his helmet, and used his free hand to pat the second one he happened to have resting on his lap. He beamed.

"Mornin', Y/N. Long time no see?"

"Not long enough." You snapped back, though the words were the absolute opposite to the joy bubbling up from your toes upward.

Thankfully, he still got your humor, and just lifted the other helmet with an extended arm. You couldn't move forward yet.

"Why're you back here, Jeff?"

His arm never wavered, but he took a second to glance around the yard.

"To mow your lawn, obviously." The man faked a yawn. "How'd I know you still wouldn't have it done?"

You huffed, finally walking down to him on his new bike. Your hands hesitantly took the spare helmet too.

"You don't know me though."And he had called himself a stubborn ass.

Patting your helmet with his gloved hand, then poking your forehead, Jeff scooted as much forward as he could be comfortably.

"Sure. But I'd really like to."

You were on the back of the bike before you knew it.

He revved the motor once more before snapping his helmet on and bravely reaching back to put your hands around his trim waist. The last glance he threw over his shoulder, you were barely able to see his eyes through the light tint of the visor, but his words were crystal clear from this proximity.

You liked this proximity.

"Hold on tight, darlin'."

You did. And for the rest of your days you didn't let go.

[enigmog]

Scars

Apparently I’m on a roll this week. Definitely not avoiding studying I swear. This time I’m being mean to Gavin, enjoy!

cw: violence

The vagabond is covered in scars, everyone knows this. A man in his line of work has his fair share of stories written across his skin. But what about Gavin Free? The Fake AH Crew’s sweet little golden boy.

Never seen out of long sleeved shirts and skinny jeans

You’d think for an English kid in sunny Los Santos he’d be wearing as little clothing as possible right? The hot summers and mild winters of the West Coast more akin to Southern France than miserable old England. And yet...

And yet.

The others begin to realise he never removes a single item of his get up around them. Not even rolling his sleeves up. Whereas Michael will throw off his jacket or Geoff will pull off his tie and loose the top few buttons of his shirt; Gavin remains fully dressed and immaculate at all times. Odd. But they all have their quirks.

He’s not in combat much.

He’s adequate with a gun sure, good with a knife, fucking terrible at hand to hand. When he does get injured it’s usually minor. The rest of his crew increasing their efforts tenfold as soon as someone even thinks of touching their golden boy, of making him bleed. He’s more at risk from himself than others. Every injury is "just a scrape," "just a nick," "just bloody shot myself in the foot!" Nothing major. Nothing that requires medical attention, honest.

He always refuses to be seen by Caleb. Refuses to let Jack look him over. Ryan quietly sidles up to him one day. Cautious, suspicious, Gavin can tell. He refuses Ryan’s help too. He can patch himself up, he’s been doing it long enough.

"What do you mean by that?"

And Gavin pauses for a second, face stricken, before the golden boy facade repositions over his features, self assured grin back in place. "I’m clumsy, was even clumsier as a kid. I'm used to it"

Ryan doesn’t buy it for a second. But Ryan leaves. Ryan ruminates. Ryan waits.

Then comes the day Gavin feared. The day the crew see. The day they know.

It’s a heist gone wrong. The LSPD getting the drop on them as they leave the bank the fakes are robbing. They’ve blocked in the getaway cars and Jack has been forced to retreat. It’s times like this, when all their muscle is on the ground, that they miss having a permanent sniper. Geoff radios for B-team to pick them up, turning back into the bank and hurrying for a back door.

“We get out of here, we split. Stay in pairs and keep each other safe. Regroup three blocks from here by the impound. B-team is gonna pick us up there. I’m meeting Jack the next street over. Go!”

There’s a reason Geoff is their leader, when Ramsey is in charge everyone acts without question or retort. Gavin included. Team Nice Dynamite separate from the others and take off running. Their path the most direct, Gavin isn’t exactly the best at climbing over walls or jumping roofs.

Which is how the LSPD catch up to them. Cut off both ends of the street they’re on and launch tear gas. Gavin can’t breathe, can’t see. He needs to find Michael and get out. Before the LSPD close in and ensnare them.

He splutters his way blindly into an alley, lungs burning. Gasping in lungfuls of cleaner city air, poisoned only by pollution and human leavings instead of military grade mist. Stumbles forward, hands outstretched and eyes streaming. Flails straight into a wall. Dead end.

Shit.

He turns around, dropping his empty pistol, not like he’d be able to aim straight if he did have bullets, the effects of the tear gas still clouding his sight. Instead he pulls a knife and waits.

Out of the toxic cloud comes three LSPD officers, clothed in breathing apparatus and wielding weapons of their own.

They'll try to take him alive. Try. The golden boy would be so useful to them, all those pretty secrets he could spill. But a dead golden boy is still a victory. Still a head cut from the snake that has ruled the city for so long

Gavin lunges forward, knife going for a throat, plunging it deep as his eyes are already on his next target. A gun butt hits the back of his head and he drops forward, lights flashing behind his eyes as he goes to his knees. Then he's up again. Whirling round as he pulls a fresh knife, stabbing for anything he can reach. Crotch will do, plenty of blood vessels around there. A shot goes off and pain sears through his abdomen and Gavin stumbles. Another shot and his left leg gives way beneath him. Sharp hot pain shooting up from his shin. He screams, clutching at the wound and willing himself not to throw up, even as he can taste acrid bile rising at the back of his throat.

The last officer looms over him, his gas mask making him appear emotionless. And in that moment Gavin understands the fear others have of the vagabond. Then there's a spray of blood and the officer drops. Michael sprinting to Gavin’s side, red faced and snarling.

"You alright boi?"

He shakes his head, unable to speak. If he speaks he’ll throw up. If he speaks he'll scream again. Michael looks him over, rage dropping from his features as they cloud over with fear instead. "We're getting you to Caleb."

"NO!" He can’t, not Caleb, they'll see, they'll know. He throws up and then babbles, pleadingly, "please Michael don't, I’m fine, it doesn't hurt that bad, Michael please I can patch myself up, don't take me to Caleb, please!"

Michael picks him up, cradling Gavin to his chest ignoring his frantic begging. “It’s alright, I got you boi.” The pain of being moved, even gently, makes him want to throw up all over again. Combined with the anxiety of what was to come, his brain checks out and he falls into darkness. The distant sound of Michael calling for the others to get to him fading out.

He wakes up in a hospital cot, wires running from his chest to a monitor beside him, tube up his nose, bandages across his stomach and a cast on his leg. His shirt and jeans have been removed.

They've seen.

They know.

He immediately tries to get up. Tries to get out of bed and leave. Go anywhere. Maybe catch a plane and just fucking flee. Adios Los Santos!

Then there's gentle hands restraining his shoulders, a soft "hey, you're okay i got you," and gentle brown eyes peering into his own.

It’s not okay. It'll never be okay. He’s a mess, covered in scars. Pretty golden boy face with a marred body. Old lines and neat little circles. Too numerous for others to count. There’s 23 knife wounds and 15 separate cigarette burns. He knows, he counted. That’s not including wounds that have faded or wounds from working in America. These scars are older, the pain running deeper. Gavin tries to hide as much of himself under the bed sheet as he can. He doesn’t want Michael to see. But Michael’s looking at his face, looking at him with pity in his eyes and no, no! This isn't right. He’s the golden boy, he’s one of the fakes, he’s untouchable and terrifying and powerful. He doesn’t want pity. Especially not from those he cares about.

"What happened Gav?"

He laughs at that. Maybe it’s shock or painkillers or something else. But he throws his head back and laughs hysterically."What do you think happened?!"

The others come in when they hear him. They all look at him with pity. They've all seen. They all know.

And it all comes out as everything falls apart.

"Kids are cruel. They get worse when they turn into teenagers. It started as shoving and name calling, escalated all the way to torture on camera. I was nothing in high school. Nothing. Nobody would dare come near for fear of the same treatment, I twagged most of my lessons because they told me to. Teachers asked questions but I couldn’t tell anyone, they said they’d kill me if I told anyone and I believed them, still do. I left school and worked in a shop. Dan worked there too. But they never left me alone. Just kept coming back. Same old taunts but always new ideas on how to inflict pain. I just wanted them to stop... Then one day they jumped me as I was leaving, it was... different this time. They weren't just doing it to hurt, I think- I think they were going to kill me. Had had enough of playing with me and decided to end it. End me." His voice stayed flat, emotionless, watching for their reactions.

He can see the tension in his crew, the tight set of Geoff’s jaw, the tilt of Jack’s head as she listens, the coldness of Ryan’s gaze that held hot fury beneath, Jeremy’s straight back and Michael’s balled fists. They'd seen now. It was best they knew everything.

"I'd be dead if it weren't for Dan.  He saved my life by ending theirs. It was the first time I'd seen dead bodies... I kind of hoped it’d be the last back then," he snorts bitterly. "We started working together. Outside of work work. I'd already been pick-pocketing and pulling credit card fraud and shit, Dan was muscle for some local drug dealer since, y’know, shop work doesn't exactly pay much. So we started working together. Formed SMG. I’d known Burnie since high school and he... showed interest in us. Dan didn't want to go but said I should. I didn't want to leave without him. In the end he made the choice for me by joining the army. Liberty City was safer than trying to go it alone. I was never really safe without Dan until I joined the Roosters. And then you went off to Los Santos and formed the Fakes, Geoff, and here we are. Here I am."

He can't look at them, can't look at himself either. Can't let them see how much this hurts him. Can't let them know the pain it’s causing him to recount all this.

"Here you are. And I'm so glad you are." His eyes snap to Geoff, disbelieving.

"You don’t think I’m weak?"

"Gavin, why the fuck would we think that? You took fucking beatings for years! And you’re still here! How does that make you weak?!" Michael’s voice, relatively quiet despite the anger clearly bubbling, makes him feel better. More normal.

"Burnie knows. He uh- a gang got hold of me when we were still part of the Roosters. He bloody kacked himself when he saw the- the mess I was in. Thought the other gang had done it all," he shrugs, "they barely added any new marks."

He flinches at Jack’s sudden intake of breath, doesn't want to see her pity. But when she envelops him in a tight hug, and suddenly the others are joining too, cautiously, very aware of his injuries, it feels almost nice. Feels like he can finally breathe. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until Jack wipes the tears away, telling him it’s okay to cry, that he's okay now, he’s safe.

In an odd way, he’s glad they’ve seen. Glad they know. Caleb comes in and doses him up with more painkillers. His world becomes clouds and softness as the others leave, Michael staying to watch over him, their hands laced together. Gavin lets himself drift off. He’s safe. He has his crew.

Yes he’s breakable.

But maybe it's not so bad that family knows that.

[crossedbeams]

History - Trinity Ch. 9

Genre: Casefile | Fandom: The X-Files x The Fall x Sreetcar | Rating: Mature | Setting: Circa 2012. Canon compliant | Chapters: 2/6 of Part 2

Trinity Part I

Chapter 1 - Perfume || Chapter 2 - Impression || Chapter 3 - Connection Chapter 4 - Delusion || Chapter 5-  Confrontation || Chapter 6 - Post Mortem

Trinity Part I

Prologue - Purgatory || Chapter 2 - Animosity

TRINITY: PART II CHAPTER II - History

Blanche Dubois sways slightly in her seat, so frail in the halogen brightness that it seems that an especially assertive huff from the air-conditioner might blow her away. Scully tries not to let her feelings show on her face, trying to retain her bedside manner, but seated next to the marble-composure of Stella Gibson, she feels like an open book. Scully has expressed concern to both the officer-in-charge and to Blanche herself that this interview is too much, too soon, that the post-nightmare sedation received has barely left her system, but it seems Blanche’s mind is made up. There’s a set to her jaw that stills the usual nervous flutter of her hands, as if her determination to verbalise the perceived threat gives her the power to escape it. Yesterday they were treated to a flurry of words, images and half-truths about her past but today is different; today she flits between periods of haunted silence and scuds of hard words, heavy with exhaustion and bitter with truth.

‘I met him in Miami one Christmas.

I had to get out of Laurel. I couldn’t breathe for the rumours and the boiler was as played out as I, so I figured why not fly south with the birds. I had a friend in Miami, Mrs. Meghan Sands, a girl from school who still sent pretty letters and empty invitations from time to time, and was far enough away that she wouldn’t know any better than to let me stay a while. The first few days were golden, like in that song. The fates allowed us to get along and I didn’t need to go out looking for someone like I’d planned to… I didn’t even need the bourbon I’d stowed in my suitcase. I thought my luck might be changing, she had a bachelor friend who was kind and attentive and the climate suited me well. It was my little Christmas miracle... until the night Meg had a headache and went up early, and Mr. Sands poured us both one too many drinks and then tried to kiss me. I screamed and that was the end of it. Women don’t like to keep other women that their husbands think of kissing under their roofs, regardless of who started it.’

Blanche smiles wanly at her sad philosophy, threading her fingers through her hair to push it off her face, searching Scully’s face for some flicker of understanding and ignoring Stella completely. Normally Stella commands the room, a cold clear light of absolute certainty, but Blanche’s narrative is a firelight flicker, unpredictable and prone to flare or fail. After yesterday’s experience, the British detective seems reluctant to push her witness to the point of hysteria, so she simply sits, waiting for Blanche to arrive at her destination and leaves Scully alone in the half-light of half-truth. 

Nodding her encouragement, Scully squeezes her hands together under the table, trying desperately not to fidget and betray her discomfort to either her witness or her colleague. The grey areas between belief and proof have always belonged to Mulder and his absence makes her feel both incomplete and an imposter. Her relief shakes past her lips on a long-held breath when Blanche finally breaks the silence to continue; claiming back the spotlight before it can reveal too much of her questioner.

‘There's something about me that makes people think I’m trying to seduce, even when I’m not, some scarlet letter that burns through my purest intentions and draws down the worst of men. It seems Hester Prynne and I both wear clothes cut from the same cloth. Maybe she was forced and I bought mine, but nobody made me stay in Miami. Nobody forced me into that hotel, through those bars, into those dresses that covered less than they ought. There were men, some of them as rich as I’d dreamed they would be, but all just window shopping while they waited on a younger model, and as the New Year rocketed in my money was gone and all hopes of finding that elusive millionaire dwindled with the fireworks.

I’d decided I was washed up, that I’d have to go to my sister, when he slid into my booth and paid off my tab. He was younger than me, not exactly handsome but somehow imposing, and he took my hand with the gentleness of a child and kissed it.’

The thin white hand on the table shakes at the memory, at the hard bones of truth hiding just under the fragile skin of her memory.

‘I asked if he was a knight in shining armour and he said no. His voice was caught between accents and soft. I could hardly hear him over the music in the bar but his body curved round like a shield and I thought perhaps I could be safe there.

I asked him if he was a millionaire and he said he could be and smiled.

I knew he wasn’t. After two more drinks I knew he wasn’t there to rescue me, but in his smile, in his hand and his eyes, there was something more intoxicating than liquor or wealth; he needed me. Not in the way that all men need a woman when their libido is high and their morals low, but on some deeper level. He looked at me like a baby looks at its mama holding it, like a man looks at his wife at the altar, as if I were the only one who could give him what he needed and he would die without it. Without me.

I went with him willingly, legs unsteady enough that I leaned on his shoulder even after we got in the cab. He held my face in the crook of his shoulder and neck, hiding me from the world, and I didn’t think anything of it when he pressed his handkerchief into the gap between my face and his neck. At first I was pleasantly surprised he carried a handkerchief, I thought they died out with chivalry, so when I found I was getting dizzy I assumed it was the drinking. I tried to move, to get some fresh air, but he shushed me and held me still until everything dissolved to nothing.

I woke up in an unfamiliar place, naked, cold and tied to a mattress with plastic sheets on it by my pantyhose and underwear. He was standing at the end of the bed and crying. He still looked young, but no longer innocent, the blankness in his eyes frightened me more than the surroundings and I cried out. He didn’t move, just kept staring; not at my body but at my face, so I screamed until he did move. An alarm went off somewhere out of sight and it seemed to break the spell. He forced another cloth against my mouth and held my nose closed so I had to breathe through the copper-sour fabic. It choked me, stealing my sound and my air until I passed out again.

The next time I woke up I was alone and the whole place stank like cooking. Something greasy and burned, a poor man’s hell. I stayed quiet a few minutes, until I was sure I couldn’t hear anyone around so I started trying to get free. My arms were tied to a grille over the window and when I pulled it bent before my arms did, but it was loud, the metal screaming or maybe it was me. Either way I panicked, freeing my hands as fast as I could so I could at least scratch and hit when the moment came. Except nobody came. Only quiet.

The room had a door but it was locked and when I threw myself at it, the whole placed swayed and creaked. I realised then I must be in a trailer, there was no sound of the sea for it to be a boat but I was just as marooned as if it had been. I couldn’t shift the door, the windows were boarded tight, so all I could do while I sat in this trap was look for a weapon. The little kitchen was almost empty, plastic over everything but the oven door which was leaking the acrid burning smell. I wondered if I was being poisoned while I looked for the knives, you know the poem? “An ecstasy of fumbling,” and I had Wilfred Owen but no knives. No nothing but the built in furniture and something blackened and unrecognisable smoking in the oven.

Perhaps he meant to burn me. but there was no flame, just as there was no gas...no sign of his intentions at all. I was the mouse in his humane trap, captured and waiting for some other, undecided death. The trailer was small but I never felt so exposed as I did then, shut in this empty living, dying space with no protection and no way out.’

Blanche has shrunk in her chair, muscles contracting her down to her smallest self as though she can hide now as she couldn’t then, and Scully fights the urge to try and comfort her, to try and heal. But they need their truth and from the sounds of overzealous punctuation and seat shifting to her her left, Scully suspects Stella’s patience is wearing thin.

‘I shut myself in the bathroom. The door was barely solid but it locked from the inside and I felt safer in the tiny space, there was less room for fear especially when I found an old shirt stuffed between the shower and the toilet. I had clothes, I had a locked door, I was still alive and there was a cold, clean draft that helped me to clear my head. I sat there until I started shivering, wishing I could dissolve into atoms and escape with the air rattling through the vent. It took me much too long to realise that maybe I could, that cold air meant outside and outside might mean escape. When I stood on the toilet I could see stars around the ventilation hatch, just a few spots of light where things didn’t fit together properly, I can’t count how many times stars have showed me my way, but I caught Orion by his belt and followed one hunter away from another…

I don’t remember jumping down, but I must have because I do remember running; my feet shredding on the rough ground, losing myself in the night time under the stars with no plan or direction in mind other than other than away. Far away. I didn’t even look back. That’s the first thing they teach you when running track you know? Looking back slows you down. So I ran until I saw lights besides the stars, and then the lights were a road and the road had cars and I tried to stop them but nobody would help me until the police came.

I tried to tell them, tried to explain who I was and what had happened but they thought I was drunk. And then they took me into the station and looked me up and my record made them think I was really drunk.’

Scully interrupts then,

‘They didn’t take a statement? Or make any attempt to corroborate your story?’

Blanche regards the table with unnecessary interest.

‘They called the bar where I was and the barman said I’d left willingly with a guy. Just like the last few nights. I said that was true but what happened after was different. And they said I’d only been gone a few hours. And I said a few hours that I didn’t want to be gone! And then… they said they could do a test... To find out if I’d been… forced... because then there was a crime.’

She starts making nervous circles on the table with one slim, white finger.

‘I told them no. I told them…. I told them… I hadn’t. I knew I hadn’t. I know what - and then they said that there was no crime to investigate, that what people did in their bedrooms was their business, that maybe I should drink less and be more careful about who I “kept company” with.’ Blanche ceases making the circles and replaces them with sharp, slashing lines across the grain of the wood. Scully’s stomach has hollowed out and she glances sideways to see Stella’s lips set in a thin, furious line, the first time they have both responded to their witness in the same way.

‘I got angry then.’ Blanche admits, though her fury is written in every line of her pposture and the bitter strikes she is marking on the table. ‘And I shouted at them, told them that I might have started out drunk but that they were the ones who weren’t seeing clearly. They were the deluded ones! They laughed at that until I called them some very vulgar things. Then they put me in a cell and in the morning they gave me some pants out of lost property and let me go. I went back to Laurel that night.’

The fight drains out of her then, remembered anger giving way to resignation as Blanche finally widens her focus to include Stella, and then leans in a little, voice low with something not far from exhaustion and laced with the shame of defeat.

‘I thought about staying... about trying to prove myself. But I thought I was more likely to be found by the boy with the dead eyes than to find the truth and get anyone to believe me. You know it as well as I do Detective Gibson, all stories have power, but there’s danger in the telling. My love of magic, of fairytale colours in a bleak world makes me an “unreliable witness.” In this man’s world people are supposed to be one thing or another, beauty or a bitch, a wife or a wastrel. I tell stories, drink cocktails with strangers, dance alone until last orders and therefore I am judged a liar, a drunk and a floozy. There’s no place for those women in the witness stand so instead I ran.

I’ve always run. I’d like to run now but I’m so very, very tired.’ She looks to the door as if it leads to some far-flung escape and not just another corridor, her body leaning towards the imagined escape before retreating with a sigh. ‘Everything looks better when it’s moving fast, and the bad things pass sooner. Sometimes they even hurt less.’

‘Did the bad things pass?’ Stella’s voice is the calm after the storm of the story and Blanche looks up and laughs, though the sound holds no humour.

‘Detective Gibson… Stella... in your line of work you must know that people like me are never far from disaster. If I were a ship, my anchor would be calamity, weighing the end of a long chain that sometimes I can lift enough to move a little but that always pulls me back. But yes, for the purpose of this meeting, the bad thing passed. I never saw that person again. That bad thing became one more shadow in my past and other things, some of them better, took over my days. A little colour in all the whiteness, a little warmth to hold back the dark...’

‘Until last night?’ Stella clarifies, and Blanche nods.

‘He’s older now, not much but there are deeper lines and a scar where there didn’t used to be. He burned his face into my nightmares when he stood and watched me scream. I’d know him anywhere.’

‘I hope she’s right,’ Stella mutters absently as they go over their notes in an empty interview room. Next door, Blanche Dubois is sitting with a police sketch artist.

‘About what?’ Scully can’t quite keep the incredulity out of her voice. She’s still haunted by the desperate hold of Blanche’s gaze across the table, by the unspoken plea in her voice that cut straight through the veneer of police detachment Scully had painted on in preparation. That story, half-hidden though it was behind poetic embellishments, had connected with both her doctor’s need to heal and the long dormant hunger for justice, truth and fairness that Mulder had always appealed to to convince her of a tenuous case. Blanche Dubois has made her believe, and the idea that Stella can remain unmoved, unaffected by the scars laid bare before them...

Stella looks up, confused by the harsh edge to Scully’s words and somehow sees and understands all that she cannot verbalise in the shared space of a conflicted blue gaze.

‘I was talking about being able to recognise her attacker’s face anywhere. Not the rest of it. I…’ Stella pauses, caught between instinctively presenting her most resilient self and sharing an honest moment.

Screw it.

Dana Scully has forgiven several misreadings, has proved herself invaluable to the investigation and she doesn’t seem the type to exploit a crack in another woman’s armour. Her trust is worth the risk, and so Stella sighs, leans forward to massage her temples and lets her words fall softly into the quiet of the room.

‘I wish that I didn’t think the rest of it was true. It would be much, much easier to squeeze Ms. Dubois for information if I hadn’t seen that same face in a thousand interviews. But I have, I’ve seen it all, I’d recognise that truth anywhere; the eyes pleading to be believed, the hands holding the tension of the trauma, legs pressed tight together as if it weren’t already too late to protect what has been taken. And the voices… I’m halfway across the world but it’s always the same. Fear and anger, sadness, hurt and shame... that’s the worst, the fact that any woman anywhere could blame herself for what an assailant took from her. That chord of desperation, denial and survival? That victim symphony? You can’t fake it.’

She looks up, cate sight of the personal question forming on Scully’s lips and folds her arms to fed off any further intrusion.

‘Blanche Dubois is a victim, I know that that much is true, though I still don’t know of whom. But even if I did, I have to force that knowledge to the back of my mind to do my job. I have to separate the woman from the witness, the same way you pathologists view a cadaver as a case and not a person. Perhaps at times I go too far in that separation, when the stakes are high…’ Stella stops, head bowed, and tries to push away a memory of Blanche Dubois’ agonised face when confronted with an identity parade of the dead, to stop herself feeling the disappointed blaze of Dana Scully’s protective instinct.

And then there’s a small hand on her elbow, a note of forgiveness at her side.

‘Sometimes we all go too far trying to do the right thing.’ Scully’s words are heavy with years of experience and her smile is sad. For a brief but binding moment the air in the room is one of sisterhood, and then a wash of boisterous male voices swings past in the corridor and reality crashes back into the foreground.

Stella shakes herself and turns her smile professional while Scully’s hand retreats to close up her notes.

‘I think you should be looking for your possible first victim in Miami’s Jane Does,’ she says, as if nothing has happened. ‘Your perp had a kill room set up, and I think it’s unlikely he walked away from it. With that timeframe, we may be looking further back than we thought.’

Stella nods her agreement.

‘Let’s go tell Stanning,’ she says. ‘That should give him something to be petty and pissed-off about in the afternoon briefing.’

<< Previous Chapter || Next Chapter >>

Thank you as always to @therobbinsnest @stellagibsonisalifeforce and @carrie11 without whom this would be an utter mess.

[letterstoocean]

my ocean, 

more re writes of our story....

“You never told me why you always chew on rose stems.”

“I thought I had.”

“Nope. The last time you started we were interrupted; and every time you tried to pick the conversation back up you were cut off.  It was kind of funny.  Remember?  You were drunk and walked outside mumbling about how conversation was a dying art?”  

“Oh yeah.  Conversation is a dying art, by the way. Let me get a new drink then I’ll try to tell it. That story tends to choke me up so I’m not telling it without one.”

“You gather your thoughts.  I’ll grab the drink.”

“And shots!” I yell as she walks in the kitchen.

She returns with a fresh cocktail and two shot glasses full of red absinthe.  We drink the shots and I sit back.

“Okay, where to begin.  Hey, write this down or record it.  I don’t think I want to tell this story more than once.”

She hits record on the tape recorder and sits back, legs tucked under her for warmth.

“Where to begin?  Where to begin?  Actually, I should begin with two very nice old ladies that ran a small bodega in Pearland, Texas…”

Rose Stems and the Black Queen

The only time I ate was at school.  So if I skipped school I didn’t eat. Didn’t stop me from skipping school, I just had to find different ways to get food.

I was walking to school when I ran into a group of bullies that had been tormenting me since I arrived in Pearland.  Bullies always have a leader and as I walked closer to them he smiled in anticipation of either chasing or catching me.  I saw him mouth to his buddies, “look who it is.”   So I ducked into the first door I saw.  They stood outside and waited; all good bullies know not to start anything in a building. Grownups always break it up or inform their parents.

I turned around, saw that I was in a small grocery store and looked around while waiting for them to leave.  Eventually, one lady came out from behind the counter and asked if I needed any help. I’m not sure why but I pretended to be deaf and dumb. The lady gave me a sincere smile, grabbed a pen and paper and wrote the question down again.  I wrote back that I was hungry but not sure what I wanted.

She wrote back, TAKE WHAT YOU WANT SWEETIE.

I grabbed one of the homemade sandwiches from the cooler and fumbled around in my pockets pretending to look for money that wasn’t there.  

DON’T WORRY ABOUT MONEY.  YOU COME BACK WHENEVER YOU ARE HUNGRY.

Every day after school I would stop and write a poem for them or give them a drawing and they would feed me.  All the while I pretended that I was deaf and dumb.  I wasn’t mean to the ladies.  I never took more than they offered but I did feel guilty about what I was doing.  It didn’t stop me from doing it.  I was hungry; and the bullies would never follow me into the bodega.

One day before school, the bullies were chasing me and I was nowhere near the bodega or the school so I ran into a Safeway grocery store to hide and to wait them out.  I decided to make myself a sandwich while I was in the store and as I opened a bag of Wonder Bread to get a couple of slices I heard a woman behind me yell “hey!”  Startled, I jumped and spun around expecting an employee to pounce on me. Instead it was one of the ladies from the bodega.  “Oh shit!” Then I realized that I had jumped when she yelled. I ran out of the store and through the group of kids waiting for me, knocking two of them on their asses as I did.  

I honestly believe that I ran faster from that lady than I ever ran from the kids.  I really did hate lying to her and now I was caught. I didn’t want to face that fact.  It wasn’t like the lady was going to chase me out of the store.  

I ran in the opposite direction of school; since the bell would ring soon the bullies broke off their pursuit.  I slowed down enough to walk into a barbershop to hide.

Never run through a doorway.

Always walk in with some sort of confidence.

Confidence is a damn good weapon to have.

Running through a doorway into someones world lets them know you are scared and don’t care if they know it.

That’s a secret you can’t afford to let out.

The lessons that Gary: The Convict Next Door (another story for another time) taught me rang in my head and I stood in the doorway and smiled.  

“Have a seat, yard ape.” Said a leathery old man sharpening a straight razor on a white belt attached to the barber’s chair.

Sitting in the chair was an old black man with a mess of white hair and matching sideburns.  He had a black pipe clenched between his teeth and white smoke drifted from between them.

Next to the big bay window that looked out on to the street, two men sat at a table staring at the pieces on a chess board. One of them looked exactly like the man sitting in the barber chair.  The other man was white; he wore a black suit with a string tie like the jazz musicians wore in New Orleans.  He was very tan with long black hair that was showing some gray.  He had it tied back with a leather cord.  A small stick stuck out of his mouth and twitched from one side to the other as he stared at the chess board.

I looked at the door thinking maybe it was better to run after all; but after a moment, I decided old smoky men were safer than young angry bullies and walked over to the bench.

“Relax, we’re all friends here.”  Said the black man as he moved one of the chess pieces and then sat back and lit his pipe.  “So what brings you to the barber shop?  Since you should be in school?”

I began to elaborate one of the many lies that just seemed to roll off my tongue; instead I shrugged my shoulders and looked at my feet.

“I’m going to guess it was those other yard apes chasing you up and down the street all the time.”  Said the long haired chess player.

“Yes sir.”  

“Well,” said the man moving a chess piece and sitting back, “You’re safe here.”

The barber stopped shaving the man and took a long look at me.  “Is that him?”  he asked going back to his task at hand.

“That’s the little artist. Not a very good actor though.” Said the white guy.  He looked at me, the small stick held between his teeth. “The ladies know you aren’t deaf.  Felt sorry for you.  I can see why. Seen you wearing those same clothes for a month now.”

The barber brushed the seat off, put a smooth white board across the arms and smacked it.

“Have a seat, get that mop cut.  Name’s Clive.  What’s yours?”

“Christophe, and I’m sorry, but I don’t have any money.”

“Didn’t ask for any.  Now hop up here.”

As Clive worked his way through hair that hadn’t been cut in two years I watched the two men play chess.

“The black man is Anthony.  His twin over there is Timothy; call him Tim.” They both nodded at me. “The crusty Italian is Giovanni.”  Clive said as the scissors snipped away.

“What are you chewing on?”  I asked Giovanni.

“Don’t be a yard ape and maybe I will tell you.”

“What’s a yard ape?” I asked through pursed lips as Clive cut my bangs and little hairs fell on my lips.

“You are.” He replied.

“All done.” Said Clive pulling the cape away with a swoosh and brushing the hair off my neck with a very stiff brush.  He brought a jar full of Dum-Dum suckers down from the shelf, opened it and offered me one. I took a green one, said thank you and returned to the bench.

I quietly sat watching men come and go.  Some received haircuts; others sat on the bench chatting with me.  Around noon a large woman stopped by with a gigantic pot of spaghetti and meatballs.  She set the pot down on a TV tray that was stored in the back room.  She counted the number of men and got as many plates.  She scooped out lunch and passed it around.  

Then she looked over at me above the rim of her glasses.  Sniffed, scooped some spaghetti out, looked me up and down and scooped some more.  She thrust the plate under my chin, “someone should have been feeding this boy.  Look how skinny he is.”

The plate had to weigh five pounds as I set it on my lap and dug in. Halfway through my meal my stomach felt like it was going to burst. The other men were taking their empty plates to the large woman to be cleaned.  I looked around for some help and no one looked me in the eye.  The woman shook a finger at the plate and I kept going.

Somehow, I finished it all and wound up falling asleep on the bench.  I didn’t hear the woman leave; I didn’t hear people come and go.  I couldn’t remember the last time I slept that well.

I felt a hand shake me awake as a voice laughed.

“Wake up, yard ape.  Time to close shop.”

I sat up rubbed sleep from my eyes and looked around.  The lights were out and Clive stood at the front door with keys in hand.  Giovanni stood over me smiling.  

“My sister’s pasta has killed men.  If it didn’t kill them it made them meet their god.  Never seen a yard ape finish a plate the first time.  You stick around and she will kill you or make you strong enough to take care of those that chase you.  But for today it’s time to head home.  Where do you live and I will give you a ride.”

I automatically began to lie.  I never told anyone where I lived in case they wanted to talk to my mom.  Since she was never home they may put two and two together and wind up putting me in a foster home or worse.  I stopped myself and told him I could walk home.  

“I need to walk the food off.”

“I don’t believe you.  Tell me where you live or I’ll let Tressa feed you another plate.”

I told him.

For the next week I hung out at the barber shop.  I didn’t have to worry about school calling home because we didn’t own a phone and I didn’t know where mom was so there was no worry there.  They never asked about school.  They never asked about home.  They fed me; they let me read what I wanted.   They didn’t ask questions.  Every day at noon Tressa showed up with a pile of food.  Some days she would bring a jug of wine that had orange peels in it.  It had to be the sweetest best tasting thing I had ever had in my life.

I didn’t think about school or the bullies.  One day before Giovanni arrived Clive told me that they knew one of the kids parents and Giovanni had one of his talks with them.  

“His talks can be very persuasive.  I don’t think you have to worry about those kids anymore.”

Giovanni began to teach me how to play chess.  He was very patient as he taught me; usually allowing me to make the mistake, taking my piece, and then explaining how I messed up.  He reminded me a lot of my Uncle Robin. One day when Giovanni and I were setting up the board. He paused, “Christophe, Tressa is here.  Help here bring in the food.  I’ll set your side up.”  That was the first time he didn’t call me yard ape.  

Clive and the Giovanni were the only people in the barber shop that day.  I don’t think a single person came through the door until Tressa showed up. She greeted me with a big wet kiss on the cheek and then shoved a box that smelled like Italian heaven into my arms.  She followed behind me with a small plate covered with a silver dome.  

She grabbed one plate; Giovanni coughed and held up two fingers.  Tressa raised an eyebrow but said nothing and made the second plate.  We ate in silence, I felt I shouldn’t say anything until an adult did and the adults said nothing.  Clive left with Tressa and it was just Giovanni and me sitting at the chess board.

“Never interrupt a respectable elder when they are telling a good story.” He put the stick back between his teeth. “Remember that.  Now then, you are not family.  But you are an old dying soul in a very young dirty body.  I’m dying and perhaps it is this fact that lets me tell you this story.”

He tapped the table with his hand, staring at the chess board; gathering his thoughts before he spoke.  He did this all the time.  

“We all fall in love.” He held up a finger. “Once.”  He took the stick out and held it between his fingers.  “My love was Canda.  We met in Italy as teenagers.  We fell in love, we danced and we married.  We were going to grow old together.”

He grabbed the black queen off the board and turned it slowly in his fingers.

“I took over the family business.  We moved to America.  We became rich. Every day of our lives together when I came home from the killing and corruption, I would pledge my love for her and give her a rose.”

He grew silent and kept turning the queen around in his fingers.

“She died, didn’t she?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Yes, yes, of course she did.  All good love stories have a death in them or they would not be good love stories.”

He passed the black queen over to me and gently slid the rest of the pieces off of the board.

“You win.”  Then with a deep sigh he said, “I chew on these because on her death bed she told me our love would not die even after she did.” He pulled the stem from his lips and held it just like he held the black queen.

“I chew on rose stems to remind me of Canda and that love doesn’t die. That love is always there on the lips to be said, or shared.”

I tell M—to stop the recorder.  I sit and stare at the floor.  I stare at the ceiling.  I stare at m—trying to come up with words that make the story sound beautiful.  To make it a writers story. But I find I can’t speak for awhile and for some reason I have to stop myself from crying.

“He died.  He died before we moved. A couple of days after that dinner. That day was his wife’s birthday, by the way.  I went to the barber shop and Clive told me Giovanni was shot in his home the night before.  ‘Revenge for what he had done in his youth.”

“On my way home, I stopped in the same Safeway and opened a chess set. I stole the black queen out of it and went home; trying not to cry for fear that mom’s roommate would see me and do something horrible.”

“Whenever I had the chance, I would buy or cut a rose out of someone’s garden, dry it out and hold it between my teeth.  I was trying to let Giovanni’s ghost know that his love would never die as long as I was around to remember it.  Now I don’t feel right unless I have a rose stem close to me, in my pocket or clenched between my teeth. Maybe its how I keep love near me.”

She heard him crying and slowly walked into the room.  He had pushed the laptop off the desk, onto the floor and had his head buried in his arms, the sobs coming hard.

She walked behind him, put her hand on his back, “Shhhh.”

“I. I. I. Can't do this.” He said sitting up. “I just can't!” he sobbed wrapping his arms around her waist and crying into her chest.

She embraced him, stroked his hair and whispered, “Shhhh. I am here my river. I am here.”

After several minutes of silence she asked, “Want me to read it?”

He laughed, wiped the tears from his eyes and replied, “Of course, you have to tell me if is any good or not.  You know, famous writer and shit!!  Gotta make sure it is good.” he laughed again.  

She grabbed his chin and raised it up so he could see her face.

“God, you are so beautiful.” he said with more tears falling from his eyes.

“Hey? Listen.”

He smiled.

“This is not about publishing this right now.  This is about getting it out.  Getting it all out.  You hear me.”

He smiled, nodded and stood up.

“The story is yours now.” he said.

Laughing, she picked up the laptop off the floor. “If this still works that is.”

“Willow is on the porch.  Go.  I will come get you when I am done.”  

As he was walking out the door she stopped him.

“Hey.  Don't go downstairs and try to write about us. I know you want to. Just sit on the porch and breathe.”

She was smiling, but the stern voice was there. He called it her Powerhouse Thunder Goddess voice.  He smiled, “when you say it like that, love, I don't have an option. But have you met me?  You know I am going to”

“I know. I love you my river.”

He came back over, put his fingertips to her cheeks, kissed her head, nose, lips and put his head on hers. “I love you, my ocean.”

He left the room and left her with the story.