#old and slow and the storage is almost full to the brim

[cherealta]

Me got new phone.. me should download hss

[bibliocratic]

muddle along or: the Pokemon / TMA crossover I’ve been promising @speakerunfolding for AGES jonmartin early S4

Jon considers the knapsack left for him.

Exhaustion is already feasting on any clarity he might have obtained in the near quiet. His body stiff, unused to the casual labour of his bones. The storage room, its shelves overburdened, the air vents popping like cracked knuckles, has gained nothing in his absence except a resurgence of dust and, in a dismal corner, a pile of boxes and a suitcase. A pathetic truncated shrine to his thirty odd years of living.

They moved his possessions here, when his rent went unpaid, when his water bills and council tax and internet payment reminders piled up like demanding snowdrift on his mucky welcome mat. Mutely, he glances over the hastily sellotaped boxes that now form his packaged-up life with all the distance that six months of bad dreams have afforded him.

He wonders who packed up his kitchenware, despairing at the mismatched cutlery harvested from student halls and charity-shop finds; clucked their teeth at the bread freckling mouldy in the barren landscape of his fridge; folded his clothes neatly into the suitcase he always kept stuffed under his unmade bed, even pairing up his socks; who took the books off his shelves in the belief he might thumb through them again one day.

He wonders if it was Martin.

Basira gave him the knapsack some hours ago. When he’d found some semblance of normalcy in the dull weight of a sandwich coating his stomach, dressed in clothes that now hang like rags off a coat hanger, sat at the table in the otherwise empty staff room with the heat of a cup of tea cactus-prickling his palms.

“He asked if you’d look after them,” she’d said. The strap of the bag held securely in the jaw of her Absol. “While he’s – well, you know…” She waves an exasperated done-with-it hand that manages to express a multitude of emotions that refract and merge like the morphing shades of a bruise. “Doing whatever the hell it is he’s doing. Or he thinks he’s doing.”

Jon wishes he knew.

He sits cross-legged in front of the storage room door, a sharp-boned barricade, thrumming like a struck tuning fork with the thought that even here, he will not be safe.

Gardevoir is a heavy weight against his shoulder. She’s quieter than he remembers, solemn and sombre in her new form. She used to demand being lifted up when she was Ralts, her flat red horns digging into his chest and leaving impressions, scrabbling down to shelter half-behind his legs when strangers approached. He left for the Unknowing and she’d been Kirlia, her face set and her cries insistent and infuriated, trying to push her Pokeball into his hand to make him bring her with them. Tim hadn’t asked where she was, when they all piled into the rental car, Houndoom taking up one of the seats in the back but snarling when Basira suggested putting her in her ball.

Jon doesn’t know when she evolved. It pains him, a dull-knife strike of thought, another wave against his tide-bashed flood barriers, to have slept through such a moment in her life when every other milestone they shared together.

“Now is a good a time as any, I suppose?” he asks her. His voice traces above a whisper. His Abra has calmed now, drained down from a difficult and teary reunion, and is now breathing deep and slow, curled into the port of his crossed legs. His three-fingered hands are still clenching the fabric of Jon’s shirt.

Gardevoir nods. Then gives him a nudge and a look when it seems as though he’s stalling, when he must be bleeding out apprehension like watercolours seeping through paper.

“Can’t get anything past you now, huh,” he says. She smiles, fond and he manages a short smile back, and it is almost, almost like it was before.

The bag is old, its original function probably for a laptop of some kind. The plasticky outer skin of it has rubbed away, flaking to mesh at the edges, the piping worn down to wires. Jon folds back the front of the bag, and inside there are four Pokeballs, the basic and cheapest red-and-white models. Jon had worked a thankless summer job at a beach-side amusement arcade to save up the money to get Ralts a customised ball, and had done similar when Abra came along a few years later.

To the side of the Pokeballs, ziplocked and labelled, there is a small forest of freezer bags bulging with berries and treats and care equipment. In a plastic pocket, there are precisely written instructions pertaining to each Pokemon and their requirements, and Jon’s throat tightens unexpectedly to see Martin’s looping joined-up handwriting, to see words that seem penned by someone who doesn’t expect to be coming back.

Gardevoir makes a low noise next to him. Her arm alighting on his, a solid weight, grounding. Jon clears his throat and takes out the Pokeball nearest the top, pushing the button on the front so the size balloons to fill his palm.

Most people have one Pokemon, maybe two, unless they’re involved in competitive breeding and training. When Abra came along, he remembers his gran remarking on the upkeep, how it would be his responsibility to feed and care for and train them, and it hadn’t been the cheapest venture but Jon had born the expense gladly.  It doesn’t surprise him that Martin has amassed so many in comparison to the norm.

At lunch one day years ago, the weather nipping frost-touched, they’d sat outside a cramped cafe because there’d been no seats indoors, and Martin had confessed that he was always taking them in. Thinking back, Jon knows that Martin was attempting to keep the conversation buoyant, coaxing him away from deeper, darker waters. Jon remembers being irritated, sore-eyed with sleeplessness, his spine strung with paranoia.

“My lost causes, Mum called them,” Martin had said, and his voice had tried for a levity that landed without cushioning. He’d torn off a bit from the end of his panini to feed a hopeful-looking Pidove pecking expectantly around their feet. The cause of the conversational turn, Martin’s newest acquisition, had sat grumpily mewling on the other man’s knee, wriggling and sniping as he tried to feed them some medication he’d got from the vet. Despite himself, Jon had been distracted from miring thoughts of Gertrude by watching Martin’s charade unfold, the man making a show of giving up with a theatrical sigh to scratch the Nidoran behind the ears in a show of defeat, being careful of their spikes. The Nidoran had headbutted his hand whenever his motions slowed to stopping, and Martin had used the distraction to fold a chorizo slice he’d pulled from his panini around the pill, which the Nidoran had happily snaffled from his fingers, gulping it down before returning to demand affection.

“They’ll be all healed up within the week,” Martin had continued, plastering over the continued lull with his chattering. “I’ve taken in a few Nidorans before, they tend to be pretty hardy.” He had scratched under the Nidoran’s chin as his words ebbed with the nudging of an undemanding tide.

Jon had picked at his sandwich as Martin had fold him about hiding Pidgeys and Swablus in an old shoebox under his bed, lined with the nesting material of some of his t-shirts donated to the cause. A chipped-edge bowl borrowed from the kitchen brimming with water and his own early team of Pokemon keeping them company while their wings healed in their splints before they were strong enough to leave again.

These four Pokeballs in the knapsack aren’t just random strays. They’re Martin’s Pokemon. The ones that never left him, the ones that he’s raised and doted upon and taken worriedly to the Pokecentre over every cough and sniffle and fever.

And for the meantime, they’re Jon’s.

Jon presses the release button on the first ball.

There is a chittering surprised coo as an Oddish materialises in a buzz of light and reforming matter.  They reform to stand a little higher than Jon’s ankle, only to fold their leaves half over their eyes at the unkindness of the halogen strip light. They totter when they take a step, tumbling to sitting with an affronted noise before, with a determined heft, they rock themselves up to standing again. Jon’s seen Martin’s Oddish before, approaching every walk around the assistant’s office space like a tightrope. Tim had bought them a little plant pot as a novelty Christmas gift once, and they’d unironically loved it, hopping into it cosily and getting specks of soil all over Martin’s desk.

Their leaves are poked through with ragged little holes, like they’ve been nibbled away, the green tinged in places to a sickly yellow. In the bag there is a vial of luminous blue medicine, complete with dropper and application instructions. It’s a stress thing, he dimly remembers Martin had once explained to him. It’s like an eczema, of a sort, that afflicts Grass-types, but it affects Oddish’s balance when it flares up.

The Oddish looks at Jon. They don’t have a neck as such, so they lean their whole bulb-like body backwards on their stumpy legs to study Gardevoir, who gives a reassuring blink. They glance around the storage room and its uninspired treasures of boxes and the unpromisingly weak-seeming metal frame of the cot, with a fretful shake of their leaves. They’re expecting to see someone else.

“Hello,” Jon says. He clears his throat, attempting to present a friendly face, to avoid the grimace he senses forming at his discomfort, his presentation to a critical audience that is already finding him wanting. “I’m… well, I’m Jon. You’ve probably seen me before, I’m um… I’m a f-friend of Martin’s. He’s, well, he’s not here at the moment. But he asked me to look after you. While he’s – he’s away.”

Oddish blinks their beady round red eyes. Their leaves wave uncertainly with the lazy swish of palm fronds. They coo again, a longer sound, plaintive and stretched out in melancholy. They take the opportunity to look around again, a full-body swivel that has them unbalanced, but Gardevoir leans down with a careful hand to steady them upright.

Jon watches them amble off to study their surroundings. Every so often crying out in a searching noise. Gardevoir keeps an eye on them as they rootle around in one of the boxes they can reach.

The next few releases are equally unsuccessful. Skitty reforms only to barrel under the cot as a pink-and-white blur, slinking further back with his tail swishing furiously whenever Jon addresses him. One undamaged ear twitches anxiously. The next Pokemon fails to materialise at all, refusing to leave their ball.

This was a mistake. Martin should have known better, known him enough to see that he would be no good at this, his skills in offering comfort atrophied. He can barely take care of himself, these days. Never mind additional charges who are scared, who need reassurance that is rendered rusty in his throat.

He reaches out to cradle the last ball in his cupped palms. He knows who is inside. The youngest of Martin’s acquisitions, and as far as Jon was aware, full-on adverse to getting inside a Pokeball. Their favoured mode of travel was Martin, using him as a climbing frame while he attempted to work, kicking their little feet against his forehead, clinging giggly to his mop of hair to get a better view, squealing shrill and disruptive and delighted when Martin would playfully shake his head to rock them. He thinks with the uncertainty that memory offers him, that Sasha had loved them, lifted them and pretending to throw them while they chattered and babbled, snuck them berries when Martin wasn’t looking. Jon has paid ear to more than one lecture from Martin on nutrition and proper feeding times and sugar levels. They might have played with Sasha’s own Pokemon, like they had tottered after Houndour’s short and wagging tail when she was out of her ball, like they had ran after Skitty to join in games, but that memory has been scratched from recollection like initials scored out of tree bark.

They were by nature vocal, rambunctious, unthinking and unheedful of danger, a child really, and Martin had been forever apologising when Jon would find them where they weren’t meant to be, carrying them back cautiously and carefully to Martin’s fretful hands. He thinks Martin had thought that they had irritated him. It hadn’t been that. They had been so small, smaller than they should have been for their species, the runt of some litter abandoned or lost by their parent or cracked and emerging blinking from their egg over-early. They had been so curious, and the world of the archives had grown increasingly unsafe around them. Jon had worried, in his own poorly expressed way.

He presses the button, and aims at the ground. Martin’s Togepi manifests in a fizz of red light and sound crackling like champagne.

They turn around with a confused noise.

Jon gets the chance to voice an awkward, low-pitched ‘hello’ before they take one look at him and their face clenches upset, breath starting to bubble with sobs.

“Oh, oh, nonono, hey,” Jon says, scooping them up into his hands. Abra is dislodged, wakes up startled and teleports a few feet away with a ‘pop’ of displaced air. “It’s… nonono, shush, it’s alright.”

Big messy tears fall out of screwed up eyes. Hitching sobs lengthen into wails. Jon looks frantically at Gardevoir as he rocks and shushes the bawling Pokemon against his chest in a way Martin was so much better at.

Martin would know what to do, what to say. How all this could work out for the best. But Martin isn’t here.

Jon’s own eyes dampen.

“Shshshsh,” he croaks thickly. “It’s – it’s going to be alright. I’ve got you.”

He uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the worst of the tears. He strokes the top of Togepi’s head.

“It’s going to be alright,” Jon repeats.

Many hours later, Jon wakes up, cotton-mouthed and his back vengeful for the position he’s slept in. His legs, still crossed, have degraded to numbness that he’ll pay for as soon as he wants to stand. In his lap, he sees the matryoshka doll set up that’s occurred, Togepi exhaling with little whistling breaths into Abra’s chest, Abra’s face planted against Jon’s shirt. Skitty has emerged from his defensive fort under the cot to coil into a ball of heat, curled up in the crook of Abra’s overhanging tail. Gardevoir is half-awake in that dozing but alert way she has, and she must have turned off the light in the room because it’s dark except for the emergency glow from the fire-exit sign that casts the walls and floor in an unsettling green. Jon sees the husk of an opened Pokeball, the shadow of something small and yellow crouched on Gardevoir’s shoulder, and something inside him eases, just a little bit.

Oddish is looking up at him from the floor. Jon moves the only hand he has that’s not squashed under Abra, and when he sets it down they alight with an unsteady gait and he transfers them to the higher terrain of his knee. He rubs a careful finger along their leaves until they sit, their head nodding as they struggle to stave off sleep, although they still glance around with uncertain eyes.

The room has dropped colder. Oddish shivers along with Jon.

“I know,” Jon says. “I miss him too.”

[sparrowsfall]

@immortalled​​ confessed: 20. a peek inside their REFRIGERATOR.

from: “ a peek inside... ” | no longer accepting

REFRIGERATOR — the Gibson model in the corner of the kitchen dates back to the 1940s, a fridge almost as old as himself. one might dare to call it vintage, if it didn’t leave so much to be desired aesthetically. rust crawls along the bottom of the door, the once-white epoxy now yellowing with age. it could do with some cosmetic care, certainly. but it remains a staple of the house. refuses to give up the ghost, even if the fridge is now classified as a wartime relic. that’s the thing about old appliances, they were built to last. something could be said for the machine befitting it’s owner.

depression baby learns the ways of his impoverished immigrant mother. of her penniless mother before her. every jar and plastic container a vital addition to the home’s ever-expanding inventory of leftover storage, emptied and re-used to hold a myriad of homemade concoctions that are no longer butter or yogurt or whatever the label might claim. over and over, rinse and repeat. it’s a gamble for a guest to reach for the tub of ricotta. one might find the cheese in question, or one could be greeted with three hearty servings worth of yesterday’s ribollita - maybe even cioppino or coniglio stew, if they happen to go snooping after Christmas. slow-braised capretto, if it’s Easter.

a collection of Del Monte peach jars are repurposed to display staple homemade sauces. basil pesto, marinara, bolognese. the rest of their stock-pot batches are portioned out and crammed into the little freezer box in the upper-right corner, every jar labeled with a post-it and a scribble of the date it was sealed. store-bought pickle jars somewhat serve their original purpose, a variety of sliced and quartered backyard vegetables now submerged in seasoned brine ( cucumbers, carrots, zucchini, eggplants, onions, and always the garlic ). 

pasta e fagioli and polenta are key, prepped at the beginning of the week, an addition that makes any meal wholesome when it is otherwise lacking. parchment bundles are bound with twine, concealing flanks and offal from the mainland butcher - cheap, unwanted cuts and organs can be given a resurrection with practiced hands and a family recipe. fish and shellfish, of course, should always be purchased fresh. one of the perks of living on Crockett is that local fishermen tend to give discounts to friends.

there’s deli meats and bacons. there’s milk and creams. there’s eggs bought off Miss Miller and her chickens. there’s a bulk of home-grown vegetables and fruits and way more mushrooms than you’d think he’d know what to do with, but he’ll find a way to use up all those creminis and portobellos, don’t you worry. there’s a bottle of home-distilled white wine being chilled in the back corner. there is a sizable, half-grated block of parmigiano-reggiano tucked into the shelf of the door, because the processed powder just won’t cut it. and there is most certainly a near-empty casserole dish, so kindly and lovingly provided by a certain Missus Millie Gunning when it was still full - he’ll be returning it to her next week, the cast iron stuffed to the brim with cannelloni. 

finally, the freezer box boasts a pint of rocky road ice cream or chocolate-and-caramel gelato (or even both!), front and center --- if God can’t forgive him for giving into the temptation of a sweet tooth, well then he’s fine without His forgiveness anyway.

[bonjour-rainycity]

Spring(ish) Cleaning -- Jalice Secret Santa 2020

@jalicenetwork

Pairing: Jasper/Alice

Summary: It’s that time of the year again, and Jasper doesn’t take it quite as seriously as Alice would like. Fluff! Domestic life! 

Disclaimer: I’m not making any money from this nor do I own anything recognizable. 

Word count: 1280

Warnings: None

A/n HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! And happy Secret Santa, @alice-cullen-is-an-angel :) I hope you like it <3 

“Jasper Whitlock Hale, you get back here right now!”

Jasper squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath before setting his book down on the table. From in front of the TV, Emmett chortles. “Busted.”

With quick movement, Jasper pushes his brother’s head to the floor, then darts up the stairs, dodging Emmett’s retaliatory shove with a full second to spare.

Feeling Alice’s frustration, Jasper puts on what he hopes is a charming smile and hurries up the stairs to their room. “Yes, my love?”

Alice rolls her eyes at her husband’s faked innocence. “You said you were just getting a book.”

The edges of Jasper’s lips twitch. “And I did.”

“You’ve been gone forty-five minutes!”

Jasper rubs the back of his neck with a scarred hand, sheepish. “Well, then I settled down with the book and it got really good, so—”

Alice skips forward and jumps to place a kiss on his nose. “The book will still be here when we’re done.”

Jasper sighs, wanting to put up just a little more of a fight, even though he knows he’s already lost. “The closet will still be here when the book’s done, so…” He trails off under his wife’s death glare.

“You promised we would do this last April. It’s now January first. You know how the humans say—‘new year, new me’, well I say, ‘new year, new clothes’, and new clothes need space so we have to get rid of old clothes. Now sit.” With a measure of strength incongruent for her size, Alice shoves Jasper onto the bed, where he obedient sits with a resigned chuckle. It’s true. He had been putting this off for over nine months. He just hates going through their entire wardrobe—an achingly tedious task that takes hours due to his wife’s love for fashion. Back in the mid-1900s, they only had to do this once every five years or so—clothes weren’t produced as quickly, then, so it really slowed Alice down. Now, she has no limits, and it definitely shows in the size of a walk-in-closet that’s bigger than their actual bedroom, and three storage units scattered across the United States’ northern boarder. So now, Jasper’s least favorite chore occurs at least every eighteen months.

Wonderful.

Alice disappears in the closet and returns within a millisecond, clutching a thick grey button up from Jasper’s section, holding it up for him to see.

“Keep.”

Alice scoffs and quirks an eyebrow, raising the button-up into the light as if that would help Jasper see it through her eyes. “It’s six years old, Jazz.”

Jasper bites back a smile. The shirt is in excellent condition, but the disdain emanating from Alice when she declared the shirt’s age means it clearly has to go. Jasper shrugs, unaffected by parting with the shirt. “Donate, then.”

His wife smiles approvingly, tosses it into a pile, and returns with a nearly identical shirt in deep blue. Though, since this one is only from November, he’s allowed to keep it.

They continue like this for hours, the ‘donate’ pile growing ever larger due to Alice’s strict criteria for keeping an item in their rotation. While Jasper doesn’t enjoy this task, he basks in the one-on-one time with Alice, and mentally chides himself for putting this off for so long. It’s nice, being in their shared space, acting as a husband and wife would. Cleaning out a closet feels very normal, almost human.

He notices Alice taking longer than usual to return with the next item of clothing, and pushes off the bed to investigate. Her emotions hint at amusement, and he’s definitely intrigued. She hears—and mentally sees—him coming, and quickly hides something behind her back, moving to toss it in to the depths of the closet. He’s faster than her though, and locks a hand around her wrist, halting her movement.

“What have you got there?”

Alice gives him his second death glare of the day, though the amusement hasn’t faded. “Nothing. It’s none of your business.”

Jasper raises an eyebrow, slowly snaking his other arm around her back to pull her against him, taking her other wrist in his free hand. He pauses momentarily to enjoy her sharp intake of breath, then continues in his scrutiny. “If it’s in my closet, I’m pretty sure it’s my business.”

“Well, this specific thing isn’t,” Alice shoots back, quite obviously fighting a smile.

He acts on instinct alone, not even giving her second-sight warning before he switches his grip of her wrists to one hand and squeezes lightly, forcing her to drop the object into his free—and waiting—hand. She lunges forward, intending to steal the object back and make a run for it, but Jasper uses his grip to keep her steady, holding the object high out of her reach for both of them to see.

And he dissolves into laughter.

Alice takes advantage of his distraction and extracts herself from his loosened grip, snatching the gaudy hat and holding it in her crossed arms.

“Wha-what is that thing,” Jasper sputters, reaching for the hat. Alice takes a step back, shaking her head resolutely. “No, c’mon, please,” he chortles, raising his hands in mock-surrender. “I’ll be nice, I promise.”

Despite her expression that clearly says she doesn’t believe him, Alice hands back the hat, biting her lip against embarrassed laughter of her own.

Jasper straightens, examining the hat with forced seriousness. “It’s interesting.”

“I got it in Milan,” Alice defends, despite knowing that it won’t help her case against Jasper. Rosalie, maybe, but not her fashion-safe husband. “It’s couture, actually.” At his stuttering laugh of disbelief, Alice nearly stamps her foot. “You just wouldn’t get it!”

“You’re right,” Jasper grins, radiating pure mischief. “I don’t get it. I think it might help if I could see it on.”

“Ohhhh no,” Alice warns, taking a step back. “I’m not giving you any more ammo.”

“Alice,” he coaxes, grinning wickedly. “I’m just a student of fashion trying to better understand the trends of the time. An expert such as yourself wouldn’t deprive me of that, right?”

She knows she won’t win if she’s trapped like this. He’s already got the plan worked out in his mind—back her into a corner and simply take the hat, putting it on her head. So, she tries for her only other option.

She makes a run for it.

Her visions allow her to dodge the arm he throws out in an attempt to stop her, and she makes it into the bedroom. But then he switches to acting on instinct, and it’s all over.

They end up tangled on the bed, laughing wildly as he wrestles the hat from her grip. All too soon he’s won, and he places a soft kiss on her lips before settling the hat firmly on her head, much to her obvious annoyance.

He fights hard to not laugh, but it’s a losing battle.

The hat is somehow as large as a five-tiered cake, which looks absolutely comical on Alice’s four-foot-eleven frame. The extra-wide brim extends way past Alice’s shoulders, plunging the majority of her face into darkness. The hat is a fierce lime green, with bells made of ribbon zig-zagging up to the very top of the hat, upon which, sits an intricate design reminiscent of a bird’s nest.

“You’re beautiful,” he tries, his voice wavering with barely-restrained laughter.

“Donate,” she says firmly, gritting her teeth.

Jasper shakes his head, grinning as he tilts the brim back to see Alice’s less-than amused expression. He fully loses it then, burying his head in the crook of her neck as he shakes with laughter. “Keep.”

A/n Once again, Happy New Year everyone! My requests are open so send me a message if there’s anything you’d like for me to write :) And if you have a moment, it would mean the world to me if you checked out my masterlist! You are all loved, you are strong, and I’m here if you need me <3. 

[ms-maj]

For @theheavycrown​ on her birthday. Sarah, thank you for all the laughter, support and friendship and for being an all around awesome human being. xoxo

It’s not that he doesn’t like mornings, he does, it’s just that Jughead Jones has come to learn that few good things happen before nine a.m. Yet here he sits at seven, a fine layer of silt covering his beloved Honda, his leather jacket, his helmet (next time he’ll make sure the route he takes avoids as many of those dirt roads as humanly possible; he really wishes he’d stuffed his backpack in the saddlebag instead of wearing it on his back.) The goggles he’s pulled down rest under his chin as he slides his helmet off, his hair feeling heavy and hot in the already building humidity. The helmet clanks against the steel frame as it hangs from the handlebars, dust kicking off in a little cloud as it sways. 

He sighs, peeling the filthy eyewear off his head and wipes the lens across his dirty jeans before hanging them on the opposite handlebar. This is not his scene. Well, it’s not not his scene, Jughead is pretty well known as the patron saint of all things forgotten and bygone,  so the flea market isn’t too out of turn but taking time off his life to pursue nothing but leisure? Not so much. So when he heard tell of the best collection of antique cast iron this side of the Mississippi he knew he’d be remiss if his cross-country culinary trek didn’t at least find him some new pieces to add to his ever-growing collection. The one that personally threatened to take over another corner of his small house, and the one he’s building a culinary empire on. He exhales forcefully, lifting his coffee from the holder, thankful he opted for the tall, solid cupholder as it somehow managed to save his necessary caffeine from the horrors of the open country road. 

Finish below or on AO3

Sipping on his "coffee" he watches as the vendors turn into the old yet still operating drive-in, the name Sunset peeling off the ancient sign. This weekend’s fare, Jaws and Jurassic Park, piecemeal spelled out in crumbling letters on the old marquee. Truck after truck, some with trailers and others just loaded to the brim, turn in a steady stream and supposedly have been doing so for the last hour. There’s a strange excitement that simmers just under the surface, it’s as if he knows he’s going to find exactly what he wants today, maybe even if it’s not at all what he’s been looking for.

Jughead likes to think he’s lived. In his—some glorious and others very much not—thirty-four years on this earth he’s eaten, what he thinks, is the finest food on every continent. He’s trained under classic French chefs in Michelin starred restaurants and with street vendors from Thailand to Peru. His own restaurant, a quaint throwback bistro in the heart of upstate New York is the culmination of those years and years and years of hard work. His passions, he’s come to find, cannot be confined, nor defined, simply by the walls of a kitchen. They’re in the pages of his acclaimed cookbooks and the mystery series he’s been stringing together since high school that he was sure would never amount to anything. 

But it did, and here he is. The very definition of latchkey, Jughead Jones grew up the poor son of a couple of addicts and con artists. The ones he hasn’t seen since he got his high school diploma. The moment that piece of paper was in his hands, he loaded his rucksack onto his rusted out Kawasaki and never looked back. 

He’s lived in trailers and dorms, in cramped studios and lavish flats, and once, in the projection booth of a drive-in theater. Very much like the one he assumes is in the middle of this one. He sighs, leaning back against his bike, forgetting the heat from the muffler until it starts burning beneath the heavy denim of his jeans. 

“Shit,” he mumbles as he shifts uncomfortably away, dislodging his near burnt calf but manages to spill the bitter, gas-station coffee he’d been absently cradling down the front of his white t-shirt. The next expletive out of his mouth is not so quiet. “Fuck me!”

The cup drops to the ground as he wipes at the seeping stain barehanded. “I might have a tissue,” he hears. Instantly he stops the futile attempt to clean himself, looking up when the laughter reaches his ears. “Though I can’t imagine it would be much help.”

The corner of his lip pulls up despite this recent bout of bad luck. She’s in a bold, floral print sundress with the kind of soft hem that dances with the breeze as it blows across the nearly empty lot. The sunhat is floppy, almost too big over the cascade of soft waves that hit her shoulders, she smiles, warm and amused before she takes her lower lip between her teeth, eyes darting from his to the growing spot of wet fabric sticking to his chest.

“I would say I’m well prepared,” he gestures back toward his bike with its ample enclosed storage, and his dust-covered backpack draped over the rear seat. “But apparently I wasn’t thinking this morning. This is also my last clean shirt, so, really batting a thousand today.”

Pink tongue peeking between her teeth as she laughs her eyes narrow as her head dips to the side. “Hmm,” she runs that tongue over her lower lip, looking at him with hooded eyes before seemingly catching herself; clearing her throat she starts again. ”I just pulled my car out of storage, I might have something in the trunk if you want me to take a look?” She half turns to follow where she’s absentmindedly pointing, and he sees the very moment her left foot doesn’t seem to get the memo. If he waits another second she’ll be in the dirt and without even consciously thinking about it, his arms wrap around her waist and keep her from toppling.

She lets out a shaky breath, fingers digging into the leather that encases his bicep. “Sorry, I, uh,” her head darts from side to side before she rights herself and extricates herself from his grip. “I wish I could say I wasn’t normally this klutzy but that would be a lie.” She sweeps the dirt and imaginary wrinkles from her dress and adjusts the hat that now sits just askew on her head.

“Glad I could be of assistance,” he drawls, watching as pink colors her cheeks. “So, a shirt? Maybe?” 

Nodding, she turns (with a skosh more grace than before) and walks to the end of the makeshift aisle. “Right this way.”

 “You’re not trying to lure me behind an abandoned building so that you can murder me, right?” He thinks it sounds playful, flirtatious even, though both things are patently out of his wheelhouse, but he can’t help but wonder why this gorgeous woman even stopped and looked in his direction.

“Oh, no, see this building might be abandoned, but these grounds aren’t going to be for too much longer. And I have a feeling you might be a screamer.” 

Choking a little on his own spit, he slows, swallows, and drags his eyes back up to find hers looking back over her shoulder. She winks, then stops between the fins of some powder blue oddity Jughead has never seen the likes of before. 

“I don’t usually find myself at a loss for words but you seem to have found my weakness.”

“And what is that exactly?” She questions as he moves next to her, almost too close, he can feel her breath shuddering against his skin as she places an oddly shaped key into the opening on the trunk. 

“Klutzy green-eyed blondes,” he can tell he’s caught her off guard when she gasps as the latch lets go on the trunk lock. 

“Okay then,” she’s smiling back at him, that lip caught between her teeth again when he realizes he’s already mapping out their future and he doesn’t even know her name.

“Jughead. Jones.” he supplies, voice cracking like he’s all of sixteen again. He wasn’t nervous, not before this simple moment in which he provides his chosen name and she either laughs or…

Her dainty hand hangs between them. “Pleasure to meet you Jughead, I’m Betty Cooper."

His large, calloused hand engulfs hers, happy to find the spark he thought he felt before was very real, and much, much more than a spark.

Their clasped hands hang between them, neither too eager to drop. Betty finally pulls away with another one of those flustered head shakes, before she starts to rummage through the cavernous trunk. It’s fairly empty, save for whatever Betty is looking for, and it's clearly all the way in the back.

 “Okay, but really, you can’t tell me that you haven’t thought, you know hypothetically of course, about how many bodies you could actually fit in this trunk,” he’s taken a step back to get the full picture, which is mostly just Betty stretching the entirety of her gorgeous frame into the depths of the unknown to find him a shirt, but his writers’ mind can’t help but wonder.

She stops her scavenging and with a triumphant grunt, she’s righting herself, the strap of a black duffle bag between her fingers. “Aha! And honestly, who hasn’t seen an old car and thought about the sheer amount of fuckery one could get away with simply based on interior cargo space.”

He knows he’s staring, gaping really, but he can’t seem to help himself. Betty shrugs, unphased, and goes to open the bag. She rummages around for a few seconds then pulls out a Johnny Cash t-shirt. 

“I know it’s a little wrinkled but it doesn’t seem to smell,” she pulls the aforementioned garment from her face and hands it to him. 

“Even if it did it—anything is an improvement over,” he waves his hand over his sticky shirt and worries she can tell his heart straight-up skips a beat when she laughs. 

Jughead takes off his leather jacket, passes it wordlessly to Betty who tries to clean it as best she can with a small rag from her car. He slips his arms inside of his soiled shirt and pushes it up around his shoulders, sliding it off as he pulls on the clean one. When he looks back at Betty she looks a little perplexed.

“What?”

“Just wondering what prompted the middle-school locker room style shirt change. If my seeing you topless would’ve been too much for your delicate sensibilities than perhaps I’ve misjudged—”

“That is quite enough out of you,” he points a menacing finger in her direction but is laughed down. His glare breaks quickly and the smile that takes over almost hurts. Has he been that out of practice with even smiling that the muscles in his face don’t know what to do about it? It’s a definite possibility. It just seems to come so naturally around Betty that he doesn’t want to question, and subsequently, jinx it.  

“Oh yeah, and what are you gonna do about it?" Eyebrow raised, she leans closer, arm outstretched with his coat.

He reaches to grab it but he misses the jacket altogether and brushes his fingers against hers. "Sounds like you'd love to find out, " it's from who winks this time. Betty's grip falters and the leather falls into his hand. Words form on his tongue but before he can get them out a shrill ring cuts through the ambiance of the morning. 

The trunk is slammed close; the moment is gone. “Shit, it’s a client, and a big one so I have to take this. I, um, I’ll see you in there? Hopefully?” He knows the disappointment is etched on his face, but he tamps it down and nods in her direction. Her smile back is enthusiastic, she looks sanguine; before he turns around he hears, what he assumes, is a happy lilt as she greets whoever is on the line.

He stuffs the jacket and his soiled shirt into one of the saddlebags, slides on his trusty (and dusty) grey beanie, grabs a few canvas tote bags, and heads into the flea market. There’s a moment he thinks he hears her voice but when he turns he's met with the endless drone of tires as the lot begins to fill.

It seems silly—feels silly—to be missing someone after such a short time. Not only just since you’ve seen them but also because you’ve only exchanged a handful of words in the entire five minutes that you’ve known one another.

There’s a small line at the gate. As he waits to pay his admission, he runs a hand over the back of his neck and tugs at the edge of his hat, trying to keep this weird, swirly sensation inside instead of letting it bubble out lest he ends up skipping through the lanes. 

He lets out a mirthless laugh, the kind he finds usually echo throughout his empty home only this time it's met with the hustle and bustle of the early-bird crowd. There's no time to dwell, no reason to wait; just the time (and patience) to find himself that thirteen-inch Spider skillet, and maybe a new Dutch oven...or two.

Or, he remembers after he's grabbed new forty-fives for the jukebox, old carnival prints for Toni, a snake ashtray for Sweet Pea that he knows Val will hate but it's so ugly he can't help himself, that while he may be able to mail himself whatever he can't carry across the states...he still has to get it there in the first place.

It's why he talks himself out of the awful Rocky poster. It's not for him, of course, but rest assured it would be most appreciated by Archie and Reggie. Jughead can actually picture exactly where in their apartment where they'd hang it. Their housewarming present would have to wait until the next flea market.

He hasn't even made it to the small cluster of more upscale dealers before he's at the snack stand, walking away with a blue icee and cotton candy like the grown man he is. While enjoying his treats he's only half paying attention to the stalls and tables that line each of drive-in’s aisles, surely missing out on some choice vintage toys and housewares that he has no use (or room) for.

Mostly, his mind wanders as he weaves through the ever-growing throng. He’s been looking for a floppy sun hat but, unfortunately, many, many people seem to be concerned about the adverse effects of UV rays. Not that that in and of itself is not unfortunate, it’s just not helping him at the moment. If he couldn’t look down and see the physical evidence of their interaction, he’d believe he hallucinated the whole thing. The universe doesn’t just drop his idyllic dream girl into his path, well, it absolutely would allow him to see her once and then never again. But he doesn’t want that…

He wants to know what it feels like to have her legs wrapped around his waist, on the bike, in their bed. He wants to see her tangled in their bedsheets or sitting at the counter as he feeds her his latest culinary creation. Not that he’s ever been one to live inside the delusions, his upbringing has forced his ‘manifest your own destiny’ lifestyle to never rely on the dreams, just use them as touchstones for achieving said ruminations. But these, the daydreams are so vivid, so real that he almost walks right past the intended object of his affection.

And it’s only the melodious cant of saccharine condescension that brings him back to the moment. 

“I realize that I’m here later than we discussed, but that shouldn’t affect the price we agreed upon, right?”

Betty’s arms were crossed over her chest, head cocked to the side, the sunhat effectively obscuring her beautiful face, which by her tone, Jughead assumes is sporting a proper scowl. 

“It shouldn’t, no,” the vendor starts. He stands a good foot and a half taller than Betty, broad-chested and fully bearded, he runs a calloused hand over the gray whiskers. “It’s just that this is a highly collectible item—”

“Which you are being more than fairly compensated for! You acquired it for me, I don’t understand why you’re being so obstinate now.”

“C’mon Betty Boop, you know exactly why. You’re looking so pretty today, go on a date with me and I’ll throw in that Griswold trivet I’ve seen you eyeing up,” Jughead sees the man's hands come down on the table as he leans closer to Betty. He watches her body swell with a deep inhalation that releases as her hands hit the table to mimic his pose. 

“Not if you were the last man on Earth, Andrew. Just sell me the damn dutch oven and I’ll be on my merry little way.”

The vendor sucks air through his teeth so loudly it whistles. “Doesn’t sound like I’m getting anything out of this…”

Jughead is practically standing over Betty’s shoulder now, the tension and frustration rolling off her like waves. “Andrew, I swear to all the gods in existence, if you don’t take the agreed price and put my dutch oven in this fancy bag here I’m calling your Gran.”

Jughead isn’t sure he’s ever seen anyone deflate so quickly. The man grunts holds out his hand and in it, Betty presses a neat stack of cash. The large, lidded pot makes its way to the table and from his vantage point can tell it’s a Wapak and in pristine condition.

“Nice looking piece of cookware you got there,” he says loudly behind her. She startles straight, turns slowly, and greets him with the brightest smile he thinks he’s ever seen.

“Jughead!” Her arms are around his neck and face pressed against the planes of his chest before he can blink. She seems to realize herself and is out of his arms and standing in front of him within the second it takes to realize how much he misses her warmth.

“What, did you think you could get rid of me that easily? I still have your shirt,” his hands rest on her waist, he hasn’t dropped them, and she hasn’t moved further away so he’s going to assume it’s not unwelcome.

She hums.”Well, it looks much better on you than in did crumpled up in my trunk

“Everything okay here?”

“We’re just peachy, right Andrew?” Betty questions, turning away from him and out of his grasp. She grabs the bag he’s placed on the table and with a most unrefined grunt, hoists it over her shoulder.

“We’re good, Coop. Just try to be on time from now on, it’s not very,” he pauses. Jughead can feel the man’s eyes slide from Betty to him, looking him up and down with a displeased expression. “Professional.”

“Oh, Andrew. Green is not your color. If you weren’t the only person in the tri-state area who could get me this stuff then I would never give you my business, ever again. But since I clearly work for sadists who love forcing me to interact with you, we’re at an impasse,” she shifts the bag on her shoulder and continues. “However, you make any more assumptions about my professionalism or personal life, then they’re going to have to find a new liaison.”

Andrew groans. “Don’t be like that, Betty! You know it all comes from the heart,” he crosses a hand to his and pats, and then he’s reaching under the table. “Here’s that trivet you had your eye on.”

Jughead moves up next to her and takes the trivet before it reaches her hand. “Is this a 1739? I’ve only been able to find pictures of these!”

He holds the metal piece reverently between his hands, long fingers tracing the intricate lace pattern, running over the feet, brushing against the logo that was stamped into the bottom some seventy years ago. “You know Griswold?” Betty’s tone is more than just surprised, there’s a slight breathlessness he can’t quite place as he places the trivet into her hands. 

“Oh, uh,” his head shakes a little with the chuckle. “Yeah, cast iron is pretty much why I’m even here. My best friend told me that if I was looking for something special, this would be the place to find it.” Suddenly feeling very shy, he rubs nervously at the back of his neck.

“Interesting,” Betty’s eyes narrow and fix on him, but it doesn’t make him feel as uncomfortable as he thought it would. Maybe it’s because an hour ago he was flirting like a lovesick teenager and he’s merely happy to be the object of her attention. He hears her bag hit the ground with a heavy thud. “If you’re looking for something in particular, this is your guy. I wasn’t being hyperbolic when I said he had the best. And if he doesn’t have it on-site, he’s usually able to procure it in a very short time.”

Andrew smiles at her praise and nods along. “Yeah, man, if you’re a friend of Betty’s you must be in the know. What tickles your fancy?”

Not really sure how to process, or address, any of what the man in front of him has just said, he locks eyes with Betty and lets out a sharp breath. She’s got the kind of smile that they used to write poetry about and he knows he’s done for. He’s smiling himself now and with a quick turn of his head he’s looking at Andrew again. “What do you know about Spiders?”

They’ve managed to walk the rest of the flea market, Betty picking up a few random items along with the (many) client requests. He learns she owns a small but successful antique shop in western Mass but she's rarely there. Mostly, she travels and he wonders what she's running from. She says it's to procure the things people want versus the things she thinks they would want to buy. It's not about the money, although it seems to pay well, she insists it's the history, the adventure, the joy it brings when she tracks down a vase-like what was on Grandma's table or an album that your grandfather taught you to dance to. She talks about antiques like he talks sous vide, the process, the art, how when it all comes together...life is magic.

"I can’t believe he’s going to find me a thirteen Spider! Do you have any idea how rare…oh, well, I suppose you do being an antique dealer and all that,” he bumps his shoulder (the one not carrying her stupidly heavy dutch oven) against hers, her head ducks in response but he can see the rosy hue on her cheeks. 

“If you’ve known each other for so long why all the shit for being late? And if I’m what made you late I apologize—”

“No, Jughead! Not even a little,” she grabs his shoulder and pulls him to stop beside her. “Andrew was just being a dick because that’s who he is as a person. Yes, I was late to meet him but that was because I was having a little car trouble this morning.”

“What, the marvel of modern engineering you’re tooling around in is finicky? Who’d have thunk?”  He holds out his (second) icee, offering Betty the last sip but she politely declines. He shrugs as best he can and finishes the cold red syrup in a quick gulp. The sun is blazing, scorching them from on high before he knows it. Jughead feels the sweat beading on his brow, threatening to drip down his face in the most unbecoming of ways. He's thankful they're heading back toward their respective vehicles. It's not that he wants this day to end, in fact, he's kind of hoping he can repeat it forever, but he really would like to get out of the sun. 

She smacks his arm playfully. “Don’t talk about Edie that way!”

“Edie? She’s even got an old ladies' name, Betts,” they finally reach said car and Jughead heaves the bags from his shoulder and drops them in the dirt.

Betty sighs as the lock clicks, trunk springing open. "She's an Edsel. You're not wrong about her being an old lady but trust me when it comes to classic cars Edsels are…"

Jughead scoffs. "I might have a proclivity for two-wheeled machines but I do know a thing or two about the four-wheeled varieties as well. The Ford Edsel, only produced between 1958 and 1960, was an ode to Henry's wife but was too modern and impractical to gain popularity. What?"

Jughead Jones knows a thing or two about food, and how people look when they're truly enjoying something. At this moment he'll tell you he feels like braised short ribs or a perfectly cooked steak or a decadent slice of dacquoise, with the way Betty is looking at him.

She swallows, audibly. "No one knows Edsels. No one knows they exist let alone know actual details about their launch, and subsequent failure."

"Hmm, sounds to me you just haven't been meeting the right people," he hoists her heavy bags off the ground and puts them in the trunk. 

Betty's hand reaches for the lid and lingers for a moment before she gently closes it. "You might be onto something, Jones.”

He steps forward, careful not to invade her space too badly but unable to resist the urge to be closer. “Do you maybe want to grab a bite to eat?”

The diner is nice, albeit the interior leaves a little something to be desired. It’s cliche in the way you want a retro establishment to be; walls lined in old adverts, gas and oil cans on shelves, kitschy to a fault. They're tucked in the corner, in a  red, squeaky vinyl booth and had to cross a very large expanse of cheap, sticky linoleum. He just hopes the food makes up for the fact he had to peel his feet up with every step. That’s not a sound one wants to hear in the place where they’re going to eat.

He explains as much to Betty, how atmosphere can change and engage perception, how the menu is designed to make you want the items that make them the most money, and not necessarily the ones that they cook well. After their food comes and he samples the fare he raves about the milkshakes but is unimpressed with everything else. 

“This is farmland, Betty. I passed not two, but three farms coming back. And at least one of them had Angus! Why are we being served frozen burgers?”

Betty eats a fry and pretends to look thoughtful.“I guess it never crossed my mind, Jug. You certainly have strong feelings about food.”

“Yeah, and that’s about the only thing,” he leans back in the booth and lays his arm across the back. “It might align very closely with what I do for a living.”

“You’re a chef,” Betty says matter-of-factly. “That explains your love of cast iron cookware and,” she vaguely gestures around the room. “How you know so much about the business. Still doesn’t answer how you know about Edsels.”

Jughead chuckles in response. “Misspent youth” When she shoots him a questioning look he sighs. "There may be some less than savory characters in my past. I wasn't one of them per se but I could have been described as gang adjacent."

Nodding, Betty takes a sip of the cold confection in front of her. She starts to speak and pauses like she's rolling something around before she says it. Next, she's looking at him as though a lightbulb has gone off. "Wait, wait, you're not a chef you're the chef! The author," Betty’s eyes narrow ever so slightly before going wide, her mouth gapes a bit before she produces words. "You're Forsythe."

How the fuck? "How the fuck?"

"My client from earlier was looking for a dutch oven for her partner's friend, a chef, whose niche is cast iron cookware. This same friend has also authored a series of cookbooks and a youth mystery."

“And what about any of that makes you say my name is Forsythe?” His voice comes out lower than he expects, a harsh timbre colors his words. "And it was not a youth mystery. It sounds like some Tracy True or Baxter Brothers nonsense when you say it like that."

“You are. Holy shit! And they set this up! Oh, those sneaky, brilliant, beautiful women,” Betty buries her face in her hands and groans. 

“Would you please fill me in because I am feeling ten ways of lost and, if I’m being honest, a little creeped out.”

Betty looks up, soft eyes, and smiling. “Oh, Jug. Apparently, our friends have finally gotten sick of our wallowing.”

“What friends? Who has friends?”

She rolls her eyes. “It would seem we do. You see, Cheryl is my cousin and Veronica is my best friend from high school."

"Wait, Cheryl, as in Blossom? And Veronica Lodge?"

Betty nods in affirmation. "They were oil and water through most of our formative years and then after their first year at Sarah Lawrence, well, they came back together. Fast forward two years and enter Toni Topaz, who I'm assuming is the missing link here, yeah?"

"Toni would be one of the three people on this planet I consider family, " he's leaning across the table, elbows making divots in the surface when suddenly he has his own lightbulb moment. "Elizabeth? The itinerant eccentric antiquarian?"

“Wow, is that a Cheryl or Veronica description?" She rubs the bridge of her nose, head shaking as she takes it in. "Doesn't matter, but with a title like that, it's no wonder that you were never around when I was. Oh, and surprise! It would appear your pseudo-sister and her girlfriends are giving you a dutch oven for your next birthday. Congrats.”

Jughead is trying to process, though it feels an awful lot like failing. Until suddenly, it all makes sense. “She's the one who told me I needed to stop here and check out the cast iron. Insisted there was something I needed, something she was certain I would find."

"Well, " Betty looks up at him from under the thick veil of her lashes. "Was she wrong?"

 For years he’s traveled from place to place; running from anything and everything. Even when he decided to put down roots it was relatively far from even the best of his friends. No one could just ‘drop by’, it’s not like he’d have been home anyway. He’s buried his loneliness in new recipes; it’s scratched into the margins of his favorite books, in the words poured from his own hand. He looks at the woman sitting across from him, strawberry milkshake in front of her, glowing under the harsh neon lights that contrast so glaringly will all her soft edges. 

The realization comes easily. He doesn’t have to think about anything more than ‘do I take this risk’ and he’s never been one to say no to risks before. 

He drops his arm, reaching across the table, and before it can rest on the Formica Betty slots her fingers between his. “She has never been more right in her life, but please don’t tell her that."

Betty’s laughter peals through the restaurant. He smiles despite himself. For the first time that he can recall, something good came before nine am. As a matter of fact, when her thumb traces the back of his hand, he’ll even go as far as to say it's something great. 

[casual-eumetazoa]

thanks for the prompt @confused-android​ ! oof, took me longer to write this than i thought (or actually it took me like an hour but i postponed it till my exams were almost over). first - the word “enthralled”? i vibe with it. second - this kinda turned into a vaguely brotzly piece with some autism acceptance on the side, hope that’s okay. third… hope you like this! so here goes

———————

The Case of the Stolen Flower Basket (as dubbed, unofficially, by Dirk) started out on a more relaxed note than most of their cases: in a flowershop, with a stolen basket. A basket, mind you, that was stolen in broad daylight from a closed room, under mysterious circumstances.

It also started with Dirk ending up in a flowershop, accidentally, while he was trying to find an ice-cream place. And it wasn’t even a case then, as much as Dirk’s brief but intense obsession with closed room mysteries, but I digress.

Point is, a basket was missing, a basket thief was at large, and the holistic crew of the holistic detective agency found themselves in a huge abandoned storing space, following up on a “lead”. Todd, Dirk and Farah walked the damp bleak corridors, opening any block that seemed suspicious. Most of them did, and most contained a truly bizarre collection of items.

One was filled up entirely with broken IKEA furniture. One was stuffed to the brim with an assortment of left shoes. And, perhaps most unsettling, one consisted of nothing but headless dolls of various shapes and sizes, along with some disfigured plush animals.

-What the hell was this place? – Todd wondered, prying open yet another door.

Behind it was an empty space, containing exactly one chair with exactly one empty jar perched on the edge of its seat.

-The warehouse of a profoundly odd collector. – Dirk proclaimed. – He… had an excess of money, and wanted to collect things, but the normal things people collect like stamps or candy wrappers were too boring for him, so he did this instead.

-Found anything important? – Farah’s voice echoed against the crumbling walls.

-Yes! – Dirk yelled back.

-No. – Todd corrected, then turned back to Dirk. – An eccentric collector then huh? – Evidently, he had decided to entertain Dirk’s guess. – What about this one then?

He pointed at the nearest door and immediately proceeded to kick it down. It was meant to be a slight push, but instead the door caved in completely, slipping off its hinges and crashing against the floor with a deafening metal rumble.

-Sorry! – Todd bit his lip.

He saw Dirk wince and then almost shrivel up at the sound, arms pulled suddenly towards his chest, as if trying to protect himself from the noise.

Noises. Dirk did not do well with them. And Todd knew that all too well.

-Sorry. – He repeated. – I didn’t mean to do… that.

-It’s fine. – Dirk mumbled, trying his best to shake off the feeling and get back into investigative mood. – What’s in it then?

They stepped over the dilapidated door and into the tight storage space. Inside it were a few pieces of old furniture, half a dozen sealed boxes, at least a whole heap of sawdust, and…

-Todd! – Dirk really did try to tone down the enthusiasm, but alas. – Look!

First, Todd noticed Dirk’s flapping arms, and the smile on his face, and felt his own lips stretch into a grin. Only then he turned to check what was in there, and realized that the wall of the storage space was lined up with various musical instruments. Guitars, mostly; electric, acoustic, even toy ones…

-It’s your thing! – Dirk beamed.

-Yeah. – Todd agreed. – It’s my thing.

He approached the wall and picked up one of the guitars.

-It’s expensive. – He declared, and checked the instrument for any signs of wear and tear. – And new. Damn. – He went slowly through the collection. – Well, these aren’t the very top of the chain, but they’re fancier than I used to have.

He took one of the electric guitars – a slick, bright red beauty – and held it gently in his hands. He hadn’t played guitar since he bashed his last one against the wall of the Ridgley building… that happened less than a year prior, and yet it seemed a lifetime away.

-Can we take some? – Dirk asked, then, not waiting for a reply, picked out one of the guitars at random. – They’re no-ones so it doesn’t count as stealing.

-I guess I could take one or two. – Todd agreed. – They’re as good as thrown out at this point. No use for them collecting dust in here.

-Where the hell are you two? – Farah’s voice chimed through the corridor.

-Over here! – Dirk shouted back.

-Ugh. – Todd muttered. – I have to pick now. Wait. Actually… - He looked at the guitar he had in his hands, then the one Dirk was still holding, and smiled with the corner of his mouth. – Those two are good. Let’s go.

-Guys. – Farah nearly avoided a collision with the broken door as she entered the storage space. – You should see this. Now. – She paused. – I think I found a skeleton.

The guitars were then stashed in the corner, and waited patiently for their new owner to crawl on all fours into a basement, poke some human bones with a stick, and emerge – dusty, exhausted, and deeply confused.

*

The evening was slow and peaceful. While Farah was busy making phone calls and trying to arrange for someone to examine, discretely and unofficially, a mysterious unidentified skeleton, Todd and Dirk stayed in Todd’s apartment. Or, rather, at the apartment that used to be Todd’s. He didn’t remember the last time he had a dinner there, and besides, Dirk spent more nights than not in the guest bedroom, so it was really their apartment.

-Do you have any ideas about how the basket connects to the skeleton yet? – Todd asked, placing two cups of tea on the table.

He didn’t have to ask Dirk what he wanted; he knew his (rather narrow) range of food and drink preferences by heart.

-Not a clue. – Dirk admitted, and raised his gaze to the ceiling, staring attentively at some smudge. – I think we should go to Claire’s house.

-Why the owner’s house? – Todd asked.

-Feels relevant. – Dirk shrugged, eyes still focused on the smudge. – Oh. – He turned in his seat suddenly. – The guitars! Can you play for me?

Todd sighed. He anticipated this happening.

-Well, - he said, - I can’t play the electric one cause you need equipment for it and we didn’t steal any, and I haven’t played an acoustic guitar in like two years, but…

-I don’t care if it’s not your best or some equally stupid excuse. – Dirk interrupted him. – You know I’ll be impressed no matter what.

Todd laughed shortly, and nodded. It was true – Dirk was impressed and excited by seemingly everything, from the fluffy blanket assortment at Walmart (he had to touch every. single. one.) to the Sacred Wisdom shared with him by Todd that the number on the package of pasta tells you how long it will take to cook it. Dirk was also somehow oblivious to his own talents, insisting that connecting eleven entirely unrelated pieces of information into a complete narrative was “simple” and “obvious”.

-Fine. – Todd caved in, and got up to fetch the acoustic guitar. – But I probably won’t know the cords of the songs you like.

Considering that Dirk mostly listened to obscure European rock music, 80s pop, and Disney soundtracks, it was hardly surprising.

-Not tuned at all, probably. – Todd, the guitar now in hands, returned to his seat and gave the strings a test stroke. – Yep. – He nodded. – Gimme a few minutes.

He tuned the guitar as best as he could, and tapped his fingers on the table, trying to decide what to play. Dirk had watched him with curiosity and was now sipping his tea, waiting for the music to start. Todd paused, took a deep breath in, and began to play the first song that he was sure he remembered – “Behind Blue Eyes”.

The music flowed; Todd focused on the movement of his fingers, on the vibration of the string, and the metal at his fingertips. He sang the words softly, almost as an afterthought. He had forgotten how good it felt to make music happen. The song was in the air, brought to life by the motion of his hands, and the night was young, and he was lost in the moment. He skipped the electric guitar solo and went straight to the final reprise of the chorus.

Then the music stopped, and silence fell on his shoulders. He kept quiet, not saying anything, waiting for Dirk to react. That is when Todd realized that Dirk wasn’t talking – and Dirk was always talking. He talked over movies, and news on the TV, and shop assistants and, on one memorable occasion, over a talking parrot. It’s not that he was rude - it’s just that his head was so full of words, constantly, that they had to be let out.

But Dirk wasn’t talking now. Now he simply sat in his place, eyes transfixed on Todd’s hands, blinking.

-Are you okay? – Todd asked.

There was a pause.

-Mmm? – Dirk blinked faster and looked up, meeting Todd’s gaze, startled slightly, as if waking up from a pleasant dream. – Yes. Yes of course I’m okay.

-You kinda zoned out a little bit.

-I did?

-Yeah.

-You play really good music. – Dirk smiled softly.

-Thanks. – Todd smiled back.

-It’s nice to not be… attacked by sound for a change. – Dirk added.  – Can you… keep, playing, please?

-Sure. – Todd replied. -I mean, I don’t remember that many songs, and…

He remembered enough songs for a whole mini-at-home concert.

*

It doesn’t end there.

Together, they spend many an evening consumed by music, music brought to life by Todd, for Dirk, specifically for Dirk, and for him only. Todd plays everything – every song he has ever loved, acoustic versions of Mexican Funeral pieces, approximate renditions of whatever is on the radio these days…

Dirk makes requests. Todd googles guitar tabs and practices while Dirk is still asleep, in the ungodly early hours of the morning, sitting on the windowsill of the apartment block while people leave for first shifts at work. He has performed in front of huge crowds, and music journalists, and many girls (and guys…) he was trying to impress – but nothing has ever felt as personal, crucial, tender, as playing for Dirk.

The skeleton is identified, and the stolen basket is discovered. The convoluted twists and turns of the story, which involves a near-extinct flower, a 77-year-old Russian spy and an actual African prince, come to their natural close. The excitement and danger are over, if only for a brief respite, and peace is restored. A new case will arrive soon enough… but until then, they have their tiny apartment, and Todd has his guitars, and music lingers in the air, and Dirk is enthralled with the music, still and speechless in his seat.

They look at each other, and they understand each other precisely, and, for once in his life, Dirk has no words, and needs no words, and wants nothing else but to listen. God knows, his life is never safe or simple, but now Todd is here, and the world is really not that bad, and he is happy.

The Earth continues to spin. New bizarre, perplexing and astonishing things will happen. Songs will be played, and words will be said in time. Maybe, in part at least, because someone ran, and never looked back, and left behind all their belongings, even their very expensive guitars…

Sometimes – most of the times – the Universe wants them to help it. But, on this occasion, it is gracious enough to help them in return.

[thecrescentcityrpg]

“I wanna live life fast, I don't know how to slow down.”

full name:   Kaiden “Kai” Leon Amari

city of origin:  Atlanta, Georgia

age:  34

species: Werewolf

occupation: Owner of Moonlight Ink tattoo parlor, part-time boxer at 9 Round

faceclaim: Sinqua Walls

⇨   B I O G R A P H Y

Kaiden was born into a werewolf pack in the heart of Atlanta, Georgia. The younger of two sons, Kaiden and Kallen grew up thick as thieves; his brother was always his best friend and never seen as a rival. Kai’s father was an alpha werewolf for a modestly-sized pack in Atlanta and it was set in stone that Kal would take his father’s place before Kai was ever born. Their youth went as expected: Kal was kept on a short leash and Kai was free to run rampant. As the younger son, he had no promised responsibility to weigh on his shoulders or ruin his childhood. While his brother was stuck in classes on werewolf history, or stuffy meetings with local pack leaders, Kai was allowed to wander, run, and enjoy his childhood. He spent more time with their human mother, who had a wild streak of her own and was more than willing to indulge Kai in adventures. A lot of Kai’s early memories were spent out exploring dozens of local nature trails her, baking sweets for the entire pack, and spending the day at the local art supply store to encourage his love of drawing and sketching. In those moments, he learned about werewolf and pack life naturally, outside of textbooks and lectures, and decided from an early age that he would never join his father’s pack.

As they aged and matured, one thing became clear: Kaiden was a natural leader, with an electric sort of personality that drew people in, and Kallen just wasn’t. Kai was constantly in trouble at school for pranking his teacher, running amok in the classrooms, and convincing his classmates to get in on the action. He lettered in football and lived out the high school dreams that mirrored popular teen movies. Kai had popularity and infamy at his local school, a steady stream of girl and boyfriends available, a large friend group, and a good life. He rarely spent time around the pack and his father if he could help it, and he was happier for it.

Kai’s father actively demonstrated his disappointment in him as he got older but he never took it to heart; Kal was the golden boy, after all, and the one who was saddled by fate with their father’s unrealistic expectations. And Kai? He was a wildcard, a free spirit, and he would not be tethered to a pack that barely acknowledged his existence outside of “the alpha’s son” or “the future alpha’s brother”. Their father’s disappointment towards Kal was much more private and a heavy sort of tension that filled their house during his teenage years. Although not as close as when they were young kids, Kai loved his brother and always made time for him; the boys would disappear a couple times a month into an adventure of their own, outside of the watchful gaze of the pack, littering the back of Kal’s truck with cheap beer cans as they existed outside of any forced expectations of greatness.

And then Kallen came of age. As the eldest son of the alpha, his activation of the curse was scheduled around his twenty-fifth birthday if it didn’t happen accidentally before then. The entire thing felt cruel, scheduling the death of someone, and the weeks up to the ceremony were tense and awful. Kai found himself crashing on friends couches just to avoid being home, unable to sleep in his own bed due to the heavy emotions around the Amari house. The night before Kal’s ceremony, he showed up at the couch Kai was currently surfing on, their pickup packed to the brim, and asked him to leave town with him. Kai never hesitated. He had already graduated high school and was working at a local tattoo shop after interning there, but had no other obligation to town besides his mother. He broke up with his girlfriend via text, climbed through his window to grab his letterman and a couple of other relics of his childhood, and hit the road.

They drove through the night and made it to Ohio by breakfast time. From there, the brothers lived week to week in different towns, cities, and areas. Kal had amassed a large savings account that Kai had no idea about, and it funded their road trip throughout the country. He kept in contact with his mother, of course, updating them vaguely after they had cleared an area and were already onto the next stop. Kal seemed like a new person without their father bearing down on him, and their bromance re-kindled on the road as they were allowed to just exist, carefree and young and stupid.

Until the accident. Kai doesn’t talk about how he was triggered, or even mention a having a brother, but one day they were on their way some festival inside Salem, and the next day they were werewolves. The activation of the curse brought up a lot of old feelings and drama, and Kai knew that his brother had changed in more ways than one. It only took a couple of weeks before Kal left him a note, an envelope full of cash, and a broken heart. He had left in the middle of the night, again, to return to their family.

Kai was furious. He allowed his anger to crackle at his bones and it kept him in wolf form for almost a month. Every time he tried to change back to his human form the rage simmered and stoked something in him that was too emotional and human to feel on two legs. He kept the money, spiteful but not stupid, and travelled to Atlantic City. After using his wolf senses to cheat his way through a casino, he had enough money to try to settle down and start over. Living life on the road lost its luster without his brother, and he was tired of feeling so angry.

New Orleans had meant to be a boozy pit stop to drown his sorrows in. Kai quickly fell in love with the city, especially the gritty, messy parts that escaped the light shed on the city by tourism. He was charmed, and for the first time in too long felt compelled to stay somewhere longer than a week or two. Kai avoided the supernatural scene for as long as possible, but the city was chalk full of power struggles, turf wars, and aimless wolves that needed taken care of even in times of “peace”.

Kai caused a lot of fights when he first arrived. After nearly coming to blows with a vampire that looked at him the wrong way, a strange offer had been given: a membership at a local boxing club. The 9 Round became a healthy way for Kai to try to channel his rage and aggression, and he soon became a staple member at the club and improved some of his inter-species relations. Kind of.

Despite the his decades of struggles, Kai was an alpha’s son, born to lead, and the draw of pack life eventually called to him. Leadership fit him like a glove, and after a messy battle with a complacent alpha, Kai found himself in charge for the first time in his life.

Kal had continued to wire him money after the betrayal, and Kai hadn’t touched any of it until he needed it. It was enough for him to start is own business, Moonlight Ink, in one of the grungier parts of town. During the first couple of months Kai lived in the storage loft above the business to save money. A natural artist, the shop quickly grew popular with locals. Kai had the unfair advantage of werewolf senses, and his line work, shading, and inventive techniques soon gained infamy in the area. They were known specifically for glow in the dark tattoos, using non-traditional mediums, and insane geometric line work that could nearly cross eyes. The parlor had to move to house enough chairs for additional artists and clients into a nicer part of town.

Kai laid down roots, and the city responded with a love he hadn’t felt in a long time. No longer on the run, he could openly converse with his mother and old friends from town. His father never cared much for him, after all, and why would he start now with the golden boy home? He had grown immensely since his arrival. No longer a child, or in his brother’s shadow, he could hype up his pack brothers and sisters without making any of the mistakes of his father. All of Kai’s mistakes were definitely his own, and usually a result of his awful temper. His pack was his family, his new, chosen family that he could keep from fucking up, and he took his responsibility very seriously. That didn’t mean that he would be a stick in the mud alpha, though. After all, what was life without a little bit of chaos and blood?

⇨   P E R S O N A L I T Y

+   passionate, hardworking, loyal

-    impulsive, aggressive, chaotic

[mirkwoodshewolf]

Guardian of creatures; AU! Queen x oc female x reader Chap. 8

*Author’s note*

Hey gang, I hope my fellow American readers had a good Thanksgiving (even if you aren’t American and celebrate thanksgiving, I hope you enjoyed it as well.) Anyways onto the important thing, I finally got around to a plot for the next chapter of GOC. I hope you all like this cause there’s a surprise plot twist in this chapter and I went all evil and left it on a cliffhanger (hehehe) Anyways I hope you like this chapter and until the next time :)

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things​

@waddles03​

@psychosupernatural​

@ixchel-9275​

@simonedk​

@queensdivas​

@queen-paladin​

@queendeakyy​

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels​

@kinole009x​

@geek-and-proud​

@wormzteef​

@dancingcoolcat​

____________________________________________________________

Chapter 8,

Time runs short

Five days later; as it was promised, Roger, Brian and Freddie took over your training.  You learned hand to hand combat from Roger, healing magic and weaponry handling from Brian, and Freddie helped you to use magic without the use of a wand (just like he taught John and Serafina).

The lessons were hard and grueling and even left your muscles sore by the next morning but you pushed through it.  Especially since you now had to balance the last stretch of your internship with the New York Times.

You were currently walking through the hallways after delivering a new set of pictures you took with a reporter on a double homicide of an elderly couple.

“Oi intern!” you turn around and there stood Mr. Wormwood. He never did bother to learn your name which irked you every single time.  But due to staying professional, you had no say in correcting him.  Rule one, always remember your place in the newspaper business.

“Yes sir?” you ask.

“Take this down to Singer downstairs in the printing room. Make sure it’s only him that gets it and no one else is that clear?”

“Perfectly sir.” You take the manilla folder and race towards the elevator and you hit the G1 button.  You sit there waiting and waiting while a soft jazz music played over the speakers.  You tap the rhythm on your thigh as you wait and wait, watching the floor levels drop each time.  

When it finally dinged and the doors opened up, you left the elevator to find out that something wasn’t right.  There was nothing but storage files everywhere. Old newspapers scattered everywhere, files tossed like trash, carts filled to the brim with letters and packages. It took you a moment to realize that you were actually in the storage unit, not the printing room.

Damnit! You think to yourself.  As you go to turn around a sound suddenly reaches your ear.  A kind of clanking sound from a tin can or something. Slowly you turn around but you see no one there.

“Somebody there?” you call out.  The room is dead silent.  Not even the sound of the AC could be heard from down here.  It made you have an eerie feeling, like when you were at the graveyard with Freddie one time and he was teaching you about seances. But this was creepier because you knew you didn’t use the spell to contact a ghost, and you doubt anyone knew how to either.

As you walk through and push the carts aside you come to a large shelf of boxes, packages and broken trinkets (probably from old machine parts).  You then heard the clinking sound again.  This time it was really clanking, almost as if it were calling out to you.

You searched and searched but you couldn’t find anything metal that was rattling the way it was.  That was until you came across a brown package tied up with—chains? Why would an ordinary package need to be chained up? You pick up the package and saw that these weren’t ordinary chains.

Engraved along every other chain was Nordic engravings. Remembering your multi-lingual lessons from Brian it read:

PURGATORY FOR BEASTS OF THE STORM AND ICE

You lean in close to the chains and softly whisper the first unlocking spell you could remember and hoped that it would work.

“Alohamora.” Low and behold the chains glowed a fiery color, almost like lava before falling down to the ground.  You open the package and inside was some kind of vase?

You take it out and observe it closely to realize that it wasn’t a vase at all, but an urn.  It was emerald green with a gold top, as well as a single gold strand with Celtic ruins that circled around the middle of the urn.  The urn begins to rattle in your hands so you quickly set it down along the shelf in front of you.

Soon you began to hear what almost appeared to be screaming coming from inside that urn.  It was an awful, heartbreaking screaming.  The kind that just tears at your heart, a scream of fear and panic. Wanting to help you place your hand on top of the urn when a loud voice suddenly screams at you.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!?” you freeze and you turn around to see Mr. Grayson.  His eyes wide with panic as he quickly walks up towards you and takes the urn back. With a flash of his hands he tightens the top and holds the urn almost possessively.

Slowly and creepily, his head turns towards you.  An ugly sneer spread across his face as he looks at you almost deranged.

“How did you open that?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Why did you even come down here!?” his voice raises louder.

“Mr. Grayson I didn’t mean any harm I swear!” you plead. Just what was so important about that urn to him. And why was he acting like this? You knew he could have a temper but this—he was like an escaped asylum patient.  Crazed eyes, baring his teeth, and acting possessive towards something.

“No one touches MY STUFF!!” you then watch him lift up one of the carts and fling it onto it’s side, letters and packages flying across the air.

“M-Mr. Grayson please…stop!”

“GET OUT!!” he screams at you.  As he continued to trash the storage room, you race out as fast as you can towards the elevator. “GET. OOOOOUUUUUTTTT!!!” his furious screams echo through the dark hallway as you reach the elevator.  Panicking you press the UP button and once the elevator doors open, you race inside and press a random button.

At this point you didn’t care what floor you ended up on, all you knew was that you had to get out of this building.  Once the doors opened, you raced out and ran past dozens of other workers.  All of them exclaiming at you to watch it or telling you to slow down.

Somehow you manage to get out of the building and all you do is just run.  Racing past people, dodging cars and horse drawn carriages. Finally you reach an alleyway and you collapse there on the dirty floor panting and trying to calm down from your panic attack.

Your heart racing with fear and tears rushing down your face. What the fuck just happened back there? Never have you seen someone act that deranged and psychotic before in your life (and you were in a Naga’s coils). You really believed that you were about to be killed in that office and no one would’ve noticed you were missing.

‘(Y/n)?’ a soft yet raspy voice called out to you.  You lift your head and wipe away your tears.

“Roger?” you sniffled. “Where are you?”

‘Here.’ You look around but there was no sign of the Nokk anywhere.

“Where?”

‘Here. Look down.’ You look down to see a medium size puddle right in front of you. A puddle most likely still there from the storm that came the other day.  You look closer and soon your reflection was replaced with Roger’s.

“Oh Roger. Finally a friendly face for once.”

‘What happened (Y/n)? You look as if Fred tried to swallow you whole.’ You glare at him for that little reminder of your first encounter with the Naga but you brush it away quickly as you answered.

“My boss suddenly flipped out on me. But it wasn’t a normal human meltdown. He went crazy, almost like he was possessed by something.”

‘How much are we talking about here? Demon leveled possessed.’

“No. It was—it was like how Serafina snaps easily during this time. But mixed with yours and Freddie’s temperament times 11.”

‘That bad huh?’

“I was scared Rog. He looked like he was really going to kill me! I thought I was gonna die in there!”

‘Alright, alright, alright calm down. Here, take my hand and I’ll bring you home.’ He extended his hand and soon his webbed hand stood in front of you.

“Normally I would be really freaked out about that.”

‘Yeah but you’re not normal. Not anymore at least. Now c’mon take it.’ You place your hand in his and he pulls you down into the puddle and soon enough you find yourself breaching at the lake before the house.

Roger now appears at your side and his shifts into his water horse form.  He lowers himself to you and you pull yourself on top of him.  Once your on, he raced out of the water and his water form dissolves till he’s a pure white horse as he keeps racing onward.

As you now stand before the mansion, you get off his back and he shifts back to his human disguise.

“Here, have a seat.” You both sit down along the backyard swing.  Roger sits close beside you, his arm going behind your shoulders over the swing, “Now, tell me what happened this morning.” You take a deep breath and proceed to tell him everything, right down to the smallest detail.

You told him that it was all for an urn, and how out of character it was for Mr. Grayson to act the way he did.  Sure you mentioned that he had a temper but never to the point of destroying things.  You also mentioned the crazy ticks you remembered he did when you didn’t notice before.

When he first turned to you after taking back the urn, you noticed how he began to flick out his tongue at the right corner of his mouth. A quick in and out like how Freddie does.  Roger gives you his full attention as you continue to explain your story, that’s when a voice speaks out.

“What’s going on here?” you both turn to see Brian coming out from the gardens. “(Y/n). We weren’t expecting you till after your shift tonight, why are you home so early?”

“They had a bit of a freak out at work and needed to cool off at home. Brian why don’t you make yourself useful and maybe go whip up a batch of those chocolate chip cookies of yours.” The Elf lord glared at the Nokk and said.

“Normally I’d have a retort for you but judging by (Y/n)’s frightened and exhausted face I won’t argue in front of them. Come with me dear one.” You follow Brian into the kitchen and as he promises, he makes up a batch of his famous chocolate chip cookies.

When they were done, Brian set down a plate for you and you thanked him graciously.  But once you took one more bite, your chest began to hurt once more.  This time the shock was so painful that it caused you to drop your cookie.  Brian knelt down before you and said.

“You’ve been having a lot of these chest pains lately, are you sure you don’t need me to heal you?” he asks.

“How did……”

“I’m a high Elf dear one. You may think you’re able to hide this from the others, but not from me.”

“I—I don’t know Brian. I don’t even know what this could be. I know it’s not a heart attack cause I don’t feel my arm going numb, and it doesn’t hurt to breathe so it’s not my lungs that are doing this.”

“Well you’ve suffered through this long enough. Come let’s get you up to my room and I’ll have a look at you.” He helps you up and guides you out of the kitchen.  But before you both left, that’s when the telephone began to ring.  Brian’s expression turned to a grim shock as he stared at the phone.

“It’s just the telephone Brian.”

“That’s just it. No one but us five know the number for this house.” Okay now you see why he looked so shock.  Sure you had been given the number but you were sworn to secrecy to never, ever, ever under any circumstances give this number to anyone.  “I’ll get it.”

“No!” Brian commanded.  He takes a deep breath in and said in a calmer tone, “Just sit here, I’ll find out who this is.” He sits you down on one of the stools near the island and walks over to the phone.

It’s constant ringing still going off till finally Brian picked up the receiver and spoke into it.

“Hello?” Brian remained silent while the person spoke on the other end of it.  “May I ask who this is and why you need to speak to them?” Brian leans against the counter listening to the person before he says, “Alright, I’ll put them on,” he then turns to you and holds it out to you.

You sit up and walk towards him and take the phone from his hand.  You put the receiver up to your ear and speak hesitantly.

“H-hello?”

“Intern, it’s Mr. Grayson. Listen, I want to—apologize for my behavior this afternoon. I understand that you left the office after what transpired in the storage unit and I wanted to give my sincerest apology. Come by the office for some coffee and we’ll discuss it further on.”

“To-tonight sir?”

“Yes. I expect you in my office at 8pm sharp.”

“Well I uhh……”

“Great see you there. Remember 8pm on the dot. Don’t keep me waiting.” With that the conversation ended and he hung up on you without allowing you to speak your mind.  You hang up the phone and say to Brian.

“My boss wants me to come by the office for coffee as an apology for scaring me earlier today. Wait what time is it?!” you turn to the clock and see that it’s 6:15pm. “Shit I need to get back to the city now!”

“But what about your healing session?” Brian asked urgently.

“Sorry Brian but I’ve got to go now. If I’m late who knows if he’ll have another freak out like he did today. I can’t disappoint him see yah Brian bye!” you said hurriedly as you gather up your light coat and keys and raced right out the door towards your car.

As it got darker, you finally arrive at the office to see it’s completely empty.  The lights all turned off and the typewriter’s finally silenced.  You walk through the hallways till you finally reach Mr. Grayson’s office.  You knock on the door and you hear his voice say.

“Come in!” you entered inside and as usual he sat there lounging against his leather chair and cigar in his mouth.  “Right on time rookie, sit down.” He spoke.  You enter inside his office, “Close the door.”

“But—we’re the only two……”

“I SAID CLOSE THE DOOR!” he snaps at you.  Fearfully you close the door as you push your back against it.  He takes a sharp breath in before saying calmly, “Sorry. Just been—having one of my rare furious moments.” He stands up and walks over to his coffee machine and tweaked at the knobs preparing two cups of coffee. “This job—takes a lot out on you. You’re expected to give our commands like you’re on the war front again. Sometimes I still get memories of my time back in the Great War. Pain in the ass I tell yah.”

“I’m—sorry sir.” You said solemnly.

“Ain’t no need for you to be sorry. That’s life for yah. Knocks you into the ground and you end up rolling in shit half your life.”

“Yeah. But my grandfather used to tell me, when life does that to you. You need to get back up on that horse as soon as possible.”

“Otherwise you’re nothing but shit on the ground as well. My old man used to tell me the same thing.” He takes the cigar out of his mouth in order to take a sip of his coffee.  And it was then you noticed that similar flick of his tongue that he did earlier.

“Uhh sir I—hate to pry but uhh……that urn in the storage unit.”

“Oh yes. That. I’ve been meaning to ask you about that myself.” He said as he slowly walked over towards the door. “You see that there was a special urn gifted to me by my auntie back in the day. But only a few certain people could read it.” You then saw him take out a set of keys and lock the door on you.

At this point your heart was racing, your palms were getting clammy, and your adrenaline was pumping.

“How was it that you could open it? There’s only a certain type of people that can unlock chains like that.” He spoke in an impatient, snippety tone.  He took the cigar out of his mouth and tossed it over to the trash. “Do you know why I chose you to go to the BEWITCHED club? Why you, an insignificant little nobody like you?”

“Sir I don’t—”

“Because I knew exactly who you were! Those traitors along with their little pets weren’t the only ones spying on you. We’ve been watching you too.” He spoke as he walked right up to you, getting right up into your face.

“What? You—but how could you….I mean you…..”

“You, you, you, you, you, you.” He mocked you pettily. “Quit your sniveling! You went to that club because He made it be so. And now thanks to you……we’ve got them. Our centuries of tracking is finally over. And now—your usefulness has reached its end.”

Suddenly the door bursted out with red magic and soon Mr. Grayson was shot with another red blast right towards him as well as his chair.  Mr. Grayson was now pinned to his chair and when you turned around there stood Serafina, John, Brian, Roger and even Freddie.

They all piled in the office, John went straight up to Mr. Grayson and pulled back his head.

“Freddie!” Freddie slithered towards Mr. Grayson and bit his neck. He cried out in pain as he even made gurgling sounds.  When Freddie removed his fangs from your boss’ neck, John interrogated him.

“You know who we are?!”

“Little Johnny boy!” he hissed through his gurgling and choked up voice.

“Are you Richard Grayson? Are you!?”

“No……”

“Is he in this room? Is he in this room!?!?” John snarled again.  This time taking the collar’s of his shirt.  Mr. Grayson didn’t respond verbally but his eyes shifted over to his desk.

“(Y/n) away from there!” Serafina ordered.  You moved away from the desk as Brian and Roger held you between them.  John then twisted his wrist and the desk magically transformed itself into a black and grey chest.  He contorted his fingers a certain way and purple magic came around the chest as it began to unlock itself, one by one the lids opened till the 7th one opened.

As soon as that chest was open, a foul smell filled the air. It was unlike any smell you’ve ever had smelt before.  Slowly you all walked towards the chest and when Serafina sent down a red light of magic, you gasped at the awful sight.

It was Mr. Grayson.  He lay there limp and beaten to almost a bloody pulp.  The decomposition from his body looked like he had been in there for months, maybe even a whole year.

“That’s—that’s Mr. Grayson. But…….” Freddie flicked his tongue into a vile of sorts and said.

“Polyjuice potion.”

“Now we know why he was hidden from your sights Fred.” Said Brian.

“We’ll have to burn the body, it’s our best chance of the humans not investigating us.” Roger said.

Soon you all began to hear the Richard Grayson imposter groan and grumble.  When you turn you saw that his face was actually starting to slowly melt, like a lit candlestick.  The right side was showing a more rapid progression of melting away than the left. His hands which gripped the arms of his chair till his knuckles were pure white, soon opened up and parts of his fingers actually broke off his hand.

He then let out a scream as some teeth shot out.  He began to twist himself about like he was having a seizure as his face morphed into someone else.  The short grey hair slowly grew longer and wilder and into an auburn like color, the wrinkles completely faded and his sharp profile became slightly more rounded.

With a final groan, his head lowered down and you saw a younger man now sitting in the chair.  A crazed look in his eyes as his tongue flicked in and out from his lips. Sweat glistened across his face as his chest heaved up and down with each breath.  You got a closer look at him by lowering yourself down to where his head hung, but the man roared as he tried to reach out for you.

Serafina’s and John’s magic held him back against the chair while Brian took you back.  The young man glared spitefully at you as John said.

“Long time no see, cousin Crowley.” John sneered.  Crowley only smirked as he said to you.

“I’ll show you mind if you show me yours muggle.” He growled with a Scottish accent. He then revealed a dark tattoo on his arm which actually moved.  It was a skull with a snake wrapped the skull, even going through the left eye socket and the head of the snake resting over the head of the skull.

“Your chest (Y/n).” Brian said as he ripped open your shirt to reveal that you had the very same symbol over your heart.  However it glowed a dark blue color, like a brand.

It soon began to make sense. You hadn’t gotten this mark until you joined the NY Times, when you first got your badge.  How could you be so stupid, that badge was enchanted to mark you!

“You know what this means don’t you? They know where you are now. Your precious Knight has been our tracker on you this whole time.” John and Serafina’s face mellowed to hidden fear.

“I’m sorry guys I didn’t know.” Brian held you close as Serafina said.

“He’s all yours Freddie. Do with him as you wish.” As you all walk out Crowley calls out.

“I’ll be welcomed home like a hero!”

“Not likely. For you see, Naga’s don’t leave anything behind.” You all rush out of the office, leaving Freddie to—devour Crowley.

You all arrive back at the house and were currently sitting in the study room where your magic first began, Brian was working on healing you of the brand while John and Serafina worked on a potion to destroy the enchanted nametag.  John pulled out the nametag and saw that it hadn’t been affected by the potion they just made.

“It should be melting by now.”

“Too much conqueror root?” she questioned.

“No. Not enough forest fae ash.” Serafina went over to the shelf and picked up a small urn and dumped it into the potion before stirring it up once more.  John placed the badge in the cauldron again hoping the badge would melt.

Meanwhile you could hear Brian muttering in Elvish a chant as he pressed a wet cloth to the brand.

Menno o nin na hon i eliad annen annin, hon leitho o ngurth

He kept repeating that chant over and over and over again under his breath.  Meanwhile your thoughts were buzzing of how all of this was your fault.  If you hadn’t taken a job at the New York times, John and Serafina would still be safe from his family.

But now because of you, they would be here any minute now. John and Serafina be tortured by John’s psychotic family for leaving.  Brian, Roger and Freddie killed for being magical creatures, and it was all your fault.

“Don’t blame yourself for this.” Brian’s soft voice spoke. You turn to him but this time you couldn’t bare to look into the eyes of the Elf Lord.  You didn’t deserve his comfort.

“But I did this. I could’ve gotten an internship at some other news press. Moved to another state to do it. Hell I should’ve spoken up about that pain I was feeling in my chest. I put you all in danger. I don’t deserve to be your Knight. I don’t deserve any of this.” You wipe away a tear from the corner of your eye as you refused to look at any of them.

“You can believe that and feel sorry for yourself, or you can help us fix a broken world.” Serafina said to you. “This isn’t our first time coming in contact with John’s family. It was bound to happen sooner or later. But right now our main focus is getting that tracking spell off of you. Then when they do come, we’ll be ready for them.”

“She’s right.” John said. “You couldn’t have known that it was my cousin. Crowley’s always been crafty with his disguises, he’s even gone so far as to be avoided by the Seer of all creatures. So whomever of my family comes for us, we’ll fight till the end. Because that’s what we do. We don’t give up.”

“And pray to Poseidon that nothing else is coming for us.” Roger said as he lounged himself across the couch.  Brian, John and Serafina glared at Roger but you could tell that even through their glares, they too hoped that he was right.

*3rd Person POV*

Back at the NY Times office in the storage room, earlier that day when Crowley had his meltdown as Richard Grayson, he had neglected to reseal his urn.  It now lay in the corner of the room on its side.

Suddenly the cap came off and a dark blue mixed with purple liquid spilled out of it.  However instead of just forming one straight line, the blue liquid began to trail down and form a circle, while the purple began to make a star, and together the liquid formed a pentagram.  

At the center of the pentagram, two liquid figures began to rise from the liquid.  One of them being out of the blue liquid while the other was purple.  Their crouched bodies slowly raised up till they stood proud and tall.

Once the liquid faded away, the two figures soon dropped their liquid forms and there stood two men.  Around the short-haired man, a cold mist formed over his feet, and the other had lightning flickering from his fingertips which caused the lights to flicker and cause a loud humming sound.

The man with short hair cracked his knuckles before shooting his left hand out to the side towards the urn which froze it into nothing but a block of ice and within seconds the urn shattered into millions of pieces.

The two men looked at each other and strutted out of the room with pride in each step.  As they passed through each of the lights, they blew out and exploded which filled the long-haired man’s arm with even more electricity.

[sugarfreecapsicle]

old magic

A/N: well it is spooky time, my dudes. although this isn’t all that scary, it’s a little rattling. written for and with lots of support from @moonstruckbucky and her Halloween writing challenge!  As always, huge props to @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​ for beta-reading and for this gorgeous moodboard!

prince!bucky x reader

warnings: implied sex, manipulation, poor witchery, kinda angsty?

DISCLAIMER: this is in no way a reflection of anyone who identifies, practices or otherwise affiliates with witchcraft. I bastardized some basics and ran with it. Please don’t come for me and correct my poor development of a fake magic system.

Owls, crickets, toads all sing their lullabies, croon their desire in the unseasonal warmth. Even the fish are unsettled, splashing about in the pond on the horizon of your window. Protective warding candles flicker with the larger flame in your hearth - a warning.

Trouble will come knocking on your door.

With a sigh, you open your eyes and absently gaze over your small cup of tea. Steam curls through your vision and blurs the orange light through your small hut. Trouble indeed.

The fire at your hearth crackles hungrily, so you feed it a handful of brittle twigs. If guests should come, preparations should be made.

In the midst of your hot bath, a team of five knights barge through your front door - those wards would need recharging, you note - and clear your long dining table to unload a limp body. All men except one gape at your nonchalance. Steam akin to that of your tea floats upward from the large tub, hot water decorated with herbs and petals of varying shape and color warping your naked form beneath the surface.

“Witch.” The title seethes through his pink lips, but your smirk and nod. 

“Well met, Captain.”

“Fix him.”

“He’s the only one of you with any decency,” your words are laced with mischief. “Shield your eyes, men! Save your precious innocence before your eyes burst aflame at the sight of a bare witch!”

Your cackles fill the room, chiming echoes sparking off the walls as you dare to stand at attention from the pool of water. All but the captain turn away - his blue eyes glare murderous at you. A wink over your shoulder before pulling a long, black robe from its nearby perch brings a sneer over the leader’s face.

“By order of the king-”

“Yes, yes,” you interrupt loudly with an exasperated roll of your eyes, your voice lowered to mock that of the looming man. “Perform your rightful duties as a registered hag and fulfill as the royal guard wishes.” 

Your bare feet tap across the floor, wet prints left behind intentionally - each dissipates quickly into the air. “Tell me, Steven - how many other witches have you brought to their knees with such a command?”

His right shoulder twitches, but his hand never raises. Your eyebrow quirks up and you nod - how unbecoming of the Captain of the Royal Guard to be accused of lewd behavior in the name of the King. He’d passed your teasing - the icy tingle of a ward at work had not pulled at the back of your neck. The captain willed himself not to strike you. Commendable.

“Fix him,” the Captain grits out, pointing at the pallid body on your table. An inhale on approach allows his spirit to feel welcomed in your home - any chaos or anger in the room would only hinder your work - and you smell chamomile. 

Of all the foolish things you’d imagined could happen, resurrecting a martyred prince hadn’t crossed your mind. Your eyes roam over him, assessing. Deep laceration framed by a dark brown bloodstain at his abdomen. Left arm at the shoulder dangling by red, thin threads. Muck and debris spattered over what shreds remained of his tunic and trousers. Even his face, sculpted in beauty, bore minor wounds in comparison to your initial findings. 

“Captain, I’m no miracle worker,” you purr. “I’m a witch.”

“I know damn well what you are,” the Captain rushes you and all but pins you against your worktable, looming as a cloud in the sky. “And I know what you’re capable of.”

He can’t disguise the fear, the love, in his eyes. None of it belonging or intended for you - for you, there’s rage and desperation pouring from the sea blue. 

“Is this a price you wish to pay?” Your gentle words do nothing to deter his tears that brim and tumble onto his dirty cheeks. “There is a price for all magicks - not all can be purchased with gold and crystals.”

His jaw sets, his body retreats enough to give your feet purchase on the ground. 

“Do what you must.”

Sweat beads on your brow, your skin flushes with salty dew as you murmur and call and command, breath swelling in your chest, tingling sparks ignite beneath your skin - 

And there’s a clatter of iron by your fire. Shaking hands slam onto your table.

“I need space to continue my work.” Your eyes dart from each knight to their captain who leers.

“Shall we move him-”

“Absolutely not!” The slender knight recoils into the corner at your bark. Your tired eyes wander to the captain. “I need your men outside. I cannot be interrupted.”

“You cannot be trusted,” he spits, arms crossed over his plate armor.

“Trusted enough to bring your prince back from the dead, no?” 

Unhappily convinced, he ushers his men outside and gives them orders to stand guard until your work is complete or he commands otherwise. The wooden door creaks and whines as he slams it shut against the stonework threshold. Steven perches his hips against one of your many storage cabinets, his arms folded neatly once again, and you return to your work.

This magic drains. Your focus is split between replenishing your own reservoir of power and awakening the silent body of the prince. Divided attention rarely served any witch, least of all one interrupted while in ritual to prepare herself for the impending trouble. Knees bent against the rotting wood, your body shielding his as your hands spread your spell like paint. 

Hours later, you need rest. The Captain demands an explanation before he allows you to sit in your favorite chair. With exhaustion in your voice, you give him the simplest explanation available - the prince is stable, but your powers are not. Without your full attention, he could still die, or worse, lose his soul somewhere between the ethereal plane and the tangible one.

You fall into your seat with a melting sigh of relief. From your position you survey the progress: his skin still lacks color, though your poultices and wards appear to hold fast to your will. The missing left arm troubles you, though your faith in a solution after more work warm your soul.

“His left arm cannot be revived, but the rest of his body...perhaps. I need rest to replenish what I’ve lost. An hour at most.”

“And in that hour-”

“Yes, your prince is safe. When I am ready, I will continue.” 

Beginning the ritual from your seat, your eyes close gratefully. For a quarter of an hour you will meditate and ask for guidance. Then, you will submerge yourself naked into the pond to recharge your spirit until full once again.

The hour drags for the captain. Understanding a witch proves impossible - these otherworldly machinations serve nothing in battle. No witch would even consider aiding the armies of the King - though he strictly commanded none of them should die for their obstruction. 

After all, he’d said, they’ll just come back to life and kill me for ordering their death.

He shivers, a hand calming his chest. Steven had promised his life for James’ - and he failed. He failed his prince, his king, his country. And the failure stares at a rippling pond where a witch likely drowns herself as he broods.

A bubble floats on the surface then quickly bursts. Then another. And a cluster. 

And the moment Steven moves to stand, your head down to your eyes emerges from the water. Your movements are slow, deliberate, intentional. The pond water glistens in the moonlight, translucent pearls over smooth curves. He gulps down a knot of lust in his throat on your approach.

Cold and soaked, you grin devilishly up at him through dripping lashes. “Bring me his armor. I may fashion an arm for him yet.”

The work isn’t easier, but with your renewed strength comes potency. No blacksmith could match the functional metal arm fashioned in hellfire, a marbling of dark gunmetal and gold that pairs in shape with his left. The weight of it couldn’t be helped even by magic.

Finally, almost at sunrise, you can complete your ritual. The captain watches intently, breath hitching with every change in the air, puff of smoke, flicker of candlelight. These spells are extremely delicate, and with good reason - witches who meddle in life and death often end up mangled beyond repair.

His first inhale, chest lifting with a dragged gasp, rattles like a child’s toy with an exhale as rough. His captain eyes you, worried and questioning.

You nod shortly and repeat your charm - another inhale and exhale but smooth. The third repetition eases the tension in the room when he breathes as if in a deep sleep.

“Give him a day,” you sigh, wiping sweat from your brow. “It’s difficult readjusting to this material plane after death.”

The men make camp outside your front door, but never bother you for food or wares. Not that you’d have heard anything - you’d managed to sleep the better part of the day away. A mid-afternoon tea appeals to your weary mind, and as you’re brewing, the body on the table rustles.

You turn, smirking, and wait for his eyes to flutter awake at last.

Blue as the sea on a cloudless day, lashes dark and thick as pitch. No wonder maidens far and near begged you for love potions with him as their target.  

How unfortunate that they didn’t have your skill.

A small enchantment in his arm sealed his fate in more ways than one.

“Well met, brave prince.”

Of course his men swarm him with excited congratulations and greetings, eager to have their beloved prince back from the dead. Steven takes his time to communicate the new arm and new life as clearly as possible - even including your contribution to the whole endeavor. 

Pupils dilate when the prince kisses your hand in a low bow.

“May I deliver my payment to you in person?” His voice is deliciously low, hungry, raw.

“Whatever pleases His Majesty,” you answer, meeting his eyes in a promise. The troupe clambers out after a short protection spell you’d offered freely. 

In a week - that’s all it’ll take for the prince to appear before you again, in the dead of night, pupils blown out. 

“Madam, I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but you’re all I think about. I can’t bed my wife, I can’t hold court, I can’t travel without passing by and the urge to stay-“

You’re laughing behind a delicate hand. “Your Royal enchantress should be ashamed, your majesty. What witch cannot detect a love spell?”

The prince’s face twists in confusion. “You...you’ve bewitched me?”

Again, grinning, you recite the simple incantation: 

Though a beauty your bride may be

Your heart and soul now belong to me

The prince swallows, can’t stop himself from drinking in your body from toes to head. So full of desire, so wanting, needy, desperate for touch. “You’ve ruined me.”

“I feel I’ve made quite a vast improvement, in fact,” you giggle. “Aren’t I a better vision than your betrothed?”

You let your robe slip from your shoulders and pool at your feet just as the door to your home slams shut behind a wanton man.

[bluelady-atla]

Zutara Month Day 1

Blue Spirit & Painted Lady

(This is my first time writing fanfiction, so please be kind.)

Katara lays awake in her sleeping bag listening to the sounds of their camp. Toph is snoring loudly as ever, mercifully muffled by her stone tent. Aang's breathing is a slow faint whisper, much like the wind as he sleeps peacefully across from the fire that has now died down to nothing but faint embers. Despite the silence, Katara can not sleep; the one sound missing is the wheezy snoring of her brother, a sound that she has fallen asleep to without fail every night for as long as she can remember. But tonight Sokka sleeps at master Piandao’s Estate as his apprentice. Logically, she knows he’s safe there, and that training under Piandao is just what he needs to take the next step. They had all agreed this morning that he needed a master- but now, as she tries to sleep without the sound of her brothers breathing for the first time in years, she can’t help but feel restless. Deciding that trying to sleep when she’s so wound up is futile, she quietly climbs out of her sleeping bag, careful not to wake her companions. Digging through her bag for supplies, she dons a loose red robe- tied around the waist with a length of coarse rope, and a wide-brimmed straw hat adorned with a sheer shift to make a veil. To complete her look she kneels by the river bank, dipping her fingers in the damp clay and paints her face in red swirls. As The Painted Lady, she rises and stalks off to the city of Shu Jing.

~

Zuko, angrier than ever (and lost without Iroh’s guidance), falls back on the one thing from his travels that made him feel like the good guy; masquerading as the Blue Spirit. In Ba Sing Se it started as a way to blow off steam and keep in fighting shape. He would stalk through the streets of the lower ring at night, keeping to the shadows but looking for a fight. Usually his prey was local thugs and unruly drunks just thrown out of a bar. He didn’t really care who they were, as long as they could put up a good fight. He never killed or maimed, just incapacitated his victims and moved on. One night when he was on the prowl he heard screaming. Following the source of the noise, he found a woman surrounded by 4 men pawing at her and making crude threats. One of the men had her arms pinned behind her back and held a knife to her throat. The other men were rifling through her clothes, digging through her pockets and letting their hands linger. As he came upon this scene, Zuko knew her found his prey for the night. He’s nearly dispatched the 4 men only using his Dao swords when unbenounced, a 5th joins the fray. Where this warrior came from Zuko does not know, but unlike the others he is most certainly a trained warrior. He is faster, stronger and an earth bender. Caught by surprise, Zuko is outmatched- it is hard to block stone, even with dual swords. Cornered and nearly beaten, he uses fire bending to chase the warrior off. He turns to slip away into the shadows when the woman reaches up from when she fell at the beginning of the fight and grabs his wrist. Adrenaline pumping in his veins Zuko freezes, his instincts tell him to flee- she's seen him bend and he needs to leave quickly before any Dai Lee show up, but he doesn't want to hurt a woman who already had a hard night. He slowly turns to face her, expecting to see fear or anger or even disgust. For a long moment she keeps her grip on his wrist, staring into the dark eyes of the mask until finally both her eyes and her grip soften with gratitude. A quiet “Thank you” whispers past her lips and then The Blue Spirit is gone, already melted into the shadows. 

From that night on, whenever Zuko prowled the streets as the Blue Spirit looking for trouble, he would look for muggers and attackers- those harming the innocent. He was chasing the feeling he got when he saw gratitude in the eyes of those he protected. Tonight was no different- he told his father he was going to travel the Fire Nation to see the country he had missed for the past 3 years. During the day he would travel the nation in a palanquin with a royal entourage. At night he would slip away from his guards and look to protect his people as the Blue Spirit. 

Tonight he was in a small town on an island just at the edge of the Fire Nation. Desperately trying to recreate the feeling he felt in Ba Sing Se when he knew he was doing the right thing. As he was slinking through the shadows, looking for anything amiss, he spots a ghostly figure clad in red, enveloped by a personal cloud of fog. He tails them to the local military outpost. He can make out just enough of their figure through the red robe tied off with rope to see that it’s a woman. Though he can’t catch more than a glimpse of her face past her wide hat and veil; only snatches of what looks like swirls of red. Zuko watches as the woman surrounded by mist slips into the compound. He slips in after her, quiet as her unseen shadow. He follows her all the way to the store room, which it appears to take her a little while to find. He watches silently as she gathers a bag full of supplies- dried food, clothes and medicine. When he was younger he would have found stealing from the military an executable offence, but now after everything he has seen and done, he doesn't find it enough to warrant attacking the woman, only enough to make him interested enough to observe a little more. He follows her out, curious where she will lead. Sticking to the rooftops, he hurries after as she makes a bee-line for the worst part of the small town. He watches in awe as she stops before a dilapidated house and pulls out some of the stolen goods from her sack to leave on the doorstep. House after house, she leave a little food here and a fresh set of clothes there, never staying long and always seemingly unaware of her shadow. 

~

Katara stops at an old man sleeping on the side of the street. She had almost missed him, he was so still and so quiet. Swirled in red and fog, she kneels by the man and is digging through her bag of contraband when he starts into a fit of coughing so hard it rattles his whole frame. Quickly she drops the bag and draws a small stream of water from her bending pouch around her hands so that she can heal him and soothe his coughs. She finds fluid pooling in his lungs and remembers hearing about such a sickness. As she bends the liquid from his lungs it causes him to heave even harder as he coughs it up. Once he settles down, she rummages in the bag, looking for the medicine she remembers grabbing back at the military storage. Suddenly, behind her she hears the distinct sound of boots scuffing on the ground. She turns slowly to look at the newcomer and sees a brawny man dressed in Fire Nation military issued uniform. Sitting very still, nearly holding her breath, she prays to Tu that she'll go unnoticed under the cover of her fog, wincing when the old man starts coughing again. 

“Hey you there! Come out where I can see you” calls a rough voice from half a block behind her. Katara bolts, running down the nearest alley freezing a thin sheet of ice behind her from the moisture of the fog she keeps swirling around her. The soldier gives chase, yelling “Stop!” after her and blowing on a whistle around his neck. He slips and falls on the ice Katara left but is soon joined by three other soldiers who help him up. “The thief went that way!” he says. His yell echoes down the alley to Katara. She doesn’t risk a glance back as she keeps running until she finds this alley ends in a dead end with a wall too high for her to climb. If only she had more water on her she could bend herself over the wall. She turns to fight, finding four soldiers advancing on her from the entrance of the dead end. She looks around desperately for something to bend, only having what's left of her bending water after making the fog and healing that man. The soldier from before snarls at her  

“You match the description of someone seen sneaking away from the military base after ransacking the store room. Stealing from the military is an executable offense.” At this the soldier lights their fist full of flames and take a step closer.

Suddenly a fifth figure drops down from the roof above between Katara and the soldiers. She gasps in surprise as the being, covered head to toe in black, turns slightly to look at her, revealing a grinning blue mask staring back at her.

~

Continued in Don’t Hurt Her

[ificouldau]

Section 4 - Chapter 35

25% of you chose to follow the figure.

> 75% of you chose to find the others.

“Okay,” You begin shakily, taking a moment to catch your own breath, “Let’s find the others first.”

Chan grits his teeth the slightest bit in frustration, closing his eyes for a second to process the unexpected answer. Jihoon and Minghao look on at him with cold glares, clearly judgemental of his mindset.

( -1 Reputation: Dino )

“Soonyoung,” Jihoon begins, voice softer than you’d ever heard before, “We’re not following him.”

Soonyoung looks weary, gaze glossed over and skin still sickly pale, but it’s relieving to everyone to see him glance up and face you.

“Come on,” Minghao adds reassuringly, “Let's go find the guys.”

Though Chan drags his feet along for a second in reluctance, the rest of the boys pull along fine. You walk cautiously at their side, Hao and Jihoon holding Soonyoung’s back in a comforting manner as they move.

Worry treads your heart at the sight of him. With weakened steps and head hanging low, the boy is nothing like his spontaneous character. Every single one of you can’t help glancing over every now and then in concern.

“Quit looking at me,” Soonyoung says after a while, finally interrupting his silence. For once, you’re glad to hear the irritation in his voice.

The five of you walk along in eerie quiet, guiding yourselves with the dim flickers of the hall’s candles and keeping a look out for the mentioned stained glass window. It seems like the dark walls never end. The floor stretches on into distant nothingness the further along you go.

After a short while of walking, a collection of footsteps reach your ears down the hall. The sound is full of threat for a moment, and then relief as you realize it could be the others.

“That has to be them,” Chan says eagerly, the footsteps growing closer, “Guys! It’s-“

Minghao grabs Chan by the collar as the younger boy attempts to race off down the hallway.

“Wait,” Hao says quietly, “Listen.”

You follow the boy’s words as well as the rest of the group, freezing in your position and glaring off down the long, dark hall. The footsteps sound unfamiliar now… slow and steady in such a rhythmic manner that it’s become ominous.

It’s not the others. The mere sound of it makes that clear.

“Hide,” You whisper harshly, hurrying off into the nearest doorway, “Hide!”

The boys don’t hesitate before following, ducking into the room behind you and pulling the door shut tight. The area is small, resembling that of an empty storage space. No more than a dim candle, like the rest of the mansion, lights its worn walls. Jihoon and Chan catch their breath for a moment, and Minghao presses a careful ear to the door in silence.

Then, as if were instinct, the four of you turn to face Soonyoung with worried eyes.

“...What?” The boy asks, sounding annoyed with arms crossed over his chest. The candle light flickers off of his bothered pout.

Hao reaches forward to pat the older boy’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be scared.”

Soonyoung, however, nudges him off quickly.

“Why would I be scared?” He scoffs, “I would punch those fuckers in the face if I could. Stop being weird.”

The rest of you exchange confused glances in odd unison, shocked to hear the boy’s sudden change of tone compared to earlier. Mere minutes ago, he was petrified. The lot of you expected sensitivity in terms of the cult.

“I…” You begin, puzzled, “Are you sure you’re-“

“Shh!”

The familiar rhythmic footsteps sound through the door, clearly a lot closer this time. The cult moves steadily, like clockwork, taking each step with an eerily slow pace. You can hear plenty of them… five or six people heading closer with every second.

Fear shoots through your heart as the sound comes to a slow halt. You can see several dark shadows flood the floor through the threshold, obscuring the outside candlelight from view. They’ve stopped, right in front of you. It feels as if in a matter of seconds they’ll find their way inside.

Luckily, the footsteps fill your ears once again, in the same steady motion as the cult continues their path down the hallway. The sound disappears with every second, and soon you’re left alone again.

“They’re gone,” Chan says after a second, having peeked out of the door to see no one in sight, “We can lea-“

The boy’s words are interrupted by the creak of metal moving. You whip around in fear at the sudden noise, only to see Jihoon pulling a small filing cabinet open in the corner of the room.

“What is that?” Minghao asks, joining the boy in curiosity. The rest of you gather around the open cabinet, peering into a mess of old, yellowed files. Soonyoung’s the first one to tug at anything, pulling a file out into the open air alongside a fresh cloud of dust. The five of you stumble backwards, coughing your lungs out with eyes squeezed shut for a moment, only to glance back up at a folder filled to the brim with old documents.

“What is this shit?” Soonyoung murmurs, thumbing through the papers aimlessly. Jihoon doesn’t say a word as he yanks some of the documents from the boy’s hold to examine.

“Old paperwork about the property,” He says in a low tone, “Insurance records, bills, statements...“

“And family pictures apparently,” Chan interrupts, peeking over Soonyoung’s shoulder at an old, grainy photograph. You follow their eyes down towards the black and white image, squinting through the dim candlelight to see two proud fathers standing behind strollers.

Though the image is worn with age and stains obscure faces from clear view, it’s clear the men are smiling in a way oddly familiar to not only you, but the others. They seem to recognize one of the two grins at the very least, and you’re nearly certain you’ve seen this somewhere before as Jihoon clears his throat.

“Look at this,” He says softly, raising a slip of torn stationary into the light for you all to see. Everyone gathers about the paper, struggling to scan the blotchy words in the dark.

‘I’m sorry,’ It reads in shaky black ink, ‘To the son and love whom I’ve grown distant. My people have run me and my closest companion out of my own home. We’re planning on going into hiding, as we can’t return just yet. I’ll put an end to what I started and find you both again.’

You reread the words a few times in confusion, trying to piece them together to no avail. The others seem just as, if not more, clueless as they cross their arms and shake their heads at the letter.

“Just some old batshit poetry or something,” Soonyoung concludes, tossing the file back into the cabinet.

“So the guy who owned this place was in the cult before they turned on him,” Minghao continues, completely ignoring Soonyoung’s remarks, “I wonder where he is now.”

Chan shrugs his shoulders, glancing over the photo one last time before resting it atop the cabinet. “He’s heartless if he left his family for a stupid cult.”

Jihoon shakes his head slightly, eyebrows furrowed in a concentrated manner as he runs through the information in his mind. “Heartless… no. It doesn’t seem that way.”

Hao studies the photograph with crossed arms and steady eyes.

“He clearly loved his wife and kid,” He murmurs, “I wonder if he ever reached them.”

Before anyone can add on to the conversation, a quiet cough sounds behind you. You turn about to see Soonyoung, standing impatiently by the door with a hand readily on the knob.

“We don’t have time for storytelling,” He says. You blink in embarrassment for a second, not realizing how invested you’d gotten into the old files.

Jihoon shoots the kid a warning glare, looking furious for a split second before carefully returning the papers. The rest of you quietly head right over to the door.

As everyone spills cautiously out into the candlelit hallway, Jihoon takes a moment to stand back and scold Soonyoung, his tone so low and deadpan that it sends chills down your own spine.

“If there’s a chance to learn about your enemy, you take it,” He mutters, “And quit being such a fucking brat about everything.”

As Jihoon joins your side, walking a few steps ahead without turning to look back, you feel Soonyoung follow close behind with fresh tension filling the air. Just minutes ago, you were all fussing over the boy as if he were a child, but you’re willing to admit that his impatient behaviors test everyone’s moods just a bit too much. For once, Soonyoung is clearly holding himself back, wearing a pout and upset glare as if he’d felt confrontation for the very first time.

“I see what you mean now,” Chan says, scanning the dusty walls, “There are literally no doors or windows anywhere. I feel like we’re in a cave.”

“At least we know where the others went, then,” You add, “It’s like a straight path to them.”

Minghao nods in agreement. Even the candles seem to lead to the way. Jihoon’s sneakers skid the old floor as he comes to a sudden stop, looking up with a still stare like he’d just made a significant realization. You frown, hurrying over to the boy’s side, only to follow his eyes and notice the exact same thing he had.

The long, repetitive pathway finally comes to a stop at the end of the hall. Rather than a dead end, however, it splits off into two directions. Both turns look exactly the same; high stone walls extending into dark abyss and no doors or windows in sight. One thing, however, instantly catches your eye.

You squint in confusion to see the row of candles lining only the right hallway. The left hall is almost completely pitch black.

“Which way is the big window you were talking about?” Minghao asks Soonyoung. The boy points off into the candlelit hall on the right. “Are you sure?” Hao asks. Soonyoung nods. “I’m certain.”

Jihoon looks determined, taking a step towards the right hand hallway without a word. You all begin to follow… until quick, distant footsteps reach your ears.

“Who the hell…?” Chan whispers, backing away to get a careful listen. You all do the same, simultaneously realizing the sound had come from the left… where the air is dim and heavy.

Soonyoung’s eyes widen, and then yours, then the rest of the group when a face quickly looks your way down the pitch dark hall.

There’s no denying it. It’s Vernon.

“Hansol!” Jihoon calls in a loud whisper, only to watch Vernon vanish into the shadows like he’d never been there in the first place. All of a sudden, Soonyoung’s legs begin to shake, and then he stumbles backwards with all the blood drained from his face. Minghao catches him by the arm just barely, hoisting him against the near wall and shaking frantically at his shoulders.

“It’s happening again,” He says, almost panicked. The lot of you rush over to his side.

Jihoon grips the boy’s forearm, sounding collected but somewhat nervous as he does his best to calm him. “It’s not them this time… It’s not them. It’s Verno-” “God,” Soonyoung winces, reaching up and gripping his hair so tightly that his knuckles turn white, “Please get me far away from here, please, I just wanna find the others, I…”

“I’m sorry, Soonyoung, seriously,” Chan begins, “but we can’t lose Vernon again when he’s literally right there. This could be our only chance.” “We have to save him, too,” Jihoon agrees. Hao nods firmly, and oddly enough, you find yourself the only one not completely against Soonyoung’s ways for once. “Guys…” You cut in, heart beating out of your chest, “We can’t split up, but we also can’t save Vernon like this, so-” “So we all go right and leave without him,” Chan states sarcastically, “When he’s right in front of our faces.” “Chan, I’m not trying to leave him.” “As much as I want to go get Hansol,” Jihoon says in a low tone, “Whatever you choose is the right choice.”

“I agree,” Minghao adds. You look over at Soonyoung’s petrified expression, his breathing heavy and uneven as he focuses on the floor in attempts to calm himself down. Both hallways are dead silent now, and you know that in this situation, everyone could just as well be right. The left hall is so eerily dark and ominous that it sends chills through your body at the mere thought of being in it. Still, despite the right one dimly illuminated by candlelight, your window of opportunity to find Vernon feels as if it’s closing. You take a second to weigh the possibilities in your head. The air feels a hundred times colder.

- Go down the left hall.

or

- Go down the right hall.

( Vote now on instagram.com/ificould_au. You have 24 hours. )

[txladyj-blog]

This Time Around - Chapter 15

A Daryl Dixon x OFC collaboration written by @xmistressmistrustx​ by request of @txladyj-blog​

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: Daryl Dixon/Original Female Character

Tags: Friendship, Friends to Lovers, Awkwardness, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Crush, Fluff and Humor, Angst and Humor, Mild Smut, Strong Language, Eventual Sex, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence, Some Canon Scenes and Dialogue

Chapters 23/?

With the help of Deanna and Michonne, Rick devised a guard and runs roster that seemed to run like a well-oiled machine on a weekly rotating basis. Those with similar skills were paired up with each other and assigned specific duties and tasks outside the walls. Having hunting, tracking and Walker fighting skills, Jess found herself paired up with Daryl at least once a week when he wasn’t out recruiting. It was a result that had left her with mixed feelings. When she was around him, she would cycle between pure irritation and an icy attitude and playful mocking while trying to hide the fact that underneath it all and no matter how difficult she could sometimes present as, she did enjoy spending time with him. Sometimes, it was like it used to be back at the quarry when they joked and Daryl tried and failed to hide his small smiles. Those moments were changing things and Jess’s guard was very gradually lowering but for the most part, she was confusing and standoffish.

Daryl never gave up his efforts to chip away at Jess’s defiance. He could see it glimmering through when she threw shade at him and giggled when he screwed something up. He let her simmer at him and tolerated her moods because she was there, the old Jess, shoved into the dark and repressed but she was most certainly still present and he wanted nothing more than to see her again.

Glenn’s idea of gathering more military grade supplies and armour to match Jess's meant Rick tasked Daryl and Jess with visiting an abandoned military outpost used as a safe zone at the start of the turn. Upon scouting the area himself, he reported back that the ground was scattered with dead soldiers wearing all manner of useful clothing and the inside of the fences may well contain medication or weapons if it hadn’t already been picked clean. Both Jess and Daryl agreed without question and Deanna threw Jess the keys to a pickup truck.

“I’m driving” Jess announced as she flung open the truck’s door in the wispy rain. Her hood was up and her mask obscured her face. Daryl carried his crossbow by the stirrup and rolled his eyes in plain view of Jess, who was sitting in the driver’s seat.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me. We both know you can’t drive stick.” She told him.

“I'm a redneck, course I can drive stick” He mumbled, climbing up into the passenger side and depositing his crossbow on the back seat.

“You almost burned the gearbox out and gave me whiplash the last time. Stick to what you’re good at. Y’know, hunting, smoking and looking angry as shit all the time.” She turned the key and brought the engine to life, switching up the windscreen wipers to a low pace. Dust was smeared across the glass before it was finally washed away by the rain.

“Fine one to talk.” He rasped, slouching down in his seat and thudding his boots up on the dash.

“Excuse me?” She questioned.

“You. Always lookin’ at me like ya gonna cloud up n’ rain on me.” He braced himself for what would undoubtedly be a barrage of fury at his observation of her mostly angry demeanor. But he was waiting for something that never came and eventually, he glanced to his side to see her staring at him over the edge of her mask.

“I’m sorry” She whispered seriously.

Stunned, Daryl sat up slightly and tried not to appear so baffled. He scanned the area outside the truck, seeing people milling past, heading out to their daily jobs. He was glad no one could see them due to the partially fogged up windows.

“Uh...It’s OK.” He informed her. And it was. He mostly understood her reasons for wanting to keep a safe distance emotionally and the last thing he would ever want to do is hurt her again. But he couldn’t say he was altogether comfortable with it. “C’mon, let’s go.”

= = = = = 

The military camp was a temporary one, only designed to be erected in case of severe emergencies. The fences were broken down and the tents inside had been raised, leaving only empty bullet casings and blood decorating the asphalt. But Rick had been right, the sheer number of dead soldiers, even those reanimated as Walkers would provide them with ample armor if they were ever in a position of needing to defend themselves and the town against an onslaught of some kind.

Daryl slinked through a gap in the fence and scurried, with his body low from the back of one tent to another until he reached what appeared to be a tank. The open area in the middle of the camp was crawling with Walkers, at least a dozen, probably more, He didn’t have time to count as he scaled the side of the armored vehicle and signaled with one hand for Jess to follow. The rain had only grown stronger the further away from Alexandria they travelled and the temperature was dropping rapidly as the day crept on. He rarely felt the cold but wished he’d brought his leather jacket with him this time, his bare arms somewhat impractical for a cold, wet supply run.

Jess wasn’t complaining, she followed the trail of the arms she so admired, winding around the bodies on the ground, the canvas structures and the bloody patches when she finally reached the tank. Daryl reached down to her, helping her climb up the metal and they both took up positions beside one another and surveyed the amount of work they had to put in.

“Gonna have to get rid of most of these Walkers.” Daryl suggested. “See that, over there?” He raised an arm, pointing at a tent that was full of black storage cases. “We can’t leave without checkin’ that out.”

“Yeah, it has potential. My dad and brother used to use those cases.” She mused, remembering the many different houses she’d lived in as an army brat, all the camo, the gear, the medals, running around with a bunch of boys playing ball as a child. Those were the days.

Daryl readied his crossbow and shifted, getting comfortable.

“Wait” Jess said. He peered sideways at her.

“You take the left; I’ll take the right. First one to clear their section, wins.” She grinned as she slipped her bow over her head and nocked an arrow.

“Wins what?” He asked.

“I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. Glory, I guess.”

“I like glory.” He stated.

“You do?”

“Yeah”

“That’s a shame ‘cause you’re gonna lose!” She cried, firing off an arrow and dropping the nearest Walker on her side.

Daryl rapidly began to take down the corpses, one by one with meticulous precision and Jess had to admit she was still impressed by his accuracy with a crossbow. Even his reload took mere seconds which was one thing she thought may give her the advantage. Her arm began to ache after she dropped the tenth Walker on her side and she paused to count how many Daryl had left to take down. There were a lot more than she’d initially thought, especially when she counted twelve eliminated Walkers on her opponents’ side with three more being taken down. She turned back to her targets, four left.

He’s got this.

In the blink of an eye, Daryl’s side was empty and Jess was still aiming and shooting, now with only two Walkers left. Daryl floored one while she successfully dropped the other and slowly turned her head to face him, her lip curled in disgust.

“I hope you choke on your glory.” She growled.

“Tastes real sweet. You should try it some day.” He remarked in response with a smug smile.

Jess slid down the tanks front and jumped down onto the ground, closely followed by Daryl. They stepped over the bodies and shoved some aside from the entrance of the tent. Jess flipped open one of the black boxes and Daryl saw her face light up.

“Looks like we’re both getting some glory.” She grinned as she held up a heavy combat vest.

The rest of the boxes were brimming with combat clothing and their find had put them both in a decent mood, Jess’s being more evident than Daryl’s, who was much more stoic in general anyway. But he enjoyed her gentle mockery of him as they loaded up the back of the truck with boxes and tore any armor from the dead people that littered the camp. Daryl was pleased to have Jess’s smart comments and continuous chatter as a backdrop to such a monstrous and stomach-churning task.

= = = = = 

When they had gathered everything that they could fit onto the flatbed, they covered it with a tarp and Jess embarked on the long drive back to Alexandria. After only a few minutes on the road, Daryl suggested they pull over and check out the woodlands for animals to hunt. When Jess disagreed, he managed to talk her into it by promising only an hour and if they didn’t have any decent tracks to follow, they could return to the truck.

She pulled into a small clearing in the trees and killed the engine before following Daryl into the darkening woods. Neither of them spoke as they trundled along as quietly as possible. Walkers were nowhere to be seen and Jess thought that to be a saving grace. When Daryl stopped to inspect some tracks in the mud, they were soon setting off in pursuit of what he thought could be a sizeable hog.

A fast-moving stream seemed to appear from nowhere up ahead and Daryl held up a hand, halting her behind him. She had to admit to herself that her heart wasn’t in it and she just wanted to return to her fairground home and collapse into bed, but the thought of hog for dinner wasn’t an altogether bad one. He moved forwards until they were both stood at the edge of the stream. The water was murky, mud kicked up from the bottom as though something had recently ran through it. The rain meant the streams banks were coated in thick, clay-like mud.

“Must have gone through the stream. Tracks have gone.” Daryl mused.

“Bye bye, Bacon.” Jess sighed. “C’mon, lets go back.”

The sound of engines raging towards them caused Jess to still and her mouth to drop open.

How have vehicles got this far into the woods?!

She didn’t have time to think before Daryl’s arms locked around her waist and she was thrown down into the water and out of the view of the five motorcycles that appeared from the thick dullness of the woods on the other side of the water. Jess gawped up at Daryl from where she sat in the water, panic evident on her face. He was peering over the top of the bank, over the grass and witnessing a group of men heading straight for them. All heavily armed.

He dove at her, ripping her bow from her body and throwing it under the water with his crossbow before dragging her down and under a nearby tree roots. The bank underneath stepped up slightly into a ledge that was wide enough to fit the width of her body. She didn’t struggle, in fact, she just let him manhandle her into the tiny space and stared at him in shock when he scooped up handfuls of mud and smeared it all over her arms, legs and torso. Then, he set to work on himself, covering as much skin as he could and ensuring that they were both the same color as the muddy stream. He ducked under the roots and lowered himself on top of her just as the men neared and began to settle down, talking and jeering at one another.

Daryl’s body was pinning her to the sodden ground. Water dripped from his hair onto her face but she kept completely still, save for her breathing which was now jagged and shaky. He looked at her face, noticing it was completely clean in contrast to the rest of her and may as well have had a flashlight beam shining on it. He slowly moved a hand up from the mud and gently wiped the brown gloop over her cheeks and forehead in a strange display of what would otherwise be mistaken for affection. She could only stare up at him.

“Shh.” He hushed.

= = = = = =

It felt like hours. It may have been hours because night had fallen and the cold was biting at her bones. Daryl was fighting to hold himself over Jess without crushing her and his arms were trembling with the tension. They could hear the men building a fire and throwing insults at one another. Occasionally they would laugh about someone they’d killed which sent a shiver through Jess’s spine that wasn’t caused by the cold. Her only view was the stream trickling past beside her and Daryl's eyes above her and the more she looked at him the more she thought that even in this situation, at risk of being killed and covered in shit and mud, he was still gorgeous to her. Having him pushed against her had created undeniable sexual tension and neither of them knew what to do about it.

“You alright?” He asked in a barely-there whisper. A short nod was what followed and he could see she was about to say something from her eyes darting around, from his face to the water beside them.

“This is kind of…awkward.”

She felt his body jolt momentarily from the short huff that escaped him. His arms were locking hers to her sides to keep her level on the tiny ledge and when his hair dropped into her face again, he flicked his head slightly to dislodge the sodden strands, failing in his efforts and giving up. He hadn’t been this physically close to a woman in years, his whole body pressed against her and his face inches from hers. He could feel the curves of her chest and waist and her hips were level with his. When his outside leg slipped from the muddy ledge, she bent her knee at his thigh to provide him with some extra stability. It wasn’t awkward to him at first, merely a matter of survival and needs must, but now she’d mentioned it and she was cocooned under him and his mind was kicked into overdrive.

Uuuggh, Damn friction. Think of somethin’ else.  

“Ya just had to mention that, didn’t ya?” He complained in a quiet growl

“Sorry.” She croaked.

The crackling of a fire could be heard up on the grass and the smell of smoke wafted down the stream’s banks and tickled Jess’s nostrils along with the delightful smell of cooking meat. Her stomach growled and vibrated and Daryl furrowed his brow at her as if he’d felt her stomach rumble and that she shouldn’t be thinking about food at a time like that.

One of them men was on his feet and wandering around, the crunching of the leaves under his boots getting louder and quieter and then louder again and it told them he was circling the group, possibly setting up tents or sorting supplies. Their conversation became more concerning as time went on and soon, they were discussing how many more women they needed to start re-populating the earth.

“He said not to come back unless we had one. We can’t go back empty handed.” One man said.

“Our supplies are runnin’ low. Can’t stay out here much longer neither” another offered.

“Y’all heard the man! What he wants, he gets or we all suffer. He’s been in a bad mood since we swept that entire city and found a whole bunch of nothin’. So, we keep lookin’.” A louder and more authoritative man explained.

Jess automatically thought about the large group that encroached on the city while she was living in her apartment. Their Mad Max style vehicles and the woman in the cage, it all told her that the men that were just yards away from her could well be from the same group.

Daryl toyed with the idea of trying to slide his arms back up to Jess’s face and clamping his hands over her ears so she didn’t have to hear their savage and disgusting accounts of what they would do if they did have such a prize in their possession. He noticed her body trembling even more.

“Ya shakin’.” He whispered.

“F-freezing.” She mouthed.

He moved further over her, covering her entire body with his and it occurred to her that this was the closest she was ever likely to be with him. She wanted to wrap her arms around his waist and push a hand into his dirty, wet hair and kiss him. She could see it in her imagination, what a wonderful sight it was, minus the mud. But it wasn’t the time and he wouldn’t want her to anyway. She decided to keep the image on reserve, a girl could dream.

“Cross ya arms in front of ya.” He told her, lifting his chest slightly to allow her room before settling his arms flush with her sides. It was far from comfortable for him in more ways than one and Jess could tell he would end up with a terrible neck ache if he stayed as he was.

“You can rest your head on my shoulder.” She offered. He hesitated, his blue eyes peering down into hers with apprehension. “You won’t be able to move for days if you stay like that.” She didn’t know if he’d heard her, he was just staring down at her and the darkness meant his face was now partially obscured, the light of the moon reflecting off the water was the only source of illumination. She didn’t want to repeat herself for fear of being heard by the depraved group of men in the clearing and so, she stayed quiet.

“K” he finally agreed. He gently turned his head to the side and lowered it onto her shoulder.

He did hear me. Oh my god. This feels so weird. And nice. He must be super uncomfortable.

“Relax, I can take your weight.” She informed him. His body became heavier but it was tolerable, warmer but more awkward as time rolled on. The men were eating and still swapping stories of people they’d killed. Jess held her breath every time it sounded like one of them was getting up and closing in on their hiding spot. Her arms were numb and her skin was wrinkled and she was almost certain Daryl could feel every churn of her stomach and the hammering of her heart.

Daryl didn’t envision being on top of anyone like this. It was a rare occurrence for him to think of anyone in a sexual manner, but with her underneath him it was difficult not to. He was desperately trying to focus on their escape route and not the pretty face and curves under his body. His sole aim had been to get her out of sight and disguised enough to keep her alive, his own fate meaning less than hers. So far he had prevailed and his plan had worked but they couldn’t stay much longer. He could only hope the men would sleep soon and he and Jess could slip out undetected. She wriggled under him and he lifted his head, checking her face in the faint moonlight.

Stay still. Please, stay still. Stop rubbin’ against me. Shit.

“Sorry. My ass is numb.” She uttered.

“Yeah? Well, my everythin’ is numb. Keep still.” He told her.

A short sigh followed a nod of acceptance from Jess and she rested her head to the side, watching the water as it trickled past in its tiny, mud filled waves.

“Hey, Bobby. Get ya lazy ass up and go on over yonder to that stream. We need us some water. Gonna have boil the shit out of it but it’ll have to do.” Came the voice of authority from the group.

Jess’s heart felt like it jumped up to her throat and Daryl jolted before his arms closed further into her sides, urging her not to move an inch. He heard her breathing increase as panic began to set in.

“It’s ok.” He soothed “I got this. It’s ok.”

Footsteps neared their location, along with tuneful whistling and intermittent mumbling about how they were all going to catch damn rabies from drinking that water but if Jack says it, then it must be so. Daryl shuffled up and brought his lips to her ear, his breath tickling at her neck.

“Whatever happens, stay here.”

She shook her head, “But, I can help.”

“No.” He grunted back.

“Daryl-”

“-Shut up n’ listen to me, girl.” He demanded “I don’t care what you say or how much ya argue with me. Ya heard what they said n’ there’s five of ‘em n two of us. I can’t let them see you. Ya female. I won’t have ‘em touchin’ you. So, please…Jess…just stay here.”

Daryl wasn’t sure if he meant it as an affectionate motion but it screamed tenderness and caring when he lifted himself onto one elbow and gently moved some of her hair from her face. She blinked at him and held her breath, wishing that they were anywhere else but tucked under the roots of a tree in the darkness and laying in a puddle of stinking mud.

“I won’t lose you...not again.” He added.

Emotion rushed to the surface inside Jess and her eyes turned watery, she had no way to hide it and was forced to accept that Daryl could probably see that she wanted to cry.

“OK.” She agreed “but, Daryl...?”

The footsteps were almost upon them.

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t die”

She was sure she could sense his hand open at the side of her face as if he were about to caress her cheek but she couldn’t be sure, the darkness and her inability to take her eyes away from his face left her unable to decide. If he did, he stopped short of actually touching her and in the seconds that followed her thoughts were ripped away from his potentially romantic gesture and thrown towards the man that was crouched at the side of the stream, whistling and edging further towards the lip of the bank to fill the plastic bottle in his hand. He was a stones throw from them, a meter or so and Daryl was weighing up his options.

Jess almost squeaked in surprise when the man slipped from the edge and tumbled into the water, creating a loud splash. He swore loudly and sat up like toddler in a playpen, shaking his wet hair from his face and spitting out dirty water. Then, his head turned and he locked eyes with Daryl and Jess. The seconds that passed between him noticing them and his mouth opening to yell were more like minutes and slow-motion ones at that.

“HEY GU-”

He was cut off by Daryl throwing himself at him and barreling him back under the water. Jess shot up and crawled from the bank, ignoring Daryl’s instructions to stay put and grabbed her bow and his crossbow from under the water. When she took a glance at the other men up in the clearing, they were all too busy laughing to have noticed the noise of the fracas that was unfolding in the stream.

Daryl’s arms glistened in the moonlight as he clenched his jaw and held on to the man’s throat with all his might. His victims head was completely submerged, bubbles billowing up to the surface from his nose and mouth. A strained grunt escaped Daryl as he shoved down harder, wishing the man would just give up so they could escape. He avoided the kicking of his legs and the desperate clawing of the man’s hands on his chest and biceps and kept on, applying more and more pressure while covered in dark mud like a crazed swamp monster. Jess slung the crossbow over her shoulder and readied her bow, nocking an arrow and taking a rough aim, well aware that she could shoot Daryl in the wrist or hand under the water if she got it wrong. The mud from her face was trickling into her eyes and she tried to blink it away, blurring her vision more. She steadied her breathing and tried to focus and just when she was about to release the arrow, the man went limp. She looked on with wide eyes, knowing that Daryl had killed people but seeing him murder a man in front of her made it all the more real.

Daryl’s chest was rising and falling rapidly and despite the freezing temperatures, his brow was slick with sweat. He flickered his eyes up to her and sprang to his feet, keeping his body low he grabbed her wrist.

“C’mon, we gotta run ‘fore they find him.”

= = = = = 

Climbing up the bank as quietly as humanly possible proved to be quite the task with nothing between them to obscure the vision of the men around the campfire. Daryl had to choose a moment and stick with it and when he did, he pulled on Jess’s arm so hard he almost flung her off of her feet and up to the woodland floor. She grabbed handfuls of leaves and twigs as she dragged herself up to start running and felt Daryl clamp a hand around her wrist once more. He ran as fast as he could and eventually let go when he saw that she could keep up with him without assistance.

Behind them, shouting could be heard by the stream. The men had discovered their dead friend and Jess didn’t feel an ounce of guilt when she hoped that he would turn in the water and kill them all. Her feet were squelching inside her boots as they hammered the dirty ground and leapt over fallen branches and logs. Although the paranoia and fear that swirled around in her head was telling her otherwise, the distance between her and Daryl and their pursuers was enough to provide them with precious seconds upon reaching their truck.

Daryl jumped into the driver’s seat and Jess didn’t bother to make a comment about him not being able to understand a gearbox. Instead, she simply clambered into the passenger’s side and yelled at him to drive. Ignoring her instance upon trying to burst his eardrums, he tried to focus and the truck jumped back once, then twice.

“Stop switching it up so much!” She cried “Put it in first, then switch it!”

“I am, dammit.” He snapped back.

She could see silhouetted figures charging towards them through the trees and flashlights darting about like a light show. Her heart was pounding in her head.

“They’re coming, Daryl. Move the damn truck” she muttered, now rooted to the spot with fear. “We need to move. We need to go or they’re going to turn me into a baby machine. Let’s go. Come on, move it.”

“I know! Just shut up!” he spat, seemingly making the trucks gears grind with everything he tried.

“Trust me to get stuck with the one Redneck who can’t drive stick!” Jess suddenly yelled, trying to stand up in the tiny cab and shifting in front of him with her backside in his face. He sat back and held his hands up, not wanting to touch her without warning and make her even more mad.

“What the fuck are ya doin?!” He shouted back at her.

“Giving you a lap dance! What the hell do you think I’m doing?! Move your ass across to the other seat, I’m driving!” She shrieked at him.

“God sakes, girl!” He complained while he slid across the seats to the other side and made sure the doors were locked.  

Jess put the truck in gear, switched to reverse and hit the gas. The truck shot backwards to the road where she spun the wheel and set off into the distance, leaving the furious men from the clearing jogging to a halt behind them. Daryl opened the glove box and retrieved a map, opening it up on the dash and switching on the overhead light.

“What d’ya think? Circle back or change direction?” He questioned. He knew she would understand what he meant. She was smart enough to know that they had to choose one of two options to be able to outrun them when they got back to their bikes and set off down the same road.

“Change direction.” She answered.

“Alright.” He agreed “Take a right at the end of this road and just keep drivin’, we’ll have to camp somewhere.”

Her face was drying tight with the mud that was caked over her skin and she remembered how softy Daryl had smeared it across her cheeks. Despite the vehicle starting to smell like animal faeces and stagnant water and the two of them looking like the creatures from the black lagoon, Jess couldn’t help but admit that she enjoyed the feeling of him protecting her and in particular, how gentle he had been when he pushed her hair from her face with a fingertip.

The movement of the truck meant that his body swayed subtly as he leaned against the window and sighed. Jess stole a few glances here and there when guilt struck her for yelling at him. The road ahead was sill and dark and rain lashed against the windscreen as the truck pummeled through it. She could see no other headlights or signs of other vehicles each time she checked the rear-view mirror and could only conclude that they’d managed to escape and that if they stayed on the road a little longer, they would be able to find somewhere safe to stop for the night. Another glimpse to her side saw Daryl peering out of his window into the blackness.

“Keep ya eyes on the road.” He ordered.

“I am” She argued.

“No, ya aint. Ya keep lookin’ at me. Can see ya in the reflection.”

Dammit. You’d have made a shitty spy.

In pure spite of his comment and to prove that she wasn’t going to plough into the non-existent oncoming traffic, she twisted her body to face him and glared right at him. He scoffed and shook his head at her stubbornness. Whatever she’d been doing in the months she was apart from him; she’d definitely developed a stubbornness and a sense of defiance that he didn’t detect in her before. Ignoring her almost childish gesture, he leaned forwards to check the map after spotting a road sign that meant they were at least three miles out from where they’d come across the dangerous group of men.

Deciding between them on the next steps to take, they opted to continue driving until they were well out of the way of any patrolling members of their group and Jess put her foot to the floor and sped the truck to the next intersection, where she headed for the highway.

After forty minutes, Daryl held a hand up and signaled for her to slow down, a street sign for ‘The Blue Moon Show lounge’ shot past and he told her to take the next left. Jess was tired and disinterested in arguing, she could have fallen asleep at the wheel if she had to drive any further and so the inviting idea of four walls and a roof was a much desired one.

Little did she know, ‘The Blue Moon’ was an off the highway strip bar nestled at the end of a dirt track and hidden rom the road. It provided them with a place to keep the truck and a roof over their heads for the night. They worked together to clear the building with Jess taking the main bar area and Daryl sweeping the rooms at the back. Five dead bodies were inside, one almost skeletal and the others so chewed up that it was impossible for them to be a threat. Jess put them down easily with her knife and Daryl dragged them out to the storage room.

When he returned to the bar, Jess had upturned two flashlights to light up the room and was noisily rummaging around behind the counter, lifting up bottles and squinting at the labels. She’d emptied the refrigerators and huffed and puffed like a train when she appeared to come up with nothing.

Daryl headed to the door and secured the inside lock, giving the doors a shake in their frames to ensure they were solid enough to protect them.

“For god sakes” he heard her hiss to herself.

“What’s up?” He asked

“All this liquid and there’s not one, single drop of water. I want to clean this crap off my skin.” She complained.

He joined her behind the bar and examined the top shelf above the optics where there was a line of branded vodka bottles that all appeared to be full. He reached up and slid one from the shelf, unscrewing the cap and smelling it.

“Use this” he suggested.

“Really? A vodka shower?” She commented, unimpressed.

“No, dumbass. It’s water. They fill the bottles with it to make ‘em look full. S’all for show”

She didn’t ask how he knew such information and he was glad of it. He’d spent most of his life tagging along with his father and Merle in bars and strip clubs and as a result tended to know a lot of the tricks of the trade. He wasn’t proud of it and hardly ever enjoyed it, although he kept that fact to himself, knowing better than to complain and that if he did, it was likely to get him nothing but a beating.

“Oh” She remarked with a degree of embarrassment “Well, OK. You’re going to have to leave the room or turn around or something. I need some privacy.”

“Check out back. These places usually have private rooms.” He suggested carelessly while rounding the bar and plonking down in a plush chair in front of the stage. Jess followed him and stopped at the start of the seating area. She raised her eyebrow at him. Now, she was going to ask.

“You spend a lot of time in titty bars before the turn, Daryl?” She smirked.  

“No.” He mumbled, taking a quick swig from a half bottle of liquor he’d picked up from behind the bar. He hadn’t been drunk since the turn and had no intentions to either. He didn’t like who he was when he was drunk, so the bottle in his hand was only there to take the edge off after recent events “Not unless my brother dragged me to ‘em.”

“Right. Blame it on Merle. So, it wasn’t the breast implants and g-strings?” She grinned.

That damn smile. Stop it.

“You’re an ass, y’know that?” His comment was not only directed at her mockery of his knowledge of strip bars, it was also a veiled prod at her bright smile and the effect it had on him. He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to smile or not anymore.

“Yeah. I’m good with that.” She agreed as she headed for the double doors that led to the back rooms.

“’Sides, this ain't a titty bar. S’a show lounge” He called out, hearing her chuckle as she left the room.

Jess paced through a hallway full of framed pin up pictures and pushed open doors as she went. Finding a dressing room and the private rooms Daryl was so sure was in existence. She entered the first once where she was able to partially undress and wash some of the mud from her skin with a t-shirt she found screwed up and discarded on the red velvet couch. There were other clothes scattered about. The room boasted rather obvious CCTV cameras and she wonders how much one might pay for a dance in such a room.

Daryl took the opportunity to amble around the building and collect any supplies they might need. When he reached the hallway, he passed the partially open door to the room Jess occupied and found himself doing a double take. The glimpse of her bare skin and the clasp of a black bra through the crack in the door rendered him motionless and everything around him seemed to just drop away. Her back was to him as she gently wiped at her arms with the wet T-shirt. He knew he shouldn’t look and guilt raged through him but she was a vision, even from behind and with her skin sporting the cracked, jagged lines of dried mud. Her black hair swayed at her back in waves from being tied up into a braid. She dropped the t-shirt and lifted both hands, twisting her hair up on top of her head and fastening it with an elastic. He thought for a moment that he might have been dreaming at the sight of the curve of her waist, but it was real. So very real and all he could do was bite his lip and force himself to move on down the hall, giving Jess back the privacy that she deserved.

= = = = = 

When she returned to the main area, she found him sitting on the floor of the stage at the bottom of the pole opening up two cans of pasta with his knife. Jess was relieved they always packed cans in the truck in case they got caught holed up somewhere with no food, much like the situation she found herself in at that moment. She was starving, the smell of the meat from the camp by the stream stirring her need to eat.

Daryl slid a can to her when she sat down cross-legged opposite him with the pole between them and looked around the room, craning her neck to observe the ceiling, the unused lighting rigs and the DJ booth. She mirrored him as he lifted his can to his lips and took big gulps of the gloopy pasta. Her stomach immediately began to settle with some sustenance and she was soon feeling a lot more human again.

“So, how much would you expect to pay for a private room in a place like this?” She wanted to know. The need to wind him up a little more mixing with her genuine curiosity from standing in the room and playing with the idea of what the business must have been like before the turn.

“A lot.” He grumbled.

“C’mon, I’m curious. What would happen in there?” She pressed

“Private dance. No clothes. Some dirty talk. No rush to the next guy with a wad of fifties. S’bout it.”

Her eyebrows lifted and she emptied the final remnant of the pasts into her mouth and chewed. When she was done, she thudded the can down beside her and narrowed her eyes at him.

“You ever done that?” She questioned

His expression changed as he looked up at her through his hair with a can of pasta gripped in his fist. At first, he was calm and willing to talk but her topic of choice was grating on him.

For someone who doesn’t wanna be too friendly she’s sure askin’ me a lot of shit.

“That what you think of me?” he wanted to know.

“Course not, you said Merle dragged you to places like this. So, I just wondered.” She shrugged as if it was nothing.

“Nah. I ain't. Not my thing.” He replied. Cutting the conversation short when he lit a smoke and fell silent. His face was downcast and Jess could tell he was tired too. Taking another person’s life was never an easy task, even in a ‘one or the other’ situation. Given no choice, Daryl had acted to save them both and Jess knew from personal experience that the vision of it doesn’t just go away.

“Are you alright?” She asked him.

“Yeah.” He replied thoughtfully. It wasn’t hard to guess what she was referring to and he appreciated her asking.

“What you did back there… keeping me safe…” she started with a quick glance up at him. He was watching her though his still damp hair. “…thank you. I’m not so good with people. I can fight walkers but when it comes to people, I’ve always managed to just stay out of sight. Terminus was the first time I put myself in full view of anyone still living for a long time. I panicked tonight.”

“I’d do it again tomorrow. Forget it.” Was his oxymoron of a reply. Simple but complex in a way only Daryl could create. He said very little but meant a world of things behind it. It was not lost on Jess; she knew exactly what he meant without having to dissect the sentence.

I’d kill a hundred people just to keep you safe.

“Sorry I almost crushed ya.” He mumbled as he picked at the frayed thread on the ankle of his boot.

“Oh, don’t worry. You didn’t. It’s fine. We had no choice.”

“Yeah. For sure. No choice.”

“Uh Huh. I mean, it wasn’t all bad…”

Stop talking, Jess.

“…you kept me warm. I hope I kept you warm. It was- it was OK. Was fine...”

Stop. Fucking. Talking.  

“…it was nice. I mean, it wasn’t nice like that, uh…no. It was nice of you. I’m going to stop talking now”

He nibbled on his lower lip, a habit he used to stop himself from smiling but it was showing regardless, the corner of his mouth curling up. He didn’t know what she was trying to tell him or why she was suddenly so all over the place and full of nerves, but he did feel the intense, awkward nature of their experience under the trees roots in the stream and he couldn’t deny that if it had been anyone else but Jess, that awkwardness wouldn’t have been present at all. She was turning herself inside out as she picked at the cold can of pasta that had been discarded and brought back to her hands and he could practically see her cursing herself for talking too much. It was the most vulnerable he’d seen her since the quarry and in that moment, he was certain that the old Jess never really went away at all. Opting to change the subject and spare her the agony of mulling over her previous ramblings, he entertained his desire to find out more about why she left.

“Ya never told me exactly why ya bailed” he mentioned.

Unable to avoid his questions, with no one or nowhere to run to, she accepted she at least had to offer him some kind of explanation and after he’d murdered a man with his bare hands to keep her safe, it was the least she could do.

“A few reasons. I didn’t fit in. I was an outcast.”

Being made to actually say the reasons why she left wasn’t something she thought she’d have trouble with. Before it had all been written down in the confines of the pages in her journal. Now, having to voice her decision-making process was turning out to be harder than she thought.

“And I aint? I aint like them. You know that.” He countered.

“You belong with them. I didn’t.” She clarified.

She could tell her answer was nowhere near good enough for him and when he took a long pull of his smoke and sighed thoughtfully, she knew the conversation was far from over.

“That the real reason?” He pressed.

“You mean aside from hearing you say I meant nothing to you and the humiliation?” She quickly threw in.

“That was bullshit, Jess. Ya know I didn’t mean that.” He told her with no hesitation “N’ ya shouldn’t have let those bitches drive ya away like that.”

Hindsight had been a wonderful thing in the story of why Jess had left the camp. There were plenty of why’s and what ifs to contemplate when she thought back but perhaps the biggest one to her was; what if she’d stayed and asked him about what she’d heard? Would it have changed anything? In her heart she knew it probably wouldn’t have and that she still would have ended up departing at some point. She didn’t mean to dredge up the past and what she’d overheard yet again, in fact, she would rather have let it stay in the past and never be spoken of again. But it slipped out and now she knew she sounded bitter and resentful.

“Let me ask you something.” She said, shuffling forwards and holding on to the pole. She rested her head on the back of her hand. “When we first spoke, you asked me exactly what I did in the group. I couldn’t answer you. What did I contribute? What was my role exactly? Carol, she cooked, cleaned everybody’s clothes and is actually really strategic and logical and apparently great with a rifle. Glenn was the go-to guy for runs, You and Merle were the hunters. What did I do?”

Daryl had no answer to offer. All he could do was stare at her and his simmering gaze would have made her knees weak had she been standing up.

“Exactly. So, it wasn’t just a decision I made for me. I made it for everybody else too. I was one less mouth to feed. I’m not sorry I left, Daryl. Look at me now, I’m so much better off for it. I can look after myself. I’m not just some chubby nerd anymore.” She explained.

“Stop it.” He snapped.

“Stop what? Telling the truth?”

“Ain't the truth” he argued, stubbing out his smoke on the stage and flicking it behind him.

“Yes, it is! I buried my head in books and still wore collectible T-Shirts! That girl, she was a big, useless nerd. It’s been a long time since I was her.”

“Yeah. I noticed.”

“You don’t like the change?” She asked.

“Never said that.”

“I guess I always liked the idea of not being what everybody else expected me to be.” She mused.

“Ya doin’ a great job.”

“Your sarcasm is stifling.” She shot at him with an irritated look.

“There wasn’t nothin wrong with ya.” He affirmed.

“Funny, that’s not how I was made to feel.”

“Yeah? Well I was out trackin’ that girl every day for two weeks!” He threw at her with a raised voice. “Guess she was really listenin’ when I taught her how to track. Covered ‘em well.” He got to his feet and started to pace the stage, back and forth, outwardly riled and angered by his disagreement of her choices. But they were not his choices to make and she was not about to get into a debate over that.

Jess didn’t rise to his temper. She stayed in her spot by the pole and witnessed him gradually slow down as the minutes passed.

“I listened to everything you taught me. If you hadn’t taught me all the things you did, I wouldn’t be here now.” She offered as a kind of truce.

You’re mad at me. But you’re the reason I’m still alive. You kept me alive and you weren’t even there.

“Shouldn’t have taught ya nothin. Ya wouldn’t have left then.” He mumbled under his breath.

His admittance said more to Jess than she’d anticipated and she realized as she sat and studied his body language, expression and the things he was saying that she really had hurt him by leaving without a word. By leaving at all. It was now more obvious than ever that he didn’t mean a word of what he said to Merle. Until then, Jess had never dared to hope that she meant anything to anyone. But it was etched on Daryl’s face as plain as day.

“I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you” She whispered.

“Whatever” He grunted, jumping down from the stage and grabbing the liquor bottle from the seat he’d previously been resting in. He took a large gulp, winced and headed to the bar.

“Since you successfully managed to destroy that conversation, I’m going to find somewhere to sleep. Wake me in a couple hours and we’ll swap.” She declared.

“The fuck do you even want from me, huh?” He questioned out of nowhere. “Say ya don’t want nothin’ to do with nobody, live like a damn hermit, refuse to move to Alexandria. Ya let Abraham leer at ya like some two-dollar whore n ya blow so fuckin hot n’ cold with me I don’t know what the hell you want!”

In truth, Jess wasn’t sure what she wanted when she first revealed her identity to him. But after the events of the last 24 hours and all the days spent engaged in prodding mockery and sometimes meaningless conversations, she could conclude that trying to rebuild what they used to have was what she truly wanted. But it wasn’t that easy. She blinked slowly at him from the stage, standing just out of the beam of the flashlight and tried to ignore his scathing comments, purely born from his anger.

“It’s complicated.” She uttered. “I spent so long thinking you hated me. I don’t trust anybody.” He wanted to yell at her that he never hated her, that he cared about her more than even he knew and how much it killed him when she left.

“Ya said we’re as good as we’re gonna be. We’re doin’ better than that. You know we are” He commented. “Do you even wanna be friends like we were before? You n’ me?”

She jumped down from the stage and paused by the double doors with her hand flat on the surface. His apparent unwavering belief in their ability to rebuild their friendship was touching and something she wanted to believe with every piece of her heart. His words back at the stream echoed in her head.

"I won't lose you...not again."

“You and me” She echoed with a sad smile. “It’s a nice prospect…. I’m trying, Daryl.” She uttered before heading through the door and back to the private room she changed in. Before she could even think of such a heavy topic, she needed to invite the sweet embrace of sleep her heavy eyes and weary bones so craved.

= = = = = 

Deanna was frantic when Daryl and Jess finally arrived back at Alexandria in the evening of the following day after enduring hours of tense silence. The route back was longer than expected due to how far out of the way Jess had driven them to avoid the eyes of the group of bikers from the woods. Once Jess explained to Alexandria’s leader what had happened and Daryl unloaded the boxes at the armory, Jess handed the keys back and crossed the street in pursuit of Aaron, who she’d spotted sitting on his front porch when she drove through the gate. Daryl noticed her striding past him and ran after her, catching her arm with his hand. She whirled around, mask and hood up and her eyes flashed with impatience.

“Sorry. ‘bout last night. I was an asshole.” He said, stepping closer and checking his surroundings. Night was falling and the streets were still occupied by patrols and children playing.

“It’s fine. I understand.” She said before trying to back up but he only followed her.

“I’ve never been good with feelings n' stuff. ‘Cept anger. Anger’s what I do.” He confessed.

“You don’t have to explain. Really. Thanks again for what you did - making sure I was safe. Goodnight” She nodded at him with another attempt to move away and this time she triumphed. Daryl stood at the side of the road, under a street light and watched her approach Eric and Aaron’s porch.

NEXT CHAPTER

--- tagging as requested ---

@lilred254​

[evilsnowswan]

Summary: [Rumbelle Mermaid!AU] based on this prompt by repeatinglitanies: “In a world where people are aware of the existence of mermaids, Belle is a mermaid who lives in the world’s largest aquarium along with other sea creatures. She enjoys looking at the little humans who come to visit, especially a floofy haired boy who comes every week with his father….” An injured Belle is captured and brought to Gold and Milah’s aquarium. Gold is a marine biologist dedicated to protecting the creatures there, Milah wants to turn a profit, and their son has his own ideas about how to befriend a mermaid.

Rating: G/Teen Link to full story: [Read on AO3] Previous Chapters: [Coverart][Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3][Chapter 4][Chapter 5][Chapter 6][Chapter 7][Chapter 8][Chapter 9][Chapter 10][Chapter 11][Chapter 12][Chapter 13][Chapter 14][Chapter 15][Chapter 16][Chapter 17][Chapter 18]

Current Chapter: 19/? Chapter Summary: Gold learns something new about Indigo. And about himself.

Chapter 19: Power

Whatever he thought about the Mills Foundation, or rather the representatives he’d met, they delivered, and they delivered fast. It was true that most problems could not be solved simply by throwing money at them, but the foundation’s money and connections had absolutely something to do with the shiny prototype he was looking at right now.

“And you got the idea from your work with… vets?” Gold asked, looking round at the man who had brought the large silver case. While the case was plain and ordinary, not warranting a second glance or a turned head on the streets, the man was everything but. He had to be around Gold’s age, maybe a little younger, but dressed like a man from another era. His getup reminded Gold of someone from the theatre or the cabaret; entirely too much detail, expensive fabrics, and deep colors.

“Something like that, yes.”

The man had introduced himself as Tailor, but Gold wasn’t sure if that was his last name, given name, or his occupation.

“We sometimes work with veterans.”

Gold nodded. “And it won’t be too heavy? Slow her down in the water?”

Tailor briefly looked up from the loose piece of thread he’d been examining. “Drag effect? Unlikely. It’s light as a feather.” He waved a hand at the case, then resumed studying the place on his sleeve where a button had gone missing, or maybe a cufflink.

“That’s… good.”

Gold waited for Tailor to elaborate, to tell him more about the wondrous device he had brought, or at least ask about the Med wing’s expensive equipment, like he was used to whenever he brought outsiders in, but the man remained silent and focused on his shirt.

“Is it… safe? I mean, can we try and put it on her? Or will you have to…”

“Made to measure brace. Don’t need me there.” Tailor gave a half smile and let go of his sleeve to wiggle his fingers. “Should fit like a glove. And if not—” he let his hand do the talking, directing Gold’s attention back to the open case on the table in front of them. “Adjustable straps and buckles.”

“Right.” Gold shifted his weight. “How much?”

“Pardon?”

Gold drew a deep breath and cleared his throat. Tailor buttoned his coat.

“I’m not sure we can afford this,” he admitted, feeling familiar embarrassment flooding his cheeks. In all those years, the knot in his stomach and the heat in his cheeks had stayed the same. “What range are we talking here?”

“Pfft, paper and coinage.” Tailor waved his concerns away and reached for his top hat in the same extravagant move. “It’s a gift.”

Gold blinked, feeling his jaw drop before he clenched it and ground his teeth. If there was anything he hated more than being skint, it was begging alms. They did not need handouts.

“In my experience, life comes with a price.”

“True, true.” Tailor nodded along gravely, then spun his hat enthusiastically. “But this,” he nodded at the case and clapped his hands. “is a gift.” His grin widened as Gold’s eyes narrowed. “Your un-birthday. Or hers.” He shrugged. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

There was silence for a moment as Gold digested the news. It was too good to be true. There had to be a catch.

“And? You’ll leave it in exchange for…?”

He knew he was being rude, but he had too much life experience to bite.

“Updates,” Tailor said finally. “Management wants updates on the mermaid.” He spun his hat again, then put it back on his head. “Or the brace. Or the brace on the mermaid. Something like that.”

“Ah.” The tight feeling in his chest let up. Now they were talking. “Will a monthly report suffice?”

“Weekly.” Tailor gave him a knowing look. “The powers that be like to read.”

Gold grimaced, but, after a beat, held out his hand. Tailor eyed it curiously.

“Sale or return,” he said, winking. “You like it, you buy it. Then you can spin her royal highness some… tales.”

Gold frowned. “Come again?”

Tailor laughed, but it was a humorless laugh and it left his face harder than before. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “Just… watch out for that mermaid of yours.”

The words prickled at the back of Gold’s neck, and he took a moment to replay them in his mind to see what was wrong with them, but he could not detect anything bad, anything tangibly… off.

The whole money thing had rubbed him the wrong way and put him on edge. That was it. This was a business transaction. One he had insisted on handling himself. And so he would.

“Certainly.” he said, putting feeling into the word. “Her well-being is our main concern. And your… brace will help improve that, I’m sure.”

Hands in his pockets, Tailor nodded. “Let them know what you think.” He touched the brim of his hat, hesitated, then held out his hand.

Gold threw out his own again, only to notice the business card held between two fingers. He coughed slightly, then pocketed it without looking at it.

“If… there’s any trouble—” Tailor said, taking off his hat in a small bow.

“Thank you, Mr. … Tailor. We’ll let you know if we have any problems with the… uh, device.”

“At your disposal, Mr. Gold.”

***

After the visitor was gone, Gold pushed the case to the wall and logged onto the computer to take another look at the video footage of Indigo swimming. They, that was his wife, had sent it to the foundation - along with Indigo’s measurements, medical history, and copies of Dr. Whale’s reports. He had not liked it, but it had gotten them a custom made tail brace in record time.

Milah had explained to him that the Mills foundation had old ties with the military, which allowed them access to certain resources and personnel. None other than Ethel Montgomery herself had pointed them out to her daughter during her stay at Montgomery Manor. Another fact that didn’t sit well with Gold, but which he had to accept for the greater good: his goal to help Indigo as soon as possible.

Gold sighed heavily as he watched Indigo struggle against the artificial waves.

Just when he clicked to pause the video, a new email popped up, and he frowned, recognizing Milah’s name on his screen. Were they back to communicating via email only, sending messages from one office at the aquarium to another? No, she had forwarded a recent message from the Mills Foundation. The text wasn’t long, thanking them for their time, congratulating everyone involved on the great business decisions made, more of the usual hogwash, and finally, expressing hopes of continued successful cooperation in the near future.

Gold only skimmed the message, then stopped to look at the attached files more closely. They were instruction manuals. Furrowing his brow, he opened the first document, surprised to find a drawing of the brace and sock, detailing every screw and scrap of material used and giving instructions on assembly, use, repair and storage.

With a groan, he pushed up from his chair to drag the case towards the desk and popped it open. He was a hands-on guy; and touching what he was looking at would allow him to connect the dots a little faster.

He had just concluded that he’d acquainted himself fairly well with the metal-made monstrosity and put it back in its case, when the door to the Med wing gave a shrill beeping sound - access denied - and the intercom hissed.

“Papa?!” The voice panted audibly, gulping down air. “It’s me. Uh…”

Shaking his head and grinning, Gold walked over to hit the door to press the buzzer and let his son enter.

“Is it here? Can I see it? Mama said…” Bae was out of breath, his face flushed and eyes wide. He had probably run the entire way.

Gold chuckled. “Good afternoon to you too, son.”

“Hi, Papa.” Bae quickly threw his arms around Gold’s waist and hugged him. “Is it done? Is it ready?”

“Oh hold on, can’t a man sit back down and catch his breath for one minute, before you start bombarding him with questions?”

Bae stepped back, almost glaring, which made Gold laugh. “Alright. Yes, it’s in here.”

Bae took the case and pulled it closer to the desk, attempted to lift it, then decided to open it on the floor.

“Wow!”

“Careful now, my boy.” Gold hurried over to sink back into his chair and watch as his son tentatively reached out to touch the metal brace and stroke the soft sock. Wide-eyed, he looked up at his father.

“This is the same stuff we use for humans,” Gold explained, remembering what he had read. “It’ll protect the skin and slide around her tail.”

Bae nodded. “They use this for soldiers. When they’re injured.” His eyes flickered to Gold’s bad leg. “To help them walk again.”

“Yes.”

“Feel it, Papa! It’s so soft. What’s it made from?” Bae’s little hands went up and down the sock again. “Do you think she’ll like it? How do we put it on? Will she have to wear it all the time? Like, when she sleeps? Can she swim normal with it? Is it…”

Gold held up a hand, smiling. “We will see,” he said, concern already gnawing at the back of his mind.

“What’s it made from?” Bae asked again, lifting the sock from the case and feeling its weight in his hands.

Gold cleared his throat. “It’s a silicone elastomer. Took them a couple tries to get just right, make it soft as a baby seal’s arse.” He laughed at Bae’s incredulous look. “They say it’s saltwater proof and should stick to her scales, easy.”

Bae stuck his arm inside the sock and wiggled his fingers. “I dunno,” he said. “Feels like seatbelt.”

Gold raised a brow.

“It’s gonna rub!” Bae clarified, rubbing at his neck. “She’s going to hate it if it rubs.”

“We’ll make sure it doesn’t,” Gold smiled, thinking to himself that it would probably be fine once the sock was wet. Bae had always been a child who winced at new clothing, needed all the tags cut out just so, and who had thrown screaming fits whenever they had tried to wrestle him into knitwear as a toddler — until they had abandoned the idea of wool on the boy entirely.

Bae looked doubtful.

“You could help, if you like?” Gold offered. “I’m meeting Miss Lucas and Indigo at the pool in a bit, so she can try it on and see how it feels.”

“I know!” Bae squealed. “I want to come!”

Gold pointed a finger at him. “So that’s why you raced up here like a bull shark was chasing after you.”

“Mama told me.”

“I see.” Gold winked.

Bae carefully replaced the sock, then turned to his father. “Papa?” He hugged his knees. “Is… is she going to die? If she doesn’t wear it?”

“Don’t worry, son.” Gold reached out and ruffled Bae’s curls. “Nothing’s going to happen to Indigo.” He shifted in his seat, leaning on his thighs. “The brace, it’s… just a tool to help her swim better.”

Bae scrunched up his nose and rubbed at it, his eyes watery as he held Gold’s gaze.

“You know, like your retainer.”

“Huh?”

“When you put on your retainer at night, it tells your teeth how to grow in the right direction, right?” Gold waited until Bae nodded. “This brace is going to tell Indigo’s tail muscles how to swim properly.”

“But she’s a mermaid. She knows how to swim.”

“Yes, she does. But when she was hurt, well, she taught herself to swim with a wiggling motion side to side—” Gold made the motion with his hands.”—like a snake.”

Bae nodded again. He had seen Indigo swim that way and compared her to a lizard.

“Or a lizard. But that’s not how mermaids are supposed to swim and it’s hurting her back. We were worried she could end up paralyzed, and since there are no wheelchairs for mermaids, we asked really smart people—”

“The Mills Foundation?”

“Yes, we asked the Mills Foundation for help and they made her this brace to make sure she’s going to be ok.”

Bae let go of his knees. “How does it work?”

“The brace?” Gold gestured at the case and motioned for Bae to close it. “Well, they designed it so that her tail moves up and down again.”

“But how?”

“By putting slight pressure on the right spots.”

“Yeah, but how does that work, Papa?”

Gold sighed internally. “You’ll see when we attach it. How about we pack this up and head downstairs? We can stop by Granny’s on the way. I hear there are waffles with two scoops of vanilla ice cream and our names on them.”

Bae scrambled to is feet and beamed. “Okay.”

***

The prosthetic designer hadn’t lied. They really had used the finest materials, durable but flexible. The sock was indeed soft to the touch, the joints flexible enough so it should feel natural, or at least as natural as a brace made from metal and screws could feel.

Indigo, however, didn’t look convinced.

They were on a submerged platform in the reef tank, the area once again closed off to the public, and had slipped on the sock (it had a hole for her fin, but they had had to roll it up a bit to make it slide through). Then they carefully attached the brace. Indigo had let them do it after examining the squishy soft material first and then eyeing the brace warily, but now her brow was furrowed and her teeth had come down hard on her bottom lip.

“Hey,” Gold tipped up her chin. “It’s okay. You’ll see.” He smiled at her.

“Yeah, and don’t worry if it itches a little,” Bae said, tugging on his life jacket. “We’ll fix that.” He too gave her a warm smile and Gold noticed chocolate sauce on his chin.

“Indigo?” Miss Lucas waved to catch Indigo’s eye, then pointed at her still tail in the water. “Move it for me?” She gestured with her palm held out flat. “Tail up, tail down. Tail up, tail down. Up and down.”

Lying flat across the platform, Indigo moved her tail up and down.

“Up… and down.”

Indigo glided off the platform and began to swim as intended, flapping her tail up and down.

Gold felt his heart rate pick up, a cautious grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He spotted the look of utmost concentration on her face seconds before it morphed into disgust and dismay, as Indigo swam around the pool, quickly looking harried.

“Indigo? Come back here,” Miss Lucas’ beckoning call fell on deaf ears. Beating her tail from side to side, Indigo thrashed in the water.

“No, Indigo! —”

Indigo bashed the tail brace against the side of the pool.

“She doesn’t like it!” Bae exclaimed, pointing and grabbing Gold by the arm. “Get it off her!”

Miss Lucas sat up on her knees. “Indigo! Stop!”

Indigo huffed, then did it again, pounding her tail against the side until the brace broke off in pieces and the metal began to sink.

“Indigo. No. … Damn,” Miss Lucas breathed. “I didn’t… I didn’t do anything.”

Bae folded his arms with a frown and Miss Lucas looked on with grim resignation as Indigo reached for the sock, tugged on it vigorously and finally managed to shake her tail partially free, causing her fluke to collapse like a sushi roll.

Dismayed, Gold dragged a hand across his face. He shook his head. “What are you doing, sweetheart?” He made to untangle himself from Bae’s renewed grip and let himself sink into the water to come to her rescue.

“Indigo?”

Indigo squeaked and dove under, reaching for the metal brace. She doggy paddled towards him and pushed the brace over.

He took it and briefly looked round at the others, before turning his attention back to her.

“That’s quite alright, sweetheart,” he said, palms up, and willing concern to the back of his mind, put a reassuring smile on his face. “Not to worry. You’re not to worry. We’ll have that sorted out in no time. It’s okay—”

He took her hand and gently guided her to the platform. “Let’s just have a look, shall we?” he cooed, patting the platform, and Indigo lifted her tail onto it. “Okay, here we go. — Miss Lucas? A hand?” 

***

They had taken the strange instrument away and not bothered her with it again until a few sunrises later. Belle didn’t much fancy the clammy feeling of the odd thing’s umbrella as it sucked on her scales, and the skeletal trap wasn’t exactly painful on her tail, but not comfortable either, and it restricted her movement considerably, so she could not understand why the airlings wanted it on her.

She refused to let them attach it to her again and after a couple tries, also shut down any and all conversation on the topic.

The airlings didn’t pressure her or force it on her, but she could tell it stayed on their minds, and so Belle wasn’t surprised when, one night, her airling brought it up again.

They were alone in the place she had been on her first night here, and he sat by the water silently and motionless, watching her out of the corner of his eye. He looked so heartbroken then that she just had to swim over to inquire what was the matter, and if there was anything she could do about it.

To her surprise, he got up and returned with a picture of the instrument. When he showed it to her, his hands shook. She stared at the picture, wondering at the many symbols and the lines that connected them to the drawing.

Why was this so important to him? Belle frowned, then pouted, as she touched his arm. What was the point of trapping her in the uncomfortable thing? Why couldn’t he just drop it?

He shook his head and patted her hand as if to say, it’s okay, you don’t have to, but I’d really wish you’d change your mind.

Before she could do anything else, he had gotten to his feet and left through the opening in the wall without so much as another glance at her.

Belle worried her lip. Had she offended him somehow? Was he angry with her? Was this about the instrument or something else?

She had noticed that both the airling and Jumper Girl seemed more reserved ever since she had rejected their instrument. Her little airling friend hadn’t come round to see her in days. His mother came to bring her snacks sometimes, but she didn’t linger long, just left a box or bucket by the platform.

Belle started to circle the pool. Had it been a mistake to express her dislike of the instrument so freely? She was sorry for breaking it. Could they all still be mad at her about that? Maybe if they gave it to her again, she could try and fix it? She had nimble fingers and could probably figure out how, if they gave her enough time and the right tools.

Just when she had managed to work herself into a state, all hope of sleep long gone, the airling returned.

Belle squinted at him in the bluish dark.

Something about him was different.

He approached slowly and it took her a moment to realize that it was his gait that had changed his whole demeanor so drastically.

When he was close enough for her to hear, he uttered a greeting, but the sound came out strained and clipped, like it took him too much effort to walk and speak at the same time.

Belle rubbed at her eyes, willing them to work better in the semi-darkness, and leaned forward, pressing her hands down on the edge of the platform, her mind half made up to push herself out of the water and meet him halfway. Had something happened? Was he… hurt?

She drew in a sharp breath.

“Indigo.” He finally stepped onto the platform, shoulders bent, hands on his knees, and breathing heavy, which did nothing to dispel the sinking feeling that seemed to cut off Belle’s own air supply.

He pointed at his leg and Belle followed his hand with her eyes, gasping again as they landed on the intended target. His leg was caught in the instrument! How had he managed to get trapped in the thing?! She reached out to touch it, to yank him free, realizing halfway there that it wasn’t the same instrument at all. This one was smaller and missing the sucking umbrella underneath.

Belle gazed up at him, confused.

He smiled weakly, then mumbled something that might have been words of encouragement to himself, and she looked on as he laid his hands on the platform and slowly maneuvered down into a press-up position. Wincing in pain, he kneeled on his free leg and reached out one hand to touch her cheek, gently stroking the soft curve of it, cupping her face in his palm.

Feeling her stomach drop out, then flip flop, Belle followed it under, diving in place, before she poked her head above water again. Feeling his eyes on her, she dipped her hot head beneath the surface and turned upside down so that the end of her tail and her fin poked up out of the water next, showing him her shiny scales, twirling and making her fin flop to this side and that, before she let it hit the water with a splash.

When she came back up after, her face was still burning, and she hoped he was too busy sorting his limbs finding a comfortable sitting position on the platform, to ask her what the halibut’s gill plate she was doing.

Biting her lip, Belle studied his weak leg and the instrument encasing it from the safe distance of the water. Now that he sat breathing normally and smiling at her, the tightness in her chest loosened enough for her to notice that it wasn’t the instrument that was hurting it. It had already been hurt, requiring him to lean on a piece of elegantly carved wood more times than not to reach optimum travel speed. He didn’t seem to need it now, and Belle began to wonder if that was due to the instrument; if helping his leg was it’s true purpose.

If that was true, however....

She swam up to him, intent on inspecting his leg instrument more closely, but got sidetracked when, after a few moments of her running her fingers over it, he started running his own over her skin, stroking up and down her arm slowly and gently, with the light pressure of only one fingertip.

Belle stopped what she was doing, frozen in awe, following the tickling sensation from her fingertips to her elbow, up to her shoulder, and down her neck. His touch tingled in her chest and belly, leaving an unknown sting just below her middle. Somewhere between a tickle and a bite, it made her squirm and shudder involuntarily as heat radiated from it.

With a breathless gasp, she withdrew, then reached for his hand, allowing their fingers to intertwine.

She licked her lips, not recognizing her own heartbeat anymore. His gaze was intense but gentle, flooding her with warm currents from head to fin.

Finally, the tingling and stinging became too much and Belle broke contact. Without meaning to do it, she went under, somersaulting beneath the surface, then went to float belly up on the water, letting it support her weight. She just needed a moment to gather her senses, slow down the rushing and roaring within her. What had this been about anyway? Why was he here?

The instrument. Right.

It floated back into her consciousness, and Belle made a decision on the spot. She mentally felt around for her tail, turned, and swam back up to him.

“Indigo?”

She nodded at his leg. Then lifted her fin out of the water and placed it on the platform. She pointed at it, then at his leg, and back again, and a ray of hope seemed to spark and ignite in his eyes as he grinned from ear to ear.

***

Heart pounding in his ears, Gold wheeled in the case and opened it, kneeling on the platform. They had long fixed the brace, but he had decided not to bother her with it again until she was ready.

Getting out his own brace had been both a stroke of genius and a mean, manipulative trick, but, thankfully, it had worked. The old thing had proven useful for more than just gathering dust in the back of his closet at last. Apparently, it could also be used to convince skeptical mermaids.

“You ready?” He looked over at Indigo, who was dutifully waiting for him by the platform.

At his signal, she heaved herself out of the water, rolling until she lay flat on her back, gazing up at him as he kneeled beside her. He half managed to convince himself that it was the darkness rather than his presence that gave her a sense of security and lowered her natural defenses this much, but before his thoughts could spiral and get away from him, he put a stop to it and focused on the task at hand.

Taking the sock out of the case, he showed it to her and waited for confirmation to proceed, which came in the form of an unmistakable nodding fist.

So he went ahead, sliding it on, noticing halfway up that it seemed to get stuck on her scales every now and then, the more so the higher up he went. Pausing, he frowned, then ran a hand over her tail to see where the problem was. The blue night lighting made it hard to find out any other way, as it danced on her scales and made them sparkle like moonlight on waves.

To his surprise, he found that Indigo’s tail was no longer the smooth, cool glass-like texture he had learned to associate with mermaids. It had changed, her scales no longer smooth and uniform, but with erect clusters, their once smooth edges standing up to prickle his palm.

He let go of the sock and examined with both hands, looking for a pattern. The higher he went, the more clusters he felt, their margins growing harder, the strange sensation culminating in the discovery of a sharp L-shape, maybe a hand’s breadth down from where her belly button would have been - if she had had one.

As he traced it, curious to see where its exact margins were, the scales… twitched under his fingertips and Indigo jerked away with an audible gasp, turning on her side and propping herself up on one arm, hair billowing in still air, then falling over her face like a curtain.

Perplexed, Gold froze, his mind shutting down momentarily.

With bated breath, he watched her form quiver and her chest heave, as she turned back around. Was it his ears playing tricks on him, or was there a faint sound… vibrating off her, her skin pulsing with it— like hitting glass just right?

Gold scooted closer against his better judgement and looked at her in amazement.

“Hell's bells. What—”

Indigo shivered and shone in the night lighting. In the skin along her ribs, he saw dark lines that looked like gills flutter wildly. She gazed up at him, her eyes curious, and he felt overcome with the sudden urge to kiss her, to press his dry lips to her wet ones, so dark they seemed almost black; a deep dark mauve when the scarce light hit them just right.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She’d never looked less human.

The faint sound grew louder, but didn’t stand a chance against his own blood’s deafening roar as it flashed from warm to unbearably hot under his taut skin. He felt the shivers roll over him like waves, strong and primal, and could just keep from tearing his clothes right off then and there and jumping right into the deep unknown that were her eyes.

He wanted to fall into them; fall into the sea, go down, descent below, go far beyond to a place where all light faded away, and disappear. His eyes locked on hers, everything he held dear residing in their depths, and he felt himself sliding down, leaning in, the need to inhale driven clear from his mind as it was filled with the sound of the sea.

“Oh, Jesus suffering fuck!”

Gold smacked a hand so hard against his own forehead, he nearly heard birds sing. Any lower than that and he might have accidentally knocked a tooth, his mouth hanging open like that of a total buffoon, a freaking primate at the zoo.

He blinked against the white noise between his ears and swallowed hard.

Had he just… had he been about to… nah, fuck off.

Gold ran a hand over his mouth, pinching his upper lip until it hurt. What had gotten into him?

When she touched him, he nearly jumped out of his skin; the touch of a fingertip on his arm enough to send him flying over the edge into absolute mental mayhem.

“Yes? Yes… sweetheart?” he rasped, voice rising half an octave, internally smacking himself about with as much vigor as his spluttering heart and seasick brain could muster.

Indigo rolled over, almost toppling into his lap, and reached for the brace, handing it over with a challenging look on her face.

He couldn’t move a muscle.

Moments ticked by and his ears were still stuffed with cotton balls.

Gold cleared his throat roughly.

When more time passed and he still didn’t comply, Indigo took matters into her own hands, yanking on the sock until it had moved about an inch, then giving up and flopping back down onto her back with a frustrated huff.

Gold blew out a long breath.

[writinginavacuum]

Wayfinder Farms - Ch. 1 - “Welcome Home”

Terra's life has always been a certain way. He's grown up with the same people, in the same place, living the same life. That is, until the buzz around town is all about a new farmer moving in to long-abandoned Wayfinder Farm.

Rating: T

Relationships: Terraqua

Read it on AO3

For Terra, life in Stardew Valley was always the same old thing every day. It was home, a place where he’d grown up throwing footballs in the spring and splashing with his brother, Ven, in the cerulean waters of the beach in the summer. He raked leaves for Mayor Eraqus in the fall and helped Miss Aerith take care of her animals in the winter. As far as Terra was concerned, that was just how his life was. Nothing really changed about their little town, not really. Not until recently.

The town had been abuzz about the new person for weeks before they’d arrived. A new farmer, everyone had said. The grandchild of the old man who had once cared for Wayfinder Farm, long enough ago that Terra could not remember him. He’d wondered what the new farmer would be like. Would he be friendly? He was coming from a big city after all; weren’t all those people supposed to be rude and fast-paced? Would he keep to himself, all alone on that lonely farm? Before he’d known it, the day had arrived. The whole town was awake with the dawn, milling about like a dozen tiny ants, all trying to pretend that they weren’t all hoping for a peek at the new person coming to infiltrate their tiny community.

It didn’t take long for the rumors to start floating back.

“The house is a right mess,” CIndy confided in him over the sound of her hammer striking her anvil. “Tifa went out with Mayor Eraqus to make sure the place was safe, y’know? Nobody’s been out there in years. She says there’s a hole in the ceiling and everything, the poor thing.” She paused to lift his axe for inspection, then nodded, satisfied, and handed it across to him. “I packed her up some tools and sent them out with the Mayor. Nothing fantastic, but they’re gonna be well used, I’m sure.”

“I hope they’re ready for the work,” Tifa said, offhandedly, as he helped her split logs later that morning. “There’s easily just a season of clearing land waiting for them here. The whole farm’s overrun.”

Terra grunted in reply, slamming his newly-repaired axe into the log in front of him. She put a new one in front of him.

“It’s gotta be hard, coming to a new place like this,” Tifa continued, replacing the log again. “For your first view to be a rundown shack…”

Terra wiped the sweat from his forehead and leaned against his axe, looking out toward the bus stop and, past that, Wayfinder Farm. “Is it that bad?”

Tifa nodded. “Worse.”

“Maybe I should stop by later. Offer some help clearing it out.”

Tifa smiled as she picked up a few split logs to carry back to storage. “Maybe you should. A little hospitality never hurt nobody.”

In Terra’s head, he imagined the new farmer would look a lot like his brother. Wiry, thin, a little too pale for life by the sea but happy anyway. Terra tried to imagine Ven clearing out an overrun field and almost choked on his beer.

“Somethin’ funny, Terra?” Cid asked over the bar. He was wiping out a glass- he always seemed to be wiping out glasses, even if it was well cleaned. Maybe he just liked to keep his hands busy. Terra had never asked.

“Nothing much,” Terra said. “Hey, have you heard anything about the new farmer?”

Cid grunted, but his polishing slowed a bit.

“That I did. In fact, she even came in to town a bit earlier. Somethin’ ‘bout introducing herself to everyone.”

Terra nodded before the full realization hit him. “Wait. She?”

Cid chucked. “Aye, ‘she.’ That a problem?”

Terra shook his head, but the new news made him wonder. She? What kind of woman would move away from her family, to the middle of nowhere, on the promise of a little farm?

Resolved to visit in the morning, he finished his beer, left some money on the counter for Cid, and headed out into the night toward home.

The next morning, he rolled out of bed with the sun, pulled on his muddy work boots, and slipped out of the house before Ven could even pry an eyelid open to ask him where he was going. He grabbed his tools- an axe, definitely, and his pickaxe in case there were any particularly stubborn stones- and started his walk toward Wayfinder Farm.

The farm was a couple miles from town, about a twenty minute walk if he kept a good pace the whole way. When he was younger, he used to jog the path to the farm and back, passing the old bus station both ways. But that had been when the busses ran, and that had been before the town had started to really rely on him as a handyman. Now his days were full of helping people out. He didn’t mind; in fact, he kind of liked the little glow in his chest when someone thanked him for going out of his way. It was why he was on this dirt path at- he checked his watch- 6:50 in the morning, heading out to a derelict farm whose owner might not even be awake yet. He liked helping.

As he rounded the last corner, he started to hear what sounded like the thuds of an axe, followed by muttering. He took it as a sign that the farm’s owner was indeed up and tackling the mess she had found in the field. It was atrocious, really. Weeds stretched up to Terra’s waist in places, with overgrown trees casting shade in places where there had clearly once been open fields full of crops. Here and there, huge rotting logs blocked paths between tree trunks. A few feet in, under the canopy of trees, he could just barely see the rustling of grass that he hoped was a person. Though it might’ve been a scarecrow, to be fair..

“Hello?” Terra called into the weeds. The figure screamed, whirling around to prove that no, they had not been a scarecrow. An axe came up between the two of them, and Terra wasn’t quite sure if he should laugh or panic. He settled for putting his hands up between them.

“Whoah there,” he said, taking a step back. “Sorry to startle you. I’m Terra. Terra Maduro. I’m from Pelican Town.”

The figure peeked out from behind her axe, abruptly dropping it as soon as he said his name. Her face was bright pink beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat wound with pale blue ribbon, though he wasn’t sure if that was from the sun or the embarrassment.

“S-sorry,” she said, leaning awkwardly on the handle of her axe. It sunk into the soft earth beneath her and she stumbled forward before catching herself against a log. Terra noticed, with a small smirk, that the redness of her cheeks was not from the sun, as it deepend once she righted herself.

“Sorry,” she said again, a little breathlessly, “I’m just a little jumpy. Not used to it being so…”

“Quiet?” Terra offered.

“Friendly.”

Terra laughed as he lowered his hands. “Nosey, I think you mean, but I’ll take it.”

Aqua removed her hat to wipe the sweat from her forehead as she laughed. “I was trying to be polite.”

Terra took a step forward, offering her hand out to her. “Then I guess I’ll be polite too. Terra Maduro.”

“You said that already,” Aqua said. Her handshake was firm, her hands soft. Not calloused from the work, or at least not yet.

“You’ve yet to give me yours, so I figured I would try again.”

Her eyes sparkled, the corners of her lips turned up as she released his hand. “Aqua. Aqua Maki.”

“Well then, Aqua Maki,” Terra said as he yanked her axe from the earth, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Same here.” Aqua took her axe back gratefully, shifting its wooden handle in her hands as she looked around her. “But if you don’t mind, I really should get back to work.”

Terra smiled, pulling his own axe out of his pack. “You didn’t think I’d come all the way out here just to be nosey, did you?”

Aqua looked surprised for a moment, staring at the axe in his hand, before shaking her head a little bit with a smile on her face. “To be fair, I don’t know you well enough to make that sort of judgement call, but if you want to be muscle out here, be my guest.” She pointed toward the door of the only building Terra could see. Tifa and Cindy had been right- if that was her house, it really was in poor shape. “I’m trying to clear the space in front of my house. Just enough to get a garden planted so I have something before the season ends, you know? There’s no way this’ll all be cleared in a day or two.”

It relieved Terra a bit to hear that she had some idea of the project’s scope. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if a season’s work could clear this whole farm. He couldn’t even see to the lake he knew rested somewhere in the middle of the property, let alone to the other side. He hefted his axe and smiled. “Got it.”

He spent the day working alongside her, felling trees and chopping them up for wood while she lugged the logs to the little overhang attached to her house. When he had no logs for her, she was on her knees digging up rocks or clearing weeds in big swatches with her scythe.

Of all the city people Terra had imagined taking over Wayfinder Farm, he hadn’t imagined Aqua. He had thought about Ven, naive and innocent but ultimately good at heart, or like Xehanort, the man pushing for Pelican Town to adopt the JojaMart lifestyle, trying to run Leon’s general store out of business. He has never stopped to think about someone like Aqua, someone who was somehow able to laugh and joke with him even while up to her elbows in dirt and rotting weeds. He found he was maybe happier that he hadn’t thought about it before.

When the sun was going down and it was becoming dangerous to swing an axe, she invited him inside. It was exactly as bleak as Terra imagined, complete with patchwork holes in the ceiling covered by tarp and tape, but the lantern inside was bright and the cooler at the foot of her bed was full.

“Sorry I don’t have much,” Aqua said as she tossed a can of lemonade at him. He cracked it open and savored the tartness of it for about half a second before chugging the rest of the can. Across the small room, Aqua did the same.

“You’ll get there,” Terra said. “It always takes a little time.”

Aqua nodded as she gazed around the space, looking thoughtful now.

“So,” Terra began after a few moments of silence, “what convinced you to move out to the middle of nowhere like this?”

Aqua shrugged, sitting on top of her cooler. Her fingers fiddled with the metal tab of her can. “I dunno, really. My grandfather left me this place when he died. Told me that… he knew I’d need it one day.”

Terra was at a loss for words for a moment before he finally found his voice. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t be. He’s long passed.” Her eyes focused on the can in front of her. Terra cast around desperately for a new topic, something to bring the joviality back into the conversation. His eyes fell on the cooler Aqua was sitting on. “So are you subsisting on lemonade cans or is there food in there too?”

Aqua laughed a little. Terra suspected it was forced, but she seemed genuinely grateful to be moving on past the topic of her grandfather and didn’t push it.

“No, I’ve got some canned ravioli in there too.” She grinned when Terra looked horrified.

“Canned ravioli? God no. You should come down to the saloon tomorrow night. Cid makes one hell of a pizza.” Terra pushed away from the wall he had been leaning on. “For being a saloon and all.”

“We’ll see,” Aqua said, standing up as well. “It’s a bit of a hike for me, and I’ve got so much work to do out here…”

“C’mon, my treat. Let a guy show you some local hospitality, huh?” Was Terra laying it on a little thick? Maybe. But was it working? Well…

Aqua smiled. Even in the low light of her lantern, her blue eyes seemed to sparkle.

“Tell you what. You come out here tomorrow and help me clear some more junk out, and I’ll take you up on the offer. Sound good?” She held her hand out again. Terra took it, giving it a firm shake. He was glad the low light hid the blush on his cheeks.

“Miss Aqua, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

[winterblues]

prompt response to: andreil trapped in a small space scenario

As much as all these late night practices aided Neil in strengthening his form, some nights he felt so incredibly drained of energy that by the end of them he almost cursed his own resolve. 

Neil let out an exasperated breath as he tucked his helmet under his aching arm and trudged; zombie-like into the empty locker room. Kevin followed, taking long, agitated strides and muttering something unintelligible under his breath as he disappeared into the showers without sparing Neil a second’s glance. Neil didn't have the energy left to satiate Kevin’s relentless appetite for grief. Not in the moment, anyway. 

Neil’s body felt like cotton candy, soft; pliable, limbs worn pink and sore. Neil was halfway to his locker when he heard Andrew moving behind him. Neil peeled his gear off carefully and stuffed the majority of it into his giant locker before slamming it shut and turning on his heel to look at Andrew, who was slumped against the lockers on the other side, hands shoved deep in his pockets, pale hair wild and eyes bleary from a crucial lack of sleep.

“Go and shower. You fucking reek.” Andrew prompted. It had been a long day for them all, Neil could sense Andrew mirroring his own exhaustion.

“Yeah. I’ll make it quick,” Neil promised, before breaking into the slightest smirk. “I mean, unless you want to help me out.”

“Help yourself,” Andrew replied, dully.

Neil knew better than to take offense to that as he merely shrugged and made a beeline for the showers.

“Offer’s on the table if you change your mind. I’ll keep the stall unlocked.”

Neil showered as hurriedly as he could, knowing that Andrew would be waiting. The hot steam from the shower abated the stinging pain that reverberated through his sore bones and he felt himself tilting his head back towards where the force of the water was most concentrated. Newfangled bruises bloomed along the back of his elbows, the bottom of his left knee, across his inner wrist. He didn’t pay them much heed. Every injury he garnered on the court was a testament to how far he had come, how far he would go. They hurt less when he thought about them that way.

They reminded him he was alive.

Neil dried his hair off with a towel before pulling his clothes back on, rather clumsy-handedly. By the sounds of it, Kevin was still in the shower. Neil headed straight for the lockers. He frowned when Andrew wasn’t within his direct line of sight. He could hear shuffling coming from the storage room towards his left. 

He wandered in to find Andrew attempting to keep a stack of old exy racquets from toppling over each other in what could have turned into one completely unfortunate domino effect.

“Scavenging for scraps?”

“Your helmet,” Andrew muttered. “You ruptured your chin guard. I was checking if they had any replacement parts collecting dust here.”

“Any luck?”

“No.”

“I’m just going to put it on Kevin’s tablet,” Neil replied. “He aimed that last shot at my jaw on purpose.”

“MAYBE YOU SHOULD LEARN TO DODGE LIKE ANY COMPETENT STRIKER WOULD!” snapped an irked, disembodied voice from the distance.

Sometimes Neil forgot how thin the walls here really were… Maybe Kevin just had the ears of a vampire bat, to have been able to hear them over the gushing of the water.

“MAYBE YOU SHOULD MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS!” Neil roared back, scathingly, before rolling his eyes and slamming the door closed behind him. Andrew stared at him, dead-eyed. “What are you doing?”

“What? I want to relish in dissing Kevin in relative privacy.”

“You’ll lock us in, idiot.”

“I didn’t—“

“These hinges haven’t been oiled in years. They’re flimsy.” There was a sudden, unspoken urgency in Andrew’s voice at that final word that made Neil’s insides twist. “Okay,” Neil said, hand curling around the door knob. 

He turned at it and—shit. Was Andrew about to be proven right? He gave it a hard yank and then another, and then a couple more for good measure. At this point, Andrew took a step forward, nudging Neil hard enough from waist to shoulder that he stumbled and felt his spine meet the cold expanse of wall. 

Andrew then maneuvered to inspect the door himself.

Neil’s insides caved in on themselves. The storage room was tiny. Smaller even, than an average walk-in closet. Not to mention it was brimming with a maw-full of junk. It was also crowded and dark and smelled like an abundance of dust.

There was a dull bulb that flickered like an eighties horror film in the top right corner of the closet and Neil was half convinced he could hear something skittering behind the shelves. It wasn’t exactly the most pleasant of ambiances, but he knew better than anyone that there were worse places to get trapped in.

Andrew had now taken to straight up kicking at the door and pounding his fists against it hard enough that Neil could feel the vibrations in his teeth.

“It’s no big deal,” Neil said, gently. “Kevin will get us out.”

“Kevin—“ Andrew snapped, his pupils blown wide as he turned to meet Neil’s gaze. “Probably thinks we’re hooking up.”     

Neil wanted to say that Kevin wouldn’t abandon them, but then again, he wouldn’t put that kind of an assumption past Kevin, especially when he was feeling frustrated. 

Andrew’s head snapped back up. “Do you have your phone on you?”

“It's in my bag,” Neil pinched the top of his nose. “Outside.”

“Shit.”

Neil watched Andrew for a quiet moment. His heart beginning to pound in alarm. He took in the wild, emancipated flicker in Andrew’s eyes, the calamity in his tone of voice. His gaze was capering everywhere like cat’s eyes to lasers. He looked as if he was imagining every wall in the room closing in on them all at once. “Andrew,” Neil’s voice was the barest suggestion of a whisper.

Andrew’s eyes flickered up to meet his, he was attempting to keep his lips tightly pressed together but there was a prominent strain to the curve of his mouth. His expression feral and bottomless; a consequence of the fear that was threatening to take over.

“What.”

“Are you claustrophobic?”

Andrew said nothing, but the torrent in his gaze was confirmation enough.

They had to give up after fifteen solid minutes of incessant banging against the unrepentant door and every cry for Kevin falling on deaf ears.

Andrew was beginning to look very pale and his breathing had grown ragged. 

There was a tremor of misery rising up Neil’s throat as Andrew slumped against the door with his knees pressed into his heaving chest.

Neil was not used to Andrew making himself so small, it set something alight within him. Andrew compensated for the inconvenience of his height by having an overwhelming presence—the sort you’d do better facing head on rather than just flat out ignoring. If it was even humanly possible to ignore.

This… This was terrible and new.

Neil could taste iron at the back of his mouth, thinking back on one of his worst memories of Andrew.

Even back then, lying defeated on bloodstained sheets, Andrew hadn’t tried to make himself scarce. His nonchalance, his disdain, his fear for what might’ve happened to Aaron… It had been an ugly cocktail of emotions (or a brittle lack there of) but it’d been larger than life. Neil could still feel the sheer animosity rolling off of Andrew, stiff and defensive and horrible. 

His laughter had been a warning.  

It had been so loud it had taken up the entire room.

Neil looked to Andrew again.

He remembered Andrew facing his fear of heights on their rooftop: Andrew’s knuckles, whitened from a hindered blood flow, the slumped ridges of his shoulders, the way he stared down at the ground, as if the ground would erupt from beneath him, extend its jaws and swallow him whole.

“You know,” Neil began, crouching down next to Andrew. Neil felt the need to keep talking. “When my mother and I were on the run, I spent a lot of time in compact spaces. In closets, airport bathroom stalls, beneath motel beds. Mom would ask me to stay extremely still and close my eyes as tightly as I could. She wasn’t very good at consoling me, I don’t think she even knew how to begin with; but she would ask me to turn the world off, like it was that easy to just wield my brain like a switchboard. To hone in on a single, conquerable thing.” Something nauseous crawled its way up his windpipe, something he’d once mistaken for fondness. “See, she said when it comes to entrapment, helpless animals thrive in the little victories.”

“You are a study in helplessness,” Andrew sucked in another strangled breath.

Neil continued. “She demanded I find something to clutch onto. It could be anything. The rancid smell of a cigarette, the sound of her voice, or something physical that I could touch,” Neil’s eyes met Andrew’s with intent, awaiting certain affirmation. Andrew picked up his gaze instantly. 

But only if you let me...

Andrew managed a small nod.

At this, Neil let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding to begin with and wrapped his hands over Andrew’s, which were busy digging into the soft material of his track pants over his knees. Andrew’s fingers were cold, limp. Neil brought their entwined hands towards his mouth and blew at them, gently. His breath warmer than the temperature of the confined room. “It’s not about finding your happy place or some unhelpful bullshit like that. I think it has more to do with cognitive response, we breathe subconsciously, right? So if you just find something else to focus on, your body naturally complies.”

“Shut up.”

Andrew’s breaths sounded sharper now, shorter. His fingers dug into the skin of Neil’s palm before clutching for the back of Neil’s head. He dug his fists into his hair and pulled, every gasp hissed in between clenched teeth. It hurt, but watching Andrew crumble in this way hurt more. 

“It’s okay,” Neil insisted, pressing slow, breathy kisses to every single one of Andrew’s knuckles. “Just focus on me. Look at me. Everything else is just everything else. Andrew,” Neil said. “Look at me. Nothing else.”

“I thought you were nothing.”

“That’s right. I’m nothing. It’s easier to concentrate on my nothing, right?”

“God. Stop talking—“

“Tell me what’s happening. How difficult is it to breathe? Can you feel your heart rate escalating? Do you feel clammy?”

“I’m going to kill Kevin Fucking Day.”

“I’ll help you dispose of the body,” Neil replied, approvingly, before resting his forehead against Andrew’s and closing his eyes for a brief moment. He could feel Andrew shaking against him. 

“My fourth home,” Andrew said then, in between harsh, heavy breaths. “It was a game.”

“What—?”

“Get locked in a dark broom closet and search for the key.”

The words were distorted by a familiarly casual lack of concern. The sort that drove Neil to his wit’s end.

Neil felt a sudden pang of unbidden rage whorl up inside his chest. Now he was imagining a young Andrew. Probably no older than ten, locked within the dark confines of some asshole’s dusty old broom closet, utterly afraid and completely alone. Another onset of pain, the kind of pain that was more than just physical and Neil could feel clogging up his brain. It was beginning to get volcanic. Neil felt his nostrils flare as his grip on Andrew’s hands tightened, just slightly. Their fingers were now slick with sweat but Neil couldn’t care less.

“They should pay,” Neil’s voice was hoarse, throaty. It was as if a knife was growing within his stomach, large and serrated. “For what they did to you. They should all pay. I want to tear—“

“It doesn’t matter,” Andrew’s voice was still ringed with panic, but strangely enough, his gaze had become more solid; rapt on Neil’s own. 

As if reminding Neil of the reach of his own apathy mattered more than the fear rapidly possessing him, voice a faultless escaped breath.

“I don’t care.”

“You never do,” Neil replied, tone still frantic despite half-assed attempts to throttle the fury. “I’ll just have to amp up my own contempt tenfold—for the both of us.”

“Fucking junkie.”

“What can I say? I’m hooked,” Neil said, the corner of his lip tugging up to form a grin that left him rather surprised by himself. So hopelessly hooked. Andrew didn’t look too amused, Neil could feel his pulse racing at his wrists, beneath the press of Neil’s fingers. “Hey, hey. Stay with me now. We’ll get out of here. It’ll be okay. Breathe, okay? Try to breathe.”

Andrew did so, all the while staring Neil down begrudgingly. 

“I hate you.”

“You really outdid yourself with that. I mean groundbreaking revelation.”

“You’ll break my percentage meter.”

“Before you take another shot at breaking me? Sounds unfair.”

There was a look in Andrew’s eyes at that, one Neil couldn’t exactly place. It was something conflicted; at war with itself. It sank into Neil’s skin.

Andrew’s grip on Neil’s hair finally loosened as he untangled one of his hands from Neil’s in favor of fastening it around the nape of Neil’s neck and reeling him towards him. “Yes or no?”

“It will never be no,” Neil waited for Andrew’s lips to engulf his own. He watched Andrew inhale (his breath still wary but less labored than before), watched his eyelashes flutter shut and then the unparalleled heat of Andrew’s mouth.

The kiss was a hard, steadying press like a paperweight. An affirmation of trust. Andrew was letting Neil knead the tension out of him. Neil kept his movements gentle even as Andrew’s tongue hungrily scaled his throat. Andrew’s other hand left Neil’s to venture underneath his shirt and Andrew pressed a hand flat against Neil’s stomach, where the scarring was at its coarsest. Neil sucked in a shivering breath at the destabilizing touch. When they pried their lips apart, Neil brought Andrew close until their chests were pressed flush against one another. He could feel Andrew’s heart beating against his own, every cataclysmic breath. Andrew’s pupils were wide and there was almost a certain brimming exhilaration within them. Neil netted his fingers in the soft expanse of Andrew’s hair and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Block out all those rotten memories. Burn them. We’ll make new ones.” 

“Oh?” Andrew said, dryly. “Is that your attempt at an assurance?”

“That’s a promise.”

“Careful,” Andrew drawled. “That’s still foreign dialect for a pathetic little runaway.”

“It’s your language,” Neil replied. “So I’ll learn it.”

At this, Andrew blanched.

Only this time, Neil had a feeling it had nothing to do with panic.

Neil awoke to a jolting pain riding up his left ankle, Andrew’s face pressed into his neck and Coach Wymack looming over him with an incredibly dangerous look on his face.

“I swear I will kick the shit out of you until you whimper,” Wymack imposed.

“Coach!” Neil cried.

“I know I said I don’t care what you maggots do off court but bedrooms exist for a reason,” Wymack grumbled. “Next time, use them. Now, would you care to explain to me what the fuck you two were doing cooped up in here? Keep it PG, yeah?”

“It isn’t what it looks like,” Neil snapped, cheeks flaring. “I shut the door too hard and locked us in.”

Wymack’s expression changed, albeit marginally as his gaze dropped to Andrew. “Is he—?”

“He’ll be fine.” Neil reassured, with a small sigh. When Wymack shot him a doubtful glare, Neil immediately remedied his phrase. “Not my flimsy definition of fine—Genuinely fine.”

For a moment, Wymack said nothing, before clearing his throat and looking Neil square in the eye, expression hardening once more. “Wake him up, get yourselves freshened up and get the fuck out of my sight.” He said, pointing at Andrew, who was still curled up against Neil like a cat.

“Yes, Coach.”

He turned on his heel to leave, before halting abruptly. “And Neil?”

“Yes?”

“Thank fuck you were with him.”

Neil felt a prickle of something sad stab at his throat, but he nodded.

“Get plenty of water and some grub in your systems. Don’t think I’m letting you off easy. It’s gonna be a grueling day ahead.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Don’t ‘yes, coach��� me.”

“Yes, Coach. Er— Alright?”

Wymack groaned audibly, stared up at the ceiling like what-will-I-ever-do-with-this-good-for-nothing-little-shit before skulking off. Next to him, Andrew stirred.

“You’re awake,” Neil said, softly.

“Keen observation,” he responded, voice still groggy like early morning honey.

“Wanna get the fuck out of here?” Neil asked.

“Wanna get the fuck off of you,” Andrew said, pushing himself up and off of Neil. He was a little wobbly as he rose to his feet and had to extend an arm up against the wall to keep himself upright. 

He stared at the door blown wide open and the barcodes of light pooling in from outside. Stray voices floated up from the foyer. Neil pulled himself to his feet and stretched to work out a kink in his neck. 

Andrew was out the door before he could finish. 

Neil followed him out, equally eager to be free of the dry smell of mold exposure and cardboard boxes.

Andrew turned to him, expression unreadable. Neil halted just in time to keep himself from walking straight into his back. 

“I will say this once and once only so listen closely if you care to hear it.”  

“Hm?”

“You know I don’t care for useless sentiments,” Andrew said. “What you did, I won’t forget it.”

Neil felt something warm and unnamable bloom behind his ribs. Neil didn’t think Andrew understood, or maybe he understood perfectly and just didn’t want to admit it. Knowing Andrew, it was probably the latter. Either way, Neil didn’t require an acknowledgement or a worthless show of gratitude. He hadn’t done it out of courtesy, he’d done it because he couldn’t bear the thought of what might’ve happened otherwise. Couldn’t bear the thought of watching Andrew fall victim to the weight of his past. Time upon time again.

“It was nothing.” Neil replied quietly, but he hoped Andrew heard the underlying notion within his words. 

It was everything.

Andrew’s face was a blank canvas while Neil’s was a mosaic of abstracts.

“You don’t have to say it like that.”

“I know.”

[rivenstraws-a]

|| Eight Words || Writing Exercise || 

    Whoever the woman had been, her favorite flower was obviously a rose. 

    It was in everything— massive paintings tucked within elaborate frames, old petals saved between pressed pages of first aid books, designed into rich velvet clothes that would have been considered fashioned a decade or so ago. The narrow, cluttered storage unit was brimming with the object of her affection, spilling out of stuffed boxes onto a concrete floor. It was borderline obsessive. 

    “Y’clean it an’ y’can use it. Ain’t no charge.” 

    Cole drawled the type of slow southern accent that only seemed to exist in small towns shouldered against highways. He scratched the side of his scruffy chin, mouth open as he considered Emma with a lifted brow. 

     “How long y’say ya need it, now?” 

     “Just a week,” She said, gray eyes scanning the multiple objects shoved and stacked atop of one another, “the mechanics said they’d have everything good to go by then.” 

     “Who said that? Jake?” 

     “I think that was his name, yeah—” 

     “It don’t take him no week to fix a damn muzzler. He ask you out?” 

     Emma looked up from a large painting she’d been peeking behind, “Uh— no.”

     “He will.” Cole placed a pair of tiny golden keys on a nearby box. “Weeks fine if y’need it.” 

     “Great,” Emma grumbled as she rolled her eyes and grabbed the keys, shoving them into the pocket of her dark green jumpsuit. Her gaze trailed back down to behind the painting, where a small, framed award caught her eye. The certificate appeared to be old, yellowed with age, its ink sporadically faded, but she could still make out the words “nurse” and “battle of Worcestershire” in sprawling caligraphy. 

      She picked it up and frowned, “Are you sure it’s ok for me to just...throw all of this out?” 

      Cole shrugged, “She ain’t gonna miss it, where she at now.” 

      “But she didn’t have any family? Anyone who’d— I don't know— want mementos or something?” 

     “Nah. Miss. Abney didn’t talk to most folks. Had a couple brothers, but they died, long time ago. Didn’t have no kids, no husband...had a cat, but Mrs. Danner’s got ‘em now.” 

     “Oh.” 

     The word hung awkwardly between them until Cole shifted his heavy weight, stuffing his hands into the pockets of paint-splattered jeans before glancing the tall, blonde woman up and down, “Ya sure y’can empty it out yourself? Ain’t much to rent one, if y’like.” 

     “Yeah, it’s not a problem. I’ll probably just do some of the big stuff and then finish tomorrow. I’ve got a dog back at the motel, so he’ll need a walk soon.” 

     “Y’mean the horse? Saw ya walkin’ with him earlier, biggest damn dog I ever seen. You charge for rides?”

     Emma grinned, “20 bucks a pop.” 

     That earned a chuckle as he placed a roll of trash bags atop one of the sealed boxes. 

     “Well, Miss. Markas,” Cole mispronounced her name for the 4th time that evening, but the Marque’s name would just have to be satisfied with his attempt, “I’ll be in m’office, if y’need. Anyone bother ya an’ y’just lemme know. Most folks ‘round here are fine, ‘course, but if they ain’t...” 

     “I’ll let you know. Thank you, Cole.” 

     He smiled, then opened his mouth as if to say something, only to close it with a shake of his head. Instead, he offered a small wave of his hand before walking back to the tiny office located in front of the rows of outdoor storage units. It was a stroke of luck that the one he’d shown Emma happened to be situated by one of the tall, black lamp posts scattered throughout the lot, or else she suspected there’s only be a scant half hour to clear what she could before the sun dipped down beyond the mountains. 

     As it were, though, she still wasn’t particularly keen on working in the dark, so Emma took to popping some music on and sorting through the items right away. She placed the paintings outside first, just to clear the workspace. There were 9 of them in total, 4 larger than the width of her shoulders, mostly copies of what she guessed were oil paintings. A few seemed to be done in watercolor, and some of the smaller ones looked as though they could have been personal works, depicting painstakingly detailed roses strewn across crystal bowls of water. Lacking the heart to throw away what had obviously been a lot of effort, she set them aside in a separate pile. 

     Maybe one could go in her next kitchen, whenever that ended up being.

     She’d gotten into a rhythm before too long. Yet once all of the larger stand-alone items were gone, Emma found herself curious about what the boxes held, and took more time than necessary to sift through them. The glow from the lamp post was the only bubble of light left before long, aside from the far away dim of Cole’s office. Emma didn’t notice the change.  

     If there’d been a method to how the stacks of boxes had been packed, it wasn’t easy to tell. Bandaids and brushes and brightly colored planter pots made up one box, while an empty wine bottle, numerous mismatched shoes, and unopened containers of red tape made another. Occasionally she came across more clothes, though rarely packed together. Now and then there were tiny glass bottles of mysterious liquid which could have passed for medicine vials, but the labels were far too faded to tell. 

      It wasn’t until she got to a box filled with books that Emma heard thundering from some distance away. She glanced at the time on her phone and cursed. Chester was well trained and had likely managed to hold it all this time (she hoped), but he would definitely not be happy with her for taking so long. Best to leave before the rain started, anyway. 

      An old black and white picture tucked inside a book caught her eye as Emma went to close everything up. She pulled it out to see a young, pretty, short-haired brunette staring back at her with dark eyes, a bundle of roses in her hand as she smiled at the camera. 

      If pressed, Emma wouldn’t have put the girl passed 20, over a decade younger than herself. But then again, the picture was obviously old, the woman now dead after presumably living to elderly years— so she supposed “younger” wasn’t exactly correct. 

       Still, the conundrum of what to do with the photo simmered in Emma’s thoughts. Throwing it away seemed like the simplest choice, but that almost felt like she herself was damning the woman to be forgotten entirely, a ghost to the past. No siblings, no partner, no children, no one to care about a storage unit full of things and memories— 

       She wondered if this was the future that awaited her one day, and shivered at the thought. 

      That would require her to outlive her own brothers, however, and after recalling her mothers’ sharp insistence that Emma was unlikely to live past 40, the unease drifted away. A short life didn’t sound so bad, all things considered. 

      Still.

      After a moment more of contemplation, Emma opted to stuff the picture into her pocket with the plan of uploading it to one website or another. Let the woman live on in the never-ending memorial that was the internet, she thought. It was better than nothing. 

      A hand grabbed her wrist before the picture reached her pocket. 

      It would have made sense to scream, to shout for Cole or— anyone. But Emma found herself staring, rather silently, at a young, pretty woman with short brunette hair and dark eyes that were very much alive and glaring back at her.  

     “Well,” She said, without a hint of a southern accent, “this is a surprise.”