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lightofthemoonglow · 2 years

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burning with the hope of insight

summary: Sam visits Stu in prison, in hopes of learning about her biological father and maybe even a bit about herself.

notes: takes place after Scream 6 but has no spoilers. past Billy/Stu. this is the first thing i have written in months

It’s kind of like in the movies.

These days, that usually isn’t a comforting thought, but it kind of is right now. It helps her know what to expect. Sam moves through the process of visiting a federal prison with ease, able to just remove herself from the whole thing until she’s being led into the visitor’s room. It’s going to be her on one side of the glass and Stu Macher on the other, cuffed to a chair with guards that are going to shut anything violent or weird down before it even gets a chance to start. She’s got a list of questions, handwritten on an index card, because her phone was going to be kept up front until it was time for her leave.

A part of her wonders why she’s even doing this. It’s not going to change anything. At the end of this visit, she’s still going to be the same person. The woman who doesn’t talk to her mother, with a dead biological father and a legal dad that hasn’t spoken to her in over a decade. He still talks to Tara sometimes, but never to her. Not even when her sister asks if he wants to. Sam gets it, kind of. She’s felt like she doesn’t want to be around herself a lot.

All she had done was mention the mere idea to Gale a few weeks ago while they had been getting coffee. They all try to meet every now and then. Gale herself had said that she’s made friends with people who have punched her before, she can do it again. Which is what they are now, Sam supposes. Friends. Why else would Gale call in favors, pull some strings, so Sam could see the only person on earth who would say anything nice about Billy Loomis.

Hank Loomis, who doesn’t feel like her grandfather even though he technically is, doesn’t speak to her either. He sends a check directly to her every month, that’s it. Sam doesn’t want to talk to him anyway. A part of her wishes he had kept it in his pants, because none of this would have happened. Maybe she wouldn’t exist and in her darker moments, she wonders if that would be worth all those lives being spared. Though even if he did want to talk to her, she can’t imagine he would have anything nice to say about his son.

But Stu apparently remains loyal to his best friend, despite being the only Ghostface to face consequences. Billy gets to be immortalized and even though that’s way sick, it’s still probably better than being left to languish in a jail cell, forgotten to the point where people aren’t even sure if he’s dead or alive. And that is what a murderer like him deserves, no question. After today, Sam hopes she never sees him again and he will once more be forgotten by even the people who are still suffering because of choices he had made before Sam was even born.

Recently, the desire to know about her father, about herself, won over than the desire to let him suffer in obscurity. All Sam knows is what she’s read and watched. No one talks about Billy the person, they talk about Billy the murderer, Billy the monster. She only knows one thing, her mom had let it slip a couple times and the first time, she hadn’t even been sure what she had meant.

The first time, she had been ten or so. Tara had still been a little kid, so it had to have been around then. Mom had been day drinking, though Sam had only realized that years later. Sam had come in from playing with some other kids outside, having stormed away from people that would no longer be her friends in a few years. She had been upset over something she can’t remember now. As she had stomped up to the fridge to grab a popsicle, straining her little arms to reach the freezer, brows furrowed in anger, Mom had suddenly spoken.

You have your father’s eyes.

But the man she had called Dad didn’t have brown eyes. At the time, Sam had just shrugged it off, thinking her mom was just being weird, which had been the word for drunk until she had figured out what that was.

The second and last time she had ever heard anything about Billy Loomis the person, Sam had been 17 and her mom had picked her up from the sheriff’s station after she’d been picked up for loitering and public intoxication, and not for the first time. Sam had still been high, drunk, and just fucking angry at having to keep so much locked up. They had wound up fighting in the car, downright screaming at each other. Sam had been tempted to smack her mom across her stupid, smug face because mom had been acting like she hadn’t fucked a murderer. But her mom’s words after a brief silence broke something in her.

As they had waited at a red light, Mom had said that she had her father’s eyes. But it had been an accusation this time, instead of a resigned fact. It was like she was saying that eventually she would wind up like him.

Sam had nearly grabbed the keys so she could cut them out.

Instead, she had waited the remaining months until she turned 18 and then left town, refusing to return until she had been yanked back.

And now Sam is watching Stu Macher being led to the chair on the other side of the glass.

“You look like your mom. I think. I don’t really remember her.”

Stu’s face is covered in old scars, from the TV’s glass. It had nearly killed him and Sam wonders if he hates Halloween now, because that would have been one of the last things he saw before the TV had come down on him. It had been the last thing he’d seen as a free man.

“I don’t want to talk about her.” Therapy, venting to…. certain people and just in her own head, Sam has talked enough about her mom for a lifetime. And she’s familiar with her mom as a person, she has to live with the consequences of that every day. “I want to talk about…Billy.” It had almost slipped off her tongue. I want to talk about my dad.

“He was my best friend. We met when we were kids, before I can really remember. Billy was just always there. We did everything together. I loved the guy.” Which is a given, but it’s still confirmation, another piece of the puzzle falling into place. Their friendship isn’t really talked about in any of the books or documentaries, they barely have any scenes together in Stab. Which is fine, because they don’t need anything more for their weird fans to grasp onto. “He came over to my place a lot. His dad was always away for work and his mom was kind of weird. She hovered all the time, even when we started high school.” Sam feels a twinge in her stomach, Tara’s anger over her smothering ringing in her mind. It’s not the same, you’re not the same, she tells herself.

“So, it was a surprise when she left?” It’s the second question on her list, he already answered the first one. That part is also something that’s glossed over, everyone is far more focused on Nancy Loomis after she had left, with only vague statements about her seeming to be a good mother coming out in the aftermath.

“No way. Even after we found out why she left, it didn’t make sense. It really fucked Billy up. He just stayed in his room for days after it hit him she was gone, listening to the same tape over and over again. He wouldn’t even let me in for a while.” Stu still sounds hurt about being shut out, his eyes losing focus for a moment, as if he’s taken back to a different time.

“What tape was it?” It’s not on the cards, but she has to know. Maybe it would help complete the picture despite how meaningless it seems.

“That Nine Inch Nails album with Closer on it. He fucking loved that song.” The guard grunts in warning and Stu finally turns around, telling him to come on and loosen up, it’s just one f-bomb. Sam is more focused on that one bit of common ground, remembering how her old iPod had more than a few NIN songs on it. The Hand That Feeds had been part of the soundtrack to her own downward spiral.

“Was he as much of an asshole as the movie makes him out to be?” Sam reads from the card once again, forcing herself to keep her voice steady.

“Not to me. At least not until…you know. But he was pretty cool most of the time.” Stu smiles, clearly thinking about better days. “He knew how to talk to people. People like him. I remember that there were these girls flirting with him the day after he’d been picked up by the cops. He was…it was hard to care about things when he was around.” Billy’s charisma has been well documented, it’s one of the few things most people agree on, but it’s still weird to see someone clearly still affected by it.

Sam has a short list of less pointed questions after that, a suggestion from Gale, so she could lure him into a false sense of security. She learns that Billy was not much of a school guy, only really trying in English and certain electives, not even bothering to care about math and science. He didn’t have many career ambitions; he had said he’d figure it out when they got to college. His favorite fast food was pizza, he was a beer drinker, though he wasn’t picky about the beer. Typical for a high school boy, she thinks, because he didn’t live long enough to become picky. His favorite color was blue, another thing that she has in common with him. She picks off some of her nail polish at that revelation, though the polish could have flaked off because it’s cheap.

“He had a jacket a lot like yours.” Stu cuts off her next question, the words tumble out of his mouth like he’s just realized it. “I remember ‘cause I was there when he brought it.” Sam looks down at her blue jacket, something she’d found at a thrift store back when she’d first moved to Modesto. Considering Billy had his own cell phone in 1996, he’d probably gotten his brand new and it probably would be considered expensive even by today’s standards.

“Did you know about my mom?” Instead of saying anything about her jacket, the question just flies out of her mouth as she drops her list of questions. Her heart is pounding, her mouth is dry, Sam can feel that rush of anxiety start to flood in as she waits for an answer.

“Not her specifically. I knew that Billy was cheating on Sidney, because we were screwing.” So, the rumors are true, she thinks, but that’s not what matters. She had kind of suspected it, because of how Stu talks about Billy. It’s like he’s still in love with him and maybe he is. If her mom is any indication, Billy had a way of getting under someone’s skin and never getting out. “And I kind of suspected that there were other girls. I remember your mom, now that I think about it. She was kind of always watching him, staring when she thought no one was looking. I just thought she had a thing for him.” Stu frowns, that cheery façade breaking for a moment. “But Billy was good at keeping secrets from me.” And that hurts him the most, Sam realizes, and it reminds her of when she’d finally told Tara the source of their family’s now extensive problems. Stu had claimed he hadn’t known Billy’s motive until the now standard Ghostface monologue, which seems to be true.

“Billy kept secrets from a lot of people,” Sam mumbles, unable to stop herself. Her mom hadn’t even been his biggest secret, she had probably been a speck in his life, while he’d been the center of hers. He probably wouldn’t have claimed her,

The guard reminds them that their time is almost up, and Sam chooses her final question. It feels silly, but she still asks.

“Did he actually like scary movies?”

“He loved ‘em. All of them. Even the shitty ones.”

“What was his favorite?”

“…I don’t remember.” And it troubles Stu, she can see it all over his face. It’s an odd feeling, forgetting something that had been so important once upon a time. It’s like losing that person all over again, every time you forget something about them.

“In the movie, it was Psycho” She can still hear Luke Wilson saying that he’s like Norman Bates. A boy’s best friend is his mother, and Sidney had taken his best friend. It had been cheesy, clunky, but maybe that’s how it had been in real life.

The guard comes forward to take Stu back to his cell. As Stu gets up, he turns to face Sam one last time.

“You have his eyes, y’know.”

In response, she just nods, awkwardly waving as he walks away, not sure what to do with her hands. Leaving is much easier than arriving, she’s outside within minutes. For a little while, she just stands by the entrance, thinking about everything that she’s learned.

In a way, she understands Billy. Abandoned, angry, feeling so alone in the world that you can’t even tell the person you’re closest to about anything you’re feeling. She had been the same age when the anger had started creeping into her bones, given her violent thoughts. Sam thinks about how at one point they both had sat in the back of a classroom, probably wearing near-identical outfits, with something simmering in their blood as they thought about how stupid and pointless everything going on around them was. But she’d turned it all inward, she had wanted to stab out her own eyes not her mom’s or anyone else’s. And now, she’s working on that part, so no one can get hurt. Not even herself

There’s one last question that she didn’t get to ask, but she doesn’t need to. The answer to do you think I'm anything like him doesn’t matter because whatever runs in their bloodline, it’s not going to do to her what it did to Billy. She’s making her own choices, just like he had.

Sam steps into the sunlight, a little smile on her face as she moves forward.

#scream #scream fanfic #scream fanfiction #sam carpenter #stu macher #billy loomis

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periwinckles · 1 year

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THE TRAIN BACK TO TWELVE - CHAPTER 26

"I really am sorry for keeping you guys up, I know it's late."

Peeta places a cup of tea in front of me, as Katniss revives the fire in the living room. It's mid spring, but we still get a few chilly nights, and tonight’s been a particular cold one.

"It's fine, Delly." Peeta says with a shrug. "It's not like we get that much sleep at night."

I can't help but widen my eyes, and he gets a light blush in his cheeks.

"That is not what I meant, and you know it."

"I know."

We're sitting by his kitchen table and he starts working on tomorrow's bread. As I watch his practiced motions, I relive my argument with Thom, in my head. I keep coming back to his final plea. What do you want me to do?

I realize I don't really know.

"I overreacted, didn't I?"

Katniss joins us with a cup of her own, and she brings it to Peeta's lips for a sip.

"I wouldn't call it overreacting. People act out of character when they get hurt. I guess that's why…" She stops mid sentence and eyes me with caution.

"What?" I ask.

"Bristel felt rejected. That explains the bitchy behavior. I don't think she's usually like that."

I really don't want to talk about Bristel anymore, I've had enough of her for the day. But as I ponder Katniss' words, I realize she is right. The only reason for her to act the way she did was if she was acting out of spite. Thom must have rejected her, somehow, throughout the day.

"You've met her before?" Peeta asks Katniss.

"Yeah, so did you, remember? When Gale got whipped, she's the one that told us what happened."

He furrows his brows trying to remember it, and his face visibly relaxes after a few seconds.

"Yeah, I think I do remember her. Tall girl, really long shiny hair, right? Quite ugly, though."

Katniss bursts out laughing, to the point she spills a little bit of her tea on the kitchen table. Even I manage a smirk, but it subsides quickly. I still don't have a clue of what I should do. Or better yet, what Thom should do. I cross my arms in the table and bury my head in them. This has been one of the longest days of my life.

"I agree with Thom." Peeta says, dropping the ball of dough on the table and giving it a final punch. "The best answer is for you to toast."

"We've only been dating for six weeks." I say with a shake of my head.

"So? My parents got married after a month of courtship, and they weren’t even coming out of a war. It's not that big of a deal."

"Your mother was pregnant, Peeta. And no offense, but are you really going to use them as a role model for a healthy relationship?"

He tilts his head with a grimace. "Yeah, you have a point."

I know fast courtships weren't really that uncommon, especially among Seam folks. It mostly came down to how old they were when the relationship started. If a couple got together when they were sixteen, they would toast a couple of weeks after they both aged out of the reaping. If they got together a few months before the final reaping, they would still toast once the games were done. Merchants weren't that different, but usually a match would be arranged by the families somewhere between the age of seventeen and eighteen.

"My parents got married without ever dating at all, and they turned out fine."

Peeta and I both turn to Katniss with shock.

"When you say no dating, you mean public dating right?" I ask her. I spent a long deal of time thinking about Katniss' parents these past few months, wondering what I would have done if the old status quo was still in place. I know I would have fallen in love with Thom, even if I met him while he was still a community boy, or a simple miner.

"No, I mean no dating at all. They just flirted during their trades, and tried to lengthen their time together. When my dad finally worked up the courage to tell her how he felt, my mom took a few weeks to make up her mind. But once she did, she was out of the apothecary, and she married him two days later."

"Your mother was very brave, Katniss." I tell her.

I've often wondered what would have been my fate. I like to think my parents would have liked Thom, maybe even accepting our relationship. But accepting him and keeping me on the payroll would be two very different things. I know, I would eventually have to make a choice, much like Mrs Everdeen had to.

"I would have done it in a heartbeat." Peeta blurts out like it's the most casual thing to say.

Katniss gives him a side glance, while carefully taking a sip of her tea, but there’s amusement in her eyes. It’s nice to see them fall into such a comfortable interplay. I knew they would eventually, but it still comes as a relief.

"Hypothetically speaking, of course." He continues, giving her a wink. "Let's imagine I fell in love with a Seam girl."

Read the rest on AO3 and Ff.net

#The hunger games #The hunger games fanfiction #everlark fanfiction #Thelly #Thom x Delly #Delly Cartwright #Peeta Mellark #Katniss Everdeen #The rebuilding of district twelve

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pinkmirth · 3 years

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can i req some dad reiner fluff? i feel like he would have a lot of kids bc of the breeding kink 🥴 but yeah just some cute stuff pls thank uuuu!!

THE THOUGHT OF REINER BEING FATHER JUST DOES SOMETHING TO ME I- AJHSJS

THANK YOU SM FOR REQUESTING, ANON!! LET'S GET CAUGHT UP IN THE REINER BRAINROT TOGETHER <3

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—DAD REINER!

(MODERN AU + MENTIONS OF PREGNANCY + FEMALE BODIED READER + FLUFF + SLIGHTLY SUGGESTIVE + REINER BEING THE BEST DAD EVER DUH + TW: SLIGHT LANGUAGE)

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Dad Reiner who was such a hot mess moments before he became a father to begin with. The pair of you are situated inside a hospital room, occupied with things much bigger than a sprained ankle. He stood alongside you, his beloved, all the while; Encouraging your efforts and attempting to ease your pain with the squeeze of your hand within his bigger one. As fretful as he feels, it's no surprise that Reiner ends up passing out a good few times, and he wasn't even the one in labor. Though, the hard part is now over, and all his worry has subsided.

Dad Reiner who recalls whimpering, weakly grinning, and eventually bawling of joy when holding his child for the first time. You'd never seen his cries mingled with such joy before. He cradles yours and his newborn within firm forearms and large, mindful hands. The pair of you sob and smile, ogle your baby with a relieved, content thrum in your heart. You allow Reiner to attempt squeezing into the hospital bed beside you, as broad and weighty as he is, with your child being held right between you and him. He’s a hot mess, but an overjoyed one who has you; and little Reiner x [Y/N] junior 🥺

Dad Reiner who converses with you for days before ultimately deciding on a name for yours and his daughter— Joyce Braun. He contemplated on “Karina”, the name of his dear mother. Though, he wants his little girl to be better than any past generation, and rather goes with a more revitalizing name, one that holds a simple, but deep meaning in his perspective. As obvious as it sounds, the name means “Joyful”. That's all he wants; for his kid to be happy in this life, happier than he ever was. Therefore, he bases her name, the root of his dear child’s identity, on cheerfulness.

Dad Reiner who tends to grow somewhat frustrated. Not with you of course, not even with Joyce’s incessant wailing in the early hours of the morning, but with himself. It wasn't as though he did anything wrong, he simply hopes that he won't. Begs himself not to fuck up with this whole “Parent” thing. If it wasn’t clear enough, Reiner wants to be nothing like his own father. He’ll never, ever shoo his child away and disregard them, but instead use those same hands to hold, guide, and lift them up. It doesn't take long for the blonde to snap out of his funk, because he's sure that he can become all the better for the sake of his little family.

Dad Reiner who wakes to your still, ethereal-like form every morning, and it's enough to make his day. A kiss to your neck, a nibble along your earlobe, and a couple repetitive rubs to your waist and thighs are enough to stir you right awake. And if that isn't the case, then it's usually the other way around; You pressing soft, lengthy kisses to his sharp, attractive cheekbones. Despite who arises first, there’s always one thing that's bound to happen— Joyce making her arrival into the bedroom via crawl, with a babble and a cute, happy little shriek upon seeing her parents.

The pair of you have no clue as to how she manages to make her way over to your room every time, but you're simply glad that she does so safely. It's Reiner’s cue to leap out of bed and scoop her off of the carpet and into his awaiting arms, clad in nothing but a white tee and the baggiest sweats. He appears disheveled, but it's still clear to see the main striking similarity between him and his pretty little daughter; Those amber brown eyes that hold the same warm, yellowish hue as his do.

He rocks the giggling one-year old, back and forth and right back again, gazing upon his squirming bundle of joy until you mention that he’s been doing so for a whole ten minutes. He grows sheepish and merely chuckles in reply, resting Joyce’s head upon his firm chest with a sigh. He could do this for ten hours more if it were up to him.

Dad Reiner who knocked you up a couple more times, and real damn good at that. There’s something of a breeding fetish that he’s got on him, which is the reason why your little family is now two kids larger. There’s Joyce, who’s now seven years old, along with her two baby brothers, the pair being a mere one year apart from the other. You and Reiner no longer have to worry about checking on Joyce in her crib, for she sleeps on her own bed now, like the “big girl” she claims to be.

Though, the boys now have you both occupied, and you’re lucky to have an older daughter who’s so understanding and rarely ever grows jealous. Joyce, your girl who’s on more of the rambunctious side but ironically never pleads for attention, has been spending much more quality time with Reiner. Both you and him are busy with the boys, but the blonde tends to have free time on his hands every now and then. Besides, someone’s got to keep Joyce company.

Reiner happily obliges, and makes this father-daughter time worthwhile. Wholesome picnics to the park that always end in races back to the car and Reiner being a damned klutz and dropping his sandwich. Having a “spa day”, filled with Reiner’s not-so-great attempts at doing his girl’s hair, messy manicures and a hefty bag of makeup that Joyce “borrowed” from you. He spoils the girl as if the lot of you are rich (and since Reiner’s always got a hefty load of spare cash, you technically are), but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Dad Reiner who’s a lot more used to this “dad” thing now, since it’s been a couple good years down the line. You and him have amazing bonds with each of your kids, but they seem to latch onto Reiner’s large, broad body at any given time a lot more than they do you. Joyce is twelve, the brothers are five and six, and Reiner’s officially a DILF— The finest one at that. His stubble stays nicely trimmed, along with the subtle creases at his eyes becoming a little more distinctive. Goes to work, and sometimes takes the kid’s lunches instead of his own, because that's just the Reiner Way.

He’s the ultimate father in practically every situation, even when looking out for peers and comrades. He doesn’t mean to, it’s just that habits easily stick with Reiner, and it’s rather difficult for him to let them go. Besides, with three kids, how do you expect him to not be in “dad mode”?

Dad Reiner who utterly loves having random little talks with his kids, and never invalidates them, not for one second. It’s almost as though he can see things in their perspective, and they don’t know anyone else better to vent to other than their dad and mom. Though, when they tend to babble on about something that’s rather popular within their generation, it gets hard for him to catch up. They proceed to call him “old” and receive a good chase around the house before they get caught and looped into a tickle attack, and that's basically the worst thing imaginable if you’re in the Braun family. The reason being is Reiner’s unparalleled speed, despite his age; Thirties to early forties, but he’s still extremely fit, and has no problem running a mile if he has to.

Dad Reiner who’s in love with his family and the person they’ve gradually helped him become. You cherish him and your kids like none other, and he does the same. Sometimes it abruptly dawns on him; He’s a dad, and he’s actually a good one, who would’ve known? He smiles to himself, allowing his amber eyes to flit over to wherever you are before his soft grin grows wider. You look back, blow a kiss, and he does the same. The action is exchanged before he strides over to give you the real deal— Though, your sweet little peck is all cut short when Joyce and the boys skip in and start making kissy noises, with you and Reiner laughing all the while.

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“Papa,” Gale, the youngest son of the bunch, calls aloud and gains his father’s attention. Reiner peers up from his book and gives a brief, questioning response. “Yes, dove?” It’s a simple, sweet nickname; One that he calls you, Joyce, and the boys.

“Mommy’s in the bathroom crying.” The blonde drops his novel with an punctuating hitch of his breath, the book falling upon the couch with a dull thump. “—Why? Is she alright?” Reiner, the man who generally keeps himself rather poised, is now frantic, sharp brows downturned at his son's statement.

“Uh, I dunno. She’s crying, but smiling too.” This then causes Reiner’s brows to furrow. “Smiling, you say?”

“Yeah. Can we go out to get ice cream today? I wanna get, uh.. Chocolate chip, please!”

Reiner lets a brief laugh slip loose at Gale’s query, but he has to prioritize his wife over a summertime snack. He then begins to make a beeline towards the bathroom, in search of you. “Soon enough, dove. I’ve got to go up there and check on your momma first, alright—?”

Gale then shrugs and hops onto the couch, little feet padding along the spacey seat as the leather creases underneath his weight.

“By the way, Papa,” Reiner then pauses, open to any vital information his son could give, “she has this funny stick thingy in her hand. It’s got two little lines on it and stuff.”

Reiner chokes on his breath, lower lip beginning to tremble and quirk into a smile. If the case is what he thinks it is, he’s got all the reason to bust out with the teary eyes and jovial whimpers, just as he did when receiving the news of his three expected children in the past.

“A stick..?”

“Mhm,” hums Gale, proceeding to jump upon the dark brown couch, “Mama probably wants some chocolate chip ice cream too.”

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sleep-i-ness · 4 years

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Did You Miss Me? (Missy x reader)

Blurb: It has been six years since you last saw her. Six long, lonely years since the Doctor had dropped you off at your apartment without so much as a word of goodbye.

Taglist: @kjaneway1

It was pitiful weather, the morning the Doctor came knocking. You remembered it precisely because it had been tipping it down outside, droplets splattering against the pavement and branches of the cherry tapping frantically against the window. Catching sight of the dark, heavy clouds blotting out the sky, you hadn’t been able to keep yourself from groaning at the meagre light illuminating the grey London streets. You were mourning the loss of your favourite umbrella (destroyed by the gale-force winds yesterday) and therefore could predict the inevitable destruction to your hair during your commute to work. You’d been considering calling in sick, musing over whether it was worth it as your hands delved into the suds-filled water, when you were interrupted by a loud rapping at the front door. Who on earth would be calling at 7am?

“I’m coming, I’m coming, give me a second,” you grumbled as you rushed from the kitchen, discarding the tea towel to one side. Wrenching the door open (it had become stiff as the wood had swelled with the cold), you were greeted with a dripping Doctor. You half-contemplated closing the door on him then and there.

“May I come in?” He waltzed in, shaking himself like a wet dog in your hallway and you frowned.

“Make yourself at home,” you murmured dryly, grabbing the spare jumper you kept in the coat cupboard just for him. It had been an old fleece of your dad’s, a remnant of the past that you weren’t quite sure you should hold onto. You’d contemplated chucking it out the last time you’d done a spring clean but some small part of you had hoped the Doctor would return. It seemed your hopes had been realised but you weren’t sure if that was a good thing anymore.

Bustling round the kettle, you filled it up for two, grabbing a couple of mugs from the overhead shelf. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had been sat where he was now, at the island table, flipping through a trashy magazine from last April and simultaneously glancing around at the knick-knacks and post-cards up on the walls. He was silent, a permanent frown etched into his skin, but that, you supposed, was his new face. You still weren’t completely used to it. Although, he did suit grey and Scottish; it gave him the gravity that his last regeneration somewhat lacked.

“You’ve changed the place up a bit.” The Doctor noted, fiddling with the doily covering the sugar bowl before moving on and turning over the small figurine, a memento from your life before her. You glanced over worriedly as he hesitated too long over it, before shaking his head and moving onto the next trinket. “A lot more… stuff.”

“Thank you.”

The hiss of the kettle distracted you, and you were thankful for it, for it broke the awkward need for small talk hanging in the air. You poured the bubbling water over the tea bags, stirring gently, before automatically tipping a spoonful of sugar into his mug.

“Here.” You pushed his across the table, before leaning back against the cupboard. Sipping at your tea, you sighed. “Now what do you want, Doctor?”

His bushy eyebrows shot up in response before he chuckled. “Always straight to the point. I’d forgotten how much I missed that.”

You rolled your eyes. “Enough with the dancing around the topic, Doctor. What are you here for? I haven’t seen you in 6 years, not since you dumped me straight back to my apartment.”

He’d saved you, or at least that’s what you had assured yourself. The cheesy warmth you had felt when looking at her; the soft smile barely twitching at her lips as you waltzed around Louis XIV’s ballroom; the adventures she’d dragged you on despite your various protestations; the night under the stars when she… No. How could you forget the days, weeks, maybe even months trapped under her watch? On display in a cage for her to mock your silly human bravery. The destruction that had ravaged your planet, the one place you’d hoped you’d be safe from the Doctor and anyone else who would have been looking for you. The way she’d laughed at the tears streaming down your face as you surrendered yourself to prevent the slaughter of your people.

If it weren’t for the Doctor, you would never have escaped. You would never have reached this safety, no matter how alone you now were.

“She’s asked after you again.”

You laughed bitterly. Of course, she had. What didn’t she understand about the fact that her joyful revelling in your pain meant that you never wanted to see her again? “No.”

“You didn’t even hear what I was going to say!” He protested,

“I didn’t have to. I’m not going.”

“Why? What is her obsession with you? And why are you so firmly against seeing her once?”

“Is it not enough that she is a complete and utter psycho? That she massacred millions for sport?” You placed your hands firmly on the countertop, inhaling deeply through your nose. Your voice was low when you spoke again. “Doctor, I don’t care if it’ll help her become a good person. I’m not going. And if that’s all, you know where the door is.”

His eyebrows furrowed, like two great white caterpillars crawling towards each other, and you maintained your hard stare. No matter the face, he’d always managed to tug on your heartstrings and make you change your mind. But not today. This was something you would not budge on.

You weren’t sure what you were doing here, hovering anxiously by the doors. Unwilling to take another step and commit yourself to this. His TARDIS hadn’t changed a day since you last stepped out of it; sure, the company she carried had altered, but, at her very core, you could feel that she was still the same. She hummed at you, an impatient sounding noise and you scowled. You’d forgotten how annoying having a somewhat opinionated ship was when she could read your every thought.

The Doctor had headed on in before you, confirming that you would follow him after collecting your thoughts. The door swung open in front of you, the soft orange glow of the core spilling out. The TARDIS took your breath away every time you stepped into it; your brain had never quite processed the concept of it being bigger on the inside. Circles covered the walls in an ordered pattern, glowing palely and Gallifreyan symbols decorated the console, inscribed onto the concentric rings.

Hesitating, you brushed your fingertips over the TARDIS’ console, feeling the reassuring buzz she sent you. You could see a flicker of purple fabric from where you stood and you made eye contact with him, noting the smug twinkle. Cocky prick.

Heading down the ramp to the lower level to join him – them, each step felt like a chore as if weights had been tied to your legs. You were dreading this, a deep unsettling sensation twisting your guts. The purple jacket came fully into view and you froze.

No.

“I just need to go check on the TARDIS’ engine. The old girl’s been complaining ever since she travelled into the other dimension,” the Doctor spilt out excuses, striding past you with a pat on the back. Forcing you to talk to her. You silently cursed him and sent him your harshest glare.

The familiar Victorian silhouette spun round, eyes following him up the ramp until they fell on you. Her grin faltered. “Well, look who’s turned up. Your punctuality really is shocking, pet.”

You raised a tentative hand in response, crinkling your features into a grimace. “Hey Missy,” Your voice was weak and rough sounding, even to your own ears.

She stalked closer, raising her hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your left ear. Your breath caught in your throat, every nerve burning. The rough wool of her blazer gently scratched your skin, her thumb caressing the top of your cheekbone. Pulling away, she stepped back, the sudden distance feeling like you had been doused in icy water.

“A thousand years,” Missy mused, continuing to circle you slowly. Her poison-red lips pursed, eyes narrowing as she took you in. “You really have let yourself go to waste. What happened to those lovely royal robes? The red was very flattering.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, screwing your eyes shut. Why had you expected anything different? She hadn’t changed one bit.

“I don’t even know why I’m here.” Your voice cracked and you willed your eyes to stop watering, swiping at them. “No. I’m not doing this, this is ridiculous.”

You made to turn, so very sick of her. Every breath felt laboured, a stone pressing down onto your chest, compressing your lungs. You couldn’t bear to look at her, to see her smug joy at bringing you down once again. Her hand snapped round your wrist, yanking you close into her chest.

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive,” she murmured, breath fanning your cheeks. Missy pressed a delicate kiss to the tip of your nose, smirking as she leant back. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

You scoffed, trying to tear yourself out of her grip but her fingers were clamped too tightly. Damn Time Lady strength. You chuckled bitterly. “Now, tell me why I would ever miss you.”

At that, Missy wavered, realising, for the first time, that you weren’t going to fall straight back into her arms. Confusion flickered across her features before she smoothed out her brow. “Why wouldn’t you? Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on that teeny-tiny incident on Midanithair.”

“Teeny-tiny incident?” You spluttered, an ever-growing uncomfortable feeling sinking into your stomach. Your mouth tasted bitter, acrid as you swallowed harshly. “God, Missy, get your head out of your arse and actually remember what happened. I had finally escaped from all of... this when you came along, wreaking havoc and destruction and threatening genocide if I didn’t sacrifice myself. And then you mocked me for weeks for my ‘humanity’.”

You exhaled through your nose before breaking free from her grip. “I’m sorry, Miss, I really… just can’t right now.”

You could feel her gaze trailing you as you headed back up the ramp, making eye contact once again with the Doctor, an odd sense of déjà vu passing over you as he raised an eyebrow. You paused at the top of the ramp; eyes firmly fixed on the doors. Part of you wanted her to call you back, show you that she truly had cared. But the rational, logical side of you knew that this was for the best.

You nodded, trying desperately to convince yourself to walk out that door and never look back.

“Wait.”

And with that, you knew you’d be putty in her hands once again.

“What?” Your tone was harsher than you had expected, and Missy genuinely looked upset. The dull stab of guilt was a gentle pang, your heart twinging empathetically.

“I’m sorry. I truly am.”

You started to walk back to her, stopping a metre in front of her. “Why should I believe you?”

“I’ve apologised, is that not enough?” Her accent grew thicker as she grew more flustered. She’d never had to apologise sincerely before. “And… I realised that your presence was not as much of a nuisance as I had previously believed.” The words tumbled out of her mouth, barely louder than a whisper. You stifled a laugh, knowing that was the closest to a sentiment of affection you’d ever receive from her. Brash, arrogant compliments were more her thing, the cockiness hiding any deeper level of emotion.

Almost timidly, she reached out to you and you let her pull you in. Falling limply into her arms, you smiled softly as one of her hands came up to stroke your hair.

“I did miss you, Miss. Promise.”

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always-andshewrites · 4 years

Photo

This is how I imagine Madge’s “Box” looks like in “Another Way Out”. This particular box belongs to my son, a Hanukkah gift from his grandparents a few years ago. In place of “Happy Chanukah - 2018 - Love, Papa & Grandma”, imagine Madge’s initials... M. A. U.

| Madge |

“Madge, hey Madge, wait up!” I turn my head to see who is calling my name. After Katniss and Peeta left, I stopped by the mayor’s house for Kizzie’s piano lesson. Mayor Kadinski offered to give me the day off because of all the festivities today, but I insisted it was okay. Really, I did it more for myself than for Kizzie, as selfish as that is. But with the stress of what my friends will be faced with, I needed my music. I needed for my fingers to press the familiar keys and for my mind to be inundated with the soothing melody of Nocturne #20 in C Sharp Minor. It is my go-to piece when I am stressed out.

“Hey Rye, what are you doing all the way out here?” I ask him, slightly confused. We are on the edge of town, almost in the Seam and pretty far from the bakery.

“Sorry— let me— catch my— breath!” He huffs. I stop walking to give him a minute to regain control of his lungs. His hair is a disheveled mess, and he has that same goofy grin that he always wears. “Geez, you walk fast.” He finally says after a moment.

I raise an eyebrow, not sure what he means. “I do?” ‘Well, I was on the track team, back when Katniss and Peeta were in school.’ I smirk silently to myself.

“Yeah, I’ve been trying to catch up with you since the fourth house past the mayor’s mansion— which is when I finally decided to yell your name.”

“Oh, okay. Well, what’s up?”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Um, so Peet said I could come find you and you would give me a key to his house. He said I could stay there some while he was gone.”

“Oh yeah. Peeta told me you would probably ask for it. If you want to follow me to my house, I can give it to you.”

“Okay, cool.” Together we continue walking, making our way to my house. I am thankful for Rye’s constant joking banter, keeping away from any serious talk until I can just barely make out the silhouette of my house.

“Madge, something is going on with Katniss and Peeta, and I think Haymitch might be in on it, I’m not sure. But I’m worried about my little brother. I know you have been friends with them for a long time, so . . . I don’t know, maybe this is a long shot, but do you know anything? I swear, I’m not trying to be nosy, I’m just worried. I’m actually— Madge, should I be worried?”

His question takes me by surprise, it was the last thing I ever expected to hear from the school's number one jokester, Rye Mellark. The shock freezes me in place for a split-second, but I quickly resume walking, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Rye, it’s not safe to speak right here.” I whisper, keeping my eyes trained forward. “When we’re in class tomorrow, I will tell you where we can meet to talk.” I never look over to see if he heard me and then my heart accelerates when I realize my house is within a few steps. “I really love the cookies at the bakery!” I chirp, finally meeting his eyes. He nods, understanding the message I was trying to convey.

I reach into my pocket, retrieving my house key and unlock my door. Rye follows me inside, closing the door behind him.

“This is really nice Madge.” Rye says, trying to be polite when he looks around at the tiny home. I roll my eyes and make my way into the kitchen where I stowed Peeta’s key. He asked me to keep it in a secure location in case either Rye or his dad were to ask for it.

“It’s okay Rye, I know it’s shit here. But I’m making it work. I don’t need much.” I tell him, discreetly pulling the key from its secret location. Just in case Rye saw it, I’ll have to move my box somewhere else. I can’t risk anyone finding out about its contents.

I walk over to Rye and hand him the key to Peeta’s house. “Here you go. Don’t lose it, I don’t have another one.”

“Thanks Madge. See you at school tomorrow?”

“See you at school tomorrow.” I confirm.

Once Rye is gone, I plop down on my couch and look around the house. Where can I move my box? I ask myself. My tiny little box, handcrafted by my very own father from the wood of an oak tree is no more than seven and a half inches wide, four and a half inches long, and about two inches deep. For the moment, it only houses Katniss’ house key, my special book, a letter my father wrote me and two letters I found that my mother wrote me. Rose gave me the first letter from my mother after they died. In each letter, mama has left a trail of breadcrumbs leading to another letter; scattered throughout the district. Oh, and there is also this coin my father left me. I haven’t figured out its purpose, but it must be important, otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered keeping it a secret.

I am constantly moving my box, afraid of someone finding it. I alternate between a few hiding spots in a few select trees but having it in my house makes me feel safer. Somewhere within reach.

I stand up and begin pacing the floor of the living room. “Why is Rye worried? Did he see something? Hear something? Did Peeta tell him anything?” I ask myself, still looking for a new hiding place for my box. Just then, the floorboard creaks under my foot. I take a step back and it creaks again. Curiosity overtakes me and I get down on my knees to inspect the plank, only to find it loose. It’s loose, but not that loose. Eventually, I am able to pry it up.

“Holy shit!” I exclaim when I see what is hidden underneath the floorboard. It is a hidden compartment, a perfect place for my box. But there is something else here too. It looks like someone else had the same idea as me. It is a box, almost the exact same dimensions as mine, except it has a mockingjay carved on the face of it, where my box displays a tree, with my initials engraved on the inside.

I switch the boxes out and replace the plank, sliding my couch over it. No one ever comes over here, and if Gale happens to pop in, he will just think I rearranged the room. As if on cue, the moment I am done, there is a knock at the door.

“Gale.” I say, surprised when I see him.

“Everything okay?” He asks, raising a brow.

“Yeah, I just wasn’t expecting you, that’s all.” I tell him, trying to play it cool.

“Can I come in?” He asks me.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, of course.” I widen the door for him to come in and then wrap my arms around his neck, needing the security of his touch.

Something is wrong though; I can sense the tension in the air. I pull back to meet his eyes and ask, “Is something wrong?”

“Vick said he thought he saw Rye Mellark over here.”

“He saw right.” I confirm, nodding.

“What was he doing over here?” Oh, I see, jealous Gale is coming out to play.

“He came to get Peeta’s house key.” His eyes narrow at my statement; I do not like where this is going.

“Why did you even have it?” He demands, his eyes narrowing as he glares daggers at me accusingly.

“What’s with the third-degree Gale?” I demand, narrowing my own eyes and furrowing my brows. I can glare just as efficiently as he can; better even.

“I don’t like Rye Mellark; I don’t want you talking to him. He’s a townie, and bad news at that.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say? You don’t want me talking to him? Who are you, my father? And just in case you forgot, I’m a townie too Gale!” I scream at him, feeling the blood in my body begin to simmer.

“He’s an asshole and I don’t want you talking to him Madge. And you’re not a townie, you live here in the Seam, same as me.”

“Okay, first of all Gale Hawthorne, I was born and lived in town up until six months ago. I have “townie” friends that I’m not just going to abandon simply because of a change in venue.” I don’t realize it, but with each word that escapes my mouth, my voice seems to get higher; louder; angrier. “Second of all, you do NOT tell me who I can or cannot talk to. I am a big girl Gale; I can take care of myself and I think it’s time you left.” I walk over to the door and open it, motioning for him to leave.

“Madge, I—”

“GET OUT!” I scream even louder.

His shoulders are hunched over as he walks out the door and then I slam it behind him just as he turns around and says my name.

“Fucking shithead. Asshole, mother-fucker!” I scream to no one. “Who does he think he is, telling me who I can talk to? I don’t think so, Rye is my friend and I’ll talk to him whenever I damn well please!” I rant; although no one is listening, it feels satisfying to yell the words out loud. I wish Katniss was still here, I bet she’d march over there and slap him or something.

“Pgh. Tell me what to do, Gale Hawthorne? I don’t think so.”

Read the whole story on my A03 page: (I hope I did this right!)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28679952/chapters/72665136#workskin

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sprnklersplashes · 4 years

Text

the perfect partner (one-shot)

captain cygnet+captain swan

Very few people believe Killian can actually cook. He’s Captain Hook after all, terror of the high seas, the most cut throat pirate to ever hoist a sail, et cetra, et cetra. No one thinks that he would be able to whip up a mean casserole or being the best cottage pie to the potlucks at Granny’s. But life is full of surprises, especially in Storybrooke, a place where Snow White is a bandit turned schoolteacher, Little Red Riding Hood is a werewolf and the wife of Dorothy Gale, and oh yes, Captain Hook is an excellent chef.

And tonight he’s turning to Italian, stirring the rice once more before turning down the heat on it. He always cooks it from scratch, never store bought. Zeus only knows how many chemicals are in those things. On the rare occasions she cooks, Emma simply raises an eyebrow at him, reminding him that not everyone has the time to go out and buy ten ingredients or the patience to make something from scratch. Much as he loves Emma, he has to disagree with her. Especially since Henry introduced him to cooking blogs on the Internet, he’s found it simpler than ever.

He chops up a few more mushrooms than necessary before throwing them into the pot, fully aware that this is likely the first time his wife or his daughter have eaten a vegetable today and he’s determined to make the most of it. Hope has inherited many wonderful things from her mother, bravery, kindness, a sharp sense of humour, but she’s also inherited her mother’s eating habits and despite her swearing up and down she had a healthy lunch, he’s not entirely convinced. At fifteen, she's past her ‘butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth’ phase and the supply of chocolate bars in the cupboard is getting smaller each morning.

“Dad?” When he looks up, the girl herself is standing in the doorway, a small smile on her face that doesn’t hide her anxiety. He drops the spoon, barely remembering to turn the heat down more before turning to her. Since having Hope, he’s discovered an instinct that’s completely new to him after 300 years. A change in the way she walks or a crack in her voice has him standing to attention with all the discipline of his Navy days. It also doesn’t help Hope’s case that she tends to wear her emotions on her sleeve.

“Anything wrong, love?” he asks.

“No… well… I don’t know,” she replies, beginning to pick at her nails. “I need a favour.”

“What is it?”

“Well….” Her voice grows higher as she steps into the kitchen, her eyes looking anywhere but him as she bites her lip. “You know how I’m going to the dance with Melody, right?”

“Yes.” How could he forget? The entire Charming-Swan clan had been waiting with held breath to see when Hope would finally pluck up the courage to ask the little mermaid out. Emma was close to asking Melody out for Hope, since it had worked in getting her brother and Gideon together, but Snow had held her back, insisting Hope needs to find her path herself. Unfortunately, their daughter isn’t as gifted with charm as her grandfather is, nor does she have the blunt bravery of her mother. Hope spent weeks in wide-eyed friendship with her, the date of the dance looming closer with no sign of her asking, her nerves getting the better of her at every turn. Eventually, Robin intervened before anyone else could, and Melody agreed with the kind of perky enthusiasm her mother is well-known for.

All in all, it was an exhausting affair.

“Well… the thing is…” Her cheeks turn pink and then crimson and she folds her arms, tapping her foot against the kitchen floor. “Idon’tknowhowtodance.”

It takes Killian a while to work out what she said, but when he does, he’s a little taken aback by it. He’s sure he danced with her when she was young, and he always assumed it was in her blood, just like courage and compassion and magic. He thought it came with the Princess package.

“You can’t?” he repeats gently, sensing Hope’s embarrassment from her tight shoulders.

“Nope,” she sighs, shaking her head. There’s a scowl on her face and either anger or shame sparking in her green eyes, a look he’s seen more than once on Emma. She rakes a hand though her hair, attempting a weak shrug. “I mean it’s just… You know, dance class never really worked out for me. And I never really liked it anyway. And they didn’t like me.” Killian nods, curling his hand into a fist. Snow had insisted Hope take ballet and ballroom classes as a child, even though it became clear she wasn’t cut out for them. The poor girl still struggled with balance and rhythm and when every other girl in the class turned left, she went right. She lasted a few years before the two of them decided to put her out of her misery and take her out of the classes. He had never seen Hope so happy as when Emma asked her that. And while they couldn’t get an official diagnosis of dyspraxia, no one was surprised when it was suggested.

“They didn’t not like you Hope,” he reminds her now.

“I know, they just didn’t like my body and it’s lack of coordination,” she replies, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow. “I mean this is kind of your fault when you think about it.”

“How exactly?”

“You made me,” she replies, breaking out into her trademarked sarcastic grin, covering up any insecurity. She gestures to herself as if to prove her point. “This dyspraxic mess is entirely your fault.”

“50%,” he responds, laughing along with her. “You’re only half me. But… you still want to dance with her?”

“Well, yeah.” She bites the inside of her cheek, her face turning the same kind of pale pink it normally does when she thinks about Melody. “I want her to have a good time. And don’t-” She adds just as he opens his mouth. “Don’t tell me that we’ll have a good time no matter what. It’s a dance. I want to dance with her.” She looks at the ground, now biting her lip and resuming picking her nails, faster and deeper this time. “So… can you teach me?”

“Oh, Hope,” he says. As if she’d ever need to ask. “Use your little talking device to pick a song. Then I’ll show you how to dance, Cygnet.”

And when she smiles at him, dimples and sparkling eyes and laughter, it makes the 300 year wait for her worth it.

She flicks through her phone and turns on a song about Christmas lights, guitar strings and lovers and sets it on the counter, the music filling their kitchen.

“Good girl. Now you take my hand. Now, normally the man leads but in this case-”

“Such heterosexual nonsense” she sighs dramatically, tossing her head back at the tragedy. She pulls her long, black hair into a ponytail and takes his hand.

“Indeed,” he laughs. Thankfully, he’s found ways around that after more than a few dances with men in his past. “What I was going to say was that since you did the asking, you’d be the one to lead. So you be you, and I’ll be Melody.”

“Oh, Dad,” she scoffs, her eyebrows shooting upwards. “That is really gross. On about every conceivable level, that is gross.”

“Just for tonight, little love,” he reminds her. “Now, that means your hand goes on her back…” He directs her hand as such. “And her hand will be on your waist.” He does so as well, bending down to meet her height. Hope is gifted in many things, but height was not one of them. In fact, he’s fairly certain Melody is a head taller than her. That should be interesting. Normally Hope would be laughing at him, but now her brow is furrowed and her jaw set as she concentrates. It’s a little surprising; he of course knows how bad Hope’s crush on Melody was, but he never thought it would be more than a schoolgirl fling. Yet with how seriously she’s taking this, it might just be. “Now you find the rhythm, Cygnet, and you guide me.”

“Find the rhythm?” she echoes sceptically. “I don’t think the rhythm likes me very much.”

“Trust your gut, Hope,” he tells her firmly. “No matter what else, you’re a pirate. You’ll find it.” Hope closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and begins moving, taking them in a slightly jerky and awkward dance around the kitchen.

“Sorry,” she winces. “That was your foot.”

“It’s okay love, keep going,” he says, watching her count the steps in her head. “Hope you know you will also have to look at her at some point, right?”

“I have to do what now?” she asks. But she lifts her eyes to his, identical to her mother’s and grandmother’s, and filled with uncertainty. While she still stumbles and missteps, she’s better than she was before; her movements more smooth and even though there’s a lack of confidence, she counts out loud less. She even manages to spin him out and under her arm, even if she has to stand on her toes. “Is this good?”

“This is great,” he tells her. “You’re getting the hang of this.”

“I hope so,” she says, her smile falling.

“Hope?” he asks, hair pricking up on the back of his neck.

“I’m fine,” she says, even if her face says otherwise. “Just… this is kind of our first date. I want it to go well.”

“And it will,” he says firmly. “One thing I’ve learned, Cygnet, is that it’s not the night you spend, it’s the people you spend it with.” Hope smiles, softer now. It’s times like this he allows himself to think he’s doing good here. “I’ve spent some lovely nights with the most dreadfully boring people, and some chaotic and wild ones with the most amazing person imaginable.”

“That better mean me,” a voice comes from the doorway. While it does make them both jump, he’s put at ease in the next second. Emma leans against the door, exactly the same way Hope did, a smirk on her face and her hair wet from the rain outside. “Otherwise we may have some problems on our hands.”

“Who else would I mean, love?” he asks. She strolls into the kitchen, shaking her head in amusement.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Emma says, gesturing to the two of them. “That was cute, what you two were doing.”

"Dance lessons," he explains. She nods, stepping back with amusement on her face, particularly when she looks at Hope.

“Actually,” Hope begins, a gleam in her eyes. “I have a better idea.” She lets go of Killian and runs to Emma instead, pulling her onto their makeshift dancefloor. When she pulls Emma towards him, it’s obvious to anyone what she’s planning. “You two do it.”

“Not that I’m complaining,” Emma says, her voice soft and laced with laughter. “But what is this accomplishing, kid?”

“I learn better by watching,” she explains, sitting up on the counter and holding her phone. Normally he’d scold her for sitting on the counter, but with her smile and the pleasant air about their kitchen, it feels a shame to break it. Killian shares a look with Emma, both aware that her reasoning is flimsy at best, but neither one of them has it in them to say no.

“What do you say?” Emma asks, grinning and holding out her hand. “You want to show the amateur how it’s done?”

“Nothing I’d love more,” he tells her, pulling her close and listening to her laughing. He twirls her around the kitchen, slightly aware of Hope capturing the moment on her phone, Emma’s blonde hair flying and her laughter getting harder as he dips her. Emma’s not a perfect dancer by any means, but she is the perfect partner. Less elegant and poised, more rough and reckless, but beautiful and brilliant all the same. He’s equally as charmed by her now as he was in Midas’ castle.

And if Hope captivates her date in the same way, which she will, then she has nothing her worry about at all.

#ouat ff #captain cygnet #killian jones #hope swan jones #captain swan #emma swan #ouat #i came up with this idea 2 years ago and finally wrote it bc i didn't want to study *dances*

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holidaywishes · 4 years

Text

not all monsters do monstrous things...

Part 4: Her Hesitation

Summary of Series: Delly Cartwright lost her best friend, Peeta, to the games. Now, the one that took him seems to have a soft spot for her.

Summary of Chapter: “Why am I here?” you asked, confused, your breath had become so thick that it had turned to panting. It was the only sound filling the empty space of Cato’s large marble foyer. “Snow brought you here. To stay with me. Only for a few days.” He replied “I don’t understand. Why here?” she repeated. “Because I asked him to.”

Warning: Fluff, some angst

Author’s Note: This one started out as a much shorter chapter but I kind of just kept writing. Again, story idea goes to Ophelia Tate of fanfiction.net fame. Eventually I’ll put like a general disclaimer somewhere but for now, here it will be. Or maybe this is where it will stay, we’ll see! Hope you enjoy :D

masterlist

the other masterlist

Delly’s P.O.V

Gale and Prim hadn’t spoken to you since your outburst in the Apothecary. You didn’t blame them but you couldn’t deny how awful it was making you feel, a feeling your parents soon caught on to.

“Delly...” your father’s voice was gentle and you knew the conversation was not going to be a happy one, “your mother and I have been talking. We’re worried about you, you don’t seem like you’re regular cheery self.”

“Dad...” you groaned, “I’m just ha--”

“Sweetheart, we want what’s best for you. We think that... you might benefit from this facility. in District 9″

“Facility? What kind of facility?” you whined

“They’ll help you feel less... alone. They’ll help you grieve Peeta,” he said, trying to sound comforting but it came across as belittling, “which, quite frankly Delilah, we don’t think you’ve done.”

“You don’t think I’ve grieved my best friend’s death?” you said angrily

“You haven’t talked about him since it happened, Delly. You watched him jump to his death and you didn’t say anything. You cried, like the rest of us, but you haven’t said anything... to any of us. And then Gale tells us you’re defending the boy who killed him?”

“It’s not like that,” you countered, “Gale was asleep. Delirious too! After all that Morphling and those lashes.”

“Prim told us as well”

“Yeah, well...” you tried but came up with nothing, “fine. But it’s still not as easy as me ‘defending’ him. I was talking to him, that’s it.”

“That would be fine, if he weren’t as cruel as he has proven himself to be. Delly, we want our girl back. Our happy little sunflower.” He said softly, placing his hand gently on your cheek, “that is why we’ve made arrangements for you to go to this facility”

“What?!” you shouted, “NO!”

“Tonight” he added

“What if I don’t want to go?” you tried, angry tears filling your eyes

“I have to use the parent card here, Delilah”

“Dad, please,” you begged, “don’t make me go. I’m fine. I just need a couple more days. Please..”

“Delly...” he sighed but before either of you could say anymore to each other, the sound of heavy footsteps were stomping up your steps toward your bedroom. The familiar sound of the Peacekeepers March

“Dad...” you sobbed, tilting your head at him

“I’m sorry, baby girl. It’s only for a few days. I promise. They’re going to help you.” He pleaded, clearly distressed at this turn of events. You tried running but it was useless; they were too strong and too many. You kicked and screamed as they practically threw you into the Humvee that they had parked outside your father’s shoe shop, driving quickly to the train stop. When they gave you over to the person on the train, you looked back to see no one around. Not even the Peacekeepers. It was just you and the darkness in front of a train that was waiting to take you away. You sobbed as they sat you down in a small train car that was surprisingly elegant for a short trip to District 9

“It’s alright, dear,” a high voice spoke to you but you didn’t see a face, “the ride is quicker than you think.” When you finally saw her, you were more confused than ever, what was Effie Trinket doing on this train?

“What’s happening? Why are you here?”

“I’m the District 12 Escort--”

“For the games...”

“Yes, well,” she cleared her throat as she sat across from you, “this is a special trip and I was requested to escort you to your destination.”

“What is my destination?” you quizzed, skeptical now that you were on your way to the facility that your father spoke of

“Why, district 9 of course!” she lied

“No,” you said, contemplatively, “you wouldn’t be here if I were going to District 9. Am I going to the Capitol? What do they want me for?”

“Little lady,” she tried, her voice more soothing now than the shrill tone she’d started with, “I promise, all with be made clear shortly.”

“Why can’t you just answer me?” you begged, “please. I’m so confused and scared. No one has told me anything...” As tears rolled down your cheeks, you crumpled into the soft cushion of the booth that you were in, sitting in silence with Effie has the train shot through Panem. The trained stopped suddenly and you stood up to look out the window, trying to figure out where you were when a blindfold was thrown over your eyes causing you to scream in panic.

“Delly, it’s alright. I’m here. Everything is fine” Effie tried to soothe you

“Get this off of me!” you yelled

“Stop moving!” A voice cried out

“Don’t hurt her! You were told not to hurt her!”

“She’s fussing!”

“It was his only request!” You heard Effie say and you wondered who she was talking about and why he requested you not be hurt. After what felt like ages, you were brought out of a car and led up a long pathway, someone’s house? you thought to yourself, still trying to figure out where you were. The Peacekeepers rang the doorbell

“Let her go!” Effie said and you could hear her swatting the Peacekeepers arms with her paper fan before someone answered the door, “she hasn’t been harmed. Just as you asked.” You were brought inside and set down, rather abruptly, onto a small cushioned surface, probably a bench, and waited for what would happen next.

“Thank you” a new voice replied, sending the Peacekeepers on their way

“You’ll be fine here, darling,” Effie reassured, her voice steady but caring in an almost maternal way, “I’ll be back in a couple of days to pick you up.”

“Thank you, Ms. Trinket.” The voice repeated. It was familiar to you but you couldn’t quite place it because of the damn blindfold, “I’m going to remove your blindfold now. I don’t want you to panic okay?” As he lifted the blindfold from your eyes, you tried to gather your senses but were overwhelmed by the bright lights surrounding you

“You...” you finally said when your eyes adjusted to the lights

“I don’t believe we’ve been officially introduced,” his smile was bright and almost sweet, not like the cocky one he’d had during his interviews, “I’m Cato.”

“Delilah... Delly,” you corrected yourself, “everyone calls me Delly.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Delly,” he said, kneeling down in front of you “I’m sorry for how they brought you here. They didn’t hurt you did they?” You shook your head, unable to form a coherent sentence, “good. I’m glad. I asked them not to but I wasn’t sure if they’d listen. I’ve met your Peacekeepers before.”

“Do my parents know I’m here? And not in District 9?” you finally asked

“No” he confessed. You didn’t know what to say, your confusion was growing more by the instant. Why did your parents send you away? Why didn’t they know you were going to be here, with the victor of the 74th Hunger Games? Why? Why? Why? Why?

“Why am I here?” you asked, confused, your breath had become so thick that it had turned to panting. It was the only sound filling the empty space of Cato’s large marble foyer

“Snow brought you here. To stay with me. Only for a few days.” He replied

“I don’t understand. Why here?” she repeated

“Because I asked him to.”

“I don’t--” you began pacing around the space, trying not to get to close to you, “what do you want with me? I don’t know what kind of girl you think I am but I am not that girl...”

“What girl is that?” he asked and you furrowed your brow, contemplating an answer

“The girl who’s going to fall all over you just because you’re a victor..” He laughed at your remark

“Delly,” he said, “I want to get to know you. I liked talking to you but given the circumstances, we couldn’t get to know each other. Will you please try to get to know me?”

“I suppose..” you said hesitantly, taking his outstretched hand as he led you to the couch but you redirected to the table and he smiled before nodding understandingly.

“So, tell me about yourself” he asked, leaning his forearms on the table

“What do you wanna know?”

“Everything. Anything”

“My dad’s a shoemaker,” you said, raising the end of your sentence as if you weren’t sure if it was interesting enough, “he tried to teach me how to cobble shoes when I was like 8. He thought it would be useful but I was horribly clumsy and kept hitting my fingers with the hammer...”

“I bet the customers love coming to the store to talk to you” he smiled and you blushed, shaking your head to yourself

“We don’t get too many customers these days.” You stated plainly, thinking about how the last time you actually made a new pair of shoes was for Gale’s little brother on his first day of elementary school, “it’s too much of a luxury for most of the district.”

“Oh,” he said, straightening his posture before continuing, “well.. what about your childhood?” He asked, changing the subject, and you wondered how much you should say, considering almost everything revolved around Peeta

“Uhm..” you hesitated, “it was pretty normal. As normal as it can be I guess, I have a younger brother so he was always kinda hanging around. I made friends easily because I always smiled at people. Peeta was the first boy that ever talked to me...” As soon as you said his name, you looked down at your lap and Cato tried to change the subject

“I’m sorry... I shouldn’t ha--”

“No, it’s okay..” you interrupted, “I should talk about him. He was my best friend and his death is the whole reason my parents sent me away right?” you laughed uncomfortably

“You don’t have to”

“It’s okay,” you smiled as you looked up at him, “I met Peeta when I was maybe 6 and he was drawing with chalk outside of the Bakery. He was drawing these beautiful flowers that I had never seen in nature before, when I asked him what they were he said he’d only seen them once -- during a broadcast of the Games. I said they were such a bright blue and his drawing really made me feel like they were really there. He smiled at me, said in a higher voice than you’d remember it, ‘Hi I’m Peeta.’ After that, he became the centre of my world...” Cato frowned as you spoke but you smiled as you recalled your memories with the boy you loved and lost, “I remember one time, when we were 13, 3 years ago now. We hadn’t seen the sun in nearly a year. The sky was always shrouded with Coal dust but for some reason the sun was so bright this day that it cut through everything. Peeta and I spent the entire day in the street, letting the sun soak into our skin. It wasn’t until the end of the day that we realized the sun had practically dyed his hair!” You laughed, for the first time in a long time, “he went from a dusty blonde, almost brown colour to the little blonde baker’s son.”

“You really loved him” Cato said

“I did. I always thought that we’d grow old together. Maybe get married, have a kid. People expected it of us. But I knew,” you added, “that he didn’t feel the same. I knew he always loved Katniss and he would’ve done anything for her.”

“So it was true? Their love story?” he asked, sitting back in his chair

“Not entirely. Not the way they explained it, I mean,” you corrected, “Peeta loved Katniss, his crush on her was all he’d ever known. That much was true. But Katniss... I think she cared about him. He was easy to grow attached to, so I think she could’ve fallen in love with him but I don’t think she was in love with him during the Games. It was all just too sudden. And she had Gale back home...”

“Her cousin?”

“Cousin? No that was just a story, to make the star-crossed lovers thing seem more real. Gale and her were... hunting partners. They were like me and Peeta, they grew up together.” You could see thoughts racing through his mind and you could only imagine that they were guilt-ridden, “I don’t blame you. I know I probably should because if you hadn’t fought with Katniss and thrown her to the mutts, Peeta might still be here, right? That’s what everyone tells me. That’s what everyone would have me believe. But I knew Peeta.”

“What do you mean?” he quizzed and you smirked to yourself before propping an elbow on the table and resting your head in your hand

“If Katniss died, what would Peeta have to come back to? A girl he didn’t love who lived across the street from him? Two brothers who wouldn’t have gained any more respect for him even though he’d won the games? A mother who got angry with him at every little thing and had no faith he’d win in the first place?” you rambled, “I loved Peeta but I knew what his life was like here. He didn’t want to die, nobody does, but he always had Katniss to brighten up his day. To give him something to look forward to. Without her, what was the point?”

“He was always going to jump...” he said quietly

“Or poison himself or surrender... he was never going to leave that arena without her. I knew that. I said goodbye to him long before he faced you on the Cornucopia that day.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at his lap, “I don’t think I’ll ever not be sorry.” You watched him for a few moments, twiddling his thumbs back and forth, not making eye contact with you; you smiled to yourself.

“What about you?” you said, “what do I need to know?”

“I think you probably already know more than you need to about me” he smirked

“Those interviews are all about showmanship. Who are you really?”

“I’m a Career Tribute. I trained until I was 18 and then I volunteered with my childhood friend..”

“No,” you stopped him, “tell me something real. Something true.”

“My favourite colour is red”

“Like the colour of blood?” you asked, pinching your eyebrows together

“No, no,” he scoffed, stretching his arms back on the table, “more like a poppy. That bright red.. What else do you want to know?”

“How about... your childhood?” you asked

“I’m a Career Tribute. I trained every day until I wa--” he started to repeat, forcing you to laugh and interrupt him again

“Fine fine, okay!” you giggled, catching him smile before you let your eyes wander as you thought about your next question, “can you tell me about her?” You were hesitant to even ask, knowing the pain that you had when you remembered Peeta, but you wanted to know how he felt about her.

“Clove and I grew up together,” he said, knowing that you were talking about the girl he’d lost in the games, “She was two years younger than I me but she was... talented with those knives of hers. She was fast and she was brutal. So, everyone agreed to let her volunteer before the rest of us. Aside from that she was smart and funny; It was always easy to just sit in a room and talk with her until the sun came up.” He spoke with such a grin on his face, you couldn’t help but smile, “our families used to get together at the end of every training year, before the Games, and have these huge Firework displays. It was their way of congratulating themselves on what they’d done. Anyway, one year, Clove stole half of the fireworks and didn’t tell me but we went to a party at a friends house and she busts out these giant fireworks and runs to the yard to light them up.”

“If you loved her... why didn’t you--”

“I wanted to run to her,” he answered, knowing your question, “but I was hurt and too far away. By the time I heard her call for me, I was too late. I called out to her and she didn’t hear me. Plus, if I had run to her, even after she’d been hit, I would’ve been seen as weak. I couldn’t save her. There was no point in showing Panem that I would cry over her, not with the image I’d created for myself. I needed to avenge her.”

“Because you loved her”

“I cared for her. Love was a weakness I couldn’t afford” his tone changed quickly and you got nervous about what his reaction might be to any more questions, especially about Clove.

“I’m tired,” you said, “where should I sleep tonight?” He stood up and led you to a guest room that spanned almost two of your bedrooms and you gasped at the sight of it

“I hope you’ll be okay in here.”

“Are you kidding?” you scoffed, a smile on your face that you couldn’t hide, “I think I’ll be just fine in here.”

“Goodnight, Delly.” He said but before he could walk away, you stopped him. This whole night had been a lot to take in and you weren’t sure how to feel about him asking for you to be brought here; you could tell he had a temper and you weren’t sure what would set him off but still, there was something about him that you were sure you could connect to.

“Goodnight, Cato” you said as you propped yourself on the tips of your toes to kiss his cheek softly, squeezing his hand as you steadied yourself back on the ground, noticing a blush creep across his cheeks as he closed the door.

#Cato/Delly #Cato #Cato Hunger Games #Cato Hadley #Cato Berenger #The Hunger Games #Delly #Delly/Cato #Delly Cartwright #masterlist #the other masterlist #not hockey

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esuerc · 7 years

Text

Turncoat: Chapter 25 -- Pallas’ Fall is up!

Read on AO3 (in the source link below!)

Or read here under the “keep reading” line!

---

The view from aboard the vertibird was spectacular.

The landscape sped past them as the VTOL flew through the sky high above the remains of Boston, the side doors left open so Turner could keep watch for any accompanying vertibirds. If they were to avoid as much conflict as possible, they would have to keep a low profile—no mid-air tricks or funny business from Deacon and Tom.

Turner took a deep breath and held the frigid air in the base of her chest, exhaling through her nose slowly when the pressure proved too much.

From the cockpit, the sounds of Deacon and Tom could be heard. At first, they’d bickered over who would be captain, then they “fought” over the position of the pilot, in which chair they would sit, and then they slapped at each other’s hands over who could play with the various knobs and dials spread across the dashboard, even if they didn’t know what the dials themselves did.

When they first entered the vertibird, after the first girlish slap-fight between the two Railroad agents, Deacon found himself a T51-B power helmet stashed away toward the back, thrown haphazardly in an unlocked metal crate. Whether the helmet was there as a replacement for the Paladin, Danse, they left behind in the police station, or as a general precaution, Deacon nevertheless plopped it upon his head. He then declared himself captain and demanded with a rather muffled voice “to speak with your leader”.

It wobbled from side-to-side as he made his way from the back of the vertibird to the front, brushing past Turner and Nick as they readied themselves for the journey. He relinquished the helmet to Turner, however, when he realized he couldn’t see the controls in front of him, placing the helmet on a hook not far from where she held fast to the VTOL.

Seated next to the doorway, Turner was glad most of the noise was lost to the winds.

Down below, she followed a group of super mutants as they tried in vain to throw bricks at their vertibird, and missed by a longshot. At least they made an attempt, even as the group continued undeterred to the south.

The mutants’ shouts could be heard, followed by the tell-tale beeping of a triggered mini-nuke, but they’d already traveled far enough away that the mutants proved no threat, nuke or otherwise.

Popping her lips, Turner glanced over at Nick, who clung to the handle at the edge of the doorway, his ragged coat waving about in the tumultuous winds. He held firmly to his hat and met her eyes when he felt them upon him.

“Nervous? He questioned loudly over the gale.

Turner nodded and adjusted her feet when the vertibird listed to the left somewhat, “Yeah—when I find Hancock,” Alive or dead, she thought, “I’ll bring him back to the vertibird. If Maxson gets in the way, I’ll deal with him.”

The plans of the mission were flimsy at best, bound to change at a moment’s notice depending on situation. What if Hancock wasn’t even on the Prydwen, and the rescue was all for naught? She would still try to bring an end to the Brotherhood’s interference in the Commonwealth, even if it meant one of her closest friends was truly lost in the process—she knew it could be an inevitability she would have to accept.

Turner faced into the vertibird and cupped a hand around her mouth to yell at Deacon and Tom, “I want you guys to get in contact with the guys on the ground. Don’t fire on the Prydwen unless we’ve made it down or I give the go-ahead.”

“Don’t wanna go down with the ship, captain?” Deacon questioned when he was met with Turner’s less than pleased expression. He knew the situation was tense, but he couldn’t help his inherent sarcasm from leaking out.

“I’d rather she didn’t.” Nick finished for her, “I’d like to have her home in one piece.”

Turner would have blushed bashfully if her cheeks hadn’t already been dyed red, raw from the winds that blew against her face.

It was a comfort to know there could be something after everything was said and done, that the destruction of the Institute and potentially the Brotherhood didn’t mean the end of her new life, of her new family. That even when things “calmed down” in the Commonwealth after all this commotion, that maybe she could forge something deeper with Nick, and even Hancock.

Broken from her thoughts of the future, Turner steadied herself and let her brows furrow in determination, “When we approach the Prydwen, you’re gonna want to fly up from the bottom into the hangar. Me and Nick will take off from there.”

“Sure you don’t wanna go in guns-blazing?” Deacon asked, his knee propped up dangerously on the console, his sunglasses hiding the bemused look in his eyes.

Merely shaking her head, Turner returned her gaze to the Commonwealth below. She would let the two pilots handle the rest of the journey without comment… which was probably for the best when Deacon was involved.

“I remember when these vertibirds used to frighten the Brotherhood.” She reminisced aloud after realizing where she was, and it piqued Nick’s curiosity.

He gave her an inquisitive stare that begged her to continue.

“Back in D.C., I think I was twelve or something, the Enclave used to pilot these things. Wasn’t much we could do about them until we got the original Liberty Prime up and running. Thing hurled nukes like you couldn’t believe.”

Nick didn’t much know what a “Liberty Prime” was, but if the thing could “hurl nukes” like some kind of pre-war quarterback, then maybe he didn’t want to know. “What’s the Enclave, then?” he questioned, having never heard of the group.

“Pre-war military kinda like the Brotherhood, but they were trying to bring a system of government back into power. Presidents and stuff.” Turner spied into the distance where she knew the airport was located, squinting her eyes against the cold, “Sometimes, I used to listen to Eden’s broadcasts when we were in the yard of the Citadel. The older knights would keep them on. Used to call it ‘lazy reconnaissance’.”

Nick didn’t have much to talk about when it came to pre-war politics. He, or at least human Nick, hadn’t thought much of the presidency at the time, and he didn’t much concern himself with the affairs outside the United States. Tensions had been terribly high, and not just with Eddie Winter and his gang causing trouble for Boston, but the looming nuclear crisis, outrageous petroleum costs, and general “red-scare” paranoia.

All-in-all, Nick would have rather not thought about it.

“Someone from the vault helped out the Brotherhood, though. I don’t remember too much from ten years ago, but I do remember the vault thing. One-oh-one, I think.” Turner went to wipe the moisture from her nose, but shook her head when thick, metal fingers scraped at her skin. She was already acclimated to the suit, it seemed.

“Thought you were like a steel trap?” Nick joked, nodding his head at Turner’s inability to remember things from only a decade ago. Maybe she chose not to remember.

“I wasn’t allowed out of the Citadel unless it was to train with the recon teams. They were pushing for me to be a scribe like my dad.” Turner pushed her nose into the air and let out a sharp snort, “You stop growing at age ten, and they ask you ‘aren’t you a little short for a knight?’.”

“Not one for the desk job, then?” The synth tried to imagine Turner stuck in a dim, subterranean lab somewhere, surrounded by terminals, books, and mountains of paperwork. Oh, and short. He couldn’t forget short.

It didn’t suit her.

Not one bit.

And not the short part.

“But that vault-dweller helped us take down the Enclave, on the east coast, at least. Dunno about the west—Navarro didn’t go too well for them, or so I hear. But we got most of our vertibirds from them.” Turner shifted her shoulders and cleared her throat nervously, “Riddik’s armour is Enclave, too. It’s like a trophy for them, back from when the Jefferson Memorial was cleared out.”

Wanting to hear more about Turner’s past, about her time in the Brotherhood (before it became a scourge to the Commonwealth), if only to let her vent a bit, Nick snapped back to reality when Deacon interrupted the two of them.

Luck would have it no other way.

“Comin’ up on the airport, lovebirds.” Deacon removed his knee from the controls and threw an instructional manual over at Tom, “Get ready. Put your big girl panties on.”

“Not if you’re the one wearing them.” Turner spat back under her breath, but Deacon heard her unsurprisingly.

“What can I say? I like lace.”

Despite the mental imagery of Deacon sporting a pair of ladies’ undergarments, Turner couldn’t help but laugh.

Her anxiety grew, however, when the bow of the Prydwen drew near, the expanse of the ocean laid out behind it. The sun was drawing onto the horizon, the sky aglow in murky greys and oranges. It would have been a pretty sight, if Turner didn’t feel fear bubbling up in her throat.

It was a vile sensation, like an oncoming panic attack—but she steadied her breath, begging for the tightness in her chest to loosen.

There was no time for hesitation.

They were about to enter the hornets’ nest, for better or worse, and the idea of Maxson wearing a comically large stinger on his bottom didn’t help matters much.

Hopefully, no one save a guard would be in the hangar when they entered. It was common for at least one knight to be stuck with the miserable job of guard duty, left alone to stare out at the expanse of the hangar bay and airport beneath it. If so, they would have to be dealt with swiftly and quietly, if such a thing were possible.

“Get behind me.” Turner told Nick as she took the helmet off the hook and locked it into place on her head. Immediately, the synth detective complied and hid behind her currently-large frame, spying out from around her arm at the scope of the dirigible before them.

The Prydwen was massive, up close and far-away, the main body of the pre-war airship aged and blackened. The colour of it, which once would have been a brilliant red under all the dust and grime of years past was now a faded umber, lightened by the sun and the elements where it could even be seen. The tether that held it to the body of the airport’s main terminal made a strange, almost alien metal sound as it swayed in the wind, an odd echo made by the line being held under such high tension with smaller tethers slapping against it.

Nick would have said it sounded like laser fire if he had a mind to, but it wasn’t the time for idle commentary—not with the hangar in sight.

The dirigible would have been an even more formidable sight if lit by the nauseous green hue of a radiation storm, something that looked to be brewing off to the west just over the Glowing Sea. Give it an hour or two, and that storm would be right over them.

Deacon made a face the nearer they grew to the gangway, the blades of the vertibird turning to allow the VTOL to slide its way up into the hangar bay. The side of the vertibird knocked slightly against the metal walkway as a metal hook kept the whirlybird in place, Turner cringing at the obvious sound.

The knight stationed at the door that led into the interior of the Prydwen left their post for a moment and approached the curious vertibird, the barrel of their minigun aimed at the ground. To them, it might have just been an inexperienced pilot learning the ropes… or perhaps an experienced pilot who just so happened to be more experienced in the drinking department.

Turner kept her gaze low to the ground as the knight approached, her helmet hiding her face and her armour hiding the now very nervous Nick behind her.

“I wasn’t expecting a team to come back so soon. Paladin Riddik was just out here.” The knight started, “Got that storm brewin’, though. Any problems?”

The knight must have been relatively new. Usually, when a vertibird checked in at the hangar, the pilot and reporting knight would record resources, losses, and such, but this one didn’t seem to know any better.

“We have a, uh… synth! Yeah! We captured a synth!” Deacon lowered the pitch of his voice from the cockpit, Nick’s eyes going wide at the bold-faced lie. Turner was glad she had a helmet to hide her features, because her jaw dropped at the unplanned confession by her associate.

Nick wasn’t beyond letting himself be used as a temporary scapegoat. He just wished they talked over it first.

The knight took a step back as Turner jumped from the vertibird onto the gangway, his minigun raised to aim squarely at the synthetic man in a messy trench coat and fedora, “You brought that thing here?” he questioned angrily. “What if it’s a bomb?”

Turner made her way around the knight so that she stood at his back, her hands hovering around the handwheel positioned around his fusion core.

Nick stared at her anxiously, but remained silent, his hand raised to indicate he wasn’t a threat. Turner was up to something, he knew, he just wished he could read her expression at the very least.

With the knight distracted, Turner spun the handwheel on the knight’s back and released the seal on his armour, the joints locking into place as the seams split apart unwillingly. The knight yelled as he was yanked back out of his shell, kicking and punching furiously as Turner’s armoured legs and arms as she held him aloft.

Nick leapt from the vertibird and made his way around the barrel of the still-raised minigun, and watched as Turner lifted a balled fist.

From the doorway, Deacon appeared with Tom, a smirk plastered on his unshaven, scruffy face, “Already going off plan, huh?” he asked sarcastically, knowing he’d done it himself moments before.

“What’s the meaning of this, knight?!” The Brotherhood soldier continued, and was cut short when Turner slammed her raised fist against the top of his head.

Unlike Danse, the knight went silent, his head falling forward, unconscious.

Turner waddled over to Deacon and threw the limp knight up onto the vertibird, pushing him in until he and Tom could seat him in one of the empty chairs.

Belted in tightly, he wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned around and pushed against Nick’s back, urging him forward to the now empty suit of power armour. “I know you don’t have any training for one of these, but if a raider can climb into one, so can you, Tin Man.” She insisted when the synth dug his heels into the metal grate under him.

“We’re already at the ‘matching outfit’ portion of the relationship, huh, kid?” he joked, and pried himself away from Turner’s shoving.

Nick took it upon himself to stand at the back of the armour, the three Railroad agents staring him down expectantly. It would certainly be an experience, he knew, but he wasn’t so sure if he could readily control the suit of armour before him—synthetic or not.

Pulling his mouth into a thin line, he pulled the hat from his head and threw it over to Deacon. It wouldn’t fit into the helmet, no matter how much he wished it. He then pulled himself forward into the empty armour until his chest fell against the metal front of the cuirass, his hands sliding comfortably into place.

The armour rode a bit, just as Turner joked before back at Home Plate, though he supposed it was worse for her, organic and all that entailed. “Gonna ruin my coat wearin’ this thing.”

Coming around to his rear, Turner lifted the tails of his coat, pulled the back of the cuirass down, and turned the handwheel into place, securing Nick inside with a small near-hermetic hiss. “As if it didn’t look torn enough. We’ll get you a new one.” Giving the back of the armour a slap, she stepped away and let him acclimate, “You okay?”

Nick stood frozen in place for a few seconds, watching the way the light of his optics shone against the inside of the helmet’s lenses. He tried flexing his fingers first, the bare metal of his right hand scraping against the pulleys awkwardly—he would just have to make do. Next, he shifted his head, pushed his chest forward, and forced one leg out.

The armour refused to move at first, but after he gave a slightly stronger push, the hips of the power armour shifted and he lurched forward. In reality, it wasn’t Turner who needed a suit of baby’s first power armour, but Nick. “I won’t give ya flack ever again for wearin’ this damn thing. Feels like when I forget to lube my joints.”

“Lube.” Deacon snorted, and earned stares from both Turner and Nick, though he could hardly see their expressions.

He knew they were less than enthused.

From inside, Tom appeared with a flare gun spinning around his finger, and threw it to Turner when the silence grew a bit too much even for him. “Shoot that off when you guys are ready to go, yeah? We’ve got another in the glove compartment right next to the road maps and registration.”

Whether this was the truth or not, she had no way of knowing—neither Deacon nor Tom would tell her even if she asked nicely.

“You two head down and meet up with the others, if they’ve made it yet.” Turner ordered as she took the abandoned minigun left on the gangway and gave Nick the flare gun. There was no sense in letting Nick have the bigger of the two, not while he was still acclimating.

Nick followed Turner down the gangway without a word and toward the bulkhead that led inside. Deacon and Tom scurried back into position, the knight still unconscious in his seat, and began their exit from the hangar. Their “good lucks” were nearly inaudible under the loud boom of the approaching radiation storm, growing near faster than anticipated.

“How ‘bout that horsepower?” Turner asked now they were alone, her voice muffled by the audio receptor in front of her face. She had to admit, the synth detective got used to the armour far quicker than she would have thought. Maybe she hadn’t been talking out of her ass when she said, “if a raider could do it”.

Nick let out a breathy laugh and raised his hands in mock accomplishment, his fingers curled, “A guy could get used to this short of thing. Might not want to leave.” He jostled his helmet a bit, “Can’t say there’s an easy way to smoke in this sort of thing, though I guess that means I’ll have to kick the habit.”

“I don’t think they make ties or fedoras big enough for these things. You might have to get a new job, too.” Turner let out a yelp as Nick slapped the back of her armour, entirely unexpected, and much less expected given the situation. “C’mon, you wouldn’t fit through the agency door, and you know it.”

It was odd to look through the lenses, Nick could admit, and he watched as many of the suit’s internal monitors sounded off that something wasn’t quite right about its current occupant.

Despite resting on the peripherals of his vision, he did his best to ignore them as Turner opened the bulkhead door. She placed the minigun next to it where the knight stood moments before—it would only slow them down if she carried it inside.

“You ready?” she whispered, and headed in first when Nick nodded in return.

She quickly adjusted Nick’s helmet and gave it a pat on top—it would do them no good if they stuck out too much. Turner could walk relatively normal, but her companion was still as wobbly as a freshly-born radstag.

The bulkhead was heavy and squealed loudly when Nick pulled it shut behind him, his hand refusing to unclasp for a moment from the handle of the door. Together, they trudged inside, to the quiet interior of the lower deck. Or it would have been quiet, were it not for the various computers and consoles on the floor below.

The room was lit by red guide lights around the ceiling of the interior, eerie shadows sent this way and that as the light struggled to bounce through the space.

Far ahead, in a room adorned with windows that overlooked the terminal structure of the airport, stood Maxson, his back turned to them. He seemed to contemplate the approach of the storm down the coast, his gloved fingers caught in his neatly-trimmed beard.

Naturally, Turner led Nick up the walkway that bled into the main body of the dirigible, and poked her head out into the landing before they walked into the open.

Nick chose to stay silent, and let Turner lead him to where they needed to go. This was uncharted territory for him, not matter how much he would like to say he knew better. The young woman in front of him was in charge, and he would be damned if he thought or told her otherwise.

Stopped before a large room that served as the canteen, Turner changed course and headed toward a stairwell that led to the floor above, to what looked to be a barracks of sorts. There, soldiers slept, their wool blankets, thin with age, some of them taken from other bunks to compensate, their footlockers left open and catawampus at the foot of their cots.

Nick was surprised, though he knew he shouldn’t have been, when none of them woke to the sounds and rumbles of their heavy footfalls. He supposed they were used to the commotion by now.

Even on the Prydwen, it was a bit out of place for a group of knights to be seen in the specimen area, but the scribes at work merely sent Turner and Nick annoyed glances before they returned to their tasks.

Together, they looked down over the safety railing and into the small cluster of cells below. Situated in one were several emaciated mole rats, their bellies distended as they lay lethargic on the floor. Their wheezes were the only indication they were still alive.

Next to them, in another block, was a bundle of red and black, the unmistakable figure of Hancock seated in the corner farthest away from the door.

Turner gripped the railing tightly, the metal crimping between her fingers. She knew the ghoul had always been as thin as a twig, as he spent far more time with his chems than he did with any amount of food. But she knew the scribes wouldn’t dare waste food or water on a “mutant”, if only in the name of research.

They scarcely did it back in the Capital, so they certainly wouldn’t try now.

She stood there silently and calculated their next move, Nick at her side, waiting and watching.

Turner could go down there, request the door be opened to dispose of the ghoul, drag Hancock down to the hangar, reveal herself, and signal for Deacon and Tom to return. But what if they refused to let him out? What if Riddik or Maxson happened by? There’s no way the obvious, red IX on the chest of her armour wouldn’t be a dead giveaway.

She bit her lip and struggled to even her breathing, the rumble of thunder heard outside the walls of the airship. Maybe they could use the coming storm as a means of distraction if and when they made it back into the hangar? Many wouldn’t dare fly during such inclement conditions, even some of the most well-seasoned pilots… though she supposed trusting Deacon and Tom to do what a senior pilot couldn’t would be less than wise.

“What’s the plan, kid?” Nick whispered after he took a quick look behind them, sure that no one heard him.

Turner thought back to only a short time ago, when she found herself on a rescue mission much like this one of her own making. The Railroad agents she went to rescue had been dealt with long before her arrival at Maxson’s behest. It would do her no good to try the same tactic, to boldly walk up to the cells.

No, she needed to speak to someone first, make it official.

And the scribes behind them would do just the trick.

“Stay here for a sec.” she replied at last, a hand on Nick’s pauldron. Without another word, she spun to walk toward the scribes across the room, her stride heavy and confident.

“Be authoritative.” Turner told herself quietly in the confines of her helmet, “Just act like a knight, like you used to.” her eyes screwed shut for a moment as she neared one of the scribes, his back hunched away from her over a lab table. “Tell him Maxson wants the ghoul disposed of… that the ghoul wasn’t meant to be brought here, and should be transported to the ground for Riddik to—”

“Can I help you, knight?” The scribe drawled over his glasses, now facing the awkwardly silent Turner. He flipped up several loupes meant for magnification and stared her down, his eyes blinking rapidly to adjust to the change in light. “Or has Riddik sent you to observe us again?”

The scribe’s mouth was fallen into a permanent scowl, the bags under his eyes heavy with lack of proper sleep. He must have been in his late thirties, but looked to be nearing fifty with the way he carried himself: shoulders sagging heavily, his skin pale, the veins just beneath prominent in the unnatural light of the lab.

Turner vaguely recognized him from a year or so ago, back when she spent her time on the Prydwen when not out on reconnaissance missions. The scribe had been the head doctor at the time—Doctor Horrigan, maybe? Now scuttled back to the very ass-end of the Prydwen for research and dissection, while another, more charismatic doctor took his place.

He was tired, and not at all privy to idle chit-chat.

An opening had presented itself, however.

“Yes.” Turner answered simply, her back suddenly ramrod straight. “Riddik… Paladin Riddik sent me and my associate,” she paused and motioned to Nick behind her, “to request the ghoul in Cell A be moved down into the terminal.” She placed a metal fist against her chest, the clang sending Horrigan back with a less than pleased face, “We’ve heard reports of Railroad activity. The ghoul was taken from a Railroad safehouse, and we believe they may be staging an attack.”

Not necessarily a lie.

The scribe stared at her skeptically, and the look on his face aged him nearer to sixty. No doubt he recognized the red Roman numeral on her chest, knew the armour belonged to one of the infamous Paladin’s knights. To talk back to them would be to talk back to Riddik—something that was ill-advised even when Turner was with the Brotherhood.

“And I suppose they sent you to carry out the trash rather than do it themselves? To no one’s surprise?” Horrigan had a sharp tongue, Turner couldn’t help but notice. No wonder he’d been sent as far from everyone as possible.

“Fine. But do it quietly. The other scribes and I have delicate procedures in the process.” He stood straight, his back cracking loudly, and headed to a flight of stairs at the edge of the platform, situated between two lab tables.

Nick hurried after Turner when she waved him forward, and tried his best to ignore the two immobile synths that lay on either table, many of their parts scattered and destroyed.

If they’d arrived any later, the synths might have been Hancock, instead.

---

Turner descended the stairs with Nick in tow, Horrigan at the front of their group.

He pulled down his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

Horrigan didn’t much care for the smell of ghouls, especially not ones who thought themselves particularly witty and charming, and especially not ones who dressed themselves like pre-war freedom fighters. And he found himself cursing under his breath now that he had to deal with said ghoul for the second time that day. To look at that crooked smile and blackened stare.

Earlier, it was to stop the ghoul’s incessant singing—purposefully off-key and caw-like.

And now? To kowtow to Paladin Riddik’s fickle whims.

Railroad threat be damned—if helping the two knights behind him meant he could be given some peace and quiet for once in the past few days, then so be it.

Turner kept quiet and resolute, Nick following her lead as they approached the cell at the end of the row. In front, Horrigan shuffled up to the cell door and fumbled in his coat pocket for what must have been the keys.

How hard would it be to figure out which key went where when there were only two cells was beyond Turner, but to her own chagrin the key ring he pulled out had to have a key to every lock on the Prydwen.

Because of course it did.

Who else would carry them? Maxson?

The only thing keeping him afloat was all that hot air in his head. Last thing he needed was a counterweight.

But Horrigan seemed to know exactly which key fit into the lock, and on the first try he slid the door open and allowed Turner inside with the wave of an arm.

His hand fell to his side unceremoniously a second later, a dull thud against the fabric of his coat. His work was done, and now he could return to his other work. Important work. Scientific work.

Work where he could be left alone.

Turner stood at the doorway of the cell and stared inside, at the ghoul who looked to be asleep in the far corner. She could only think such as his tricorn was pulled low over his face, his legs crossed at the ankle, and his hands laid out on his lap. It would be just like Hancock to not take the situation too seriously, not when life or death was involved.

At least his own life or death.

“Thanks, doc.” Nick started out from around Turner, if only so Horrigan could see him. “That’ll be all.” He tapped the side of Turner’s arm and broke her from her one-sided staring contest with the ghoul in the cell.

“Yes! Thank you.” Her head danced from Nick to Horrigan, “Thank you. That’s all we needed. Thank you.”

“Say ‘thank you’ again,” she thought dismissively, glad that her scrunched face was hidden, “I’m sure it will sound totally natural and not at all suspicious. That’s just the way a knight under Riddik’s command would talk.”

Horrigan let out a derisive snort through his nose, thoroughly displeased with the events that transpired and how much potential time he’d lost with his experiments. Now that it was over, though, he excused himself without a word and shoved past the two of them toward the stairs.

He disappeared soon after, and together Turner and Nick exchanged looks.

“Shoulda given him a curtsey, while you’re at it.” Nick joked when Turner appeared physically uncomfortable, neither of them aware that the ghoul was watching from under the wide brim of his hat. “Didn’t know ‘thank you’ was in your vocabulary.”

“I said ‘thank you’ for the bear you gave me.” She whispered in retort, short with the disguised synth that was readily betraying their identities.

From the corner, a short laugh escaped the too-thin ghoul, a devilish smile splayed on what remained of his lips, “Thought I recognized that voice.” Hancock drawled, stifling a yawn under his loose coat sleeve. “You were never good at saying ‘sorry’, either, Sunshine.”

Turner stepped into the cell fully and approached Hancock, who still hadn’t pulled himself up from the floor. He cradled his arm with a wince, his smile having not left yet. “You alright?” she questioned quietly, as if the volume of her voice would break the rest of him.

With a roll of his shoulders, the ghoul let his head fall back against the corner of the cell, his hat popping off his brow, “Been better, but I ain’t complainin’. Wouldn’t mind see ya without the helmet, but I get what you’re goin’ for.” His gaze shifted to Nick, who stood waiting at the door just in case someone else happened by, “You got her back safe and sound, then? I owe you a drink, Nick.”

“You can owe me when we get outta here.” Nick peeked over his shoulder, and found the area devoid of any wandering eyes, “Let’s get goin’, kid. This place is making my skin crawl.”

“Can you get up?” Turner asked as she dropped onto one knee. Nick was right—the longer they stayed in the open, the quicker someone would catch on that they weren’t quite Brotherhood material.

A grin found its way onto Hancock’s cheeks, “You know better than to ask me if I can ‘get up’.” He clicked his teeth to emphasize his point (a point that would have made her blush at any other time), but Turner didn’t take the bait. “Alright, alright.” He waited a beat, “Later, though.”

A shaky hand found its way onto the chain link wall of the cell, and with a bit of a struggle, Hancock stood… for a moment.

Down he went onto his knees, a groan escaping him as his arm hung limp at his side.

Turner was quick to keep him upright, her arms wrapped under the lanky ghoul as he let out a weak chuckle. “We can take the lower level past the canteen, take the walkway down back into the hangar, and signal for the others.” With a practiced ease, she lifted Hancock up and turned toward Nick, “If anyone asks, we’re disposing of you.”

Hancock’s face became unreadable. Not disappointed, but more bemused if anything. “Disposing? What, like throwing me in the trash? The prick with the cape already tried rattling my cage; ain’t much these guys can do to scare me.”

“They would have put you in front of a firing squad eventually.” Turner added, if only to make a point. The idea of Hancock laughing his way to his inevitable death at the hands of a bunch of knights made a boulder form in the pit of her stomach. He would never let them have the satisfaction of cowering, of begging for his life.

He joked now, thought the Brotherhood wouldn’t do everything within their power to see that he suffered until he expired—Riddik was playing a waiting game, and nothing more—but if Turner and Nick hadn’t showed up when they did, the ghoul wouldn’t have lasted much longer.

“Who would Goodneighbor look up to, then, huh?” With a jostle to make Hancock pay attention, Turner struck home, right where it truly hurt, “Or would you rather someone like Vic take over again?”

The ghoul’s face fell then, his eyes half-lidded as reality suddenly slapped him. And not in a fun way. “Alright, alright, you made your point.”

With a nod in the direction of a stairwell that led to the lowest level of the Prydwen, Turner carried Hancock away from the cell block, Nick following in tow with his eyes trained every which way. They were making progress, and it wouldn’t be long before they found themselves back outside and on solid ground.

---

The metal floor of the walkway groaned under the considerable weight of Riddik as they made their way toward the back of the Prydwen. Their thoughts were abuzz with ideas on how to best deal with Maxson, on how to depose of an Elder of the Brotherhood without being branded a traitor much like Turner.

For now, though, only one thing interested them—and that was the ghoul.

Riddik gripped at the handle of their powered sledge tightly, all-too prepared to vent their frustration on the object of Turner’s affection. It wasn’t that damn synth, that would-be detective who thought himself a man, but the ghoul for whom she had a particular fondness.

The synth would have to come later, with something a little more elaborate. More elaborate than what they’d done with Turner’s previous beau, Metro, at least.

They passed through the canteen, many of the soldiers within giving pause to stare the massive Paladin down as they trudged through wordlessly, without apology when they knocked into a small scribe.

It didn’t matter in the end. None of it did.

If any one of them supported their Elder and what he stood for, then Riddik would strike them down equally. They had to return the Brotherhood to its western glory, to the brutal history they’d established so long ago.

No more soldiers taken in out of the wastes. No more fraternizing with those born out of the circles. No more sullying the Brotherhood of Steel’s legacy.

Riddik stomped into the cell block, the stench of the mole rats leaking in through their armour: putrid and fetid.

Immediately, they saw something was amiss.

The door to the ghoul’s cell was open and unguarded, Riddik’s gait increasing until they practically ran up to the cell. The handle of their hammer squealed as they gripped it even tighter, their eyes trained on the now empty space within.

The ghoul was gone.

The door of the cell flew from its frame, ripped from its tracks and thrown across the room in a fury. The mole rats in the next cell shrieked with fear, gathered into the corner away from Riddik and their rampage as a guttural yell escaped them. Several of the soldiers in the canteen poked their heads out to spy at the commotion, but disappeared when the Paladin slammed their sledge down against the floor.

Above, Horrigan tried his best to ignore whatever temper tantrum the two knights were having—no doubt dealing with the ghoul in the confines of the Prydwen rather than taking it outside like they’d been ordered.

With an exasperated sigh, he slapped his hands against his lab table and ripped the gloves from his fingers. Would there be no quiet that day?!

Across the lab, Horrigan huffed, until they made it to the railing at the edge of the platform. Not waiting to see what the commotion was, he clung to the metal rail and bellowed to the floor below, “Do you mind?! Some of us are trying to work, you—”

The blood in Horrigan’s veins froze when he realized who stood in the wreckage of what was once a cell.

Golden lenses turned slowly to train on him, the unmistakable armour of Paladin Riddik sending shivers down his spine.

Horrigan swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed away from the rail as Riddik’s ire was now trained on him. And with no care to his fellow scribes, he began to race down the walkway toward the bunk area, if only to hide himself away somewhere.

The Paladin was notoriously short tempered, and it would do the scribe well to make himself scarce.

Riddik, however, was faster—much, much faster.

Up the stairwell they went, slamming the lab tables aside that stood in their path, and charged after Horrigan. The soldiers that were asleep not too long ago popped from their bunks and watched the Paladin donned in X0-1 armour plow through a standing locker on their way after the scribe, unaware of what just transpired.

Horrigan tripped up the steps that led to the forecastle, and clutched at their chest. It had been too long since they exercised, and now certainly wasn’t the time they wanted to start!

What had possessed Paladin Riddik so? Hadn’t they ordered the ghoul to be taken from the cell? To be taken to the ground and disposed of?

A trick! It had to have been a prank! It was always him! Who better to pick on than the doctor stripped of his title and thrown to the farthest recesses of the Prydwen?

Horrigan had been goaded into gaining the ire of the Paladin, and to what end? Those two knights wouldn’t hear the end of this, that was for damned sure!

He took a sharp turn and hid behind one of the large ballasts that lined the top half of the Prydwen, a refuge away from the anger that radiated from the Paladin not far from his trail. Horrigan caught his breath and listened as the heavy footfalls faded for a moment, perhaps going in a different direction, away from him.

He would write a report and hand it to the Elder himself if he had to! This was inexcusable behaviour on the behalf of a Paladin. Where was Danse? Ingram? Someone who possessed a lick of sense that could knock some into Riddik?

The trembles in the floor grew nearer again, and before Horrigan had a chance to react, a hand flashed from around the ballast and gripped at the front of his uniform. It yanked him forward and into the face of Riddik, who now held him aloft several feet from the floor.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Horrigan yelled as Riddik moved forward toward the door that led to the outside of the forecastle, “You’re going to lose rank for this, you hear me?!”

Icy winds struck at Horrigan’s face as the door flew open, and out the two of them went. With their foot, Riddik slammed the door shut and threw the scribe to the floor unceremoniously. The head of their hammer came up to rest in their now free hand, their cape aflutter in the wind.

Horrigan scurried from the Paladin, and backed away on his bottom until he could put several feet between them. Out in the distance, the radioactive storm grew even nearer, the tingle of radiation buzzing through the air like electricity.

If he had a Geiger counter, the little machine would have been tittering madly.

“If you’re going to be mad at someone, punish those knights of yours!” Horrigan shouted over the winds, “I know they were yours—that girl with the IX on her chest—and the other! You punish them, not me for doing my damn job!”

This gave Riddik pause. They stopped their advance on Horrigan and stood staring down at the scribe.

That girl with the IX on her chest? The knights under Riddik’s command who wore roman numerals on their armour were down to all but one. XI was the only knight who remained.

And Nine had been left behind in Diamond City, in the Railroad Safehouse.

The girl could have been anyone, any of those insufferable Railroad agents looking to seek revenge on the Brotherhood for the destruction of their base at North End Church. Or she could have been…

Ridley Turner—there to save the ghoul, just as they’d thought.

Riddik shook with unheard laughter, their arms trembling as they struggled to contain their amusement. Horrigan could only watch as the Paladin bowed somewhat, their pauldrons falling forward when they cradled their power sledge to their chest.

The scribe could hear as the Paladin took in a deep breath and straightened themselves back to their full height.

Taking a step forward, Riddik continued their advancement, their hands coiled insanely tight around the metal grip of their hammer.

“What are you doing?” Horrigan demanded, and scurried back another foot to escape the Paladin.

Riddik stopped him with a heavy foot on his leg, and the bone beneath cracked loudly under the weight. Horrigan let out a scream when the Paladin let the brunt of their weight down, their body angled to hover over the fallen scribe.

Through tears and laboured breaths, Horrigan stared up at Riddik as they positioned the head of their sledge against the scribe’s nose—a light, almost playful tap.

Like a golf champ with a nine iron, Riddik pulled back and hoisted their hammer high into the air. And with one full sweep, the sledge snapped against Horrigan’s face with a sickening crack of bone, the scribe fallen back against the floor with a gurgle.

Riddik continued their assault even as the noises Horrigan made came to an end, their sledge coming down and down again, this way and that, the small rocket on the end of the head alight with a flame that burned a hot white.

They took a step back from what remained of Horrigan’s head, now a smear of red across the deck. More pressing matters had to be attended to now that Riddik was certain Turner made her way onto the Prydwen.

Gather Eleven, find the traitor with her pet ghoul and synth, confront Maxson, save the Brotherhood.

Riddik rolled their neck at the list that was building up before them. So much to do in such little time, and every second counted.

On the coast, the rad storm was nearly overhead, the sky a deep green. Lit by bouts of lightning, Riddik watched the sky roll, the waves not far from the Prydwen crashing up onto the shore violently.

Turner couldn’t have gone too far, not with the ghoul to carry out.

But maybe Maxson could come first? There weren’t many who would try to reason with the girl, and the Elder had been one of them—letting emotion control his actions instead of killing Turner when he had the chance—letting Riddik be done with it instead of bringing her back for a trial.

Riddik turned from the remains of Horrigan and headed to the bulkhead of the forecastle, their mind set on the Elder’s chambers.

No more waiting, no more thinking.

Riddik would show Maxson what it meant to be Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel! Show him how an Elder dealt with traitors!

---

The storm had Arthur Maxson worried. He’d seen many times before what the storms from the Glowing Sea could do, but none as big as the one that loomed over them. There would be radiation sickness, a loss of supplies, not enough medicine—too many problems to count.

Maxson placed a hand against his forehead and made another round in front of the large window that was set at the bow of the Prydwen. At the base of the couch situated against the wall, several empty bottles of bourbon sat.

He tried not to drink when problems arose, but having been given the mantle of Elder at such an early age, he found it hard to cope. If it wasn’t the worry of carrying on his legacy, it was inciting anger against the Brotherhood, of alienating the people of the Commonwealth.

And then Riddik brought that ghoul onboard, daring the Railroad to strike back against them. Even in a small group, given a missile launcher or two, a few farmhands could chip away at the Brotherhood’s defenses.

He regretted giving the Paladin the job of capturing Turner, and was near to dismissing the whole idea. With the lives of several knights lost, and trust across the Commonwealth destroyed, Maxson worried their work had increased tenfold all because of some firebrand.

The door to the body of the Prydwen opened, and behind him Maxson could hear someone enter. With a sigh, he let his hand fall and he collected himself.

The Elder couldn’t be seen with a weary brow.

Turning to face the newcomer, Maxson wasn’t surprised to see Paladin Riddik in the doorway, the head of their hammer on the ground.

He was irked, though, when he noticed the shine of crimson splattered across the worn metal of the weapon, and along the curves of Riddik’s armour. It hadn’t looked that way when the Paladin returned from the wastes, and he thought perhaps some of the specimens had escaped the lab.

“What is it you need now, Paladin?” Maxson asked tiredly. He’d already dealt with them enough that day, and the headache he had earlier threatened to return.

Riddik approached silently, their power sledge held inches away from the floor. Up close, Maxson could tell the red on their armour was blood, still wet and shining, the odour that wafted around them thick and unpleasant.

Maxson was a large man, but stood before Riddik he may as well have been a toddler. The Paladin towered over him, and even though there was no face to see, the Elder could feel cold eyes upon him.

With a dull thud, Riddik placed their hammer back on the floor and stepped away from it, continuing toward Maxson, until at last he had to take a step back.

“State your business, Riddik.” The Elder barked, his hand ready to take the pistol from his hip.

In a flash, Riddik lunged forward, their heavy arm swinging past Maxson as he dodged at the last second. Gun drawn and readied, he fired at the Paladin’s helmet, missing the golden lenses that adorned it.

The bullet ricocheted through the room until it shot out the window, Riddik sending another fist toward Maxson’s head.

The heavy punch landed against the reinforced glass, cracking it down to the metal inside. Riddik pulled away when a bullet struck at the mesh at the back of their knee, and spun to face Maxson across the room.

In a few short steps, the Paladin crossed the gap and took Maxson’s wrist. With a pained groan, the Elder relinquished his weapon as Riddik twisted his arm around near to breaking. And with their free hand, they slammed their fist up into his ribs.

Maxson wheezed as he fell to the floor, the urge to vomit rising in his throat.

To think he’d faced a deathclaw when he was young, and got away with the scar across his cheek to tell the tale. And now, a Paladin under his command sought to finish the job.

Hardly able to take a breath, Maxson couldn’t demand to know why Riddik fought him, threw him across the room like a ragdoll.

He rolled to a stop and clambered to his feet, the taste of blood on his tongue.

Before he could prepare himself, Riddik raced forward and grabbed hold of Maxson’s head, slamming it into the glass behind him.

The Paladin watched the Elder go still, not dead, but very much unconscious. No, Riddik wanted to make a lesson of Maxson, to all the Brotherhood.

And if it meant throwing Maxson’s head at Turner’s feet, they would make her see!

---

Up next!

Chapter 26: Fall of the Brotherhood

#esuerc #Ridley Turner #Fallout 4: Turncoat #Nick Valentine #John Hancock #Paladin Riddik #Turncoat #Fallout #Fallout 4 #Arthur Maxson #Deacon

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hogans-heroes · 3 months

Note

can i ask about the learning curve wip? maybe get a snippet? 😊

Of course! My most beloved wip rn, my chaptered Alex pov. I made a descriptive post about it here and posted a snippet here! (with mini visuals). But I'll give you another longer snippit because I love you and your writing! (Also, as much as I love this fic I've been getting stuck with it lately so am writing other stuff atm. Will get back to it very soon).

Alex’s dad was a psychologist, and boy would he have a field day at Stalag Luft III.

He could practically hear his father’s voice in his head as he watched the guys mill around the camp compound, narrating their actions and picking them apart to gently expose what was inside, for their own good, to study them like wild creatures who in extreme circumstances often reverted back to cavemen, to more raw forms of behavior.

He can’t use his words, his dad would say. Because at some point he tried and tried and tried, and they never worked. “To hell with this,” the brain says, “we’re gonna go back to the basics,” and that’s usually physical expression.

There’s really only two core emotions at the heart of a human. If you keep peeling at the bottom of every action and reaction, every visible emotion, you’ll find either love, or fear. And they’re usually connected. That’s all humans are really made of.

So his dad might have gotten a little philosophical too. At least it gave Alex more thoughts to keep himself busy and not go crazy locked up. It was fun in a way, collecting bits of information and arranging them like a child would blocks. That Bachelor of Science degree in Chemistry and Biology he had earned before the war wouldn’t do him much good if it didn’t at least help keep him alive for the duration. The camp was only a new study he could apply the scientific method to.

So far it had been going well, and every piece fit together in its place. The one thing Alex could not grasp however, that was driving him crazy, was the two majors from the 100th.

Egan and Cleven? Buck and Bucky? John and Gale? Alex wasn't sure what combination of names he should be using or even who was who most of the time, but the names always went together. Not a single person Alex had encountered had ever used the names separately. The way prisoners talked about them, anyone would have thought they were some dual-soul deity the stalag had built a religion around, yet since Alex had been assigned to their barrack room all his careful study of them had only resulted with a handful of pieces that didn’t fit together. Major Gale Cleven “Call me Buck,” with eyes that could pierce your soul like an x-ray and “just” John Egan. Buck, whose impossible gentleness was at odds with his rock-wall presence at the front of his men, and Egan, who treated Alex like a disease though it didn’t seem to be for the usual reasons, he treated everyone that way, walked around with volcanic ash trailing from cracks that Alex wondered if only he could see. What pieces Alex had gathered of the two of them wasn’t the same as what he was hearing from the 100th. The supposed yin-and-yang duo vacillated like a metronome between hostile and devoted and it drove Alex insane.

Pain shot up his leg and he caught himself on Daniels’ outstretched arm, jerking him back to his body moving one foot in front of the other and two comrades beside him, having lost count how many times they had circumnavigated the camp. They were passing their own hut again and this time Buck was sitting on the steps with his nose in a book, his messy hair fallen over his forehead and long fingers clenching the worn cover with more force necessary for a book on native plants of Ireland (Alex had read it the week before). He remained laser focused on the page with a furrow in his brow, scars on his cheeks contrasting sharply with the soft angles of his face, and Alex jumped when Macon knocked him on the arm.

“Pay attention man,” Macon quipped. “We’re still on for our escape, the last thing we need is for you to adopt some sad-eyed White boy.”

Alex wasn’t sure if he should be insulted, but frowned anyway. “Buck’s my friend,” he retorted.

“Oh it’s Buck now? That’s a fuckin’ major, man. A squadron commander with more flight hours than actual goddamn birds and you’re calling that Buck?”

“Just don't get too attached,” Daniels interjected. “The less people we trust here the better.”

The image of Buck sitting in the library with his chin on his knees, gentle blue eyes giving undivided attention as Alex explained some fighter plane or science subject made his stomach twist at the suggestion of not trusting him, or even worse, leaving him behind. Alex had spent most of his life being teased for being too soft, too kind, too trusting. He’d gotten himself in a bad spot several times because of that too, so he probably should be more careful, but sue him, he was tired and aching inside and Buck had actually listened.

#my mota fic #Learning Curve #mota #masters of the air #thanks for the ask!#alex jefferson #john egan #gale cleven #clegan #buck x bucky #Alex pov fic

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everlarkrealornot · 7 years

Text

The PANEM Initiative, Chapter Nineteen

Chapter 19

“You seemed a little board.” Peeta smirked as they sat down for lunch after work the next day.

“Five people in the bakery are a little much…plus, I could have been more help, but the customers seem to love the Mellark Boys.” Katniss grabbed some of the bread he was slicing and started piling on the leftover turkey from the day before.

“Boys?” Peeta asked with a raised eye brow.

“Did you hear the three of you fighting yesterday?” She stood up and got the chips out of the corner cabinet.

“You’ve got a point.” Peeta sat down and started eating. “Thank you,” he said around a mouth full as Katniss handed him a bag of chips.

“You’re welcome.” They sat and ate in silence for a while. “Can I ask you something?” She asked when he took her empty plate. He nodded his head as he dumped the trash in the garbage can. “How did last night go?”

“Uh…better than expected.” Peeta sat back down. “It was interesting.” Peeta explained that Ryen had been looking at online programs for business and found one he really liked that would be starting the first of the year. He knew that his dad did his best to run the bakery but it had never been as successful as Ryen knew it could be. With Brandon, well when he graduated he had been living off of his college fund and chasing girls around. Six months ago he landed a job with a new company that was booming but he hated it. He had been relieved when they fired him but he had no other plan and his bank account was now almost empty, so he was coming home to get a fresh start.

“And what about you?” Katniss asked when he had been quiet for a moment.

“What about me?” She gave him a knowing look. “Kat, I just…” He inhaled deeply and sighed. “You know how teachers would ask you to picture yourself ten years down the road so you could get a better idea of what you wanted to do?”

“Yeah.”

“Whenever I picture our life, I’m at the bakery.” He motioned out the kitchen window. “I’m not in some fancy art studio nor do I own a gallery…I’m just…me and I’m happy.” He smiled at her. “I’m not going to give up painting but I don’t want to give up the bakery either.”

“Wow,” Katniss said in relief. She couldn’t deny that she had been worried that she was the reason he was coming home.

“What?” Peeta wrinkled his nose.

“Nothing…” the look he was giving her made her think twice. If they were going to be honest with each other, they needed to be honest about everything. “I thought part of you coming home had something to do with me.” He sat thinking for a moment before responding.

“Kat. This decision…,” he traced big circles on the table, “this decision was hard for me because for a long time I thought I was doing this because of my feelings for you, but I’m not.” He leaned back in his chair. “I did think I needed to come home after what Gale said but then I thought I needed to stay at school so that you wouldn’t be a factor in my decision. Then I realized both of those choices were a direct result of you…and this is about me.” She nodded in understanding.

“I am glad you know what you want,” she said.

“What about what you want?” He asked with a smile.

“What I want?” Katniss furrowed her brow at him.

“You can’t work at the bakery forever…you hate it,” he added.

“I don’t hate it!” She protested.

“You certainly don’t love it.” Peeta laughed. “Plus, with Bran and me home, you shouldn’t feel like your abandoning the bakery.”

He was right. Even if Ryen decided to quit working while he was back in school, the bakery no longer needed her – it was in the very capable (and probably safer) hands of the Mellark Boys.

She grabbed her phone and flipped through the screens trying to find the screen shot she had taken a couple of days before.

“Here,” she handed him the phone, “I found this a couple weeks ago.”

Peeta took it and read through the ad.

“Kat, this would be perfect – you have to set up an interview.”

“Hold up a minute…the ad says I need to bring five family recipes, come with one already prepared dish, and then show my cooking skills by completing one of their recipes.”

“Alright then,” he said as dragged her to her feet, “You better find your five recipes quickly.”

–

Three days later Katniss found herself standing before an extremely large house that she could only describe as a Victorian Plantation Home. She clutched an insulated carrier in one hand, a small cooler in the other, and was cursing Peeta as she nervously walked up the steps to the porch. She stopped in front of the door and took a couple of deep breaths before ringing the bell. She heard footsteps approaching the door and thought about running for her car, but the door opened before she could make up her mind.

“Hi, you must be Katniss, come in.” He waved her in and closed the door behind her. “I’m Cinna.” He smiled warmly.

“Nice to meet you,” she said and returned his smile.

“Well, then, the kitchen’s this way.” He lead her through the foyer (which had an impossibly tall ceiling), into the dining room (which Cinna said was the smaller of the two – Katniss was sure at least 20 people could eat there), and finally into the kitchen. “You can set your stuff down where ever you like.”

“Wow.” The word was a whisper as she sat her things on the counter. Katniss had never been in such a beautiful and well stocked kitchen in her life.

“I know.” Cinna laughed a little. “It’s a shame that it hardly ever gets used.”

“This is high end, restaurant quality stuff.” She ran a hand over one of the stoves. “You’re going to let me use theses?”

“If you pass the first stage of the interview.” Cinna pulled out one of the bar stools and sat down.

“Right.” Katniss nodded and grabbed the stuff she had brought with her.

“So, what’s for lunch?”

–

“How did it go?” Peeta immediately asked when he picked up the phone.

“I got it!” Katniss practically shouted. She had just barely gotten into the car and started pulling away before she dialed Peeta.

“Yes!” Peeta cheered. “I’m so happy for you, Kat.”

“Thank you!”

When she got home her mom was waiting anxiously at the kitchen table. She had been just as ecstatic as Peeta had been when he heard the news and demanded that Katniss sit down right then and tell her everything.

Katniss had learned that Cinna was a clothing designer who had just broken out on his own. His designs had exploded on the market and his clothes were in high demand. He wasn’t a very good cook but didn’t have the time for it anyway. His mother had been a wonderful cook and those were the recipes that he had been hoping (and was delighted to find out) that Katniss could recreate.

Katniss had been surprised when they started talking about work hours. First thing, Cinna hated breakfast food and didn’t care if she ever fried an egg for him. Second thing, Cinna had a lot of dinner parties. He was hoping that she could work three full days and one dinner party each week. She would be doing the shopping and clean up along with prepping meals for him on the days she wouldn’t be there.

“Sounds like we need to figure out how to get you a car.” Helen had said with a tight smile.

–

Katniss was starting to cut down her hours at the bakery so that by Christmas she would no longer be there. She was excited to spend Prim’s Christmas break with her…plus the thought of no longer having to try and replicate Peeta’s cheese buns was nice. What was not nice was that what little time she did spend at the bakery these days was spent working with Brandon. And he was annoying. And full of himself. And needed to be punched in the face.

And was still friends with Gale. Katniss knew they had been on the football team together and graduated the same year, but she didn’t think they had stayed in contact after high school, which they apparently had.

“Hawthorne! Hey! What’s up man?!” Brandon shouted.

Katniss had been in the middle of organizing the display case when Brandon said his name and she hit her head on the top shelf, leaving a splitting feeling at the back of her skull. She stood up, rubbing her scalp, and glared at the two boys who were oblivious to her presence.

“Katniss!” Posy yelled as she finally wondered around her brother. Katniss’s cheeks flamed as Gale’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. “I miss you!”

“Hi, Posy.” Katniss smiled and walked around the counter to kneel down to give the little girl a hug. “Are you enjoying kindergarten?”

“Yes!” She rocked on her tiny feet, beaming at Katniss. “Are you coming for dinner soon?”

“I don’t know honey…I’ve been pretty busy lately.” Which hadn’t been a complete lie…she might not have been working as much, but she was very close to finishing the wedding packet that Effie had sent her.

“Aww, okay.” Posy pouted.

“I better get back to work, okay?” Katniss hugged her one more time and stood up. She did her best to ignore Gale’s watchful eyes as she went back to the display case.

The boys continued to talk but the phone rang and Brandon grabbed it up before Katniss could even extract herself from the case.

“Gale, can I get a cupcake?” Posy pulled on her brother’s coat.

“Come on, Posy, we need to get going.”

“Please, Gale?” She wined. He looked between Brandon, who was still on the phone taking an order, and Katniss, who was trying to pretend that she couldn’t hear them as she closed the case up. “Please?” She asked again.

“Fine.” His shoulders slumped forward.

“Yay!” Posy ran up to the counter. “Katniss, Gale says I can get a cupcake…which one did you make?” Posy asked, wide eyed. Katniss smiled at the girl.

“I didn’t make these, but Peeta did and he makes the best cupcakes!” Katniss grabbed one and handed it to Posy. “There you go.”

“Thank you!” Posy skipped away from the counter in delight.

“Bran said you were leaving the bakery.” Gale handed her a five out of his wallet.

“I’m done after Christmas.” She handed him back his changed and slammed the cash drawer closed. “Then you can come in whenever you want and not have to see me.”

“Katniss, that’s not what I meant.”

“You might want to help her with that.” Katniss pointed to Posy who now had frosting all over her face.

“Posy!” Gale walked over and picked his sister up, sighing. “Let’s go.”

“See ya, Hawthorne!” Brandon called as he sat the call in order on the counter. “They should be here in about 15,” he said to Katniss. She just nodded. “You two seemed a little…cold for best friends.”

“Shove off, Bran!” Katniss snapped at him.

“Gesh!” Brandon threw up his hands. “Rye makes a snarky comment and you play along, but I make one little observation and I get my head cut off.”

“ONE?!” She yelled. “Since when do you ever just make one comment about anything? You are always taking digs at Rye and you rag on Peeta constantly!”

“Sorry that I’m not as perfect as the golden sons!” He stormed into the back with Katniss on his heels.

“Get off it Brandon! No one feels bad for you – you’re the reason you’re always a mess.”

“That’s right, when Peeta and Ryen’s life are off course, it’s totally fine, but when my life is a mess, it’s my fault!” He started collecting the dirty dishes and clanging them together.

“You’re the one who got yourself fired!” She slammed her hand down next to her on the counter, sending up a cloud of flour.

“I didn't get fired, I quit!” He dropped the bowls into the sink, sending a huge splash of water to the floor, and a loud clanking sound rang in the air.

“But, why would you – ”

“Hey!” The back door slammed shut as Ryen’s voice rang out. “How’s the morning going?”

“I’m done for the day.” Brandon yanked his apron off and threw it to the floor before stomping out.

Buy me a coffee?

#everlark #thg #au #arranged marriage #the hunger games #tpi #kate writes

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lunar-winterlude · 8 years

Text

Feelings - 8

Rating: G Word count: 1690 Summary: Link’s confession changes their relationship more than either of them expect.

AO3

Back in the hospital again, and it was Link and Christy’s turn to visit Rhett and Jessie. They entered the hospital room to find Rhett pacing with a tiny bundle in a blue cap in his arms as he talked to his wife. He and Jessie both looked the way Link imagined he and Christy had when Lily was born—exhausted and slightly shocked but still happy.

“Look at my boy,” Rhett said proudly, turning so they could see the sleeping baby in his arms. “Locke McLaughlin.”

To everyone’s annoyance, he wouldn’t let anyone else hold Locke until Jessie told him to quit being selfish. Even then, he hovered over his visitors—Link especially—and fussed to make sure they were holding his son properly.

That same possessiveness carried on for weeks. Link came to visit one day to find Jessie reading a book in the living room and Rhett nowhere in sight.

“He’s trying to get Locke down for a nap,” she said before Link could ask.

“How’s he doing?” Link asked. He meant Locke, but Jessie had other thoughts in mind.

“He’s been intense,” she said with a slight headshake. “He wants to carry Locke everywhere. I’m lucky if I get to feed him without Rhett asking if he can get either of us anything.”

Link chuckled. “That’s not so bad, right?”

Jessie sighed. “No. It’s been wonderful actually. But he’s been getting underfoot.” She frowned. “He’s spending the night with you tonight, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Link said quickly. He felt his face quickly growing hot, even though this was an arrangement they had kept for a while now. “Thank you,” he added. “For letting me take your husband.”

Jessie smiled back at him, but there was something sharp hidden beneath her innocent expression. “Thank you for letting me take your wife.”

Rhett was already a light sleeper, so when Locke’s plaintive cry echoed through the house at one AM, he had little trouble getting out of bed and padding barefoot down the hall to his son’s bedroom. Locke was a loud crier. He had a pair of lungs fit to put a punk rocker to shame, or so Mama Di had said on her first visit to see her new grandson. Rhett shambled into his son’s room, wincing at his shrill cry, and picked him up from his crib.

“It’s okay, buddy,” he crooned. “Ain’t nothing gonna happen to ya. I’m right here.”

He paced the length of the house, rocking his son gently in his arms. He talked to Locke, telling him about plans he’d made for the future.

“When you’re old enough, we’re gonna play basketball together,” he said. “I’m gon’ show you all my best moves. You’ll be the best point guard in Harnett County.”

Locke only squinted up at him, tiny fists grabbing for Rhett’s chin.

“Hey, that’s my beard there!” Rhett chuckled. “You won’t get your own for a long time.”

He daydreamed a little then, trying to imagine what it would be like to have an older child. It was a strange concept, stranger still since he had trouble imagining anyone calling him “dad.” There were other things to consider, too. Would Locke be as tall as his father? Would he be a good kid or a troublemaker?

Rhett paced the house until he began feeling drowsy. Locke’s eyelids were drooping, but when Rhett tried to lay him down in his crib, he immediately started screaming again and didn’t stop until his father was holding him again.

“You really don’t like being alone, do you?” he murmured, kissing him gently on the forehead. “Well, me neither, I guess.”

Some nights, he dozed off while sprawled on the couch with Locke curled up on his chest. He usually woke up in the morning at the sound of Jessie turning the shower on upstairs. A few times, she woke him gently with a kiss on the forehead and reminded him that both he and Locke would be more comfortable in their own beds.

Gradually, Locke began sleeping through the night, but the same could not be said for Rhett. He was restless for different reasons now.

Work was becoming something he dreaded. The days were painfully slow, and the people were nice to talk to but wholly unimaginative, in Rhett’s opinion. He stopped pretending to read the long-winded manuals on his desk. He spent his time dreaming up plans, ways that he and Link could finally make good on their blood oath to “do something big together.”

He told Link about this one early Saturday morning while the two of them were out hiking. The day was warm, vestiges of summer’s humidity still refusing to give way to fall. The trip had been Link’s idea, since they hadn’t had much time to spend together lately, but for some reason he was very quiet today.

When Rhett mentioned that he was thinking of quitting his job, Link’s brow furrowed behind his sunglasses

“We can’t just quit, man,” he said.

“Jessie and I have been saving whatever we can.” Rhett swiped a wayward bough aside with the stick he carried. “We have enough for several months at least.”

“What would you do when the money ran out? We’ve barely made anything from writing music.”

Rhett shrugged. “We’ve never really pushed ourselves to really write though, have we?”

Link only waved his hand in a gesture that Rhett knew meant be quiet.

The trail wound through the woods, always leading them up, up, up. The ground finally leveled out at a lookout point at the top, where they could see the hills and valleys spread out before them like a verdant blanket. Link sat on the bench near the railing at the edge, rummaging through his backpack. He came up with two water bottles and handed one to Rhett.

It was peaceful up here, Rhett thought. The beautiful view and quiet bird songs in the trees were calming to his restless mind. Inspiring, even. Rhett wished he’d thought to bring his guitar along.

“Christy’s pregnant,” Link said. “We just found out last week.”

The news hit Rhett like a gale force wind. He inhaled to speak and almost choked on his water. “R-really?” he exclaimed when he could speak again. “That’s great, man!” He nudged Link when his friend’s ears began reddening. “You don’t waste any time, do ya?” He elbowed Link harder. “Do ya?”

“Oh stop it.” Link shoved him, but he was grinning now. “Lily’s already up and walking and tryna tell us what to do. Girl’s practically a teenager already. Christy wanted another baby. And,” he added sheepishly, “so did I.”

Rhett laughed out loud at that. “Well congrats, man. I’m happy for you.” He scooted closer and put an arm around Link’s shoulders. “I’m happy for you,” he repeated softly.

Slowly, Link lowered his head to Rhett’s shoulder. “See, that’s part of why I don’t think quitting our jobs is a good idea. Not responsible to just up and leave when you got offspring depending on you to feed them.”

Rhett was irritated at that. “That’s why we’ve been saving money, man! I’m not irresponsible.” He rubbed his hand over Link’s shoulder in slow motions. “I know I asked you this already, but are you happy with your job?”

He felt Link’s body jerk with the force of his answering scoff. “Hell no.”

“You think you’d be doing Christy and Lily any favors if you stayed there? You think they’d be happy if they saw you miserable?”

“They already see me miserable,” Link said wearily. “I come home too late to eat dinner with them. Sometimes I gotta work overnight. You know how it is. There are some days Lily’s still asleep when I leave in the morning and already asleep again when I come home at night. There was one week I think I spoke to her like twice. That’s ridiculous!” He lifted a shaking hand to his forehead. “And I’ve been getting these headaches, too, like real bad migraines. You’re right. I’m not happy there.”

He was on the verge of changing his mind, so Rhett said what he hoped would tip the scales in his favor.

“What about the oath we made?”

With a sigh, Link lowered his head to his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. After a moment, he tilted his head to meet Rhett’s gaze.

“You really think we should try this,” Link said quietly.

“Heck yeah.”

Link rested his chin on his folded hands and looked out across the landscape before them. Rhett waited, hardly daring to move. He hadn’t realized how nervous he was for Link’s response until now.

“I’ll think about it,” Link said finally. “And I’ll talk to Christy, too.”

Rhett almost felt weak with relief. “That’s all I could ask for, man,” he said. He took another gulp of water. “So, um, you got any names picked out for baby Neal?”

“Well, if it’s a boy, he’s gonna be Charles Lincoln the fourth. If it’s a girl…” Link grinned sheepishly. “I was thinking maybe Ninja.”

Rhett really did choke then, sputtering for air as he laughed harder than he had in weeks. Link pounded him on the back until he calmed down.

“Wow.” Rhett wiped tears from his eyes. “Maaan... I really hope it’s a boy.”

“Why you gotta say that? When we told Lily she was going to have a brother or a sister, she got really excited. She really wants a little sister now. Plus Ninja’s just Nina with a J.”

“Sometimes you really worry me, Link.” Rhett shook his head. “Listen, if you name a girl Ninja – or anyone, for that matter – you’re just asking for her to get teased. It’s like you want her to have a terrible life. Watch.” He thickened his southern drawl and leered at Link. “‘Is that your real name? Is Ninja your real name? Naw c’mon, girl, you can tell me!’”

Eyes rolled in response. “Man, it’s just–”

“Nina with a J. I heard you. And shit is just hit with an S.”

Link actually laughed out loud. “Whatever, man.”

#rhink #my fics #boy this fic really became a hodgepodge of stuff #didn't it :\#oh well

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everlarkrealornot · 7 years

Text

The PANEM Initiative, Chapter 13

Emotions Count Too

Its really late for me so I’m not sure why I’m posing this now, but I hope you enjoy because I liked it

Katniss blinked several times as Mrs. Mellark’s words sunk in…boy toy? Cheating? “Mrs. Mellark, this is Gale – he’s my best friend.”

“I know who he is,” she spat. “I also know that everyone in town thinks you two have been sleeping together!”

Everyone? “Well, we’re not.” Katniss shifted uncomfortable on the bench.

“Maybe this time that stupid little Match Coordinator will do something.” Mrs. Mellark held up the phone in her right hand and snapped a picture. “Hell will freeze over before my son marries you.”

When Ryen walked into work on Tuesday, he couldn’t even get the words ‘how was’ before he started cracking up.

“How was my day off?!” Katniss snapped at him as she whipped her apron against the counter. “Fucking fantastic!” Her words were dripping with sarcasm as she glared at Ryen who was still laughing his ass off. “Your mother is psycho!”

“Oh! I know!” He said between the deep breaths he took trying to calm himself down.

“What does she think texting Peeta a picture of Gale and I sitting on a bench eating food will do?” Katniss grabbed a rag and started cleaning off the counters. “I mean, honestly! Gale is my friend – nothing else!” She threw her hands in the air and groaned. Ryen just snickered to himself and started rearranging the display case from the morning rush. “I still can’t believe that she thinks everyone in town thinks we are sleeping together!” Ryen just shrugged and continued shifting the muffins and coffee cakes. “She’s crazy, right?” She watched as he just nodded again. “Rye, she’s just crazy right? No one thinks we’re sleeping together, right?”

Ryen sighed and dropped his head. “Listen Kat,” he stood up and looked at her, “You and Gale have been close for a long time and most people around here just assumed you two were hooking up.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me! Just because two people of the opposite sex are close means they are sleeping together!?” She yelled louder that she had meant to. “Rye – ” One of their regulars walked in and they were interrupted.

“Good afternoon, Ryen!” The little old lady sang when she saw him.

“Afternoon – what can I get you?” Ryen smiled brightly at the woman.

Katniss inhaled deeply through her nose as she walked to the back to start a batch of cinnamon rolls. She probably thinks I’m a hussy too!

The rest of Katniss’s shift went quickly and by the time she was clocking out she had almost forgotten she was supposed to be mad at Ryen and the rest of their town.

“Kat, wait!” Ryen ran to the back door of the bakery and grabbed her arm before she could escape. “I just want you to know that I don’t believe my mom when she says that you are cheating on Peeta.” Katniss set her jaw and folded her arms across her chest, glaring at his hand that was still gripping her forearm. “Sorry.” He let her go, holding up both hands in mock surrender.

“Did you ever think that Gale and I were hooking up?”

“Yes,” he said without missing a beat.

“OH MY GOS – ”

“But!” His voice rose over hers. “Once I got to know you, I realized that you really did care about Peeta and that you would never cheat on him…at least not intentionally.” She scoffed at how ridiculous he sounded to her. “Sex is not the only way to cheat on a person, Katniss.”

Katniss dropped her arms as the implications of his words were starting to set in. “Rye, what…”

“Just, be careful. My brother is the type of guy who has the potential to get hurt worse by an emotional affair than a physical one.” Ryen ran back up front as the front door sounded and left Katniss standing alone at the back of the store, her head spinning with his words.

“What’s wrong?” Madge’s voice sounded tense.

“Hello to you too.” Katniss had dialed Madge as soon as she was home – she needed advice and the only ‘girlfriend’ she had was a billion miles away at college.

“Sorry, but you only call me when it’s emergency.” Katniss winced at the truth in Madge’s words. “Let’s try again….Hi! How are you?”

“I need help!” Katniss croaked out.

“Aww, there it is,” Madge said in mock surprise. “What’s going on?”

“Can someone actually have an emotional affair?”

“Of course, my dad had one with his driver.”

“Peter?! Madge, I didn’t know your dad was gay – you’re parents are still married.”

“He’s not. He and Peter just spent so much time together talking while in the car that an emotional bond was built…anyways it took my parents a year of counseling to fix things. It was really hard on my mom.” Madge sighed and went quiet. “So yeah, emotional affairs are real,” she finally finished.

“Oh,” Katniss’s voice was soft.

“Why are you asking?”

“Just something Rye said.”

“Why would he bring something like that up?”

Katniss launched into her story about Mrs. Mellark and then the conversation that Ryen and she had had before she left work that afternoon.

Madge was quiet again.

“Well??”

“Kat, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Do you think I’m having an emotional affair with Gale?”

“My absolute, completely honest opinion?” Madge asked.

“Yes.”

“I think you and Gale have been friends for a very long time. But I think you are lying to yourself if you continue to turn a blind eye to his feelings for you. And those feelings, the ones you claim to not reciprocate, can make if very easy for you to give more of yourself to Gale than you think you are.”

Henry was going to get Peeta Friday afternoon after his shift so they would be back home by the time Katniss was getting off work. She had been beyond excited to see him but after her conversations with Ryen and Madge, she was worried. She had talked with Peeta after Mrs. Mellark had sent him the picture of her and Gale having dinner…he told her that any words from his mother’s lips were lies and he no longer believed anything she said.

But was she right?

It didn’t matter at the moment because it was Thursday morning, Henry had sent Ryen to get supplies, and the bakery was busy. Henry and Katniss seemed to be in an endless loop: get the customer their fresh baked good (or seven), wrap it, bag it, check them out. Repeat. Katniss was grateful when late morning hit and business slowed down.

“That was a busy morning.” Katniss tucked her rag into her back pocket, admiring the counters she had just cleaned.

“That’s what we like to see!” Henry smiled as he wrapped up some muffins. Katniss smiled in return and nodded her head.

“Would you like some help?” She pointed to the unwrapped pile.

“Thant would be great.” Henry handed her the plastic and she started adding to his pile of wrapped.

“Shouldn’t Rye be getting back by now?” Katniss asked, a little worried at the length of time he has been gone.

“Oh, looks like he is,” Henry said as he looked out the window.

“Took him long enough.” Katniss finished wrapping the muffin she was working with and looked out to the car that was sitting in the Mellark’s driveway. “Did he pick up a hitch hiker?” She asked jokingly, noticing the second figure in the car. Henry chuckled softly as leaned on the counter.

“Why don’t you see if he needs help bring anything in?” He nodded towards the car.

“Sure.” Katniss untied her apron and dropped it on the counter. “Be back,” she sang as she headed towards the entrance. The door had barely closed behind her when she finally realized why it had taken Rye so long to get the supplies they needed.

“Peeta!” She whispered to herself before running towards him and throwing her arms around his neck, almost knocking him over. “Peeta!” She tightened her grip on him as he spun her around.

“I missed you too.” He laughed as he set her back down. She loosened her grip on him enough to pull back and looked him in the eyes. “Hi,” he said rubbing his nose against hers.

“Hi.” She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against his, and inhaled deeply. He smelled like paint and his deodorant. “You smell wrong,” she said frowning.

“I smell wrong?” Peeta asked as he yanked his face away from hers, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“Yes. There’s no bakery smell.” She smiled before leaning in and kissing him. She felt him smile against her lips.

“Alright you two, get a room.” Ryen was still standing on the other side of the car, resting his chin on the roof, watching them intently.

Katniss stepped away from Peeta enough to turn towards Ryen and then stuck her tongue out at him.

“I’m not the Mellark that wants that.” He pushed off the car and headed over to the bakery.

“Oh, shut up!” Katniss called after him. When she turned back to Peeta she was surprised to see that a blush had spread across his cheeks. “I’m pretty sure he was trying to embarrass me…not you.” Peeta nodded and slide his hand down her arm till his fingers were linked with hers. “Big brothers,” she shrugged.

“Yeah,” Peeta laughed. He placed another quick kiss on her lips before letting her hand go and stepping around her so he could get into the back seat. He pulled out a large art portfolio and a small bag, about the size of an old school boom box. “Come on.” He closed the door and nodded toward the Bakery. She smiled and followed him back inside.

“Peeta!” Henry rushed around the counter and gathered Peeta up in a quick bear hug. “You look good!”

“Thanks dad.”

“How are things in the big city?”

“I am really enjoying – ”

“You know what Pete! That’s great!” Ryen slapped him on the back. “But dad and I have to get back to work, right dad?”

“Yes, sir!” Henry nodded his head in agreement. “Katniss why don’t you go help Peeta with his stuff –” He made a half-hearted gesture to Peeta’s portfolio and small bag, which he was clearly capable of managing – “we’ve got the afternoon covered.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Peeta smiled at his dad and shook his head a little before motioning for Katniss to follow him.

“I can’t tell if they were trying to get rid of me or not.” Katniss joked once they were outside. “Here let me get that.” She hurried around him and held the back door open.

“Yeah, subtle is never a word I will use for my family.” Peeta led the way up the stairs and to his room. He dropped his bag on his dresser and sat the portfolio on his art easel. Katniss was still standing in the doorway when he turned around. “What?”

“It’s just…I was expecting something to have changed since the last time I was in here.”

“I’ve been gone, remember?” He asked lightheartedly.

“Like I could forget.” She rolled her eyes and finally sat down on the bed. She watched Peeta out of the corner of her eye as he nervously rearranged the few small canisters of paint on the table that he had left at home. “Are you okay?”

“It’s silly, isn’t it?” He shoved his hands in his pockets as he talked. “Being nervous.”

“Nervous about what?” She asked as she kicked off her shoes and folded her feet under herself.

“Being alone with you…it’s not the first time we’ve made out.” Peeta rubbed the back of his neck, not meeting her eyes.

“Come here.” She motioned for him to come sit next to her on the bed. He moved quickly across the room and sat down. “If it’s okay, I’d really like to kiss you right now.” Peeta smiled broadly as he remembered saying those same words to her.

“Okay.” The tension in his body vanished as he leaned down and captured her lips before she could move. He spent a moment getting reacquainted with her mouth. First his sucked her upper lip between his lips, sliding his tongue along it before gently biting down. He repeated the process with her lower lip as he laced his one hand into her braid. He released her bottom lip with a ‘pop’ and ran his thumb along her chin. He kissed her again, this time pressing his tongue into her mouth, running it along her top front teeth before sweeping it across her tongue. Katniss inhaled sharply and pulled Peeta’s chest tight against hers.

He pulled his fingers out of her hair and rested both of his hands on her waist. He pushed gently on her, breaking her hold on his lips. She leaned back slowly onto the bed and tugged on his shirt when he did not immediately follow her. He smirked and braced himself above her, doing his best not to crush her ribcage. She reached up and peppered his jaw with kisses. He smiled as she ran her hands down to the bottom of his shirt and tugged it up. He briefly sat up and tugged the shirt over his head. Katniss hummed in satisfaction as she ran her fingers over his bare chest.

Slowly leaning back down, he kissed her forehead, nose, chin, and kissed his way up her jaw, quietly whispering, “I really missed you.”

#everlark #kate writes #au #arranged marriage #tpi #thg

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