#you can’t see me but i’m doing the walter white falling to his knees thing

[romanceyourdemons]

i can’t believe the emei sect isn’t real. how could jin yong lie to me about Girlboss Mountain

[lizwontcry]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Breaking Bad Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jesse Pinkman/Walter White Characters: Jesse Pinkman, Walter White Additional Tags: I hope y'all like kissing Summary:

A small, quiet conversation that turns into more. AU take on the scene from 5x6, Buyout.

Jesse lets go of Walt’s hand and Walt questions why he immediately feels so intensely disappointed, but Jesse doesn’t alter his gaze off Walt’s face. Instead, he gently removes Walt’s glasses and puts them on the coffee table. Walt is so moved by this seemingly innocuous gesture that it renders him speechless. And apparently Jesse has decided they don’t need words, anyway.

____

He's losing him. Walt is losing Jesse and it's making him feel the worst kind of helpless. Ever since he took down Gus, their partnership--hell, their relationship--has been thriving, and now he feels like he has to think quick to get them back on track. Ha, back on track--ironic since they almost got away with robbing the train of its methylamine, and then...

He can't lose Jesse. Not now.

Walt reaches out and puts his hand on Jesse's shoulder. It's a little damp from sweating under their cumbersome, restrictive protective gear. The occupational hazards of cooking meth, Walt supposes. They were just taking a lunch break in another random stranger’s house when Jesse stumbled upon a news story about the kid in the desert.

Jesse is, understandably, still unhinged about Drew Sharp. Walt gives a half-hearted speech about “running the business their way” and soul-searching after they’ve made all their money, but he knows he's not getting through to Jesse. It's so frustrating to feel like Jesse is slipping further and further away from him when Jesse is the only person who remains faithful and loyal. The only person he can truly trust.

"Listen, why don't I finish this up? Why don't you... why don't you go on home, hmm?" Walt says. Maybe if Jesse had more time to himself, some peace and quiet, he'll calm down. Walt’s starting to see that’s not likely, however. He may not ever be the same. Walt is almost certain he at least used to possess as much empathy as Jesse has, but he can’t actually remember a time when he did. It’s sort of disconcerting.

“You sure?” Jesse asks.

“Absolutely,” Walt says. “Yeah. I’ll take care of this.” He claps Jesse one more time on the shoulder and gets up to go back into the tent. But Jesse grabs his hand and causes Walt to abruptly turn around. Walt is a little shocked by this gesture--Jesse rarely touches him; in fact it seems like he goes out of his way not to most of the time.

“Mr. White… I can’t go home--what's the point? I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I want to find Todd and I want to--ugh, I want to strangle that piece of shit!”

“I know. I know you do, and I've told you over and over again--we will deal with Todd."

"Oh, yeah? How is that? How are we going to deal with this nazi asshole who just shot a kid right in front of us? We have to talk to Drew Sharp’s parents, Mr. White. We have to do something."

"Saul is going to handle all of that, don't worry. That's why we pay him, Jesse. To deal with things like this. And Todd is not going to go unpunished. I promise you."

Jesse does not look convinced. Walt gets it--Jesse has a certain affinity for children; he can relate to their innocent young souls, or something. Walt is not made of stone--he mourns the senseless death of the kid, too, but he's become numb. It's just easier to be numb than to think about all the carnage that has fallen around him. Because of him, some might say. Walt disagrees, but that's another subject entirely.

Perhaps giving in to Walt's attempt at compassion, Jesse sinks into the couch next to him. Walt pats Jesse on the shoulder again; Jesse looks up at him, a somber expression on his face. His eyes are wet with silent tears.

"I just... don't know how we're going to move on from this," Jesse says softly.

"I know, but I will handle it. Come on, don't you trust me?" Walt asks.

Jesse shakes his head. "I don't know, Mr. White. I want to. But it just keeps happening, yo. Everywhere we go, someone dies. I can’t… I can’t do it. I can't keep doing this.”

Walt’s heart sinks a little. Again, he wishes he had the gift of comfort, but he’s never been very good at that. So instead he sits down with Jesse and awkwardly puts his arm around him. To his surprise, Jesse sighs and puts his head on his shoulder. Again, Jesse rarely shows any signs of physical affection towards him, but Walt isn't going to deny him of it. Jesse seems to need it now more than ever. The weight of Jesse’s head on his chest, his steady breathing, the warmth of his body… Walt feels like his heart is beating a little faster now. He tries not to think about that too much.

"Jesse... listen to me," Walt says in a low, controlled voice. “We've been through a lot together this past year, haven't we? And with everything that happens, I've managed to keep us moving forward."

"Yeah... I guess," Jesse says, sniffing a little.

"We got out of the Tuco situation, remember? My plan worked."

"Yeah, but you kinda got us into that one, too," Jesse points out. "I know you went all Rambo or whatever on him when I was in the hospital, but still... you got us mixed up with him in the first place."

Walt nods; he'd concede Jesse the point. "Okay, well, how about killing those dealers before they could kill you first?"

"Yeah, but I pretty much repaid you for that one, yo," Jesse says. He squeezed Walt's hand for emphasis. "Don't you think?"

Walt nods, and sort of feels bad for making Jesse think about Gale yet again.

"Yes, you did. Of course you did, Jesse. And I can never thank you enough for that.”

Walt is quiet for a moment. He doesn't want to lose this momentum they've been building up together, so he continues. "The point is... you can trust me. Saul will deal with the boy's parents and Mike will figure out what to do with Todd. We can overcome this. And I want you by my side when we do--I can't do this without you."

Jesse chuckles. "That's bullshit. You can get any asshole off the street and teach him what you've taught me. No big deal."

"That's not true. And even if it were, I wouldn't want to. It's you and me, Jesse. It's always been you and me."

Jesse looks at him again, his glistening blue eyes shining in the harsh light of the living room. Walt knows firsthand how much Jesse can get away with, with those eyes of his. How charming he can be when he really wants to. Walt admires the ease of Jesse's good looks.

“One more thing… one more reason to trust me--I got you into rehab, Jesse. I found you in that disgusting hellhole you were in and I picked you up and I brought you out of there. But first I held you in my arms, remember? I held you while you cried. And I made sure you would be okay. Doesn't that mean anything?" He's not trying to lay it on so thick, but Walt is getting a little emotional just thinking about it. The way Jesse clung to him that day, never wanting to let go. Walt's shirt was drenched in Jesse's anguished tears by the time he finally got him out of that godforsaken house.

"Yeah... I remember," Jesse says. He finds Walt's hand again and lightly intertwines their fingers together. Walt wonders where this is coming from, but he doesn’t want it to stop. In fact, just like everything else in his life lately, he needs more.

"I don't know what would have happened if you didn't take me out of there, yo. Honestly, I don’t even know how I ended up there in the first place. It’s all a blur."

“Well, that’s all over now. You’re safe, and I will always do my best to make sure you stay that way. That’s all I want, Jesse. That’s all I want you to know.”

“I get it,” Jesse says, but there’s no hint of the usual annoyance in his voice. Instead his voice is calm and unwavering.

Jesse lets go of Walt’s hand and Walt questions why he immediately feels so intensely disappointed, but Jesse doesn’t alter his gaze off Walt’s face. Instead, he gently removes Walt’s glasses and puts them on the coffee table. Walt is so moved by this seemingly innocuous gesture that it renders him speechless. And apparently Jesse has decided they don’t need words, anyway.

As Jesse leans in, Walt grabs his neck--maybe a little more forcefully than necessary, but god, in the moment in between Jesse looking at him and then meeting his lips, Walt decides he needs this. He needs Jesse, and more than that, he wants Jesse.

Jesse groans a little as Walt crashes into his lips. It’s as though if Walt doesn’t immediately claim Jesse as his own, this will all come to an abrupt end. And Walt can’t have that.

After a moment of desperate kissing, Jesse roughly pushes Walt back. “Jesus, Mr. White, you kiss like a fuckin’ bull in a china shop. Slow down, yo. I’m not… I’m not going anywhere.” He sounds so vulnerable (albeit somewhat annoyed), and Walt is finding himself captivated by this kid he’s taught so much. It makes him feel... defenseless. Exposed. He’s so used to feeling the exact opposite towards Jesse that this is really throwing him off his game. But Walt kind of enjoys the sense of being out of control for once. Especially with Jesse.

“Show me,” Walt says softly, almost in a whisper. “Teach me.”

Walt can’t prove it but he swears Jesse’s eyes get even bluer as he leans in again and places a gentle kiss on Walt’s lips. He moves even closer to him, nearly in his lap, and the tenderness of Jesse’s delicate kisses makes Walt weak in his already bad knees. If he wasn’t sitting down, he’d probably be falling to the ground right about now. And although they both probably smell like the chemicals they're using to cook, Walt can't help but appreciate Jesse’s natural scent as the kissing intensifies. Somehow the smell of tobacco on Jesse’s breath and the taste of saltiness from the chips he ate for lunch is only turning Walt on more.

“Come here,” Walt murmurs. “Come closer.” As always, Jesse obeys. He faces Walt on his lap, straddling him, his knees buried in the couch. He wraps his arms around Walt’s neck as he kisses him even more fiercely, while still keeping it soft and steady. Walt takes Jesse's lead, melting into the kisses, not being aggressive or rough; just enjoying how Jesse can't seem to get enough of him.

Walt moans as Jesse’s tongue finds his own. He moves his hand under Jesse’s thin black t-shirt and strokes his back as their lips continue to meet, over and over again, almost uncompromisingly. His back is so warm, and Walt can’t help but sink his fingertips into Jesse’s lean muscles, slightly scraping his skin with his nails. Jesse gasps and stops kissing Walt for just a moment, and Walt gets another look into those moody ocean eyes.

“Mr. White…” Jesse whispers, and Walt gets it. They should stop doing this. They never should have started in the first place. Why are they even doing it? To distract themselves? There's a million other ways to accomplish that, none that involve sticking their tongues in each other's mouths. This way does seem to be the most effective for the time being, though.

“I know, Jesse. It’s okay. I want this, too."

This seems to be what Jesse needs to hear, because his lips make their way back to Walt’s. Walt bites Jesse’s lip just slightly. Jesse groans a little.

"Sorry... you just taste so good," Walt says into Jesse's ear. He licks Jesse's earlobe and enjoys how Jesse trembles under the tender touch of Walt's tongue.

When Walt returns to his waiting lips, Jesse makes this humming noise that goes straight to Walt’s groin. He moves his hands down to Jesse’s hips; his pants seem to fit him better these days but Walt is still able to run his fingertips over the tender curves of his hip bones. Jesse gasps into Walt’s mouth. Walt’s heart is positively racing now and all he wants to do is lay Jesse down and explore every inch of his slight, diminutive body.

Walt loses track of time as they keep coming together. All he knows now is Jesse's lips, his tongue searching his mouth, his fingertips brushing Walt's neck, his shoulders, his collarbone.

Jesse finally pulls away, which is probably a smart idea because Walt’s about to consume him whole if they don’t stop soon.

They both try to calm down and steady their ragged breaths before either of them figure out something to say. Or if they even need to say anything at all.

Jesse manages to speak first. “I think I’ll go ahead and take off, man. Um… Look. I’ll be at home. For the night. If like… you want to stop by or whatever.” Jesse is so cute when he can’t even meet Walt’s eyes.

“Good,” Walt says, nodding. “I might just take you up on that.” Might? Walt has never looked forward to anything so much in his entire 51 years. He can just imagine pulling up to Jesse’s house, finding his way to his bedroom, slowly undressing him… but he’s getting ahead of himself. Maybe steady heads will prevail by then; maybe either or both of them will have come to their senses. But from the way Jesse’s gazing at him now--and the heat coming from Jesse’s jeans that grew stiff while he was on top of Walt--he knows that’s probably not a possibility. He hopes it’s not a possibility.

“Yo, that’s cool. See you later. Oh, and thanks for finishing up here,” Jesse says. Walt just nods, and watches as Jesse gets his things, takes one last look at Walt, and hesitantly leaves the house, closing the door behind him.

Walt can’t help but whistle as he finishes the cook.

[howdoyousleep3]

you lean into me like you know

A/N: Hi so I’m feeling super wack right now and it’s really hard for me to write or to even get to that point, but this is something I wrote a while back and didn’t have the courage to share and then never finished it entirely to the extent I wanted to. There isn’t explicit smut but it’s implied or glossed over. The vibe I had in my head was very retro, not modern day, “The Outsiders” vibe. It is very different than what I normally post but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. I’d love to hear your thoughts. 

After his second year of college Bucky comes home for the summer. His heart desires to stay in the city, yearning for the chaos, but he acknowledges how important it is to come home for his Ma. It’s a mild June morning, air already growing sticky, and it’s the first time Bucky sees Steve Rogers. 

Seeing Steve makes him realize he’s never seen sunlight before. Looking at Steve makes Bucky hopeful again, makes him want to smile, makes him want to be a good person. He’s the most beautiful thing he has ever set his eyes on and Bucky wants to fucking break him. Perfect little Steve Rogers with his rosy cheeks, golden blonde hair, his seemingly-always broken glasses, his full-ride scholarship, and his perfectly-keen artistic eye.

 It’s disgusting.

 Bucky’s pretty sure he’s in love. 

The sight of Steve makes Bucky short of breath and that isn’t even because of the cigarette between his lips. He sucks more nicotine into his lungs to shove down the growing ache in his chest and throws it to the concrete so he can stomp on it like he wants to do his own heart.

Once Bucky sees him coming out of the library that afternoon he sees Steve Rogers everywhere. He most definitely doesn’t blame that on the fact that Steve takes up every empty space in his mind, fantasizing about every which way he can make Steve cry. He sees him in the grocery store, walking down the road, at the local diner; Bucky sees him everywhere and it feels like he is drowning. 

He’s never been in love, not even close, never wanting to do more than fuck and move on. The foreign feeling in his chest and brain makes him comprehend why history is full of people who go mad over love, spend their days mourning, harm themselves, even die, for love. Bucky’s a tough kid. No one messes with Bucky Barnes. But one Steve Rogers is slowly cracking him open and Bucky’s doing what he can to protectively keep all the pieces of himself together.

The first time Bucky talks to Steve is a critical moment. If he’s shattered inside without even having heard Steve’s voice, he can’t imagine what hearing it will do to him. It isn’t planned. Bucky has no warning. He is standing outside the diner sucking down another cigarette, his date for the night (Sherry? Sarah? Stacey? Shit.) waiting far too patiently inside. It’s a decent summer night aside from the rain that’s been meandering down from the sky nearly all day. Bucky registers the bell on the door signifying the entrance or exit of someone, but he has no intention of lifting his head to acknowledge them. People usually like it more when Bucky doesn’t notice them.

“You know those things are awful for you,” a deep voice says to him and he’s ready to square up with the person who belongs to said voice when he looks up and—

Ah fuck.

He’s looking over at Steve, perfect little Steve Rogers. If Bucky felt like he was drowning before, he’s dying now, hanging on by a thread. Bucky opts to not immediately respond and instead takes in the kid and savors the moment. Steve is so small up this close and Bucky wants to squeeze him, wants to hurt him, wants to touch him. He swears he can smell him but that’s incredibly unrealistic given the distance between them and the humidity. 

He can see a smattering of summer freckles starting to form across the bridge of Steve’s proud nose and he aches inside at the sign of youth. He just knows that that smooth creamy skin would bruise like a peach, all sweet, under Bucky’s chaotic grip. Bucky’s palms begin to sweat and once again he finds himself flicking the butt of his cigarette to the ground, blowing out smoke into the heavy air between them, smashing and grinding what’s left of the cigarette unnecessarily into the pavement beneath his feet.

“No shit, kid,” Bucky manages to bite out before heading back inside the diner, narrowly avoiding brushing shoulders with Steve, bell ringing, hands shaking, breaths rushing. Bucky’s core, his equilibrium, have completely been compromised. If Bucky imagines that the body beneath him later that night, the one he’s fucking into, is comprised of bony joints, a strong jaw, and eyes that take him to oceans he’ll never in his life visit, he can’t be blamed. This is Steve Roger’s fault.

The next time Bucky talks to Steve he is more prepared. He knows it’s coming because he is the one who initiates the brief conversation. He needs to get his feet back under him, needs to be the one with the upper hand, needs to hear Steve Rogers’ disproportionately husky voice hit his ears again. 

He finds himself at the local market indecently early all because his Ma wants fresh green beans from Mr. Walter. He is very aware of the fact that Steve sells his art at a rickety old table, simplistic and pure, sitting behind it all in a near-broken wooden chair. He’s so compact that the splintered chair sees no strain and Bucky’s heart does that achy pull when his eyes land on him. He swears to himself he’s in one of those romance films they show at the drive-in on weekdays for cheap. It makes him nauseous.

He pretends to pick and sort through a barrel of peaches, fingers barely detecting the fuzziness of their skin, eyes trained on the soft blonde. Steve Rogers looks just that, so soft, so gentle, plain white t-shirt and faded jeans, knees tucked to his chest to balance the worn sketchbook on them. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek to feel pain, to counterbalance the warm twinge beneath his ribs but it barely works. Bucky realizes with a wave of panic that he could watch Steve Rogers draw and sketch and focus for the rest of his life.

Bucky has a plan, knows what he is going to say, can only hope what little Steve Rogers replies with. Thick shaky legs take him right up to Steve’s table and before his lips can even part the wind gets knocked right fuckin’ out of him. His words die on his tongue as his eyes rove over the worst thing he could have ever seen—himself.

Amongst all the sketches and drawings, even a painting, there to the left lies a rough sketch of Bucky. He’s standing outside the diner, the point of view of the sketch drawn from within it, and a cigarette hangs between his lips. He looks brooding, dark on the paper, side profile gutting. He’s never seen these emotions splayed across his face before and how dare Steve Rogers, of all fucking people, showcase it to the world.

His brain tries to catch up with his limbs and mouth as he listens to himself mumble, “What the fuck, Rogers?”, fingers reaching to touch at the paper reverently. That wasn’t what Bucky was supposed to say. Bucky’s supposed to make Steve Rogers blush and stammer, conceal an erection, think about Bucky when he closes his eyes at night. He gets the blush and stammer, cerulean eyes wide as he damn near falls out of his seat in an attempt to snatch the sketch from Bucky’s reach and view.

“Fuck, I didn’t…Bucky…” he mumbles and a noise bubbles up in Bucky’s chest at Steve saying his name. Steve is quick but Bucky is quicker, pulling the sketch out of reach. Steve’s small arms are no match for Bucky’s longer ones. Bucky takes a second to appreciate the sketch up close before blinking over at Steve who looks like he is about to burst into tears. He’s fidgeting where he stands, arms crossed over his wisp of a chest, both face and neck a splotchy red mess. His eyes are downcast and Bucky can actually hear Steve wheezing. Bucky wants to wrap him up in his arms and kiss his cheek, to press his lips right there on Steve’s temple like he’s almost damn sure would make him blush. Bucky has absolutely not ever done that or felt this way before. His fingers twitch.

“How much?”

Bucky watches as Steve’s head shoots up, a look of sheer surprise and embarrassment flowing over his features. He stammers and chokes on his words, the strong crease between his brows prominent.

“Fucking Christ, Rogers—how much?” Bucky says in as much aggravation as he can muster, which is a miracle considering his veins feel like thick honey full of adoration. Steve quickly shakes his head feverishly.

“No, it’s…no. Nothing, s’free.” He still won’t look up at Bucky, picking at the hem of his shirt, and Bucky already wishes he could see those eyes again. How can he long for something, someone, when they’re right in front of him?

“I-I usually sell them for like…t-twenty dollars. It’s cool though, I—”

Bucky raises his hand dismissively, Steve snapping his mouth shut with a click, and he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. He tugs out a fifty-dollar bill and tosses it on the table. Steve doesn’t look up at him. Bucky wants to cradle the sketch close to his chest, to show it to the world, to frame it in glass and get it signed. Instead he turns and says, “See ya later, kid,” and walks away. 

He walks away a fluster of emotions. 

He’s still uneasy and off-balance, angry, but his entire being feels like it’s letting out a sigh of relief. Bucky refuses to think of why his thoughts are forming the way that they are and instead folds up the sketch and places it in his back pocket with shaky hands. He’ll keep it on the table next to his bed and smooth out its creases as he looks over it every night before he sleeps. Bucky doesn’t think about how it’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for him. 

[simp-for-spencer-reid]

Sugar with a Side of Coffee: Ch. 14- The Face of Danger

Chapter 14: The Face of Danger Masterlist

It had been a little over half a year since Spencer had put himself in the face of danger. That timeline also happened to align with his relationship with Cate. It had been almost a year of knowing her and him slowly falling in love. He hadn’t said it officially. It could’ve been the fear of getting too attached to a good thing, but Spencer thought it was a mutual unspoken agreement to keep the word out of their relationship. It held a lot of weight: Love. How could he keep Cate tethered to him when he felt like she deserved a stable life he couldn’t give her? The end of he and Cate’s relationship is what now landed him cornered by half of his team in an SUV on route to an active hostage situation.

“Pretty Boy, we all know that you and.. you know who.. aren’t on good terms right now, but what happened?” Derek was the first to speak what was on everyone’s mind. Spencer didn’t turn to look at him from the passenger seat. “We thought things were going good?” 

“Is this really the time and place for this?” Spencer tried to reason with Derek. 

“There’s no time like the present.” Emily spoke from the driver’s seat, glancing at Spencer from the rearview mirror before turning her eyes back to the road.

“I think a gunman with hostages trumps my relationship status.” Spencer rubbed his sweaty palms onto his knees. The SUV became silent, apart from the sirens wailing as they sped through the roads. 

He thought back to last night when he had driven to JJ’s house again, looking for more advice on the Cate situation. He knew he had messed up big time. Since walking out of her apartment that night, he could barely sleep. He felt ashamed for having stood her up and it was like he had spiraled, his grip on his life- balancing Cate and his job- was slipping through his fingers like sand. 

“How do you do it?” he asked JJ. “How do you have Will and your family and this job?” He sighed.  “I feel like I wouldn’t be able to give anyone enough with my lifestyle.” He mumbled. JJ, who was sitting next to him, placed her hand over his. 

“You are good enough, Spence.” She tried to make eye contact with him, but he kept his focus down. “You deserve something good.” She squeezed his hand.

That night, Spencer went home and thought of how he might be able to make things right with Cate.

She didn’t want to admit it, but Cate was disappointed when she didn’t see Spencer out on the bench during her shift at the shop. It had been a few weeks since she had spoken to him. Marta had been the one to bring him his coffee when he was outside the shop; Cate was still busy being mad. Things between them were going good. She didn’t understand why he had to self-sabotage something like what they had.

Cate and Marta closed the shop an hour earlier than usual and took a walk around Quantico while it was still light out. Some fresh air did Cate good: to clear her head and get things off of her chest that she needed to say. They somehow had gotten to the heart of the city while aimlessly walking and talking about everything. 

“I just- How did he manage to make me hate him that night when I love him?” Cate shook her head. Marta stopped in her tracks.

“Love? You never told me you love him!” Cate stopped, and turned around to face Marta. “You used present tense, not past. You still love him?” Marta’s face softened.

“I mean I did, I do. I never told him though.” Cate kicked a rock. Marta caught up to Cate. 

“Why not?” Marta asked. 

“I just, I don’t know. I chickened out? It was never the right time?” Cate searched for a reason, but couldn’t find an excuse as to why she never told him. Their conversation was cut short by police sirens on an SUV speeding past them, turning down a street up ahead.

 Spencer hadn’t spoken to Cate in about a month; he got a bit reckless and albeit a bit careless with himself while doing his job. He didn’t care about getting hurt. What could hurt worse than this pit in his heart. He could only blame himself for the pain he felt. Soon enough, the team pulled up to the bank where an attempted robbery had gone wrong. A gunman was hiding inside the building with two hostages.

Trying to reason with the unsub from outside of the building was not working. He demanded an agent come inside and he’d trade a hostage for an agent. The team had ten minutes, or he’d shoot a hostage instead. Spencer was taking off his bulletproof vest and his gun; he walked inside with his hands up, trying to talk the unsub down from shooting a hostage. 

Cate and Marta slowed their steps as they saw many police cars and unmarked black SUVs surrounding a building, cutting off traffic from the street. Cate paused when she spotted a head of messy curls she could recognize anywhere. Her eyes darted around, finding other members of the BAU in the crowd of police officers and agents. 

The team was in a standoff with the unsub. Cate couldn’t quite make out what was being said in the exchange over the megaphone, but before she knew it, she saw Spencer remove his vest and enter the bank, now completely out of her sight. 

It felt like her heart stopped beating. She felt like she was suffocating. Cate was struggling to keep her tears at bay, Marta tried enveloping her in a hug, but Cate gently pushed her away to keep her eyes locked on the door of the building where Spencer had disappeared. Derek had walked around back, still in his protective gear.

It was like time passed in slow motion, and the only sound Cate could hear was her heart beating out of her chest. Cate and Marta watched the scene intently. The girls couldn’t let go of each other, Cate was squeezing Marta’s hands so tight her knuckles were white. 

Suddenly, the sound of gunshots rang out. Cate sobbed into her best friend’s shoulder and peeled her eyes away from the building behind the black SUVs. Cate could just barely hear the team make orders to go into the building. Now, the whole team was gone into the bank, leaving behind only their police counterparts behind their cruiser doors. Cate gingerly looked at the building, seeing a figure on a  gurney come out, sheet over them, a large blood stain swallowing the white of the sheet. 

“Do you think-” Cate couldn’t even finish her sentence, her voice was hoarse from crying. She really wished she had told Spencer how she felt before things ended. Marta shook her head, and put both her hands on Cate’s cheeks, forcing her to look at her.

“Don’t say that.” Marta told her. “You can’t think like that.” The girls saw the team slowly make their way out. First to reach the police was Hotch, his face as stressed as ever. Then trickled out Prentiss, JJ, and finally Morgan. With the team were two civilians being escorted out. Cate’s breath hitched in her throat as she saw the man she was praying was still alive. Spencer. He walked last out of the building, straight to the back of an ambulance, to get assessed.  Cate pushed her way out of Marta’s arms, getting caught by a pair of officers, only getting let through when Derek gave them permission to let her through. Cate ran to Spencer, reaching him just as EMTs were finishing their assessment. He had had a cut above his eyebrow from an altercation with the gunman. He looked at her, shocked that she was outside the crime scene, well now she was inside the yellow tape. He had to blink to make sure it was really her. 

 Cate was flailing her arms, hitting the lanky agent with any chance she could get as he tried dodging and attempting to grab her wrists to no avail. He looked to Hotch, but Hotch only shook his head.

“Spencer Walter Reid. What were you thinking, going in there without a vest? Are you stupid? You scared me half to death. I thought you were DEAD. Do you hear me? Dead. God, for a doctor you can be so dumb. If you ever do that again, I will kill you mysel-.” Cate’s rant was cut short when Spencer wrapped both arms around her, letting her cry into his chest. Cate squeezed her arms around his waist. 

“Threatening a federal agent is a felony.” he told her, his voice soft. Cate sighed, hiding her smile in his chest. He was cradling the back of her head when Hotch started to walk over. The two split apart, wiping their eyes. Spencer sighed, awaiting his punishment.

“I was coming to reprimand you, but I think Cate got that covered. You’ll have extra paperwork for the next week.” Hotch told him. Spencer nodding knowingly and Hotch walked away to go finish up the case with the team. 

“Please don’t ever scare me like that again.” Cate whispered to him. He only nodded, bringing her into another embrace. 

“I’m sorry.” He was sorry for everything: for the way he pushed her away, for the way things ended, for scaring her. She clutched the back of his button up, and inhaled deeply. Spearmint and eucalyptus. She broke apart just far enough to look him in the eyes. They both looked at each other with unspoken words floating in their heads.

After Spencer had gotten off the case, he had finished his report and debriefing. His feet were walking him to a place he hoped Cate was: The Empty Mug. The sign on the door said closed, but he could see Marta and Cate sitting in a pair of armchairs talking with mugs in their hands. Marta was the one to let Spencer in. Cate was standing, watching him walk in. She saw Marta place a hand on his arm before she went upstairs to give them privacy. 

“Coffee?” Cate asked as he approached. He nodded, and Cate went to make the large mug and the obscene amount of sugar in it. When she made her way back from around the counter, Spencer was seated in the only loveseat in the shop, in front of an electric fireplace. Cate handed him his mug and took a seat next to him. There was a silence as they soaked in each other’s presence. 

“So, um, this wasn’t exactly how I imagined we would start talking again.” Spencer started. Cate nodded and cracked a small smile. “There’s a lot of things I want to say.” He exhaled nervously.

“Why didn’t you just call me?” Cate interjected. Spencer met her eyes, before looking down at his shoes.

“I tried, I honestly did. We were rushing to get to the jet and I know it’s a terrible excuse but I just felt terrible leaving when you were probably already ready to go.” Spencer had set his mug on the coffee table, wringing his hands and playing with his fingers. Cate reached over, taking one of his hands in hers. 

“Next time, just let me know, please.” Cate wore a small smile, and scooted over towards him. “Or send Penelope with ice cream again.” Cate laughed. There was another pause between them. Cate played with his fingers.

“Next time?” Spencer clarified. 

“I’d be willing to try again.” Cate sounded hopeful. Spencer was shocked that after everything he’d done, someone would still be willing to be with him.

“I didn’t even know you were there today, at the scene. The whole time I was in the building, staring down the gunman, all I could think about was all the things I never got to say to you.” Spencer shook his head. “You are something else, Cate. You’re incredible and meeting you was one of the best things to happen to me. I’ll be damned if I let you slip away again.” Spencer looked to Cate, and she was gazing back at him. The crackle of the fake fire was the only sound filling the silence after Spencer finished speaking. 

“What was it?” Cate asked, beginning to lean in. “What did you never get to tell me?” In return, Spencer started to close the gap between them. Right before their lips touched, he whispered it.

“That I love you.”

After breaking apart, Cate held Spencer close still, her fingers wound in the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Spencer Walter Reid,” Cate began. This time when she spoke his name, it was calmer, softer. “I am so in love with you.” He felt her breath and the tips of her fingers against the back of his head. A shiver ran down his spine at her touch. 

The two spent a while more in front of the fireplace. Spencer draped an arm around Cate, who nestled into his side. Cate didn’t want to leave this moment. It felt like time was stopped again, but this time she was in a bubble with Spencer by her side, safe and warm from the outside.

[thefakejeffreyazoff]

‘He’s our Satan’: Mega music manager Irving Azoff, still feared, still fighting

(x)PEBBLE BEACH, Calif. —  

This is not Irving Azoff’s house. Irving and his wife Shelli own houses all over, from Beverly Hills to Cabo San Lucas, but right now in the last week of October it’s too cold at the ranch in Idaho and too hot at the spread in La Quinta, so he’s renting this place — a modest midcentury six-bedroom that sold for $5 million back in 2016.

From the front door you can see all the way out, to where Arrowhead Point juts like the tail of a comma into the calm afternoon waters of Carmel Bay. More importantly, the house is literally across the street from the Pebble Beach Golf Links, where Azoff likes to play with his college buddy John Baruck, who started out in the music business around the same time Azoff did, in the late ’60s, and just retired after managing Journey through 20 years and two or three lead singers, depending how you count.

(Via LA Times) 

Azoff is 72, and this weekend he’ll be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame alongside Bruce Springsteen’s longtime manager Jon Landau. Beatles manager Brian Epstein and Rolling Stones manager Andrew Loog Oldham are already in, but Azoff and Landau are the first living managers thus honored. Azoff is not only alive — he’s still managing. As a partner in Full Stop Management — alongside Jeffrey Azoff, his oldest son and the third of his four children — he steers the careers of clients like the Eagles, Steely Dan, Bon Jovi and comedian Chelsea Handler, and consults when needed on the business of Harry Styles, Lizzo, John Mayer, Roddy Ricch, Anderson .Paak and Maroon 5. Azoff has Zoom calls at 7, 8 and 9 tomorrow morning, and only after that will he squeeze in a round.

The work never stops when you view the job the way Azoff does, as falling somewhere between consigliere and concierge. “My calls can be everything from ‘My knee buckled, I need a doctor’ to ‘My kid’s in jail,’” Azoff says. “I mean, you have no idea. The ‘My kid’s in jail’ one was a funny one, because the artist then said to me, ��Y’know, I’ve thought about this. Maybe we should leave him there for a while.’”

Golf entered Azoff’s life the way a lot of things have — via the Eagles, whom Azoff has managed since the early ’70s. Specifically, Azoff took up golf in the company of the late Glenn Frey, the jockiest Eagle, the one the other Eagles used to call “Sportacus.” By the time the Eagles returned to the road in the ’90s they’d left their debauched ’70s lifestyles largely behind, but Azoff and Frey got hooked on the little white ball.

“Frey would insist on booking the tour around where he wanted to play golf,” Azoff says. “We made Henley crazy. Henley would call me in my room and he’d go, ‘Why the f— are we in a hotel in Hilton Head North Carolina and starting a tour in Charlotte? Is this a f— golf tour?’”

Trailed by Larry Solters, the Eagles’ preternaturally dour minister of information, Azoff makes his way down the hill from the house for dinner at the golf club’s restaurant. He’s only 5 feet, 3 inches, a diminutive Sydney Pollack in jeans and a zip-up sweater. In photos from the ’70s — when he was considerably less professorial in comportment, a hipster exec with a spring-loaded middle finger — he sports a beard and a helmet of curly hair and mischievous eyes behind his shades, and looks a little like a Muppet who might scream at Kermit over Dr. Teeth’s appearance fee.

His father was a pharmacist and his mother was a bookkeeper. He grew up in Danville, Ill., booked his first shows in high school to pay for college, dropped out of college to run a small Midwestern concert-booking empire and manage local acts such as folk singer Dan Fogelberg and heartland rock band REO Speedwagon. Los Angeles soon beckoned. He met the Eagles while working for David Geffen and Elliot Roberts’ management company and followed the band out the door when they left the Geffen fold; they became the cornerstone of his empire. “I got my swagger from Glenn Frey and Don Henley,” he says. “No doubt about it.”

Azoff never took to pot or coke. The Eagles lived life in the fast lane; he was the designated driver. “Artists,” he once observed, “like knowing the guy flying the plane is sober.” This didn’t stop him from trashing his share of hotel rooms, frequently with guitarist Joe Walsh — whose solo career Azoff shepherded before Walsh joined the Eagles, and who was very much not sober at this time — as an accomplice.

“This was a different age,” Walsh says of his time as the band’s premier lodging-deconstructionist. “We could do anything we wanted, so we did. And Irving’s role was to keep us out of prison, basically.” He recalls a pleasant evening in Chicago in the company of John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd, which culminated in Walsh laying waste to a suite at the Astor Towers hotel that turned out to be the owner’s private apartment. “We had to check out with a lawyer and a construction foreman,” Walsh remembers. “But Irving took care of it. Without Irving, I’d still be in Chicago.”

Azoff became even more infamous for the pit bull brio he brought to business negotiations on behalf of the Eagles and others, including Stevie Nicks and Boz Scaggs. He didn’t seem to care if people liked him, and his artists loved him for that. Steely Dan co-founder Walter Becker said they’d hired Azoff because he “impressed us with his taste for the jugular … and his bizarre spirit.” Jimmy Buffett’s wife grabbed him outside a show at Madison Square Garden, pushed him into the back of a limo and said, You have to manage Jimmy, although Buffett already had a manager at the time.

His outsized reputation as an advocate not just willing but eager to scorch earth on behalf of his clients became an advertisement for his services, a phenomenon that continues to this day. In August 2018, Azoff’s then-client Travis Scott released “Astroworld,” which debuted at No. 1 on the Billboard 200 chart, and occupied that slot again the following week, causing Nicki Minaj’s album “Queen” to debut at No. 2. On her Beats One show “Queen Radio,” Minaj accused Scott of gaming Billboard’s chart methodology to keep her out of the top slot and singled his manager out by name: “C—sucker of the Day award,” she said, “goes to Irving Azoff.” Azoff says he reacted as only Azoff would: “I said, ‘I’m really unhappy about that. I want to be c—sucker of the year.’” In 2019, Minaj hired Azoff as her new manager.

Most of the best things anyone’s ever said about Azoff are statements a man of less-bizarre spirit would take as an insult. When the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inducted the Eagles in 1998, Don Henley stood onstage and said of Azoff, “He may be Satan, but he’s our Satan.”

An N95-masked Azoff takes a seat on a patio with a view of hallowed ground — the first hole of the Pebble Beach course, a dogleg-right par 4 with a priceless view of the bay. He cheerfully admits that he and his partners at Full Stop are “obviously, as a management business, kind of losing our ass” this year due to COVID-19. In another reality, the Eagles would have played Wembley Stadium in August before heading off to Australia or the Far East. Styles would have just finished 34 dates in the U.S., Canada and Mexico. As it stands Azoff is hearing encouraging things about treatments and vaccines and new testing machines, and is reasonably confident that technology will soon make it possible for certified-COVID-free fans to again enjoy carefree evenings of live music together; he doesn’t expect much to happen in the meantime.

“What are you gonna do,” Azoff says, “take an act that used to sell 15,000 seats and tell them to play to 4,000 in the [same] arena? The vibe would be horrible, and production costs will stay the same.”

He knows of at least six companies trying to monetize new concert-esque experiences — pay-per-view shows from houses and soundstages, drive-in events and so on. But he’s not convinced anybody wants to sit in their parked car to watch a band play. More to the point, he’s not convinced it’s rock ’n’ roll.

“Fallon and Kimmel, all these virtual performances — people are sick of that,” he says. “Your production values from home aren’t that good. And they’re destroying the mystique. I mean, Justin Bieber jumping around on ‘Saturday Night Live’ the other night without a band, and then he had Chance the Rapper come out? It made him look to me, mortal. I didn’t feel any magic. So we’ve kinda been turning that stuff down to just wait it out.”

In the meantime, he says, Full Stop is picking up new clients during the pandemic. Artists with time on their hands, he believes, “have taken a hard look at their careers— so we’ve grown. No revenues,” he adds with a chuckle, “but people are saying, ‘We need you, we need to plan our lives.’”

“IN HIGH SCHOOL,” Jeffrey Azoff says, “I wanted to be a professional golfer, which has obviously eluded me.” He never expected to take up his father’s profession. “But my dad has always loved his job so much. There’s no way that doesn’t rub off on you.”

The younger Azoff got his first industry job at 21, as a “glorified intern” working for Maroon 5’s then-manager Jordan Feldstein. After a week of filing and fetching coffee, he called his father and complained that he was bored. According to Jeffrey, Irving responded, “Listen carefully, because I’m going to say this one time. You have a phone and you have my last name. If you can’t figure it out, you’re not my son.”

“Direct quote,” Jeffrey says. “It’s one of my favorite things he’s ever said to me. And it’s the spirit of the music business, by the way. There are no rules to this. Just figure it out.”

Over dinner I keep asking Irving how he got the temerity, as a kid barely out of college, to plunge into the shark-infested waters of the ‘70s record industry in Los Angeles. He just shrugs.

“I never felt the music business was that competitive,” he says. “It’s just not that f—ing hard. I don’t think there’s that many smart people in our business.”

It’s been written, I say, that once you landed in California and sized up the competition, you called John Baruck back in Illinois and said —

“We can take this town,” Azoff says, finishing the sentence. “Where’d you get that? John told that story to [Apple senior vice president] Eddy Cue on the golf course three days ago. It’s true. I called John up and said, ‘OK, get your ass out here. We can take this town.’”

In the ensuing years, Azoff has occupied nearly every high-level position the music industry has to offer, surfing waves of industry consolidation. He’s been the president of a major label, MCA; the CEO of Ticketmaster; and executive chairman of Live Nation Entertainment, the behemoth formed from Ticketmaster’s merger with Live Nation. In 2013 he and Cablevision Systems Corp. CEO and New York Knicks owner James Dolan formed a partnership, Azoff MSG Entertainment; Azoff ran the Forum in Inglewood for Dolan after MSG purchased it in 2012.

Earlier this year Dolan sold the Forum for $400 million to former Microsoft CEO and Clippers owner Steve Ballmer, who’s since announced plans to build a new stadium on a site just one mile away. Despite the apocalyptic parking scenario that looms for the area — two stadiums and a concert arena on a one-mile stretch of South Prairie Boulevard — Azoff is confident that the Forum will live on as a live-music venue. “People are going, ‘They’re going to tear it down’ — they’re not going to tear it down,” Azoff says. “It’s going to be in great hands. I have many of the artists we represent booked in the Forum, waiting for the restart based on COVID.”

The holdings of the Azoff Co. — formed when Dolan sold his interest in Azoff MSG back to Azoff two years ago — include Full Stop, the performance-rights organization Global Music Rights and the Oak View Group, which is developing arenas in Seattle and Belmont, N.Y., and a 15,000-seat venue on the University of Texas campus in Austin. Azoff describes himself as increasingly focused on “diversification, and building assets for the family that aren’t just dependent on commissions, shall we say.”

But as both a manager and a co-founder of a lobbying group, the Music Artists Coalition, he’s also devoting more time and energy to a broad range of artists’-rights issues, from health insurance to royalty rates to copyright reversion to this year’s Assembly Bill 5, which threatened musicians’ independent-contractor status until it was amended in September. (“That was us,” Azoff says, somewhat grandly. “I got to the governor, the governor signed it — Newsom was great on it.”) He describes his advocacy for artists — even those he doesn’t manage — as a “war on all fronts,” and estimates there are 21 major issues on which “we’ve sort of appointed ourselves as guardians.”

He does not continue to manage artists because he needs the money, he says. (As the singer-songwriter and Azoff client J.D. Souther famously put it, “Irving’s 15% of everybody turned out to be more than everyone’s 85% of themselves.”) Everything he’s doing now — building clout through the Azoff Co., even accepting the Hall of Fame honor — is ultimately about positioning himself to better fight these fights. “I’d rather work on [these things] than anything else,” he says. “But if I didn’t have the power base in the management business, I couldn’t be effective.”

The recorded music industry, having fully transitioned to a digital-first business, is once again making money hand over fist, he points out, but even less of that money is trickling down to artists. That imbalance long predates Big Tech’s involvement in the field, but the failure of music-driven tech companies to properly compensate musicians is clearly the largest burr under Azoff’s saddle.

“These people, when they start out — whether it’s Facebook, Snapchat, TikTok, whatever — they resist paying for music until you go beat the f— out of them. And then of course, none of them pay fair market value and they get away with it. Your company’s worth $30 billion and you can’t spend 20 grand for a song that becomes a phenomenon on your channel? Even when they pay, artists don’t get enough. Writers don’t get enough. Music, as a commodity, is more important than it’s ever been, and more unfairly monetized for the creators. And that’s what creates an opportunity for people like me.”

AZOFF’S FIRM NO longer handles Travis Scott, by the way. “Travis is unmanageable,” Azoff says, nonchalantly and without rancor. “We’re involved in his touring as an advisor to Live Nation, but he’s calling his own shots these days.”

I ask if, in the age of the viral hit and the bedroom producer, he finds himself running into more artists who assume they don’t need a manager. Ehh, Azoff says, like it’s always been that way. “There’s a lot of headstrong artists,” he says. “I haven’t seen one that’s better off without a manager than with,” he says, and laughs a little Dennis the Menace laugh.

We’re back at the house. Azoff takes a seat on the living-room couch; Larry Solters sits across from him, his back to the sea. Azoff recalls another big client. Declines to name him. Says he was never happy, even after Azoff and his people got him everything on his wish list. “He hit me with a couple bad emails. Just really disrespectful s—. I sent him an email back that said, ‘Lucky for me, you need me more than I need you. Goodbye.’”

He will confirm having resigned the accounts of noted divas Mariah Carey and Axl Rose. Reports that he once attempted to manage Kanye West have been greatly exaggerated, he says, although they’ve spoken about business. “Robert [Kardashian] was a good friend of mine. The kids all went to school together,” Azoff says. “What I always said to Kanye was, you’re unmanageable, but we can give you advice.

“A lot of people could have made a dynasty on the people we used to manage,” Azoff says, “let alone the ones we kept.”

But he still works with many artists who joined him in the ’70s — with Henley, with Steely Dan’s Donald Fagen and with Joe Walsh. Walsh has been sober for more than 25 years; it was Azoff, along with Henley and Frey, who talked him into rehab before the Eagles’ 1994 reunion tour. “Irving never passed judgment on me,” Walsh says. “And from that meeting on, he made sure I had what I needed to stay sober.” If he hadn’t, Walsh says, there’s no chance we’d be having this conversation. “All the guys I ran with are dead. Keith Moon’s dead. John Entwistle’s dead. Everybody’s dead, and I’m here. That’s profound to me.”

The first client Azoff lost was Minnie Riperton — in 1979, to breast cancer when she was only 31. Then Warren Zevon, to cancer, in 2003. Fogelberg, to cancer, four years later.

“And then Glenn,” says Azoff, referring to the Eagles co-founder who died in 2016. “I miss Glenn a lot. And now Eddie.”

Van Halen, that is. I ask Azoff if he can tell me a story that sums up what kind of guy Eddie Van Halen was; he tells me a beautiful one, then says he’d prefer not to see it in print. It makes perfect Azoffian sense — profane trash talk on the record, tenderness on background.

I ask if he’s been moved to contemplate his own mortality, as his boomer-aged clients approach an actuarial event horizon. Of course the answer turns out to involve keeping pace with an Eagle.

“Henley and I are having a race,” he says. “Neither one of us has given in. Neither one of us is going to retire.”

Henley was born in July 1947; Azoff came along that December. Does Don plan to keep going, I ask, until the wheels fall off?

“I don’t know,” Azoff says.

Do you ever talk about it?

“Yeah! He’ll call me up and he’ll go, ‘I really feel s— today.’ And I say, ‘Well, you should, Grandpa. You’re an old man. You ready to throw in the towel? Nope? OK.’”

Azoff says, “I contend that what keeps us all young is staying in the business. I’ve had more people tell me, ‘My father, he quit working, and then his health started failing,’ and all that. Every single — I mean, every single rock star I know is basically doing it to try and stay young. And I think it works. I really think it works.

“I have this friend,��� Azoff says. “Calls me once a week, he’s sending me tapes, it’s his next big record. Paul Anka! He’s 80 years old. OK? And my other friend, Frankie Valli …”

“Do you know how old Frankie Valli is?” Solters says. “Eighty-six. And he still performs.”

“Not during COVID,” Azoff says. “I told the motherf—, ‘You’re not going out.’”

[skullrock]

the partners, chapter two - Steve x Reader

chapter two: there is a light that never goes out

series summary: you and Steve are police apprentices at Hawkins Police Station in the fall of 1986. you get along famously, but there’s something Steve is hiding, and there is an unknown evil lurking in Hawkins. [friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff] 

chapter summary: You and Steve grow closer; you and Steve are called in to investigate a death

warnings: swearing, panic attacks, mention of death

word count: 3.3k

a/n: things are heating up boys!! next chapter will really kick off the cop stuff. if you haven’t seen it, here’s the Spotify playlist that goes with the series, and you can catch up here. enjoy!

---------

The rest of the week rolls by without many incidents. By the time Friday comes, you’re beaming with excitement.

“We’re still on, right?” You ask him Friday morning, bouncing on your toes.

“Y/N, for the fifteenth time, yes,” he laughs. “I’m not bailing.”

He kind of wishes he could – he hasn’t been able to sleep. He can’t stop worrying. What if this is a mistake? What if you get hurt? What if this all backfires? He can’t let you know this, though, and he’s been grinning through the week.

“Great, do you know where I live?”

“Three streets away from me, Oak Street, the big white house.”

You tilt your head. “How did you—”

“You’re the only person in town with a Walter Mondale sticker on their bumper,” he replies. “I saw your car in your driveway.”

Steve had moved out of his parent’s house about one week after securing the position at the station. His parents had graciously gotten him an “apartment,” which was in fact a nice house in a good spot in town. They paid his rent as a form of gratitude that he was “getting his life together”. He hated that idea, truly, but was happy to be able to live on his own, only worrying about groceries. He was a lot happier now that he was on his own – specifically that he was not living with his father. He did see his mother though, and pretty often, because she would bring him a lunch every few days.

“Creep,” you say, smiling. “Then I’ll see you tonight.”

“Y/N, we have an eight hour shift ahead of us.”

“Whatever. I’ll see you all day and then tonight.”

---------

Steve pulls up around 6:30, and he’s sweating bullets. He honks once, then waits. He finds himself checking himself out in the rearview mirror, and then quickly jerks his head away. It must be some kind of knee-jerk reaction, Steve thinks, picking up a girl feels like a date.

You come out of your house and lock the door, then bolt down the steps to his car. He can feel the energy radiating off of you.

“Hi,” you say as you slip inside.

“You look nice when you’re not wearing a uniform,” he jokes.

“Funny. I was going to say the same about you.” You buckle up and he sets off for Mike’s house.

“Now that you’re hanging out with my friends, am I going to hang out with yours?” he asks.

You deflate slightly. “Well, that’s the thing,” you say quietly, examining your nails. “I um. I don’t really… have any?”

He looks over at you, forehead creasing at your body language. “You don’t have any friends? That’s gotta be bullshit.”

“I did,” you explain. “But then I went to college and I lost touch with people from high school. And then I came back and I lost touch with people from college. So, I really don’t…” you sigh heavily. “Hang out with people.”

He swallows hard. “Y/N, I’m so sorry. If I knew –“

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “It’s not your fault or anything. It doesn’t matter now, anyway.” You smile and lightly punch his arm. “Since I managed to crawl into your life.”

“Well, you’ll really like the kids,” he says. “Let me give you the rundown.”

He begins to explain all six of them. Dustin Henderson, his best friend, has a bit of a lisp and some disease that “makes him like Gumbo? Gumby? Whatever.” Mike Wheeler, party leader, bit of a drama queen, loyal friend. Lucas Sinclair, funny one of the bunch, dating Max, the redhead, is emotionally mature despite his comedic exterior. Max Mayfield, redhead extraordinaire, metaphorically adopted sister of Steve, super intelligent and strong. Will Byers, “you already know him,” kind and quiet, has been through a lot, deserves the world. Then there’s El.

“El is… different.”

“How?”

“Well…,” he sighs. “She… comes from a bad home. She was… she comes from a bad home. They did bad things to her.”

“Oh.”

“But she’s really great. I’m trying to teach her how to read before she and Will go back to Maine for school. She’s dating Mike, they get along pretty well. She’s really smart, just behind since she never got to go to school.”

You nod. “They all sound like phenomenal kids.”

“They are,” he replies thoughtfully. “Sometimes they’re a pain in the ass, but they’re my pain in the ass.”

You pull into the same large house on Maple Street that you had a few days before and hop out. You’re feeling a bit antsy – so is Steve.

“Wait,” you say. “Doesn’t Nancy live here?”

“Oh.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, but we’re cool. We still talk to each other. And she’s probably out with Jonathan anyway.” He clears his throat, and you reach out and squeeze his arm. “I’m okay,” he laughs. “Come on, let’s go.”

The kids remember you from the other day, and your friendship with Steve helps convince them that you’re a good person. You get along together immediately, laughing and joking like you’re all old friends. Steve beams and Dustin nudges him, making Steve shove him.

“We’re watching The Goonies tonight,” Lucas says, producing the VHS.

“What’s a goonie?” El asks.

“It’s like, a silly person,” Steve explains. “Like Mike.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “We can’t start yet, Robin isn’t here.”

You nearly choke on the soda you were drinking. “Robin? Robin Buckley?”

As if on cue, the door to the basement opens and Robin comes down. You jump up and shout her name. She looks at you, confused for a brief moment, then smiles widely and bounds over to you.

“Oh my God!” you both shout as you embrace. You try to ask each other questions, but they all come out at the same time, making you both laugh.

“Are you going to tell us how you both know each other?” Steve asks, brows drawn together, but smiling, nonetheless.

“We were in band together!” Robin exclaims. “I thought you died or something, you never called!”

“I lost your number when I moved to Indianapolis,” you explain, squeezing her hand. “But I’m back now. I’ve been back for a few months. I work with Steve, at the station.”

Robin snaps her head over to him and glares, making him sink in his seat.

“None of us knew,” Max pipes up. “That Steve works with someone, I mean.”

Robin closes her eyes and shakes her head. She looks back at Steve with a we need to talk kind of look, then turns back to you. “Well, you’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

As the night goes on, you grow more and more comfortable with everyone. You sit and talk to Robin while the rest of the gang plays Monopoly. You could mirror the movie to how the kids act – it’s like they are the Goonies. You watch as they all bicker, Max shoving Lucas over stupid jokes, and El grabbing onto Mike, leaning into him. You watch as Will and Dustin barter with each other, and as Steve calls them all out for “cheating,” which is code for “I really suck at this game and need to explain why I’m losing.”

Your eyes focus on Steve while he explains something to El. It makes your chest swell. It feels like the only thing you can focus on his Steve. How bright his eyes are while talking to his friends, how his brows flit together then part as he laughs. And his laugh. It’s the only thing you can hear, and the sound rings in your ears. He looks up at you and smiles, then goes back to looking at the game board. You snap out of your trance.

“Oh, ew.” It’s supposed to be said in your head, but you say it out loud.

“What?” Robin asks. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah!” you say after a moment. “Yeah, sorry. I just got a little, uh, sidetracked. So, um, are you planning on going to school anywhere?”

Soon enough, it’s one in the morning, and the kids are getting tired. You are, too, and you yawn loudly.

“Let’s go, sleepyhead,” Steve says, holding out his hands to help you off the couch. You take them, swallowing the electricity in your stomach.

“You should come by more often!” Dustin grins.

“Yeah, we need more girls around,” Max says, and you smile back at her.

“You’re welcome in the party anytime,” Mike declares, and the others agree.

You could almost cry at how nice they are. “You guys will never know how… how much…” you sniffle. “How much this night has meant for me.”

“Okay, okay,” Steve says, rubbing your back. “Time to go, buddy.”

“You guys are the best!” you say through tears, and Steve shushes you gently, guiding you upstairs.

“Steve!” Dustin shouts, and bounds up behind him. Steve rolls his eyes and tells you to head out to the car.

“You better bring her around again.” Dustin squeezes his arm and Steve rolls his eyes once more.

“We mean it!” Will says. “She’s cool.”

“You guys don’t even like me this much,” Steve huffs, to which Robin replies, “Yes, because you’re a dingus. Y/N is cool.”

“Goodnight!” Steve groans, continuing upstairs.

He unlocks the car and you both get in.

“Thank you,” you whisper, eyes shining, “for taking me out.”

“Of course,” he hums. “Next time it can just be us, without kids and Robin.”

Your stomach flips and you ignore it again. “I’d really like to.”

You both make conversation as you head down the darkened streets. You think the town at night is beautiful and serene. Steve thinks it’s eerie and threatening. He really didn’t like going out at night much anymore, and he typically had to talk himself up if he was leaving somewhere past 9 pm. You notice the change in his energy, how he is suddenly gripping the steering wheel a bit too tight.

You begin to ask him if he’s alright, but a deer scampers across the road. It’s not very close, and maybe required just a slight brake, but Steve throws his arm out to pin you to your seat and slams on the brakes. The car slides to a halt and you slam back against the seat; thankfully Steve threw his arm over you, or you’d probably have a severe case of whiplash.

When the car stills, you look over at him, eyes wide and heart skipping. He looks like he aged 50 years in ten seconds. His eyes are huge, jaw clenched tightly. A crease on his forehead. His body is stiff and he is leaning forward, almost like he’s about to fight. He looks, quite honestly, like death.

“Steve,” you breathe. “Are you okay?”

Steve throws the car into park. He squeezes his eyes shut and blinks a few times, eventually relaxing in his seat. Although his body is relaxed, you can hear how his breathing is a quick staccato, not slow. He runs a hand through his hair once, twice, three times. It sounds like he’s drowning, and his eyes are filled with tears when he looks at you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m sorry – I thought –“

His eyes can’t focus. They run around in his head, back at the road, to you, to the steering wheel, to his hands, to the road again.

You realize he’s having a panic attack.

“Hey, hey,” you coo. “Look at me, Steve.”

He faces you, but his eyes are still moving rapidly, and his breathing is becoming quicker. You see him swallow hard.

“You’re safe,” you say, reaching out and taking a hand. “It was just a deer. You’re safe. I’m here.”

He nods stiffly. “No – I know that – I just thought….” I just thought it was a Demogorgon. No big deal. He clamps his eyes shut again and you see tears fall.

“Steve, look at me. Focus on me, okay?”

He nods lightly and does, and you see his pupils focus in on you.

“Breathe with me, alright? In and out.” You exaggerate your breathing, deeply in through the nose and out through the mouth. He tries to keep up and pace himself, but it takes a few tries.

“You’re doing great,” you say quietly, and squeeze his hand. “Can you pull the car over for me?”

He does as you ask, eyes scanning the road ahead. His bat is in the trunk (he figured he should hide it before you see it), and he considers getting out to grab it. You pull him back to reality.

“Look at me.” His eyes meet yours again. “I’m going to teach you something, okay? It’s based on your senses. Can you tell me five things you hear?”

He blinks. “I hear the engine… I hear your breathing… I hear the radio… I hear my breathing… I hear my heart beating.”

You nod. “Okay, good. Four things you can see?”

“Uh….” His eyes flick back to the road and you gently pull his head back to look at you.

“I’ll focus on the road, okay? Just tell me four things you see in the car.”

“I see you… I see my hands… I see the steering wheel… I see the light from the stereo.”

“Three things you smell?”

“My cologne, your perfume, gasoline.”

“Two things you can feel?”

“Your skin and the seat under me.”

You smile. “This one’s tough. One thing you can taste.”

Steve pauses. “Coca-Cola?”

“Perfect,” you say, squeezing his hand again. “Do you feel better?”

He does; he’s not fully grounded, but he’s feeling better than he did a few minutes ago. He can breathe normally again, and his body is a bit more relaxed. He nods and you let his hand go.

“You’re okay,” you repeat. “You’re safe.”

“I’m okay,” he breathes. He reaches up and wipes his eyes, laughing slightly. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize.” You don’t really know what just happened, but you know whatever he’s going through must be tough. “Your feelings are valid. It’s okay to feel that way, Steve.”

Steve sighs heavily, and after a few minutes, he puts the car in drive.

“Don’t take me home,” you request. “I can walk.”

“What? No way. I’m taking you to your house.”

“Steve,” you say. “Sometimes you need to take care of yourself before you take care of others. I can walk, dude, it’s only 15 minutes, max.”

He wants to refute your claim. He wants to believe he’s strong enough to just take you home and forget about it all, but all he wants to do is crawl into bed and sleep until the afternoon. He just wants to forget. So he pulls into his driveway and shuts the car off. He sits there for a few moments before finally saying, “I’m sorry I ruined tonight.”

“Steve.” You can’t help but to laugh. “I haven’t been this happy in so long. I don’t care – I don’t mind that you got… spooked. And we don’t ever have to talk about it again. I don’t care what happens as long as I’m with you.”

The corners of his mouth perk up. “Oh no, Y/N. Don’t fall in love with me.”

You roll your eyes and nudge him, smiling. That’s the Steve you knew.

You reach into the center console, finding an old receipt and a pen.

“Here,” you say, scribbling. “Here’s my number.” You shove the receipt towards him, and he takes it.

Steve writes his number on the bottom of the receipt and rips it off. “And here’s mine. You better call me when you get home. Like, the minute you go through the door.”

“I promise.”

You both get out of the car.

“I really did have fun,” you say. “I hope I see you soon.”

He nods. Part of you wishes he would say it back, but you understand. As you’re walking off, he calls after you.

“Y/N!”

“Yeah?”

He licks his lips. “Thank you.”

You give him a tight-lipped smile and salute, continuing off into the night.

---------

You awake Monday morning at 1 am to your phone ringing. You quickly sit up in bed and grab it.

“Hello?”

“Y/N.” It’s Steve. “I need your help.”

Your eyebrows knit together, and you look at your clock. “Are you okay?”

“I….” He huffs. “I’m trying to make danishes for everyone at the station? But everything I do is wrong, and there’s flour everywhere—”

“It’s one in the god damn morning!” You exclaim. “We have work in seven hours.”

“Yeah,” he says, like you’re the idiot. “Why do you think I’m making them now?”

You close your eyes. You want to be annoyed, but it’s honestly hilarious. “Okay, Steve. I’ll be there in a few.”

You arrive and knock on the door, and you’re greeted by Steve. He is covered in flour, and he looks nearly as stressed as he was Friday night.

You gawk at him. “What—”

“Just – come in,” he insists, grabbing you and pulling you inside.

Steve has a really nice house. Or apartment, or whatever he wants to call it. He takes you through the living room, then dining room, and into the kitchen, where there is even more flour. It looks like a bomb went off.

“So,” he starts, pacing around the kitchen, creating tracks in the flour-covered floor. “I’m trying to make these, right? And it says to put flour and butter into a blender. And so I did. And like, it’s fine, it’s going great, but then I guess I added too much flour, and now it’s everywhere. And this fucking dough is supposed to chill for 6 hours and we have work in 7.”

“Where is your recipe?”

He hands you a sheet of paper and you scan over it.

“Steve,” you groan. “Are you even following this?” You look up at him. “How did you even manage to mix the yeast and water correctly?”

He leans on the counter and puts his head in his hands. “I don’t think I did.”

You burst into laughter. You can hardly keep yourself upright. Your ribs and jaw hurt, but you can’t stop. Steve seems annoyed at first, but then starts laughing with you.

“No matter what, you couldn’t have these done in the morning,” you say, wiping your eyes. “Why did you think this was a good idea?”

He shrugs hopelessly. “I just wanted to be nice, and I couldn’t sleep.”

You both resolve to cleaning up and starting again. You would make the dough and let it chill, and then continue making them that night.

You watch from afar, giving Steve tips and reading the directions out for him. He’s not super helpless when someone is directing him. When it comes time to fold the dough, though, he’s doing it wrong.

“No,” you say, jumping up and coming behind him. “You fold like this.”

You take his hand and help him get the technique right. After a few moments, your cheeks start to burn, and you feel that same chest-swelling feeling that you had at Mike’s house. You slow your movements and Steve follows, until you completely stop. He turns back to look at you, and you notice how close you are to him.

Suddenly, the phone rings. Steve drops the spatula he was using and hurries off into the living room, looking paler than usual.

“Hello?” you hear him ask. There’s a long pause before he says, “Do you want Y/N to come too?” Another pause. “Okay. We’ll be right there.”

He comes back into view and looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“Who was it?” you ask, heart beating fast.

“It was the Chief. There’s a dead body at Rimborn Steelworks.”

--------

tags (message if you want to join!): @harrington-ofhawkins​ @wolfish-willow​ @gothackedalready​

[wondersofdreaming]

Lost Boys - TWO

Characters: August Walker / Captain Syverson / Walter Marshall

Word count: 2.240

Warnings: Death. Cursing. Family removal. Fight. Family reunion of some sort.

Author’s note: Everything in this story is a figment of my imagination, with inspiration and snippets from the movies ‘Mission: Impossible - Fallout’, ‘Sand Castle’, ‘Nomis/Night Hunter’. This is pure fanfiction. If something doesn’t make sense, it’s not supposed to.

I do now own any of the characters from the movies that I write about in this story. Only the OFC’s are mine.

Tag: @littlefreya​ @katerka88​ @hell1129-blog​ @radaofrivia​ @mis-lil-red @omgkatinka​ @gothwhopper​​

MASTERLIST

Feedback is appreciated. Seriously, please tell me all the good and bad stuff, else I won’t be able to develop into a better writer, if I don’t know what I’m doing right and wrong. I swear I don’t bite.

[ONE] [THREE] [FOUR] [FIVE] [SIX] [SEVEN] [EIGHT] [NINE] [TEN]

William and Jennifer Thompson had everything they ever wanted. A nice home they couldn’t wait to fill up with children. Their lives were turned upside down when Jennifer became pregnant with triplets. William had nearly fainted at the scan. Triplets conceived naturally were a rare thing.

The couple was ecstatic to meet their children. They both had lost their parents, and with no siblings on either side, they had the need to have a large family. They prepared for the triplets as much as they could. Bought a bigger car, three car seats, three cribs, triple the amount of clothes and diapers.

“I hope you will all be like your mother,” William whispered to the grown belly, while Jennifer was asleep on her side. “She is the gentlest woman I know. She will carry you for as long as she can, even though her body is hurting. She will be your rock, your nurse, your teacher, but most of all she will be the very first woman you love. She will help you play pranks on me. She will cook your favourite foods. She will make birthday cakes the way you want them. She will drive you to practice. She will practice with you, even if you choose three different hobbies. She will help you with your homework, even reading ahead, so she knows what will happen next. She will love you more than anything. Try not to make her cry or angry, trust me you really don’t want that. Being on her bad side is the worst place to be.”

William kissed the skin where a foot was kicking her belly from the inside. He chuckled.

“Be nice son.” He whispered. He felt his wife’s hands caressing his scalp.

“Talking to the boys again?” She asked with a yawn.

“I have to show them who is the boss. If they have just a little bit of my temper, they’ll be quite a handful.”

“They are already a handful. They keep kicking or sitting on my bladder.” Jennifer whimpered. “Help me up please, I need to go to the bathroom.”

William smiled as he pulled his very pregnant wife up from their bed. Their black lab, Shell, jumped up from his bed and walked with her. At 33 weeks pregnant everything hurt. Her feet, her back, just everything. She was so over being pregnant with three boys. Good thing they were being born two weeks later by c-section.

All three boys were born healthy. They were all much bigger than other babies being born at 35 weeks, perhaps because Jennifer had literally eaten for four people since she found out she was expecting three babies at once.

Trevor, James, and Oliver grew up to be robust young boys. At the age of five, they were already known as ‘the three terrors’ in their neighbourhood. Trevor was the adventurous child, he would climb trees, and the moment he started walking, he had walked right over to William’s rock music collection and gotten into his LP’s. James loved solving puzzles rather than playing in the sandbox outside, and he loved watching TV-shows like ‘Columbo’ and ‘Magnum P.I.’. Oliver was the quiet one, he was always up to no good and got his brothers in trouble for something he had done, and he would always fight with James over the remote if an action movie was on.

The boys had a good childhood, until that fateful day where their lives changed forever.

William and Jennifer had been on a date when they were hit by a drunk truck driver. Both parents died on the spot. The boys were divided into three different families, who would take care of them.

Trevor was sent to a family in Georgia, who already had a son a year younger. Trevor would grow up to be a strong-willed man, whose protective instincts always kicked in gear when he saw someone being bullied or hurt.

James moved to Minnesota to a family, who had a son who was three years older. James grew up to be independent. He took no bullshit from anyone, not even his daughter that he would have later in life.

Oliver travelled to Virginia, where the family who later adopted him, had a young daughter. They didn’t love Oliver the way he should have been loved, like how his brother’s new families loved the brothers. Oliver was yelled at often, which hardened his heart. He swore that he would make the world a better place. The only good thing about his upbringing was the young sister, who would be the light of his life. She would make him smile and he would, in turn, protect her. His heart shattered the day she died while he was in college.

The three brothers forgot each other. Forgot they ever were as one unit once. Forgot that they had parents who had loved them more than anything. But each one always had a piece of home with them. A little medallion with an engraving of Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton, protector of those who have lost their parents. A social worker had given each of the boys the medallion with their birth names, parents names and birthplace etched on the back so that they would never forget who they were.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Lucas pummelled the stranger to the ground. He looked just like him, except he had hair, curly and long at the top, shorter on the sides and back, and he had a fucking disgusting moustache. Who the fuck had moustaches anymore?

Before Lucas could grab the intruder by the collar, he was kicked in the shin and was hitting the ground, hard. The intruder scrambled to his feet and was out of sight within seconds. Lucas ran after him.

“Captain! What is going on?” A few soldiers asked him as he ran past them.

“Invader. How the hell did he get in?” Lucas barked at the privates. Nobody knew. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw a glimpse of a white shirt, the stranger had worn, disappear into another building. He stealthily moved towards the building, drawing his gun and went in. He was sitting on a chair, a rifle in his hand, a dead soldier at his feet with a broken neck.

“I know you’re there, captain. I think we need to talk,” the stranger said. “Drop your gun, and I’ll let down the rifle. Truce for now.”

Lucas was sceptical, but he went inside and put the gun back into the holster at his hip.

“Who are you?” Lucas asked.

“I have many names, which one do you want to know?” The trespasser smirked.

“The one given at birth will suffice,” Lucas grunted back, which made the smile disappear from the stranger’s face. He went to grab something at his neck. A medallion with a woman engraved on it. Lucas gasped. He had seen everything, gruesome things, death, destruction, nothing was supposed to surprise him anymore. Yet there he was. Looking at a man that could be his twin, and who had a medallion identical to the one Lucas had hidden under his T-shirt.

“My parents named me, Oliver Thompson,” the stranger grunted out. “Your turn.”

“I was named Trevor Thompson,” Lucas equally mumbled and showed his medallion.

“No.”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘no’?”

“We can’t be related. I don’t have a family.”

“Well, sucks to be you. Seems we’re brothers. Now tell me, what are you doing at my base?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Stealing weapons.”

“Why?”

“That, brother, is a secret.”

Lucas acted fast. He kicked the rifle out of the thief’s hands and shoved him off the chair. It earned him a fist on his left cheek, but he had tried worse. Two more punches to his torso, to him it was more like tickling. Lucas blocked a few more attacks before the stranger rammed into his crotch area that made Lucas fall to his knees. The burglar moved towards the door, but Lucas grabbed his legs that made him fall. Lucas dragged him away from the open door. The criminal was looking around for a weapon and grabbed the wooden chair. He swung it at Lucas’ head. He got lightheaded for a moment, almost seeing stars, but gained his senses in time to watch the intruder run for his life. They continued the brawl outside next to a few military vehicles. The stranger got the upper hand as he jumped on top of a tank and pummelled Lucas from above. He wrung Lucas’ right arm behind his back, shoving him to the side of a jeep and with a strong move managed to break the arm and dislocated the joint. Lucas grunted in pain, but he had to keep fighting, so he turned around and tried to hit the thief with his left hook. Again, the stranger was behind him, putting him in a headlock, blocking his airway. Soon everything went black.

Lucas awoke in the hospital, groggy from the pain meds, he tried to get out of bed. The nurses had to call security to force him back into bed. The doctor gave him a shot of a sedative to keep him calm. Sleep came to him and with that, dreams. He dreamt of two young boys, who looked identical to each other. He dreamt of a woman, who had a warm embrace, whose laughter was making him laugh in his dream. He dreamt of climbing a tree into a treehouse, where he had a small radio that was playing Iron Maiden.

“How have the three terrors been doing today?” He remembered a male voice saying.

“It has been a quiet day.” The woman in his dream said. She stood from the sandbox, where the two other boys were playing, and kissed the man. He had the same defined jawline as Lucas, the dimple in his chin, the dark curly hair, but he had brown eyes. The woman turned around to watch him in the treehouse. Her blue eyes were filled with love and the smile on her lips made his heart ache.

Lucas opened his eyes. He had just dreamt of his birth parents. He remembered having two brothers, they were triplets. He ran his left hand over his face and groaned in frustration. He felt for his medallion and pulled it out from under his shirt.

“Trevor Thompson

Son of William and Jennifer Thompson

Born in California”

“Nurse!” He boomed. A petite elderly nurse walked in with a stern look. “I need a phone.”

“Listen here, captain. You’re not going to be calling anyone until you’ve healed that arm. Go back to sleep, or I swear I keep you sedated until you learn some manners,” she told him and was about to walk out when he apologized.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. That wasn’t very kind of me to forget to ask instead of demanding it. May I please have a phone?”

“So, there is a little southern gentleman in you. What’d you need a phone for?” She asked curiously.

“Need to make a call to my ma.”

“Aren’t you a good son. Don’t move.”

A moment later she walked in with a mobile phone. He quickly punched in his mother’s number. He looked at the clock on the wall, hoping she was awake already.

“Silvia speaking,” her grumpy morning voice made him smile. She couldn’t function properly without having downed a pot of coffee. That’s where he got his coffee addiction.

“Ma?” He said with a grin.

“Lucas? Lucas! How are you? Why are you calling this early? Going to battle? Don’t think you’ll come back? What the hell is going on Lucas Philip Syverson?!”

He laughed at her nervous rambling. So, making her nervous was waking her up better than coffee. Noted.

“No, ma. I’m not going on a mission. I’m in the hospital…” he started but was interrupted.

“In the hospital?! Why the fuck are you calling from the hospital? Why haven’t your superiors called the moment you were admitted?”

“Ma! Slow down. I’m fine.”

“Fine? You’re in the hospital! Lucas, what is going on?”

“Ma, I need to ask you something first.”

“What?” He could hear the annoyance radiating through the phone, which made his heart filled with happiness, as it indicated that his adoptive mother was still in good health.

“When you adopted me, did they tell you that I had two brothers?”

Silence.

“Lucas…”

“Ma, did you know?”

He heard her take a deep breath.

“Yes. I did know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that I have brothers?”

“Lucas, when we brought you into our home, we signed a piece of paper, saying that we wouldn’t try to contact the other families, or try to find your brothers because you boys had been traumatized by the loss of your birth parents,” she took another deep breath and continued: “We were told, your father and I, that you boys hadn’t spoken for days. When you came to us, you were so timid. You were harder to open up than an oyster. But with a little time and love, you started talking again. You started smiling and laughing, and you never talked about your brothers, so we thought it was for the best. I never meant to hide the facts from you.”

“Yes, ma’am. Ma?”

“Yes, sweetie.”

“I met one of my brothers. And I think he’s in trouble.”

[ghostsray]

Wes Fucking Dies

[originally i wrote this fic for phandom bingo week (using the prompts Someone dies + Wes Weston + Identity Reveal) but then i spent so long on it that the week ended so uh...here, just take it]

word count: 4,655

____

Skulker had a new toy, and of course, Danny had to find out the hard way. Why couldn't Skulker ever invite him to his lair, show him his gadgets, and say "look, I made a new invention!" instead of using it on him on the field?

He narrowly avoided a missile which hit the floor, missing him by inches. The half-ghost grinned up at Skulker, who was looking down at him from the sky. "Really, Skulker," he chided, "you could have sent a letter instead of missing me so much."

Skulker scowled and aimed another shot at Danny. As cocky as he sounded, Danny could feel his body getting exhausted. He had been dodging Skulker's attacks for the past half hour, and if he kept this up much longer, he might run out of energy and turn back into his human form. Here's to hoping that didn't happen.

He flew away just in time to avoid another missile, and this time, it hit a building behind him. The impact sent debris crumbling down toward...oh shit is that a person?

Danny sprinted toward the citizen and picked him up before the rubble could crush him. He let out a sigh of relief as they both made it out unharmed. Well, until he looked down and saw who he was carrying.

"I could have saved myself, Fenton," Wes Weston grumbled in his arms.

Danny's eye twitched, and he considered dropping Wes right then and there. He had to remind himself that he was supposed to be a hero, and heroes didn't drop citizens out of the sky. So, he waited until they reached the ground before setting the redhead down.

"Wes," he began, "what were you doing standing under that building? You know that areas where ghost fights happen are dangerous to be in."

"You just say that because you don't want anyone to see you," Wes spat back. "I know your energy is depleting. I know you'll transform into a human when it's gone. And I'll get the evidence when you do."

Deep breaths, Danny. After taking a deep inhale then letting it out, the hero glared at Wes and spoke, "I'm serious. I know you're obsessed with exposing me or something, but you really need to stay away or you'll get hurt." He looked down at Wes's hand and saw him holding a camera, so he snatched it from him and added, "I'll take this, thank you very much."

Wes simply reached into his pocket and pulled out another camera. Of course he had a backup. Danny rolled his eyes and, after destroying the camera he took, sprang back into the air. He headed back toward Skulker, but not before shouting to Wes, "Seriously, stay back!"

Danny flew into battle, his fists ablaze with ectoplasm. Ectoblasts were shot from his hands at Skulker, but it seemed that the ghost had built a new shield into his metallic suit because all of them were deflected. Once Danny got too close, the robotic hunter punched him, and the halfa slammed against the concrete wall of a building.

He groaned and peeled himself off the cracked wall. When he looked up, he saw Skulker smirking at him. Danny bit his lip. He knew continuing to fight this way won't work... He had to pull out his emergencies attack.

His eyes made a quick scan across the street, but he wasn't that attentive about it. After all, he had already made sure that everyone left the scene when the brawl started. Hopefully, Wes listened to him and did too. There was no one around but him and Skulker.

He floated down to the road and planted his feet firmly on the asphalt. He faced Skulker, took a deep breath, and let out a bloodcurdling scream. That scream transformed into ectoplasmic energy that tore down everything in its path. Skulker was caught in the attack, his body thrown against a building before he could become intanngible. As the wail died down, Danny swiftly whipped out a thermos and trapped the ghost in.

As soon as the lid was on the thermos, he fell to his knees. The exertion finally reached him, and he felt all the energy being sucked from his body. He let the transformation rings run through him as his body went from ghost to human. The wind blew against his human skin--but not before he heard a click.

He turned around and saw...goddamnit. "Wes?"

Wes lowered the camera from his face to reveal a smug grin. Before Danny could say anything, he turned and sprinted.

Danny tried to get up and cursed when he fell back down. Why did fighting ghosts have to be so draining? He glared as the other boy fled from him--and then his eyes widened.

"Watch out!" Danny shouted.

Wes paused just long enough to look at him. The only problem was that he stopped right under the building Skulker had earlier been slammed against. The building that was severely cracked and about to collapse.

Danny pushed himself to his feet despite his body's complaints. He summoned the last vestiges of ghost energy he had to transform himself into a ghost and kicked into flight. He reached out, going as fast as he could to reach Wes before the rubble could crush him.

He was too late.

The last thing he saw was Wes's green eyes staring into his own before he was buried under the building.

"No!" he screamed. He reached the pile of crushed concrete where Wes once stood. It didnt matter if his body screamed at him to rest; he gathered all his supernatural strength and lifted the rubble out of the way. Wes can't be dead. He can't be. If he moved all this rubble away, then surely he'd find him injured but alive, and then he can take him to a hospital and--

His body froze at the sight he had unburied. If he weren't in ghost form at that moment, he was certain he would have vomited. He clamped a hand over his mouth and sunk to the ground, unable to take his eyes away.

There was no way Wes survived, and Danny didn't need to check his pulse to know. After all, the boy was nothing more than a pie of blood on the ground. Danny's form shook, and he couldnt stop the tears leaking out of his eyes. If only he made sure that Wes had left before he used his wail. If only he didn't make him stop underneath the falling building. If only he hadn't reverted to human before he could save him.

If only, if only. None of that changed what really happened.

Wes was dead. And it was Danny's fault.

____

Walter closed the door behind him as he entered the apartment. It was late at night; he had to stay at work to do some extra accounting. He was about to take off his coat, but an unusual cold that permeated the room made him keep it on.

He thought he heard someone in the living room, and his muscles tensed. "Wes?" he called out. No reply came.

He cautiously stepped into the room, and the person came into view. A glowing person sitting on air. He recognized those white hair and green eyes...wasn't he the ghost Wes was obsessed with?

Something was wrong. The ghost looked terrible, both physically and emotionally. But the physical injuries weren't unusual; he did fight enemies daily, after all. No--what made Walter's blood freeze was the intense grief on the phantom's face, evident in puffy eyebags and glossy eyes. And he was looking directly at Walter.

Before Walter could ask what was wrong, he said in a voice so soft he almost didn't hear him, "Your son died."

It felt like the whole world dropped beneath his feet. "What?" he asked, because he had to have heard that wrong, right?

"Wes died," the ghost repeated, his voice one decibel away from a sob. "I couldn't save him."

This couldn't be real. It had to be a dream. It certainly felt like one.

Phantom gave him one last, sad gaze and said, "I'm sorry." Then he vanished.

For a long moment, Walter stood there, trying to process what has been said to him. Once he did, he scrambled to grab his phone and quickly dialed Wes. The phone rang. No one picked up. He tried again, and again and again. But Wes never answered.

Wes was...

No. It couldn't be true. He didn't want to believe it...but he knew Phantom was telling the truth.

He let the phone slip through his fingers, then he buried his face in his hands and mourned his only family.

____

Everyone was shocked when they learned about Wes's passing. The pain was made more apparent when they went to school and realized just how much difference his absence made. The halls were too quiet, the classrooms too peaceful without Wes's crazy blabbering. No one thought they would miss hearing him ramble about conspiracy theories, but then again, you never know when you'd miss something until after it's gone.

Danny's enhanced senses let him pick up whispers around him, and everywhere he went in the school, people were talking to each other in hushed whispers, asking Is it true? Is that Weston kid really dead?

He wished he could shut his ears and forget all about Wes. But everytime he closed his eyes, he saw Wes's bloody, squashed remains, and he had to swallow down bile that rose in his throat.

"It's not your fault."

Danny opened his eyes to see Tucker standing in front of him. He held a look in his eyes that seemed an awful lot like pity. Danny looked down and clenched his hands into fists. "I could have saved him," he insisted.

"You did what you could," Sam said, walking from behind him to stand next to Tucker. "He was the one who stayed around despite your warnings." She tried to say it with confidence, but Danny heard the falter in her voice. Not even she could accept Wes's death without shock.

Danny was quiet. He closed his eyes, but then that sickening image appeared again, so he opened them and sighed. "I just...need some time alone."

He waited for them to leave. A part of him expected them to stay and argue, but it seemed they could tell that he needed space. Sam reminded him that they were there for him, Tucker agreed and added that he could talk to them whenever, and Danny simply nodded wordlessly until his friends turned and left.

He stood in the hallway, leaning against the lockers, until everyone else was gone and he was alone. No matter how much he told himself to go to class, he felt a weight dragging him down and preventing him from doing anything productive. He just wished he could curl on the floor and stay there until the day was done.

Eventually, though, he managed to get his body to walk. He dragged his feet step after step down the hallway, trying to remember which class he was supposed to attend this hour. He made it past a few lockers when his ghost sense was triggered.

As soon as the mist escaped his mouth, his body tensed, and he whipped around in place, trying to spot whichever ghost he was alerted to. He couldn't find anything. While his eyes scanned the hallway, he suddenly heard a click. He turned around and didn't spot anything unusual at first--but then he looked down and found a polaroid photograph on the floor which wasn't there before.

Danny narrowed his eys. He bent down to pick up the photo and studied it. It was...a picture of him. Caught in the middle of a transformation between ghost and human. He was kneeling on the ground, looking tired and haggard in his ghost form. Two rings of light surrounded his midriff, revealing the human clothes underneath his ghost jumpsuit.

Danny's blood turned to ice. He recognized the background of this photo. It was the same street he fought in yesterday. The same one where Wes--

The lights flickered. Danny's eyes snapped away from the photo. He could sense the ghost nearby.

Danny focused the ectoplasm from his body into his eyes. They lit up green, and the world around him changed colors. Everything was blanketed in shades of teal and purple--the colors he saw as a ghost. There, in the middle of the hallway, he saw the outline of a humanoid specter.

The air left Danny's lungs. He recognized that outline. Paired with the photograph... it had to be him. "Wes?" he called out hesitantly.

The ghost came into view, and now it was unmistakable. Even though the eyes that were staring at him were red instead of green, and the skin green instead of pink, Danny was certain that it was him. He had the same messy hair and wore the same basketball shirt.

It was Wes, back as a ghost.

Danny's heart jump in elation. Wes was back! He had an apology on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill so many things he thought he would never get to say to him. But then he stopped at the sight of Wes's expression. He didn't appear to share the same joy Danny felt.

In fact, his face held what could only be described as rage.

"Phantom," Wes growled. Even though he had the same voice, it made Danny's blood run cold in a way it never had when he was alive. Before the boy could blink, Wes lunged at him.

Danny yelped as he was tackled through a wall. Screams rose around him as they emerged in a filled classroom. He tried to convince himself that he did not hear something crack when Wes slammed him against the teacher's desk.

"Hey, let's talk this out!" Danny wheezed out, holding an arm out placatingly. But Wes was not placated.

The ghost that was once his classmate hovered over Danny with a growl. His eyes were glaringly red, his hair burned like fire, and his entire form shined with angry intensity. His hands curled into fists, and Danny rolled out of the way just in time before Wes sent a punch that smashed the entire table.

Danny pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the wincing pain throughout his human body. Behind him, he could hear the students talking loudly amongst themselves, the words "Wes" and "holy shit" sticking out a lot. Wes didn't seem to pay any attention to them; his eyes were focused on Danny.

"Come on, what do you want from me?" Danny pleaded. "I'm sure I can give it to you without fighting."

Wes paused in the middle of a swing. Honestly, Danny wasn't sure the ghost would listen to him, but he hesitated. Then his mouth split into a grin, revealing fangs that looked out of place on Wes's face. "Then transform," he said.

Danny froze.

He understood, now, why Wes was attacking him. He wanted him to fight back...as a ghost. But in a filled classroom, the others will see his transformation. He could feel their eyes boring into his back.

It made sense. Of course the conspiracy theorist would refuse to pass on just so he could reveal Danny.

He gulped. Well, there was always one option besides fighting...

Danny ran.

But of course, the angry ghost fighting him wouldnt let him escape. Wes grabbed a piece of wood from the broken table and threw it at Danny. His first thought was to turn intangible, but then he remembered about the many humans watching them, and he couldn't dodge fast enough to avoid the sharp splinter from grazing his arm. He gasped and gripped at the wound on his limb.

Cold claws clasped around his neck, and Danny was turned around to face Wes's burning eyes. The ghost's claws dug into his skin, enough to draw blood. Danny couldn't breathe. Wes was squeezing his throat, and Danny could see blackness creep into his vision. The halfa knew he couldn't escape without revealing his ghost powers, but if he didn't, he would die.

Suddenly, there was a thump. Danny's vision cleared just enough for him to see a book bounced off Wes's back. Wes whipped his head around to face...Danny couldn't believe it. Dash was standing behind his desk, an arm outstretched. Who would have thought the jock would help Danny?

As Wes growled, another book was flung at him from a different spot in the room. Danny didn't see who threw it that time, but soon more and more students rose up to protect him. A flurry of books, notebooks, and pencil cases flew across the room...not that any of it hurt Wes, since he simply turned intangible and let the objects fly through. They hit the wall behind him, and quite a few hit Danny, but at least there was one good thing resulting from this: Wes was intangible. Now was Danny's chance to phase his way out without raising questions.

He slipped through Wes's grip while the ghost was distracted. As soon as his feet hit the floor, he ran through the classroom door, ignoring the sting on his arm and his throat. His shoes flew across the floor as he sped down the hallway, his lungs gasping for air. There! The janitor's closet. He jumped inside, closed the door behind him, and swiftly transformed. Black became white, blue became green, and blood became ectoplasm. The pain dulled as soon as he became a ghost, and he felt ready now to take on Wes...at least, he was pretty sure he was. Maybe. Probably?

He still couldn't believe it. Sure, Wes was obsessed with him, but he would never willingly hurt him...but of course, that was before he became a ghost. Ghosts were driven by their obsessions. It didn't matter if anyone got hurt or not as long as their goal was achieved.

He shut his eyes and leaned against a shelf, wincing at the slight pain that shot through his form. It was hard to accept, but it was the truth. Wes was a ghost.

For a while, Danny stood there in the silent darkness, taking deep, steady breaths. His moment of peace was interrupted when his ghost sense was triggered again, causing his eyes to fly open. Wes must be nearby.

He took one more gulp of air and steeled himself, then he pushed himself into a straight position and walked through the door, ready to face his former classmate.

Wes the ghost looked the same as he did a few minutes ago, except for the apparent increase of rage on his expression. He wasn't happy to see Danny in his ghost form. "Why do you always have to hide when you change?" he hissed.

Normally, Danny would have cracked a humorous reply, but today didn't feel like the right time. Instead, he calmly said, "This isn't you, Wes."

The ghost tilted his head. His sharp teeth were bared midway between a smirk and a snarl. "Really? And who else would I be, Mr. Fenton?"

Danny told himself that his hands werent shaking as he continued. "You don't have to do this."

Wes gnashed his teeth, and his eyes burned brighter. "Yes I do," he argued. "You'll never reveal yourself on your own, and I can't give up on something I've died for."

Even though those words weren't news, they stabbed through Danny's core. The images of Wes's death flashed across his eyes again. Wes had died in an effort to expose Danny, and now Danny was the one responsible for the existence of the aggressive ghost before him.

He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. What was there to say? Wes had a point.

He heard murmurs and turned his head to see several students peeking out of their classrooms, ignoring their education in favor of their curiosity. This was far from the first time Phantom had fought a ghost in their school, but it was the first time that ghost was of someone they knew.

When he turned back to Wes, he didn't like the grin on the ghost's face at the sight of so many onlookers.

This time, Danny was prepared when Wes attacked. He called up a shield before the ghost's claws could scratch him. Wes didn't relent, and he continued to attack Danny from different angles.

Danny knew that this small hallway was not appropriate for a ghost fight. He also knew that Wes was only fighting him because of the onlookers surrounding them. He had to take the fight somewhere else.

As soon as the opportunity arose, Danny let down his shield just long enough to grab Wes, and he yanked them both through the floor. They landed in an empty cafeteria, where Wes promptly broke away from Danny's grip.

Wes hissed at him, clearly unhappy. Apparently, the ghost decided to take out his anger in the form of violence, because he began to shoot red ectoplasm at Danny. The room lit up with bursts of color as the ghosts exchanged attacks...okay, so maybe "exchanged" wasn't an entirely accurate description. Because no matter how much Wes fought him, Danny stayed on the defensive.

It was stupid, but he couldn't get himself to hurt his opponent back. Not when it was someone he knew in life.

He wasn't sure how long he spent blocking and dodging, but soon enough, the halfa was getting tired. His breaths came out in short puffs. Breathing automatically in ghost form...that wasn't a good sign. He paused for a second to lean against his knees--and that was long enough for Wes to make his move.

He blinked, and suddenly Wes was tackling them through a wall. Students and staff jumped out of the way as Danny was thrown against a row of lockers. So they were back in the hallway, and this time it was even fuller when everyone was going to their next class. (In the back of Danny's brain, he absently noted that he had missed another class. Mr. Lancer would not be happy.)

He barely finished that thought when Wes suddenly appeared in front of him. Before Danny knew what was happening, the ghost had plunged his claws into his chest.

It hurt. Pain flared from his chest and throughout his entire body. It felt like Wes was squeezing his very core. Danny couldn't help it--he screamed. He was paralyzed with pain, and Wes appeared to be enjoying it.

"Let him go!" someone shouted, and Danny blinked through the tears in his eyes to see Sam pushing her way in front of the crowd to face Wes. Wes turned his glaring eyes at her with a snarl. He straightened up and let his scarlet eyes flash with intensity, daring Sam to take another step. The girl kept her back straight, but it was apparent from how pale her face became that she wasnt as fearless as she was pretending to be.

Somehow, seeing Sam gave Danny more clarity. He forced himself through the thick waves of pain, and--ignoring his previous decision of holding back in his attacks--he sent the strongest ecto-blast he could muster at Wes. The ghost was shoved away and smashed into the opposite wall. As he went, his claws scraped at the wound on Danny's chest, making it bleed further. He winced. The damage had been done. Ectoplasm now leaked from a hole in his chest.

Danny could feel his energy gushing out from his wound. All of a sudden, the world tilted underneath his feet, and he staggered. His vision blurred into splotches of color, like a painting caught out in the rain.

Was it normal for him to taste ectoplasm leaking from his mouth? Danny was fairly certain that wasn't normal. He heard Sam calling his name and sluggishly lifted his head to see her standing before him, her hands hovering over his chest. When had she made her way to him? He followed her wide eyes to the spot on his chest. Right, the wound. The ectoplasm was gushing out at this point. He could feel the gravity increasing on him the more he bled. He blinked away the haziness in his eyes, and as he did, he saw something rise over her shoulder.

Danny had just enough alertness left over in his brain to recognize it as Wes. As fast as his exhausted mind would let him, he pushed Sam away and summoned a shield. He strained to keep the last wisps of ghostly energy he had to keep the shield up as Wes beamed ectoplasmic energy against it. How come Wes was so strong, anyway? His ghost just formed. It wasn't fair.

Not much time passed before Danny's energy completely drained away, and the shield cracked like a thin sheet of ice. The blast slammed against him, and he was shoved against the wall before collapsing onto the floor. He tried to stand up after that, but the task turned out to be as easy as walking on slippery oil. He immediately fell back down and stayed there. He was tired. Why was he so tired?

He waited for another attack, but none came. He forced himself to look up and saw several pairs of eyes. At first, he thought he was seeing double vision, but the eyes didn't belong to Wes. They belonged to the several students and teachers who were surrounding the two ghosts, wanting to help their hero but unsure how. In the center of the free space left by the crowd, Wes hovered.

His face was split into a grin. He was watching, waiting. For what? For Danny to die? That sounded fair. After all, Danny let Wes die. It made sense for him to return the favor.

Danny was about to surrender to the blackness creeping around his vision when a movement in the crowd caught his eye. A boy...Tucker?...pushed himself toward the scene, holding in his hand a familiar metallic cylinder. Wes's eyes widened at the object, but it was too late. With the press of a button, a beam of light shot at Wes and pulled him in.

"No!" Wes screamed. "No! I have to see it!" He tried to claw his way away from the thermos, but his effort was futile. He was captured inside the cylinder, which Tucker immediately put a cap on as soon as he was inside.

"Da--Phantom!" the geek cried out and ran toward him. He knelt next to his friend. Beside him, Sam did the same.

Danny's breath was ragged. It felt impossible to keep his eyes open anymore. He let his heavy eyelids fall over his eyes, and as he did, he felt a cold tingle travel across his body.

All around him, he heard gasps. He forced his eyes open again just to see what caused so much shock. Everyone was staring at him with wide eyes. When he looked down, he realized why.

The green leaking from him was turning red. His cotton shirt was wet and sticky from the blood. The hair drooping in front of his eyes was black. In his mouth, the lime taste was turning to copper.

Of course. How couldn't he have seen it earlier? All ghosts had some power related to their obsession. That was why Wes could beat his ass so easily--enough to revert him into his human form.

Normally, Danny would have been more alarmed at the reveal of his identity and the fact that he was maybe possibly dying. But now, he found that he didn't have enough energy to care. He was tired...maybe a small nap wouldnt hurt.

With his friends' voices lingering in his ears, he closed his eyes again and let himself surrender to the darkness.

[solynaceawrites]

Wires [5]: Marie Walters

Rating: Mature Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: F/F, F/M Fandom: Devil May Cry Relationships: Dante/Original Female Character(s), Implied Nero/Kyrie, Implied Vergil/Original Female Character(s), Implied Lady/Trish, Dante/Lirael Thorne, Dante/Lir Characters: Dante, Morrison, Nero, Original Female Character(s), Lirael Thorne, Lir Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Violence, Gore, Dark, Horror, Supernatural Elements, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Serial Killers, Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut Summary: In Red Grave City, a serial killer stalks the streets. Lirael Thorne, recently transferred from Fortuna and looking for an escape from her past, winds up on his trail. Hunting him with her veteran partner, Dante Redgrave, they try to piece together the wires that bind the three of them together. In a race to catch him before he leaves more victims in his wake, the things thought buried will come to the surface, tearing lives and comfort apart.

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“A void in my chest was beginning to fill with anger. Quiet, defeated anger that guaranteed me the right to my hurt, that believed no one could possibly understand that hurt.” —Rachel Sontag

»»————-　⚜　————-««

There’s a particularly gruesome quality to death in the daylight. It’s a stark reminder that everyone will eventually die, a brush with human mortality that leaves those who see it uncomfortable, and the fact that the sun now is hidden by clouds and rain does nothing to lessen the effect. The body is located in an open expanse next to a jogging path, tucked neatly underneath a statue of an angel in prayer; all around the scene, yellow tape is strung from tree to tree to create a barrier that keeps the gathering of curious onlookers at bay, even if does nothing to stop them from craning their necks, their whispers drowned out by the patter of water on leaves and grass. Lir takes in everything else: the blood, the slick, dark asphalt of the trail, the cops in jackets with Forensics emblazoned on the back picking carefully through the debris. So much for good forensics, she thinks bitterly, though he’s never left us much to begin with.

At her side, Dante stands with his hands in his coat pockets, his expression frustrated and thoughtful. “Couldn’t have picked a better day,” he says tightly. “We’ll be lucky to get anythin’ off of her now.”

Lir nods in agreement. Back up at the top of the hill, a cruiser is idling at the curb with an officer standing by the back door and a man seated within, his face drawn and miserable. “Witness?”

“Dunno. We’ll have to ask.” He cranes his neck, then shouts, “Simmons!”

The young officer walks over hesitantly, his wide eyes darting from Dante’s face to the body and back again. Lir remembers how upset he’d been by the first victim and feels a mixture of pity and annoyance; Homicide is always tough on rookies, but if his stomach is truly this weak, he’d be better off in another department. “Yessir?”

Dante gestures to the statue. “You gonna fill us in?”

“Oh! Right. Sorry, sir.” Simmons fumbles a notepad from his belt and flips it open. She notices how he favors his right arm, which is slightly odd looking: like it was broken once and never quite healed correctly, leaving his hand resting a little crooked. He holds the notepad close to his body to keep it safe from the rain, which by now is a soft drizzle. “The call came in forty-five minutes ago. A woman walking her dog heard shouting and what she described as a girl begging, and she thought it was a domestic until someone said, and I quote, ‘I’m going to fucking kill you, you bitch.’ That’s when she phoned 9-1-1.”

It doesn’t sound at all like their killer, and her shoulders tighten with a new frustration. A distraction is the last thing they need now. “Where’s the witness?” Lir asks.

“Officer Galstin is getting her contact information, but I already took her statement,” Simmons responds, not meeting her eyes.

“And the guy in the cruiser?” she prompts.

Simmons glances over his shoulder. “He was here when Officer Galstin and I arrived. There’s blood all over him, and he had a knife on him, but he clammed up as soon as he saw us and tried to run. I caught him,” he adds with a bit of pride, and Lir looks down and notices the mud on the knees of his trousers. “We cuffed him and read him his rights, but he hasn’t said a word so far.”

Dante places his hands on his hips as he surveys the scene. “You rope everything off?”

“Yessir. Put up evidence markers on anything that looked interesting and contacted the M.E., too.”

Lir feels a begrudging speck of respect. “You did good, Simmons. Go see if Galstin is finished with the witness, then take our suspect back to the precinct and get him settled in interrogation.”

“Yes ma’am.” He flushes. “Sir.”

She waves off the mistake, then turns to Dante. “Doesn’t look like this is our guy.”

“Nope.”

“Morrison said it was.”

“That’s my fault,” Simmons interjects. “When I heard there was a killing in the park, I thought . . .”

“That’s alright, Simmons,” Dante says before Lir can think of a way to verbalize her frustration at the false alarm without ripping him a new asshole. “Rookie mistake. From here on out, get your facts before you come to any conclusions. Go help Galstin.”

The youth snaps a salute and hurries off, and Lir lets out a slow sigh. “Fuck,” she mutters.

“Don’t hold it against him,” Dante advises.

“I’m not,” she replies sharply. At his raised brow, she shrugs. “Like you said, rookie mistake. Doesn’t mean I can’t be pissed that someone else is out here killing women, now.”

He snorts. “At least this one was stupid enough to hang around.”

“Yeah.”

Together, they cross the clearing towards the statue and the body beneath. At first look, it’s easy enough to tell that the man who did this is not the same as the one who mutilated Sophie Marsons: this victim is clothed, her knitted scarf knotted around her throat, the front of her white shirt ripped and soaked with blood. Dante lets out a low whistle while Lir leans down, pulling a pair of gloves from her pocket and sliding them on. Trish is standing nearby, talking to a man with a camera, and Lir calls out, “You got your pictures?”

“Yup. Look to your heart’s content, Detective,” Trish replies.

Lir lifts the girl’s arms, first her right, then her left, taking in the deep cuts to her palms and fingers. Then she carefully tugs the scarf to reveal the livid bruises and claw-marks beneath before reaching into the purse on the ground next to the body. Inside is a wallet that she opens, pulling out the driver’s license. “Marie Walters.” Lir rocks back onto her heels. “She fought, and she fought hard. There are defensive wounds on her hands, and the ground is churned like she was kicking.”

Dante nods. “Reads like anger to me.”

“The scarf, though . . .” she murmurs. “Why start with strangulation, then end with stabbing?”

The leaves rustle as he crouches next to her. “You gotta think like a pissed off man, Lir. Look around you. What do you see?”

She bristles at the coaching. “A struggle.”

“Walk me through it.”

“I’m not a rookie, Dante.”

“Humor me.”

Huffing, she pushes herself to her feet and moves from marker to marker, talking as she walks. “They came down from the road. There are skid marks up here, which means one of them slipped in the mud and the other probably kept them from falling. Somewhere around here,” she pauses by a cone next to a tree, “they paused for a bit. There’s a half-smoked cigarette with lipstick on it that matches the shade she’s wearing, so she was either comfortable enough to enjoy a smoke with him or nervous enough that she needed one to calm down.”

“Right.” He stands, shoving his hands in his pockets. “So, somewhere between the cigarette and here is where the argument started. It gets heated, probably somethin’ she says going by what the witness heard. Strangling someone carries a lot of different meanings, but . . .”

“It’s a silencing tactic,” Lir finishes.

“Mm-hm. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say, and didn’t want anyone else to hear it, either. You know how long it takes someone to die from suffocation?”

The casual way he asks the question throws her so that she can’t formulate a reply other than, “No.”

“Five minutes until brain death occurs, if consistent pressure is held.” Dante looks around. “Public park, people walkin’ their dogs, he needs her quiet so no one knows what’s goin’ on. Now, even if you know what you’re doin’, strangling someone with a scarf ain’t easy. They’re in pain, fightin’ back, scratchin’ you and themselves bloody to get you to stop. You lose pressure for a second, the screamin’ starts.”

Lir’s stomach twists, shoving acid up her throat. “He didn’t know that. That’s why, when she wouldn’t stop struggling, he used the knife.”

“That’d be my guess.”

“What a bastard.” She takes off her gloves, shoving them into her pocket. “I say we go talk to the guy Galstin and Simmons pulled in.”

Dante nods in agreement. Together, they climb the rain-slick slope back up to the road, and Lir bemusedly uses the towel he offers to clean mud from her boots before getting into his car. The station is only a few blocks away, but morning rush traffic delays them so that what should have been a ten minute trip winds up taking closer to forty, and in that time Lir’s mind stews. It flips back and forth between Sophie and their newest victim, Marie Walters. Two women, murdered by men, brutalized and terrified and left to rot. Her nails bite into her palms as bile flavors her mouth. Are they connected? Or did this new bastard just get enough courage from seeing someone else do it that he decided to take a life, too? She’s so tense by the time they arrive at the precinct that her jaw aches from being clenched, and Lir forces herself to relax as they head inside to avoid any probing from her partner.

At the back of the building, down a hallway lit with bright white fluorescents, are the interrogation rooms. The three of them sit on the left-hand side, each with two doors: one for the observation room, one for holding suspects for questioning, separated by a wall and a pane of one-way glass with recording equipment set up to capture the conversations that occur within them. Lir and Dante step into Observation 1, where they find Morrison waiting, watching the man through the window.

“His name is Jonas Miller,” Morrison tells them. “No prior arrests, lives in Hyde Park with his wife, Lucille.”

Dante makes a low noise of surprise that mirrors how Lir feels. Hyde Park is one of the more affluent neighborhoods in Red Grave City, a gated community with manicured lawns, neat hedges, and large houses that start out with six figure mortgages. “He give you anything?” she asks, stepping closer to the glass.

“No. Hasn’t even asked for a lawyer.”

“Huh.” Miller certainly looks like he could afford one without a problem. Even from here, she knows that the watch on his wrist is a Rolex, that the shoes on his feet are too nice to be anything other than genuine leather, probably Gucci. “I’ll take him.”

“You?” Dante doesn’t sound angry, just startled. “Why?”

Lir is already halfway out of the door. “Because he killed a woman. Being questioned by one is going to throw him off.”

The door shuts off his answer. She pauses for a moment outside of Interrogation 1 to put her thoughts in order and breathe deeply to fight off the anger that’s been getting sharper all morning, since she first spotted that guy in the alley where Sophie died. Then she opens the door and steps inside. 

Miller doesn’t look up as she takes the seat across from him and pulls out a notepad and a pen. His eyes remain downcast, focused on his hands, and Lir takes him in. His hair is mussed, his eyes bruised and bloodshot, and there are deep scratches in the tanned skin of his face, neck, and forearms. His shirt is too dark for her to tell if there’s blood on it, and if there was any on his hands, he’d been allowed to wash it off, a fact that makes her frown even as she takes the cap off of her pen and writes the date and time at the top of the paper. “Jonas Miller,” she says. He flinches. “Want to tell me what happened this morning?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

Her fingers tighten on her pen. “You were found in Tellula Park with the body of Marie Walters. Officers Simmons and Galstin both stated that you ran from the scene with a knife in your hand.” Miller says nothing. “If we test that knife, do you think it will match the wounds on Marie Walters?”

Slowly, seeming dazed, he shakes his head. “I didn’t touch her.”

He’s lying, a voice whispers. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end at the sound of it, furious and grieving and not at all her own, and she takes a slow breath and counts to ten until the gray at the edges of her vision recedes. “We have a witness, Mr. Miller, one who will be able to identify your voice threatening to kill someone, we have your knife, which will match Marie Walters, and, going from the state of your face, there’s going to be enough skin under her nails to crucify you in court. If you cooperate with me, there’s a chance that the D.A. will work with you. If you don’t, then whatever it is you’re hiding is going to be blasted in the news. Do you understand?”

That gets his attention. He stares at her, his eyes wild, and stammers, “My wife, I-I have to get home to my wife—”

“I’m very sure Marie Walters would have liked to go home, Mr. Miller,” she says coldly.

“My wife is—”

“Why did you kill Marie Walters, Mr. Miller?”

“I never—”

“Did she threaten you, Mr. Miller?” Lir knows she should stop, that anything she gets out of this confession is going to be shit if she goads him any further, but, fuck, he’d been Mirandized and hasn’t asked for a lawyer, and it feels good to see him squirm. “According to her license, she was five foot five and weighed one-twenty. She was half your size, a college girl, so I’m struggling to see how she could have been so dangerous that you stabbed her eighteen times and strangled her with a scarf. What did she do to piss you off, Mr. Miller? What could a girl like that have possibly—”

“She lied to me!” he shouts, slamming his hands on the table. Lir refuses to let that frighten her, because there’s a gun at her hip and a knife in her boot, and he’d be an idiot to come after a cop with all the trouble he’s already about to get himself into. “She swore that she was on the pill, that she didn’t want anything other than a-a partner, and then she called me and said she was pregnant and demanded I leave my wife or she’d tell, and I . . . I . . .” He tapers off, hiding his face in his hands. “I just wanted her to shut up. Just once. She was such a bitch, always mouthing off, I just wanted her to shut the hell up for once.”

“So you killed her,” Lir states flatly.

Whimpering, he nods. A wave of revulsion rises within her; here is a man who looks no older than forty, with a million-dollar house and a wife, wearing designer brands, a man who had decided that he wanted to get his dick wet with a girl half his age, who had killed that girl like she was gutter trash when the consequences of his actions came to fruition, and he’s snivelling like an infant. “Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Miller, that it takes two to cause a pregnancy?” Her voice is ice. “Or did you simply assume that you were too good for a condom?”

His head snaps up, his mouth agape with shock. “What—”

“This is how it reads to me, and how it will read to a jury.” She pushes back her chair and stands. “You entered into a relationship with a college student, telling who knows how many lies to your wife. Did you promise Marie Walters that you loved her? That you would leave your wife for her? And then,” she continues, ignoring his sputtering, “when she, quite naturally, got pregnant—birth control fails, Mr. Miller, all the time—you killed not only her, but her unborn child, all because you were too much of a coward to deal with your actions. You are nothing more and nothing less than a repugnant, low-life, inexcusable—”

The door slams open, and Morrison steps inside, his face passive but his eyes furious. “Thank you, Detective. We’ve gotten what we need from him. The interview is now over.” To Miller, he says, “Officer Simmons will be along to book you while the D.A. decides which charges to press. Excuse us.”

Lir follows Morrison when he leaves, knowing that she’s fucked up but too wired to care. In the hall, Dante is waiting, and he gives a little shake of his head when he catches sight of whatever expression is on her face. Don’t, he mouths. 

Morrison turns on her. “Are you out of your mind, Detective Thorne? Do you want that man to walk free? Because that is the only reason I can think of to explain why you’d behave so irresponsibly.”

“I got the confession,” she starts.

“A confession that we’ll be lucky to get admitted,” Morrison snaps. “One look at that and whatever defense attorney Miller hires will petition to get it thrown out on the basis of coercion! You didn’t question him, Thorne, you rode his ass and degraded him, and we’re lucky that he was read his rights and denied an attorney, because those are the only things that might sway a judge into keeping the confession intact.”

“He killed her!” Her voice raises despite her attempts to keep it under control, and she sees Dante wince from the corner of her eye. “It wasn’t some accident. He took a knife with him, he fucked her and then he stabbed her eighteen goddamn times! And you think I rode him too hard?”

Morrison’s mouth twists. “You might want to reconsider your tone unless you want to be working vice from now on, Thorne.”

She opens her mouth, only for Dante to step forward, his hands raised placatingly. “Chief, it’s been a long day. Hell, a long weekend. Neither of us have slept more than four hours, we lost a suspect this morning, and we’re getting nowhere with Marsons. Thorne’s a damn good detective, but even good ones have bad moments from time to time.”

Morrison cuts his eyes from Dante to Lir. “That true, Thorne?”

As much as it humiliates her to do so, she takes the lifeline Dante has given her. “Yessir.”

“Fine.” Morrison studies her a moment longer before turning away. “Even if we lose the confession, forensics will get enough to nail him. You go home and rest. I don’t want to see you for twenty-four hours, understood? I’ll need that long just to clean up this mess.”

She nods, and he glances at her over his shoulder. “I expected better from you, Thorne.”

Then he’s gone, leaving her to wallow in the unpleasant heat of chastised embarrassment, swallowing thickly against the tears that prick her eyes. A hand grips her shoulder, but she refuses to look at Dante, merely shrugging when he says, “Let me give you a lift home,” wishing, not for the first time, that her father was still around to give her advice.

[justauthoring]

Not According To Plan [J.P.]

Request(s): Heya love your bog! Any chance you could do a Jesse pinkman where y/n tells him she’s pregnant kinda fluff/minor aghast please?

Hi! Can I request a Jesse Pinkman imagine set in any season or in El Camino where you tell him you’re pregnant? Thanks!

hi!!! may i please request a Jesse pinkman fic where he finds out his girlfriend pregnant and he decides to stop everything but Walter won’t let him? THANK YOU SO MUCH!!

Requested by: @pondjessicaamelia

Please don’t plagiarize my work! Word Count: 1,795

“No... Oh, God, no.”

Your breath shudders, your hands begin to shake as you stare at the two red lines. This can’t be right. Pregnant? “How?” You cry, unable to stop the tremour in your voice as you shake your head. You’ve always been safe and you take birth control pills just in case--

Lips parting, your eyes widen. Dropping the pregnancy test without a seconds hesitation, you reach above the bathroom sink, grabbing the small basket scattered among other things on the shelf. You search through the many medicine and pills thrown unceremoniously into the basket until you settle upon what you’re looking for; condoms.

This is where Jesse always kept them. And you remember how many he had, because you’d bought them. The pack came with twenty, but you’d bought them over a few months ago. In the midst of your panic, you try to remember, best you can, how many times you and Jesse have had sex in the past two months. You weren’t exact, but, there was a condom missing.

And not to mention, you haven’t been taking your birth control pills...

Turning, feeling your body grow weak and numb, you sink down to your knees, leaning against the counter as your head falls into your hands. It’s not that you don’t want kids, or that you never do. In fact, you would love to have kids and especially Jesse’s. But, you weren’t ready. At least, not yet. You still haven’t figured out what you want to do with your life and...

And, you didn’t know about Jesse. How would he feel about all of this? Does he even want kids?

You two had only recently started becoming more serious. And even then, not for that long; a month or so. You’d been having sex way beforehand, sure, but, not in that way. At least, not until recently. You guys weren’t committed like that; at least to your knowledge. Jesse could easily just leave and feel no ounce of regret. Not that you expected him to, but, situations like these made people act irrationally.

“Jesus,” you whisper, “what am I gonna do...”

A sudden knock pulls you from your thoughts, causing you to jump. You let out a gasp, turning your head over your shoulder as your brows furrow. You were expecting no company and you certainly weren’t up to entertaining any one at the moment. For a split second, you consider ignoring the knock, pretending you’re not home, until a familiar voice calls out; “Y/N? Yo, it’s me. Jesse.”

“Fuck,” you curse, pushing yourself up to your feet. With haste, you push yourself up to your feet, moving towards your door before you pause. The pregnancy test. Hissing, you grab it, hesitating a moment. Tossing it into the trash can would be too obvious, since you’d just dumped it out. But another knock at your front door reminds you you don’t have much time, so, tossing it into the bin, you grab a handful of toilet paper, dropping it in after.

That should be good enough.

You reach your door just as Jesse moves to knock again, causing him to pause before his eyes fall on you and a warm smile erupts onto his lips. However, it soon fades when he gets a good look at you. “Hey,” he calls out softly, moving to step inside, eyes never wavering from your own. “You don’t look so good.”

“No, no,” you breathe out, shutting and locking the door behind him, before brushing back some of your hair out of your face. “I’m okay.”

You turn to face Jesse, but he’s still frown down at you, shoulders falling with deep concern. He takes a step forward, letting his fingers gently fall on your cheek, before cupping your chin gently and leaning close. “You sure?” He asks, voice considerably quiet.

With a nervous, but you hope believable, chuckle, you teasingly swat Jesse’s hand away. “I’m fine, weirdo,” you laugh, moving over to your couch. “So, I thought you were busy today?”

“Plans got cancelled,” he shrugs, falling down next to you. Without hesitation, he wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close as you fall next to him with ease. Even if your worries still nag at the back of your mind, just being near Jesse is enough to calm your nerves. At least a little. “Figured i’d come see my favourite girl.”

“Oh, hush,” you roll your head, moving to grab the remote. “Wanna watch a movie?”

“Sure.”

A few hours later, the two of you having moved to some sort of racing game, Jesse suddenly pauses the game, causing your eyes to fall on the back of him as he stands up. “Gotta pee,” he says simply, making his way towards your bathroom. You brush it off with no concern, your earlier concerns having slipped to the back of your mind.

It isn’t, in fact, until Jesse walks out of the bathroom with the pregnancy test in hand a few moments later, do you realize your mistake.

You innocently move to glance up at him as he walks back, expecting him to fall back into his spot next to you, until you see what’s in his hand and the change of his expression. His care free nature is all but gone and there’s a sort of dumbfounded expression on his face as he flickers his gaze from the test, to you. Where he looks at you questioningly. 

“Jesse...--”

“This yours?”

Swallowing thickly, you bite your bottom lip. There was no point lying. “Yeah,” you say quietly, feeling your head sink. “It’s mine.”

“You took this today?” You nod. “And it means...?” He doesn’t need an answer to his question, but still, you nod once again.

Jesse doesn’t say anything for a moment, but it feels like eternity to you. Like your entire being is caving in on itself and you just can’t handle it. If Jesse wants to break it off, then you need to know because you can’t handle the debating any longer. Besides, it’s not like you needed to gain the courage to tell him anymore; he already knew.

“I’d understand if you...” With a shaking breath, you inhale deeply, bracing yourself. “If you wanna break up. I’ll be okay, i’ll figure something out. And there’s one thing I know, I wanna keep the baby. I’ll figure out the money and everything and honestly, Jesse, we’re so young so I totally understand if--”

“Woah, woah,” Jesse cuts off, your eyes snapping to his as he shakes his head, disbelief written on his face. “Are you offering me an out?”

Pausing, you frown. “Well, yeah...”

“Why?”

“Because I thought you wouldn’t want to--”

“It’s mine, though?”

“Of course,” you say without hesitation. “Of course, Jesse. There’s no one else but you, Jesse.”

Jesse nods, and once again, stifling silence fills the air as you wait for his answer, terrified at what it’ll be. Then, suddenly Jesse rushes forward, falling to his knees before you and taking your hand into his own, stunning you. Your lips part, staring down at him in wonder. “I’m not going anywhere,” he finally says, no ounce of doubt in his voice. “I’ll help you raise our baby. Doesn’t matter to me if we’re too young, there’s no way I could ever leave you.”

Your shoulders fall, body easing. You don’t know what to say. You knew Jesse was sweet and he possibly had the biggest heart of anyone you knew, but, you didn’t think... couldn’t even imagine him being this supportive. This understanding. You’d been so sick with worry that you’d overthought everything. And for no reason.

“I love you, Y/N.”

Blinking, you meet his gaze. He seems to realize what he said and shaking his head, he lets out a nervous smile; “I’ve loved you since I first met you. And, if you’ll let me, I want to be there for you.”

“Of course,” you say quietly, your own smile curving onto your lips. “Of course I want you to be there with me.”

Jesse presses a kiss against your knuckle, eyes remaining on your own the entire time. The kiss sends flutters through your entire self and in that moment, you realize, there’s no one you’d rather have a baby with than Jesse.

-

“Mr. White--”

“We are so close, so close, to finishing what we started. And what? You just want to give it all up?”

“Y/N is pregnant, Mr. White,” Jesse mumbles, brows furrowing in absolute disbelief. He can’t believe what he is hearing from the man he looked up to. He thought, if anyone would understand, it’d be him. Since he’d started all of this for his family in the first place. “I have enough money that will sustain us for a while, and then i’ll find a job and, well, yeah. I mean, I can’t keep cooking with a baby around, yo. That’s just not safe.”

Walter scoffs, rubbing his hands across his face tiredly before shaking his head. “You’ll get a job? You?” Jesse’s head jerks back at the obvious insult, lips parting. 

“Yeah,” Jesse whispers, “I... I have to. For Y/N.”

Walter takes a step forward, grabbing Jesse firmly by the shoulders. He leans close, leaving Jesse no choice but to focus solely on him. “I do this for my family. So my family has enough money to live a comfortable life. More than a comfortable life. Don’t you want the same for your own, Jesse?”

“Yeah, but, I don’t have... cancer, Mr. White.” Jesse ignores the look of shock on Walter’s face, trying to stay strong. “I mean, it might be hard, but I can get a job. I can live a normal life. I don’t need to cook meth for Y/N to be happy and sustained.”

Huffing, Walter steps back. “You’ll see. You’ll come to understand my way of thinking, Jesse. And when you do, i’ll be here.”

Inching towards the door, Jesse’s lips part. “I’m not coming back, Mr. White.”

Without hesitation, Walter shakes his head; “you will. I know you will.”

And there’s something about the look in his eyes, something that just screams danger to Jesse. It feels him with doubt and hesitation and he almost, almost, doesn’t walk out. Tempted to just give in. He would be dangerous, but Mr. White had a point; you and your baby would be sustained and happy for life. And Jesse’s been keeping it a secret from you for this long that he can continue to.

But then, he imagines his child, boy or girl, ever finding out what he did; the absolute disgust and fear that they would feel... and that gives him the encouragement to walk out.

Not knowing what that meant.

-

Let me know what you thought?

[horribella-monster]

A Walk in the Woods

“Look, if you draw a two thousand-mile-long line across the United States at any angle, it’s going to pass through nine murder victims.”

― Bill Bryson, A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail

Cautions: Language/Gore

Rating Adultish

Do not copy to other sites without permission.

 Branch and bramble tugged at her body as she plowed through the undergrowth of the forest. Hands frantic with terror pulled away at the gnarled vines as she continued her desperate race to find safety.  She crashed through another dark wall of twisted twig and bough then fell forward on to the detritus of forest floor.  Thorns, leaves, and decaying matter adhered to her skinned hands and knees.

 For a moment, she dropped her chin to her chest and fought to slow her panicked gasps.  Her disheveled hair pulled loose from her sagging ponytail and plastered to the smudged dirt and in her mouth. She grabbed the hair and spat it out.  The strong desire to just collapse there and surrender to whatever fate the forest decided warred with her simmering anger fueled will to survive and kill her therapist.

 The crashing sound of her nearing pursuer startled her into action.  She crawled to the nearest tree and pulled herself up on the twisted moss-covered trunk.  She took a deep breath and inhaled the moist earth tinted air.  For an alarming minute, her vision tunneled, and the sounds of the forest took on the muted quality foreshadowing an imminent collapse.  Her world stretched and then snapped back into terrifying focus as she gritted her teeth and willed herself forward.  

 Pushing herself back into motion, a mantra reverberating through her head. “I will not die here. This will not beat me.  I am going to kill my fucking therapist. Face your fucking fear. What a stupid fucking idea! I will NOT die here.  This will not beat me-“

 Her foot met air and her arms flailed wildly as she sought to recover her lost balance. Momentarily, her foot found a purchase as she tried to slow her fall and began to slide down the steep ravine. Her slide quickly became a tumble. She pinballed down the hillside, bouncing over the bumps and into obstacles. Her perception a blurry whirl of leaves, rocks, pebbles, and the decomposing stuffs of trees and weeds.

 Thud into Rock. Tree. Rock. Rock. Bump. Branch. Log. Then air, as she flew over a ridge.  The following impact with the ground drove the air from her lung as she bounced finally into a weathered tree.  

 The last jolt left her huddled trying to catch her breath.  She curled around her throbbing ribs and felt the symphony of discordant body aches and pain swelling into a crescendo threatening to overwhelm her senses.  

 The ever-present heavy thudding footfalls and splintering forestscape in the wake of the thing of tooth and claw that had chased her, focused her senses.  She had no idea what the thing was.  Maybe a bear. In her encounter with it, she had the sense of something huge.  It lumbered up and stood in the shadows behind her.  With a roar the thing had swept out a massive claw slashing her backpack off.  She tumbled and rolled up, sprinting away into this awful, awful forest. This thicket with its tall dark trees reaching upward to smother out the sky, the looming branches dipping, swaying and grabbing to rend and tear her away. The dark foliage hiding monsters and terrifying animals – Stop.  She had to not think about anything but running.  

 She wobbled to her feet. Swaying dangerously, she took a step and focused just on moving. One foot in front of the other.  One foot in front-

 Her one foot in front slid into a hole and her arms cartwheeled again trying to regain her precarious balance. The moment froze in time as she felt her balance give way and prepared for another bone jarring slam into the ground.  Instead it was cold, scummy water rushing into her mouth and swallowing her whole. The taste of algae filled her mouth as she came up sputtering, coughing in a slow-moving pooling stream. Really, more of a water filled ditch. A ditch just in the place to soak her head to toe.

 If she could have summoned the extra breath, she would have screamed.  All she could do was grind her teeth and shiver as she clambered up the bank. When she pulled herself from the water, she smacked her fist down on the packed dirt with an inarticulate cry. That bitch of a therapist was so dead, she was going to take an ice pick and shove it so far-

 Her tirade came to screeching halt when, she really looked at the packed dirt.  Holy shit!  She was on a trail.  It was well worn and easy to see even in the dim light.  Any sign of civilization was like a neon sign from God, finally her luck was turning for the better. She began a running limp along the trail putting distance between her and the menacing thing looking to make her a snack.

 If she hadn’t had a fear of the forest before, she sure as shit had one now.  Especially this dark, cold, and phobia inducing forest complete with a terrifying carnivorous predator. Supposedly, seeing what was in the forest was not supposed to be as bad as what she imagined.  Well that was bullshit, because this forest was hiding that… whatever it was with too many teeth and huge claws.  Not in one of her fear induced anxiety had she ever imagined that.

 Her therapist said she should read Thoreau, and that like her other advice was bullshit.  He was too in love with his own words and the tamed woods.  The Bill Bryson guy had it more correct. Woods were creepy and full of death inducing insects, diseases, and animals.  Her therapist was not amused by her choice of reading and pointed out that Bryson comes down firmly on the side of nature. She told her therapist; he was a sell out to big wood and then giggled helplessly through the rest of the session. Looking back, it made sense that her therapist sent her out to the woods, she was a terrible patient.

 Her pace slowed and she leaned against a misshapen trunk to rest and listen. She hadn’t heard the thing since she climbed out of the thick water of the ditch and needed to catch her breath.  Her heart pounding loudly in her ears, only the creepy sound of falling branches and whispering wind seeped past it.  With deep calming breaths, her heart slowed, and she really listened. There weren’t any animal sounds and only a few insects.  It was like the forest ate everything that came within it.  She shook the thought out of her head.  Seriously, not helping yourself here.  As her heart slowed, a far-off sound caught her attention. The tinny sound of music.  A radio! Fuck yes!

 She took off down the trail toward the sound.  Visions of warmth, safety, and alcohol danced in her head adding buoyance and speed to her steps.   Still wet, bleeding from various scratches and the pain her ribs pounded in time to her steps, she literally wasn’t out of the woods yet, but there was light at the end of the tunnel as the music grew louder and a generator’s chugging joined the chorus. Then there was smoke.  She hoped they were burning this rotten place to the ground.  Screw you, trees.  

 Shouting as she burst into the clearing, she immediately stopped.  There was a fire, a tent, and the tell-tale smell of ammonia. Two men armed with rifles stepped out of the large tent and the smell of ammonia became overwhelming.

 Her heart sank.  Here were some of Bryson’s “armed, genetically challenged fellows” maybe even as he put it, “loony hillbillies destabilized by gross quantities of impure corn liquor and generations of profoundly unbiblical sex” except they weren’t brewing alcohol, but cooking meth in the middle of Snow White’s fucking haunted woods.  She just knew she was going to be on a podcast about missing people or to support the adage of “don’t go into the forest”.

 The cocking of the rifles pinpointed her focus on the Walter White wannabes and she tried to summon a friendly face.  Considering the state of her clothes, hair, and bleeding, she supposed that she looked more like the after picture for noob goes to the woods, which was remarkable accurate.  She raised her hands.  “Hi.”

 One of the men spit a glob of black-brown goo at the fire and stepped forward. “What are you doing here?”

 “I’m lost.  I mean I have no idea where I am except in an awful forest. I just want to leave. Can you-“ She stopped as the other man stepped forward and leered.

 “You look lost.” Meth cook number one, the spitter, said.

 “I am.”

 “I’ll help ya.” Meth cook number two, the leerer, laughed as he grabbed his crotch.

 “How’d ya find us?” Meth number one asked.

 “I just told you, I didn’t. I’m lost.”

 “How’d you get lost?” Meth number two asked. “Were ya lookin’ fer love in all the wrong places?”

 First Meth guy glared at second Meth guy, “Shut it. Go back to work.  I’ll handle this.”

 “But Cletus-“

 “Bubba, now or I will shoot ya.  Ya know I will.”

 Bubba, and didn’t that just totally fit, huffed and sulked as he shuffled back to the tent, scratching his ass as he walked. Leaving just Meth guy number one, aka Cletus.

 “I don’t believe you. How’d ya get lost?”

 She tried hard not to roll her eyes. “I guess the usual way.  I knew where I was then I didn’t. Lost.” She said trying to give sincere smile, but from Cletus’ reaction it came off as a smirk.  This is exactly why her therapist hated her.  No one likes a smartass.

 “You think this is some joke girlie? You think I won’t shoot yer ass and drop it back in that stream? Cuz I will.  Yer in a world of trouble here.”

 “Yeah. Yeah, I am.  Kind of the story of the day. You know?”

 “Ain’t nuthin personal. Yer jus’ real unlucky.  We can’t have ya going back and telling them where we are.” He put the rifle up to his shoulder.

 Fear made her words breathlessly and spill out with ever increasing speed and volume, “I’m lost! I literally have no idea where I am much less you! For fuck sake, what about lost do you not understand!”

 Cletus frowned. “Ya ought’n ta curse. I think ya ain’t lost. Ya came up that path,” he gestured behind the tent, “from the road.”

 “I came from that way.” She pointed behind her.  “Do you think I used my obviously awesome forest skills to stealthily come up here and oh by the way jump into the disgusting stream and threw myself down a hill before that to complete the look?”

 Cletus chewed on something as he lowered the rifle.  He looked like he was trying to work out what was just said to him for a minute.  The hamster that ran the wheel in his brain must be out of shape because he gave up and shrugged. “Yep.”

 So not so much Walter White wannabes, but Jed Clampett’s much stupider inbred cousins. Inbred insane cousins armed and ready to shoot. “Please, come on.  I lost my backpack, I don’t have money or a mobile – but … if you take me to a phone and I can get some money.  Please!”

 Cletus placed the rifle butt against his shoulder again. “Sorry, can’t take a chance. ‘Sides I’m doin’ you a favor.  Bubba, he ain’t right.”

 “Wait-Wait… don’t!” She started to move back when she noticed Cletus’ mouth dropped open. Then the fetid breath from behind her, blew her loose hair and the smell hit her.  The overpowering stench of rot and filth wafted over her as a guttural growl vibrated her back.  She closed her eyes and turned slowly.

 When she opened them, she saw it.  Its massive maw opened, and thick saliva sluiced through huge yellow teeth.  It was almost on top of her.  Its heavy breath blew her hair again and then Bubba walked out of the tent.  

 “I don’t know why I have- What the hell is that!” He yelled and the stilled tableau burst into motion.

 The creature roared. She dropped to her knees.  Cletus fired.  Bubba fired. The creature charged over her into Cletus, its bite taking off the right side of Cletus’ upper torso.  He screamed. Bubba screamed as the geyser of Cletus’ blood covered him and dripped from the creature’s jaw.  Bubba literally lost his shit and fired until the rifle just clicked.  She rolled to her feet and took off running for the back of the tent and the path. She heard Bubba scream and fade into incoherent whimpering interrupted by the nauseating sound of chewing.

 It was not a bear.  She had no idea what it was, but some crazy cryptozoologist could figure that shit out.  All she knew was she didn’t want to end up in its gut and she had to run. She was sure that it had expended a lot of energy chasing her and didn’t think that the meth boy appetizers were going to sate it.  

 She ran for about a minute and then heard the muffled sound of an explosion as the volatile chemicals in the meth lab blew up.  She stopped and look back at the fireball rising from the forest.  Good. Burn baby, burn. Then turned and ran.  Her luck was nowhere good enough to suppose that the thing was dead.  

 The forest was darker after the bright explosion of light and the imminent setting of the sun.  But the deep dark forest didn’t bother her now. The crashing of branches and the heavy footfall behind her was her real concern. Where was that fucking road!

 The path narrowed and meandered between huge trees and small saplings.  She hoped that the narrow path would slow it down some but knew just like all prey does that it wouldn’t make that much difference.  She had to get to the road.  Cletus and Bubba were too overweight for it to be too far.  

 Then it appeared in front of her.  A two-lane black top.  An empty two-lane black top.  A dilapidated pick up truck, rusted through in several parts of the body was on the side of the road.  She didn’t pause to try and get in.  

 She sprinted up the middle of the road away from the path.  She was running uphill and already down into the valley of the next when she realized she could have hid in the truck.  Too late, she was committed to running and she was so close.  If only one car would show up.  Please just one damn car.  She nearly tripped over roadkill going up the next hill. and looked over her shoulder. She didn’t see it, but she didn’t pause. It was somewhere close.  She knew it like she knew that she couldn’t stop running.

 As she topped the next hill, she put on a burst of speed.  The road flattened and curved off to the right.  She made the curve and froze.  There were bright headlights and the screeching of tires as an eighteen-wheeler bore down on here.  She understood the deer’s point of view as her brain screamed move and her body just wouldn’t. It was almost on top of her when she moved.  The upside, it was committed to stopping, the downside this was going to hurt.

 The impact drove her breath out her body and added road rash to the list of her body’s grievances. She curled in on herself for a moment as the acrid smoke from the tires billowed around her.  

 She heard the semi’s door opened and footsteps headed her direction. She started moving slowly crawling up to her hands and knees, her head dropped to her chest, as the truck driver spoke, “Shit, shit! Are you okay? What were you – Good God All Mighty what the hell is that?”

 Adrenalin jerked her head and her body into motion, “Get in the truck.  Hurry up, go!”  She ran to him and pushed him toward the door.  “Stop staring and move! Jackass MOVE!”

 The trucker jerked at her profanity and ran away from the lumbering figure moving out of the woods.

 She sprang inside the truck and urged him on. “Please come on, come on!”

 He climbed in with the speed that only terror can instill in someone. He shoved her over to the other side and slammed the door as claws raked the metal.

 There was a bang as the creature rammed its body into the door and then there was a roar and a crack. The window was cracking as the cab of the truck shook.  

 The driver needed no more prompting and threw the truck into gear.  He gave it gas and the tires screeched again as he accelerated.  There was another bump and an accompanying roar as the tires ran over part of the creature and she smiled.

 “D-Did you see that? What was it?”

 She shook her head slowly, “I don’t know.  Something with lots of teeth and a never give up attitude. So, you might want to floor it.”

 Nodding, he pressed harder on the accelerate and shifted up. “We got to call someone.”

 She nodded, “Sure. Tell them about the bear.”

 “Bear? Ma-am that weren’t no bear. It was.. was-“

 “A bear.  Unless you want to tell them that some pebbly hided creature that was a cross between razorback feral hog, bear, and Creature from the Black Lagoon took a bite out of your truck.  Then I hope you have real good insurance, because you’ll be drug tested and psych ward bound.”

 “Right, bear. What about that smoke there?”

 She looked at the smoke rising above the forest as they passed the meth cooker’s pick-up truck. “It tried to eat a Meth Lab after eating the Meth guys.”

 He shot a disbelieving look and she shrugged, “It’s been a day.”

Patty, 10/16/2020

[ericsonclan]

A Hero is Called

Summary: Clementine is nervous for college but within the first few days she realizes there will be a lot more to worry about then just the classes.

Notes: This is the start of our Persona AU (based on the Persona video games)! It’s gonna be a BIG one and we’re super excited to share it with you guys! 

Read on A03: 

Clementine sat down on the floor, her back against the wall, looking down at the green backpack in her lap. She had already double checked to make sure she had everything for her first day at Ericson University, but it couldn’t hurt to check again. She opened up her bag looking thoroughly at the contents. Her text books were all there taking up the majority of the space, leaving just enough room for her notebook and purple pencil case. She looked at the side of her backpack which held her water bottle. Lastly she checked her front pouch which held her wallet, flipping it open to check to see if her school ID was there. After that was confirmed she took a deep breath, zipping up her bag and placing it at the side of her bed before proceeding to get ready to sleep.

I’m sure it will go well, she reassured herself as she got under her covers, glancing up at the clock which read eleven twenty. She always got nervous before going to a new school and it seemed that college would be no different. She stared up at the ceiling, thoughts swimming through her head before her eyelids began to droop, sleep overtaking her.

An odd feeling twisted through her stomach; her eyelids fluttering open. Her golden brown eyes looked around, confused by her surroundings. Somehow she had ended up in a courtroom, a sight she wasn’t unfamiliar with. Except she had never seen a blue tinted one before. The light shining through the window danced on the floor before her. The room was empty, the table where the prosecutor would be, the row in which the jury would sit, even the seats behind her.

How the hell did I end up here?

“Ah.” A high voice sounded out in front of her, causing her to look up at the judge’s bench. An old man in a black suit sat there with a large unnerving smile on his face. His nose was abnormally large as his hands rested underneath it, covered in white gloves. Time didn’t seem to be kind to him; the top of his head was bald, the gray hair only growing part ways down. Next to him was a gavel frozen in the air, hovering over the stand. Behind him displayed a statue of Lady Justice, her arms appearing on both sides of him. Her right arm reached out holding a scale that stayed in perfect balance while her left hand held a sword by her side.

He slowly displayed his hand, his head moving slightly to the side. “Welcome to the Velvet Room.”

Clementine looked up at him, even more confused by the situation. Wasn’t this a courtroom?

“My name is Igor.” His grin stayed, causing Clementine to shift awkwardly in her seat. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.” The man stared into Clementine's eyes. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a guest like you.”

This can’t be real. I must be dreaming.

“This place exists between dream and reality, mind and matter.”

He didn’t seem to let her fully process what was happening as he continued.

“Only those who have signed a contract can enter here.”

“Contract?” Clementine’s voice cracked, trying to recall if she had signed anything that could have put her in this situation.

“In the upcoming days, you may find yourself entering a contract of sorts which will allow you to come back here.” His voice sounded mysterious as if he had countless secrets hidden away.

Her head was spinning.

“Oh. Forgive me, I forgot to introduce my attendee, James.” He motioned over towards Clementine’s side. Her eyes followed his hand. The chair scratched against the floor as she flinched. How did she not notice that someone had been beside her this whole time? The boy in a blue suit who stood there seemed to be around her age. His eyes studied her face.

“Hello.” He whispered, giving a quick bow.

Igor gave a small chuckle. “The path you tread will be one full of turmoil and endless struggle, but in doing so you will secure your future.”

“My path?” None of this was making any sense.

A sudden ringing caused Clementine’s attention to turn away from her thoughts.

“We shall attend to the details another time.” Igor’s hands were placed under his chin. “Until then…”

His voice faded out, the room quickly disappearing as Clementine’s sight filled with the color blue. Letting out a gasp, she shot up from herbed. Her head rested against her knees as she tried to process what that was all about.

“Clementine. Are you up yet?” A voice called out from downstairs.

“Yeah. Just give me a minute and I’ll be right down!” She responded before shuffling around the room, preparing for her first day. As she got the bottom of the staircase, the smell of pancakes hit her, causing her to smile. Lee stood by a griddle flipping pancakes. He looked up as he heard Clementine make her way to the table.

“How did you sleep?” He asked with a warm smile.

“Not so great. I think I’m just nervous.” She gave a half-hearted smile, grabbing a few pancakes before sitting down. Her brother AJ sat across from her scarfing down what was surely not his first plate of pancakes.

“It’s okay to feel nervous.” Lee replied, flipping another pancake. “I’m sure you’ll have a great first day though.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Clementine responded, placing some butter and syrup on her pancakes. She slowly ate them, trying to calm down the nerves inside her enough to enjoy the special breakfast. Her eyes looked over at the clock, widening when she realized what time it was. “Oh shit! I gotta go.” She swung her backpack on her back, double checking things once again.

“Swear.” AJ said, his mouth full of pancakes.

Clementine let out a groan, placing a dollar bill in the jar. “Sorry. Bye Lee, bye AJ, I’ll see you later.”

“Bye!” AJ waved, pancake chunks falling out of his mouth.

“Have a good day.” Lee said, waving the spatula.

Clementine gave a quick wave and smiled before turning to leave. Luckily she didn’t live far from campus so it only took her around ten minutes to arrive at the front entrance. The word Ericson shone in gold letters on the front gate. She slid her backpack off, digging through it to find the campus map. I have class in building E. Which should be over there. She looked over at the left side of campus. She still had time; she should be able to make it. It was cutting it pretty close but she was successful, sitting in the chair right when the bell rang signaling the start of class.

“Hello, class. Welcome to Philosophy 101.” The professor's voice seemed warm and friendly. He was a bit of a plumper man in a red turtleneck and his hair was nearly all gone.“My name is Professor Bailey, but you can call me Walter.” He leaned against his desk that stood by the whiteboard. “Now I know all of you might not be that excited to be stuck in a philosophy class, but what I hope to show you all this year is how fascinating and interesting it can be…”

His words start to fade from there, Clementine’s body feeling exhausted after a bad night's sleep. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get herself to concentrate on the lecture. Her mind was too consumed by the place in her dreams. The Velvet Room and Igor. He said it was between dream and reality. So was it real?

Her attention shifted from those thoughts as she had a feeling that someone was staring at her. She looked around the room, pausing on a boy with dreadlocks. His freckled face was covered with a goofy grin. He gave a quick wave which Clementine returned before he went back to his notes, hoping the professor didn’t catch him not paying attention. Clementine tried to do the same, writing down the few sentences that got through to her until the bell rang.

“Alright, class. I’ll see you on Wednesday. And be sure to do the assignment.”

A blonde girl quickly stood up from her seat. Grabbing her beat-up backpack, she made her way to the exit, bumping into Clementine. “Shit. Sorry.” She mumbled. Her striking pale green eyes looked over at Clementine for a second. Her gaze soon returned to the floor as she left the classroom.

“First days are always boring.”

Clementine looked over to see the dreadlocked boy. He stood proudly beside her, his green shirt complementing his dark skin beautifully. He gave a smile. “I’m Louis.”

“Clementine.”

“I saw that philosophy class completely held your attention.” He said sarcastically with a playful smile.

Clementine let out a sigh. “Yeah. I did a great job taking notes.” She gestured to her notes which consisted of a couple sentences.

“Nervous about the first day of classes?”

“I guess you could say that.” She responded, packing up her backpack.

“Well, what class do you have next?”

“English 1C.”

“With Professor Smith?”

Clementine looked at her schedule. “Yep.”

Louis gave a huge smile. “I happen to have that class next too. Why don’t we walk over together?”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Then onward to Building C!” Louis dramatically pointed before leading the way. Clementine quickly caught up, walking beside him.

“So what’s your major?” Louis asked, trying to start up some small talk.

“Undecided. I’m hoping I’ll find the answer to that question soon.”

Louis nodded.

“What about you?”

“Major in business. Minor in music.” Clementine noticed his smile appear towards the end of that sentence. She wondered whether to ask about it or not but figured it wasn’t her place.

“What sort of music do you like?” She asked, the two of them pausing to let some other students walk by.

“I like a lot of them, but if I had to choose my favorite it has to be classical. Mozart, Bach, Beethoven the list can go on and on. All of them geniuses at their craft.” His eyes shone as he spoke about it. Clementine gave a small smile. It was nice to hear someone talk about what they were passionate about. Before she knew it they had made it to the classroom. As it turned out, she and Louis had a pretty similar schedule which was nice. It made the week easier with each day bringing up more and more facts about the other.

----

“It’s finally Friday!” Louis exclaimed, stretching his arms up in the air. A yawn quickly escaped from his mouth.

“Yeah. Almost done with the first week of classes.” Clementine replied, shifting the backpack on her back.

Louis pulled out his phone. “Shit, it’s already that time?”

“We better get to class.”

“Oh hey, it’s Violet!” Louis waved at the blonde girl who paused at his sentence.

“Who are you?” She asked with slight annoyance in her voice.

“It’s Louis. We’re in philosophy class together. We’ve talked twice.”

“Oh, right.” She looked over at Clementine.

“Oh, that’s Clementine.” Louis commented.

“I remember you.” She crossed her arms. “If you guys don’t hurry, you’re going to be late.” She paused, looking at the ground before looking back at them. “I know a shortcut. I can show you if you want.”

“That would be great.” Clementine smiled, causing Violet to look away. She led the two through the campus.

“How do you know the campus so well?” Louis asked with curiosity.”

“I’m a sophomore.” Violet replied before turning into the alley. The two were right behind her.

“Then why-“ Louis’ sentence was cut off as he bumped into Violet who stood frozen. He let out a pained hiss.

“Louis, you okay?” Clem asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m fine. My nose on the other hand, not so much.”

“What the fuck is that?” Violet’s voice drew the others' attention back to the alley. Both of them paused when they saw the sight that caused Violet to freeze. In the middle of the alley was a giant, jagged rift in the air. A ghastly blue light swirled, shining through it. Whispers that sounded hauntingly sad came from its depths.

The three stood unsure what to do as the unnerving whispers continued.

[frangipanidownunder]

Status Quo: fic

This responds to a mix of prompts - from the anon who sent me a trope mash up: accidentally married/mistaken for a couple and for the @xfficchallenges prompt 4: married sex in the unremarkable house. Not too NSFW (sorry!). 

It’s set between The Truth and IWTB. It’s long, so there’s a cut. 

The house is set back from the road, greying snow piled up at the wide gates. Skinner warned them it was a doer-upper, but it was the best he could do on short notice. The car scrunches over the frozen driveway and the house appears; tired roof, sagging verandah and peeling paint on the weatherboards, but there’s something appealing in the way it fills the space, the way the land falls away either side. It’s homely. Mulder glances at her and lets out a low breath of relief.

           “It’s not so bad,” he says. “There’s even hope for a vegetable patch, Scully.” He points to a shed, door hanging off the hinge, revealing a collection of gardening tools.

           “You don’t have a green thumb, Mulder,” she says, opening the door and looking around.

           He lifts his hands into the air and waves them around. “Maybe the country air here will help.”

           For the first time in a long, hard while, she sees a little bit of the old Mulder peeking through. This man, resurrected once, hasn’t yet been able to come back from the trauma of a death sentence, a jail break, years on the run and the loss of their son.

Skinner had promised them immunity but there were conditions. When she thinks of those years on the run, nights in grimy motel rooms, back-to-back on lumpy beds, days without hearing him speak, his silent midnight tears, any conditions seem preferable.

“If you marry, you cannot be compelled to give evidence against him, Scully.” Skinner spoke in curt sentences. As if saying the words quicker would make them more palatable. But she could hardly swallow, hardly breathe.

Skinner unlocked his fingers, walked closer, softened his taut frame. “It doesn’t have to be real,” he said, slower. “Unless you want it to be?”

She shook her head instantly. Nothing about their lives had been real in any way the rest of the world might understand that word.

           “This is a good outcome, Dana. Mulder can still remain off the radar. The FBI is not interested in a lot of the stuff you two investigated any more. But you have to keep him reigned in. Those articles…”

She nodded, but how could she reign him in? The internet was the loosest tether for Mulder. He sounded almost sane compared to some of the theorists out there.

Skinner smirked. He understood. “At least you can get out there, work, if that’s what you want,” he said.

William was out there, living. But they were cooped up inside unfamiliar walls, barely surviving. It couldn’t go on. This state of sameness they were enduring. Something had to change. She told Skinner, “yes”. Guilt jostled next to hope in the pit of her stomach.

 Skinner had organised everything. Venue, bloodwork, license. All they had to do was turn up, sign the paperwork and leave. He performed the ceremony himself, a self-appointed marriage commissioner, listening as they recited vows, slotted rings on each other’s fingers and Mulder brushed her cheek with his dry lips. He’d brushed his hair, worn a button-down shirt, held her hand, gripped it really.

           “You look beautiful, Scully,” he said as they walked back to the car. Married.

           She looked down at her jeans and scuffed boots. Laughing seemed wrong; crying seemed wrong. What do you do when you’ve just been fake married to save your partner from a lifetime of nothingness?

Finding his fingers, she brought his hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. “Thank you, Mulder.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said and opened the door for her. “You could have left me, got a job, lived something approaching a normal life.”

Inside the house it smells of mildew and stale coffee. She spends her time cleaning out dusty corners, scraping away at the years of neglect. She hangs new drapes, sands back the woodwork, repaints doors and walls and finds treasures in the local second-hand store.

           “You have a particular style,” Mulder says, splitting a seed between his teeth. She’d barely seen him for days, as he buried himself in his study, ‘researching’ as he did when he was going through a particularly rough patch.

           “I was going for minimal elegance but I think it’s more shabby-chic. But needs must,” she says, before she can stop herself.

There’s a quirk on his lips and he puts his coffee on the kitchen bench, pulls her in for an unexpected hug. His sweater is rough against her cheek but she doesn’t care, enjoying the moment of closeness.

“This house is growing on me,” he murmurs. “Kind of like you did.”

She pats him on the ass and he chuckles into her hair. “You found me annoying.”

“But your impudence at putting me straight got to me in the end,” he says. “We made a good team, Scully.”

“So, how did we get here, Mulder?”

“Because we made a good team.”

They stay pressed close together for a long time. Her lips press into the wool of his top and she says, “I’ve got an interview next week.”

There’s a moment of stillness, where he doesn’t breathe. The pulse of his heartbeat drums in her ear. “You’ll knock it out the park, Scully.”

           She opens a good red, bakes a lasagne and sits at the table, nails following the lines of the distressed wood top.

           “They’ll ask me about my marital status. It’s a Catholic hospital.”

           “What are you going to tell them?”

           “I’m not sure. I can’t tell them the truth, can I?”

           He shrugs. “We’ve got the license to prove we’re married.”

           “But we’re not, though. Not really. I can’t lie…”

           “Then you’d be the only person ever interviewed who didn’t lie, Scully.”

           She twists the stem of her wineglass between her fingers, watches the liquid smear the inside of the bowl. “Do I ask Skinner to be my referee?”

           Mulder grins at the idea, then reaches out for her hand. It still amazes her that she has such a visceral reaction to his touch. “How would you rather have done it, if you could have chosen?”

           “A wedding?” She tries not to sound too surprised. But then again, Mulder has spent decades pulling cloths from tables and rabbits from hats. “I wouldn’t.” She says it cautiously, not because she doesn’t want to upset him, but because she’s only just realised it herself. “I wouldn’t choose to get married.” His shoulders slump and she squeezes his hand. “We’re not the marrying kind, Mulder.”

           “You’ve made a pretty grand assumption for a woman of science, Scully. There are two of us in this equation.”

           “So you want the whole white wedding shebang, a couple of groomsmen and a three-tier cake? Really?”

           There’s a hint of wistfulness in his eyes but he chuckles. “Round or square, Scully? Fruit or sponge? How would we ever decide? And no, to answer your slightly flippant question, I wouldn’t want the whole shebang, but I do want to make a commitment to you; that’s what a marriage is all about, after all. A public commitment of love.”

            “You pulled me out of a watery pod in Antarctica. I think that’s a fairly bold statement.”

           “And this is how the fairy tale continues.” There’s a moment of contemplation for them both at the way life has fallen open and closed around them. She begins to clear the table. “Do you want me to take the job, Mulder? If it’s offered to me?”

           He stands behind her, arms looping around her waist, stubble tickling the side of her neck. He feels so good. “I want you to make the right decision for you.” He nuzzles deeper, sending sparks up and down her spine. “Things can’t stay the same forever. I want you to be happy.”

 Happy is a foreign concept. Happy is what other people do. Happy is a white wedding with a cake iced with roses and flower girls pulling up their petticoats. Happy is safety, security. Happy is family.

           The way he lays her on the bed is so tender. She might not break easily but maybe that’s because she’s spent so long with him. His gentleness with her gives her strength. She believes she provides him with strength too. Each one, on their own, might be fragile, vulnerable, but together they reinforce the other’s spirit.

His kisses are warm on her skin and she imagines cherry-red spots blooming on her chest, arms, stomach. He has always been an attentive lover, careful to make sure she is safe, comfortable, aroused, satisfied. His body is angles and lines but in these moments he’s all rounded edges and smoothness. It’s a physical joining and a spiritual union, even after all these years. Pieces of paper cannot weight this thing they share any more heavily. It’s deeper than oceans. If she spends too long thinking about the impossibility of the scale of their love, she weeps. And she’s about done with crying. They have a house, however, unremarkable. She has the potential of a job, a new career. Mulder is as safe as he can be, in a world that he still views with the paranoia of a tortured man. Their life is, perhaps, on a straight path for the time being.

           “I love you, Scully,” he breathes and she digs her knees into the mattress, lets her head sink back and bathes in the serene beauty of her orgasm.

 The hospital staff is supportive, friendly even. She is welcomed into their nest. It’s an odd feeling to be useful to more than one person again. Mulder spends the first week greeting her at the door with a pair of slippers and an old pipe he claims he found in the cellar. He rubs her feet, listens to her stories about the young patients, cooks meals.

           One day, when she returns, another car is parked outside the house. It’s spring and Mulder has planted tulips and daffodils for colour. They line the top of the driveway in uniform beds he’s dug. The car blocks out the sunny yellows and she frowns at it as she walks by. Perhaps she should be fearful, not annoyed.

           Inside, Walter Skinner fills a seat of the couch. She sets her bag on the table and greets him cautiously.

           “Dana.” He stands and extends his hand. She’s forgotten how big he is.

           “Is everything okay?” Her voice is strained and he hurries to calm her.

           “Yes, yes.” He says and smiles at Mulder, who clearly has a head-start on the situation. The double positive equals a negative, that much is clear. “Sit,” Skinner says, waving her into the vacated place. The seat is crumpled, not quite recovered from his weight. Its warmth folds around her and adds to the nausea rising.

Mulder sinks next to her, knee touching hers, bottom lip tucked behind his teeth. “It’s going to be okay, Scully.”

Not ‘it’s okay’ or ‘it’s fine’ but ‘it’s going to be…’ like there’s a road ahead of them to traverse. “What is it? Is it William?”

There’s an image of their son that sits in a safe place in her memory banks. He’s nestled in a soft yellow blanket, face peeking out. His lips curl into a Mulderesque grin and he chuckles. She can hear that little laugh, she can see the crinkle in his button nose, she can smell the milky-warm babyness of his snug body. She dips into the picture when she needs comfort, but now, she’s on the brink of panic, edging forward on the seat until Mulder pins her with his hand.

“William is fine,” Mulder says. And while he can’t possibly know that, his softening expression douses the fire in the pit of her belly. “It’s…there’s been a mistake…”

Skinner clears his throat. “It seems that I was officially recognised as a marriage commissioner, meaning that…”

“We are actually married,” Mulder finishes for him.

She looks at these two men, one former armed services personnel and FBI director, one a trained psychologist and experienced law enforcement officer, as they sit silently in the living room of the house Skinner chose, playing with the cuffs of their shirts and unable to offer a single word of explanation or comfort. When did she lose control of her life? Even during the toughest challenges over the past ten or so years, she had choices, she could make decisions. She leaves them to wallow in their guilt and goes outside.

 The evening is warm and with the windows open the light nets flutter outside on the breeze, like a bride’s veil. She can hear the faint drone of Skinner’s car turning onto the main road. Going home, leaving the same way he arrived, nothing different about him, but the very act of his having been here, at their unremarkable house, has rocked her foundations. Nothing has changed except everything.

           A mosquito whines around her shoulders and she swats it, leaving a thin line of blood on her skin. It itches instantly. Had she been doing something else she probably wouldn’t have noticed it. It’s funny how the mind works. The cognitive bias, frequency illusion, Baader-Meinhof, whatever, you see patterns where there are none. How even slight disruptions to your routine can cause exponential shifts in our comfort levels. How knowing that you are actually married to the man you love can make you feel disjointed from your life because you didn’t make a conscious choice.

           The screen door creaks open and slams shut. Mulder is bearing gifts. A cheese platter and a bottle of Zinfandel. She offered to share this very pleasure with him years before, in a motel room in Florida. She’d survived cancer then. She knew he loved her, had for a while. She had finally reconciled her own feelings for him and felt bold back then, reinvigorated in many ways. But he politely declined and she sat on her own for a while, stung by the rejection, but secretly pleased that the status quo would remain. Unbalancing a steady vessel may have led to unwarranted drama.

           “Do you want a divorce, Scully? You can have the house. I’ll keep the tomato plants.” He’s only half-joking.

           “Lucky we don’t have a…” she cuts herself off. She was going to say dog, but thoughts of their son invade her mind and she swallows the wine to drown the images.

           He slides closer to her. The porch swing was his idea, aimed at balmy evenings spent together. But not as husband as wife. Just as lovers, soulmates, whatever descriptor they chose. Chose. His fingers arch over her thigh and he looks out at the horizon too. Out there, wherever William is. There’s a sense of comfort in the silence. She remembered her parents sitting outside, not speaking, and as a young girl thought it odd that two people who were supposed to love each other could be so silent. She determined, in her youthful wisdom, she would always have something to say to her husband.

           Then she grew up.

           “We can work this out.” His voice is gentle, warm, hopeful.

           The brie is soft and nutty and she savours the salty taste as she thinks about how to undo this.

           “It was a genuine mistake,” he says. “Skinner is mortified. I’ve never seen him so flustered.” Mulder chuffs, turns to her. “Of all the strange things we reported to him, this is the one that caught him completely off-guard.”

           She lets the small giggle free as the wine warms her throat. “People have been assuming we’re married for years. Remember that case in Texas with the weather man?”

           “And the flying death cow? Pretty hard to forget.”

           She sees him then, lipsticked and ruffled as the blonde woman attacked him with her misplaced feelings. She wonders if those two are still married, living a happy, silent life on their back deck.

           “Bill would be pleased,” she says, locking her fingers into his.

           “Oh yes,” Mulder replies, chest wobbling with a chuckle. “Dearest brother-in-law Bill Junior. And your mother will be disappointed she didn’t get to wear a hat and a buttonhole carnation.”

           “Perhaps we should throw a party.”

           He nods. “With a string quartet and Pimms on the lawn.”

           They look at the stubby grass and both burst into laughter. “Maybe that would be a mistake,” she concedes.

           He lifts their joint hands and kisses each of her knuckles. “And the marriage? Is it really that much of a mistake? Does it need to be rectified?”

           “It wasn’t a conscious decision, Mulder. I feel like it’s something that happened to us, rather than something we chose.”

           “I get it, Scully,” he whispers. “But I do want you to understand that I love you, I love you as my partner, my friend, my lover, my wife. Whatever label you want to put on it. I simply love you. And that will never change. That’s the status quo.”

           The sun seeps away and the wine reddens her cheeks. The mosquito bite calms and the night music of cicadas and distant traffic rises. Mulder holds her hand as they swing. Back and forth. Past and future. Then back to the middle. The present. The status quo.

[oneficonly]

It’s Just a Name

Summary: When Max’s home life finally comes to Camp Campbell, with the excuse that they showed up for Parents Day. But that was many weeks ago. So why are they really here?

WC: 1,804 Rating: T (Swearing, Very Mild Referenced Child Abuse/Neglect) Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Chapter Eight: Lost

The sky was a dark gray now. Max continued to tap away on David’s phone. The red battery light blinked in the upper corner of the phone. “Max!” yelled Nikki as she ran up to her friend, “Come on! I’m next!” Max rolled his eyes and shoved the phone into his pocket “Why do I need to be there?” Nikki laughed and slapped his shoulder, “To witness me!” she yelled as she grabbed Max by the arm and dragged him to the other campers. Nikki pushed him to the front, right next to the fence that was keeping the horses contained. Gwen helped Nerris off of a brown horse. She turned around, “Okay, Nikki, you’re next,” she said. Nikki jumped over the fence and crawled up Gwen. Then jumped onto the horse. The horse joined the other horses and started to walk around the fenced-off area. Cameron Campbell was talking to Mr. Walter and Devi, who was sitting on her white horse, Maddox. Devi pointed toward Max and Cameron nodded and he started to walk over. Max tried to back up but the group of campers behind him didn’t let him through. Eventually, the founder of Camp Campbell got over to Max, “Alright Mack. It is your turn to go on the horse.” Max rolled his eyes, “Nah. I’ll pass.” Cameron picked up Max “No no, everyone should get a turn.” He walked around the fence and put the small boy on top of the horse, “Plus,” whispered Cameron, “your mother would like to see you have fun.” Max’s eyes grew big and looked over to Devi who had the fake smile plastered across her face that Max has grown to fear. He knew that fake smile was a threat. A warning to behave. The horse started to walk around in the pinned-up circle.

Max's horse got closer to the side that Devi was on when a flash of light and a loud bang of thunder spooked the horses. Mr. Walter, Gwen, and Cameron ran and calmed down the three other horses, Devi didn't bother getting up to help calm Max's horse. The boy's grip on the horse tightened as the horse reared up. It then ran and jumped over the fence into the forest. Max yelled as the horse ran fast through the forest. After running for a while at its top speed. It slowed down to a trot before stopping completely. The horse shook the boy off of it, then ran off. Max landed hard on the ground he stood up and dusted off himself off. He looked around and realized he had no idea where he was at or which way the horse went. “Hello?!” he yelled only hearing his own echo. Quickly, the black-haired boy pulled out David's cell phone. He tapped to bring up the phone keypad but the screen turned black almost immediately. “At least it can’t get any worse,” he said. Another flash of light happened, then a boom for thunder after a few seconds it started to downpour. Max sighed and looked at the ground, “Just. Fucking. GREAT!” he yelled. He quickly looked around to try to find some cover. Max ran around for a few minutes, feeling himself getting more lost. Finally, he found a little cliff that he could stay dry under. The boy tucked himself under the cliff and placed his back against the rock wall. ‘Someone will come for me, right? Someone has to,’ he thought to himself. Max closed his eyes as the sky lit up again and the rain got heavier. The thunder was a lot louder this time, shaking a few rocks loose from the cliff. Some small rocks on the wall behind Max shifted with the giant boom. He went to move slightly away from the wall, only to be pulled back to the wall. Max froze then pulled away again when he did the hood of his hoodie pulled back. He realized that his hood had gotten caught in the shifting rocks. Max was now lost, stuck, and had no way of contacting anyone for help. 'I'm going to be fine. Someone will find me. I'll be safe again. Right?' he said to himself. It thundered very loudly again and the sky lit up at the same time, making the young child jump. He felt his eyes start to water and his throat get tight. Max pulled his legs up to his chest and buried his head into his knees.

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“Max!” yelled Gwen after she saw Max’s horse jump the fence and ran into the forest. Devi just rolled her eyes and sighed, “Mr. Walter, I believe the storm is coming in. Can you start bringing the horses back to the bus? I’m sure Cameron will help.” Gwen turned to Devi, “Are you not concerned about Max?!” she yelled. The reality TV star waved her hand dismissing Gwen's comment, “I’m sure he’s fine. That expensive horse on the other hand-“ all of a sudden the brown horse that Max was on busted through the forest. "Ah good! He came back," she said. The camp counselor grabbed her hair as the stress and panic started to get to her, “Alright! Campers! Back to your tents for right now!” yelled Gwen, “Even you, Nikki and Neil. No arguing!” The campers grumbled but headed toward their tents. Gwen watched as Devi, Mr. Walter and Campbell walked to the bus with the horses. The sky lit up as it started to downpour. Gwen's eye twitched, “DAVID!” yelled Gwen as she ran toward the mess hall.

Once there, she threw open the doors to the mess hall and looked around but didn’t see anyone, only a phone, an old radio, and Layla-Rae's clipboard on the tale. “David!” she yelled again out of breath. David ran out from the kitchen his hair was slightly messy and he was tying his old yellow Camp Campbell t-shirt back around his neck. “What is it Gwen?” he asked slightly out of breath and a little pink tint to his cheeks. Gwen was trying to catch her breath still, “Max- Wait? Is your shirt inside out?” she asked pointing to his chest where the dark green tree was supposed to be. David looked down at his shirt, “Well-Uh- What about Max?” he asked quickly changing the subject. Her eyes grew wide and grabbed David’s shoulders, “Max’s horse jumped over the fence and ran into the forest! When it came back Max wasn’t on it! He must have gotten bucked off! And Devi doesn’t want to look for him!” Layla-Rae kicked through the kitchen door, her shoulder-length black frizzy hair was no longer up and the top few buttons on her shirt were unbuttoned and she was a little red in the face, “What?! I knew she was up to something! Which way did he go?!” yelled Layla-Rae. Gwen's mouth was hanging open as she pointed in the general direction Max went. Layla-Rae ran out of the mess hall into the rain, grabbing her clipboard and phone on the way out. Gwen coughed, “So, did you guys-?” David stuttered trying to figure out what to say, “W-Well, we just got talking about stuff and one thing led to another-“ Gwen put her hand up stopping her co-councilor from talking anymore. “Just stop, let’s help Layla fine Max,” said Gwen. They both ran out following a frantic Layla-Rae into the forest. It didn’t take long for David and Gwen to catch up with the assistant. “This way,” said Gwen leading the two other adults toward where Max’s horse went. The three took turns yelling for Max. “Let’s split up,” said David. The two women nodded. As they separated, they all continued to yell for Max.

David looked around, trying to find any tracks or clues. The rain was falling fast, covering up any tracks that might be in the ground. “Max!” he yelled. The rain was making it hard to hear anything. He walked toward a nearby cliff, “Max!” he yelled again. That time he swears he heard a little voice calling back at him. He called again, “Max! Where are you!” This time he definitely heard a voice. He started to run toward it “Max!” he yelled one last time. “David! I’m over here! Under the fucking cliff!” yelled Max. David ran toward Max's voice. He skidded to a stop when he saw the blue hoodie through the rain. David ran up to the cliff. “Max! Max! Are you alright?” David asked as kneeled down to Max's level and placed a hand on his shoulder, “Are you hurt?” Max shook his head, “I’m fine David but, um- m-my hood is stuck in the rocks.” David nodded and kneeled down and started to wriggle the hood out of the rocks. “Layla, Gwen and I were super worried. So were the other campers,” he said as he continued to get Max free. The camper perked up, “Really? How worried?” he asked with skepticism in his voice. David finally pulled Max free and they both stood up, “Super worried. I think Gwen was about to have a panic attack. And Layla was about to murder Devi.” Max looked up to David, his shoulders slumping over, “Devi didn’t want to look for me, did she?” David sighed and nodded, “I’m sorry she doesn’t care, Max.” The boy shrugged, “I don’t care about her.” David put his hand on the camper’s shoulder. “I know I told you this before, but you don’t need to pretend, Max. I know it hurts that Devi doesn’t care enough. But at least you have people who do really care for you. I care about you. Gwen does too, even if she doesn't show it so much. Your friends care, Neil and Nikki." Max shrugged, "So? You guys are here at camp." David smiled. "Layla cares. A lot," he said, "She cares about you so much. It's very clear that she loves you, so so much. And she's not just here. She'll be at home waiting for you after camp is over.” Max smiled and gave David a quick hug around his knees. Max started to rub the back of his head, “Thank you. Can you take me back now? I want to see m-uh-Layla. Before she kills someone.” David smiled, “Of course Max.” As they walked back to camp they met up with Gwen and Layla-Rae, where they originally split up. “Max!” exclaimed Layla-Rae as she ran over and picked Max up into a hug. He hesitated for a second but hugged her back. “I’m so, so glad that you’re safe! You scared me so much! I was so worried.” She said. Max didn’t say anything, just smiled and hugged Layla-Rae tighter. The assistant put Max back on the ground. Gwen smiled, “Let’s get back.”

PREVIOUS CHAPTER —— NEXT CHAPTER

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[the-roanoke-society]

ashes, ashes.

we all fall down.

the details below the cut are not necessarily pleasant and are incredibly infinity war spoiler heavy. please proceed with caution.

if i have to suffer, then i am bringing all of you with me.

it had happened so quietly in the woods in wakanda.

the roanoke estate—could not quite say the same. although in the beginning, it was. an unnatural hush, something translated into a spike in activity on our monitors in the basement. sol about knocked his coffee over and quickly called over drake, “dude, look at this—what the fuck is happening in africa right now?”

drake frowned, “this—wyvern! wyvern, c’mere for a second, sol and i are clocking a signal that—that looks—“

his voice trailed off as he looked upwards. wyvern was walking towards them from his desk at the other end of the basement, very slowly, with his hands over his stomach like he felt ill.

and then he just—he just—

“what the fuck. what the fuck.”

he was gone. just a substance that looked like some mix of fine grain dirt and ash, which quickly dissolved into nothingness.

“okay, sol, you saw that, right, you saw—“

“drake, i don’t feel so hot…”

but when drake turned, sol was gone.

tears of pure terror began to sting his eyes.

“shit. shit.”

something was wrong. something was very, very wrong, and beyond the extent of their doomsday protocols.

there had been no warning.

and if he was unsure before, he knew the absolute second that screaming began to echo through the estate.

he had never torn up those stairs fast in his entire life, already yelling, “annabelle? annabelle!”

there was no time.

mothman went mid-sentence, putting his shirt on, getting ready for the day, talking to specter over his shoulder. his speech had halted, slightly, and he frowned. then breathed. and broke apart. louise was on his bed, stunned into silence, unable to breathe.

cherub fell to her knees as exactly half of our medical ward turned to dust and suddenly the machines all began to read as flatlines, because they were no longer attached to healing bodies.

elfin had literally just kissed rougarou’s forehead three seconds before he felt a pull. not fae. not demonic. something—something else. “aly, love, i—“ that was all he got out. aly let her mug slip from her hands and it shattered on the kitchen floor.

pru—as something rather inhuman—remained untouched. our metallic grace, even now. but judas stumbled through the door, one of his arms already gone, and pru fell to the ground with him as the rotting traveled down his side and left him short a leg. “i’m scared,” he said, in a hushed tone. pru put a gentle hand to his face, but by the time she’d thought of a response, the dark spread over his eyes. he fell through her hands like ground glass.

and charlie—poor charlie. he held nova’s face in his hands. she went slowly. he had the upper half of her fading frame in his lap. everything below her knees was gone. “what—what is this? what’s happening?” ellie could just swallow, tears brimming in her eyes.

“it’s okay… it’s going to be okay…” she tried to reassure him, and failed. he let out a sob, and his own tears fell on her cheeks. “i love you, charlie.”

drake ran smack into hood as he rounded a corner, knocking the wind of out of both of them. “parker? parker, what the fuck is going on?”

“look, i don’t know, this isn’t like anything i’ve ever seen. it’s not fae. everyone’s—everyone’s—” her voice went up a pitch in panic.

“go get lilith. she’s going to know exactly what to do to fix this, okay? go, now, i have to find anna!”

and hood nodded, wiping at her face, as they blitzed past each other in opposite directions.

hood would get to lilith’s office just in time to see her cradling the white lady in her arms on the floor before her desk. but only for a moment.

“lilith.” hood’s voice broke then. “lilith we—we have to stop it, we have to do something.”

but lilith knew. as soon as she’d heard the snapping of that cursed gauntlet through the aural spaces of the earth, she knew. she quietly got to her feet—and pulled hood into a hug, smoothing her hair. maternal. “parker, dear—we can’t stop it.”

“don’t go.” arizona thought that maybe if she held phoenix close enough to her, the sun hitting her back and wind ripping across the estate grounds—she could stop it. and phoenix, having never known death before, was more surprised, than frightened. but—

one hand went into arizona’s hair, and he pressed his lips to her temple before he left her embrace. “you will never lose me.”

but she did.

drake finally hit the wing of the manor closest to his room. she had to be there. she had to be. and nightcrawler was—huddled in the corner with her arms around her knees. “toma?” he asked quietly, taking one step closer to her when she didn’t immediately acknowledge him. “toma. you okay?”

she was staring at the opposite corner of the hallway. “‘geist was there. adam, he—he was right there and then he wasn’t. he wasn’t, drake.”

“look, everything’s fine, hood went to go get lilith. we’re gonna—we’re gonna fix this, okay? just stay right here, yeah? okay? toma, nod if you can understand me.” she wouldn’t meet his eyes but nodded twice.

that would have to work.

sentinel tried to hold on to the scribe for as long as he could. she faced the unknown without a single trace of fear, or pain, or anything that wasn’t the absolute acceptance painted over her countenance. she felt it reach up her throat, going in a line up her torso, and for a moment, pushed herself back from walter to look into his eyes. they were swimming with tears. she just grinned. “it’s strange, isn’t it? out of everything… this…”

sentinel’s form shrugged as he found himself holding nothing, yet it was like he bore the world upon his shoulders. iuniore had stayed hidden behind a shelf, next to gramr, who held her solidly and let her cry into his shoulder. “everything’s going to be fine…” he kept repeating. if you said a thing enough times, then it would come true, right? isn’t that how this worked?

jd saw chimera from across the underground hangar and began to run towards him, fresh off the field and already feeling a pulling in his gut, a fistful of dread that weighed the same as a boulder. he never made it. chimera was screaming his name as he disappeared among our jets, cars and bikes. the more macabre would wonder if perhaps the ashes of him still remained on the shell of some porsche or volkswagen.

cerberus wondered if maybe the fact the he was in a different form that saved him.

which meant that he watched, powerless, as gowrow cracked into pieces. “son of a bitch.” his words echoed in the space he left, and hans cowered in the wake of his death.

he could smell it everywhere, death.

crowley was drawing circles, circles and sigils and wards. he could not draw them fast enough. he tried to put up invisible walls against the thing that ate seance up from the inside out. “i promise i will find you again.” she wasn’t there when he slammed into hands into the table so hard the skin on his knuckles cracked open and bled, and he screamed, a sound so full of rage that it traveled through the walls and up floorboards.

archivist heard it. and she kept checking herself, am i still solid? am i still there? hurriedly searching through the oldest books she had, because there had to be something in here, had to be anything in here, the screaming was boring into her brain, there had to be something—

drake heard it as he finally found annabelle hiding in his closet, her hands over her ears, which he moved to his face. “oh thank god, oh thank god you’re—“

oh.

annabelle sobbed silently, holding his face in her hands, as he left.

of course, our manor was not the only place wrecked into halves, broken bonds.

the statesman headquarters were doused in just as much hell.

“look at me.” tequila hadn’t been this pissed off and terrified in a good long while. “look at me elfie. you’re gonna be fine. okay? you are gonna be okay—“

sprite just leaned into him. not that there was much of her left to lean. it had surrounded her heart. and it was—strange, to still be wavering on the edge of consciousness, being able to breathe, but unable to feel your own pulse. “shhhh, sh sh sh… everything will—“

tequila just looked to champ, who’d had every trace of color drained from his face. “get roanoke on the phone.” he looked like he’d aged ten years in ten seconds, and his voice came out so weakly, that tequila wasn’t sure that ginger had even heard him. “now. this—we need back up. call lilith.”

houdini had no words. one moment, whiskey was there, a hand around her waist, a mug to his lips, morning light pouring into his kitchen.

and then he wasn’t.

she didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. it took him quickly. and—in the aftermath—she wondered if perhaps that was like a mercy.

and ashes mixed with ocean water in every single oceanic kingdom. the gauntlet had seen them, it knew what was under the waves. and it would do as it was bid, no matter how deep the waters were.

nereus’s last thoughts were of raziel. he didn’t weep because he was dying. he wept because she would never know that her face was the last thing that he wanted to be thinking of.

and ondine—she’d been down for a diplomatic meeting.

she’d never come back to kentucky.

if rum had known he was going to lose the love of his life and his best friend within the same three day time-period—“rod? you feel that?” that was all gin spoke before it circled his throat and broke apart the rest of his head—he would have reconsidered getting out of bed.

and meanwhile london—london had been split in half. a ripping apart on a scale that no one had ever seen.

succubus and harry had been walking around one of the public gardens, one for the flowers, the other for the butterflies, but both mostly for each other. and rae’s cries joined the rest of the city’s as harry, who’d gotten a little ahead of her, abruptly stopped, turned—and just looked at her.

she kept her eyes on his as he disappeared, and was never once able to read his face.

she was not the only one. because eggsy couldn’t find lycan—or his sister.

and even after it hit him, even after michelle had collapsed in a corner of their house and no amount of eggsy calling amy’s name would make her magically appear—he kept crying out for her.

succubus had never driven so fast back to the estate.

zed and roxy met her, faces pale and eyes bloodshot.

rae couldn’t stop crying. “something—something—“ she felt like she was choking. “we have to call borley, okay? where’s morgan? and merlin?”

“… where’s harry?”

“he’s—“

there’s no time. rae tried to snap back into agent mode as hard she could, but man that’s difficult to do when it feels like your world is ending. “he’s gone. we have to get ness. c’mon. morgan’s probably with merlin, this is—we’re gonna call it a code black, which means we need backup now. let’s go.”

it was too quiet in the basement.

they found merlin, standing in the middle of the basement, completely silent and motionless. facing away from them.

for a moment, no one spoke.

eventually, he must have sensed them there, because he turned—holding a very familiar flannel shirt in his hands.

“merlin? … merlin, where’s seraphim? where’s morgan?”

[tatooedlaura-blog]

Patience

the series read as follows:

Superman … Monday … Cheezy Pouffs … Bacon … Stumbling … Trail Mix …  Punch … Friday … Preparation … Uncle Mudler … Normal … Backseat … Mudler-sense … The FBI … Unthinkable

___________________

Innocently mowing the lawn, Scully looked up at Betty and waved as the older woman made her way quickly across the street. Seeing what she took as a frantic face and not a happy to see you face, Scully cut the motor, “everything okay?”

Betty walked quickly past her, taking Scully’s arm as she did, “you haven’t watched the news, have you?”

Without question, Scully pulled herself from Betty’s and tore up the front steps, banging through the screen door, “Mom?! Mom? Turn on the news.”

Maggie, settled on the couch, scrambled for the remote, fumbling as she tried to find a local station.

Then the world shrank to the house, the living room, the television and Scully’s darting eyes, taking in the coverage of the destruction of half the Hoover building, the adjacent structure, the street between and what looked to be smoke choking the entire scene. Before she knew she was moving, she had keys in hand, turning to Betty, “can you stay with mom?”

Before Betty could say ‘yes’, “Dana?! Stop!”

“Mom, I need to go find them! What if they’re in that?” Housekeys and car keys now digging their imprint into her palm, knuckles white with stress, “I need to go find them!”

Trying to keep her daughter looking at her, maintain eye contact, “Dana, wait! It’s almost five. They were coming home at five. They may be on their way already. If you go down there, you’ll miss them. Please, give it a little while.”

Scully truly couldn’t believe what she was hearing, “how can you be so calm!? How can you tell me to sit here when you’ve got five kids possibly buried under rubble?”

With a deep breath, “I am so scared right now, I can barely breathe but from what the news is saying, you can’t get anywhere near there and if you miss them, Fox will get here and then go try to find you and it will be even more of a nightmare.” Pulling out her mother voice which she’d only used maybe three times in Scully’s lifetime, “Fox has them … now sit down.”

Fighting logic with emotion, she kept her keys in her hand and parked herself by the door instead, able to see the news coverage while surveying the street and drive. Attempting to dial Mulder every minute, the busy signal drove her anxiety through the roof, her blood pressure going with it.

She made it 43 minutes until she slammed her hand against the wall by the door, “God Dammit! Where are they!?”

Maggie was beside herself as well, as the news became bleaker, bodies beginning to be pulled from the wreckage and she jumped when Scully banged the wall, “Dana!”

“Mom, I can’t sit here and wait anymore!”

“You have to. They will be home so will you please just be quiet!”

Reprimand was not something she usually received from her mother and it got her to stay still another six minutes until the phone rang in her hand. Nearly dropping it in surprise, she listened through the crackling reception to hear someone faintly telling her Mulder was on his way home. She had no idea who it was and caller ID wasn’t showing up but she heard clear enough that Mulder was coming home.

She slumped against the wall, face automatically aimed to the street as she answered her mother’s barely heard, “was that Fox?”

“No but it was someone telling me they’re coming home. Maybe it was Skinner, maybe it was Frohike, I have no idea but they said he was coming home.” She stopped talking then, stopped listening to the horror on the television, pinpoint focus aimed on the quiet street before her.

&&&&&&&&&&

It took another 23 minutes but suddenly, there was a van pulling in the drive, Scully out the door like a shot, jumping down steps and pulling open doors, catching distraught children in hugs as they somberly climbed from the vehicle.

And then Mulder emerged, a disheveled, smoke-stained, bundle of nervous panic …

And then he saw her.

He would have pulled her to a hug but her hands on his cheeks pulled him in for a kiss first, a crushing, sobbing, mess of a kiss that made his knees weak and the day catch up to him. Skinner witnessed the embrace and breathed a little easier for a moment … he’d gotten Mulder back to her in one piece.

Mulder and five kids.

He dropped his head to the back of the seat, watching and knowing this could possibly the last happy thing that would happen to him for weeks. Debating whether he could slip away unnoticed, Scully leaned through the open door and planted a kiss on his cheek, “come inside, sir, have some water.”

Reality yet again, “I can’t. I need to get the van back to Frohike, then go down to the site.”

Sympathizing, she settled her hand heavy on his shoulder, “you need five minutes, Walter. Come inside, please. Show my mother you’re okay.”

&&&&&&&&&&&

They sat up the rest of the night, Mulder holding Betsy, Scully with Toby and the other three piled between Skinner and Maggie. It had been Sam who convinced Walter to stay, the 10-year-old’s fingers curling into the towering man’s hand, using Betsy’s moniker for him, “don’t go back, Mr. Skimmer. Please?”

And he didn’t, not until hours later, after Maggie was finally in bed and all the kids but Sam were restlessly surveying dreamland, nightmares hovering, waiting, at the edges, eyes closed, pupils roaming. He’d left them, curled in various sized balls, Betsy on Mulder’s lap still and Toby burrowing into Mulder’s side, Jake and Hannah at the foot of the sofa bed while Sam and Scully walked him to the door.

An hour later, Sam had settled between Mulder and Scully, watching wide-eyed the television and its circle of speculation and blame, “When were mom and dad going to call again?”

They’d gotten through, via the cruise company, to let the beyond terrified parents know that all their children were well and accounted for, safe and sound. Not able to talk long, all at least got to hear an ‘I love you’ from their parents before they were able to fall to a half-dazed slumber. Sam had been their holdout, the one who, even after Walter finally slipped out the front door and the lights were off, had managed to keep his eyes open.

“Tomorrow, when they get on land, they’ll be able to talk again. Not for long but probably a little longer than this time.”

He didn’t seem to take much comfort in that, “will Mr. Skimmer be okay?”

Scully’d answered this question four times since the man left but patiently answering a fifth, “he’ll be fine. He’s going home to sleep then he’ll go to work in the morning. They’ll need him there but he’ll be careful. He promised, remember?”

Sam had made him swear to be safe and in solemnity, Skinner had complied, hugging the boy as he told him with all the conviction he could muster that he would indeed promise to watch out for himself. Sam let go of him then, watching out the front door window until Frohike’s van disappeared into the night and Scully scooted him from the tile towards the bed, locking the door after, “I know.”

“But you’re going to worry anyways?”

Nodding, Sam slid down the back of the couch, settling on a pillow, “can we turn that off now?”

Mulder switched the television off, dropping the room in a veil of darkness, a darkness that wasn’t quite as comforting today as it had been yesterday. Sam, however, didn’t seem to mind, “are you guys sleeping out here tonight?”

Knowing he needed to talk to Scully alone, Mulder rubbed the boy’s upper back for a moment, “we will but I need to go talk to your Aunt Dana in the kitchen for a few minutes, if that’s all right?”

Sam complied with a finally sleepy nod, “just … come back though.”

After rearranging everyone, tucking in, distributing covers, straightening necks, returning stray stuffed animals to owners, they slipped from the room, waiting until they were still within earshot but out of view of the room then Mulder grabbed Scully, crushing her to his chest, allowing her to mutter only half an incomprehensible syllable, “I’m not letting you go for at least five minutes so shut it and hug me, please.”

She didn’t argue, wrapping arms around waist and holding on tight. Five minutes turned into eight before, by some mutually agreed upon but totally unconscious decision, they slowly pulled apart, lips taking over where hugging limbs gave way. Finally, Mulder’s hand woven through her hair, thumb against cheek in a gesture that should have seemed trite but warmed him against the cold inhabiting his marrow since 4:38 that afternoon, “I love you.”

With a stubborn set of tears hanging on her lower lashes, she nuzzled his hand, her own occupied with gripping the bare skin of his sides under his shirt, “I don’t ever want to be that scared again.”

“I’ll do my best to steer clear of scary things from now on.”

Going back in for another marathon hug, “I love you, too.”

They didn’t talk of motives or plans, present circumstances and future speculations but stood in quiet, thoughts going no further than five safe children sleeping in the next room.

Until the softest sound of whimpering reached their ears and Scully sighed, Mulder dropping one last kiss to the top of her head, “I had hoped they’d be able to sleep.”

“Go on in and see who it is. I need some water and I’ll go check on Maggie, then be back, okay?”

Stopping in the kitchen door, she turned back to see Mulder reaching in the cupboard for a glass, mussed hair, wide back, world-weighted shoulders, bare feet, cut-off sweats. She tilted her head in a moment of life-affirming understanding, “Mulder?”

He glanced back at her, looking wearily adorable with shadowed eyes and a half-smile on his lips, “yeah?”

“Will you marry me someday?”

Remaining stationary, glass now in hand, he didn’t hesitate for a moment, “of course. Will you marry me back?”

Fingers on the doorframe, foot unconsciously rolling back and forth on toes, much like a third grader about to tell her favorite boy she liked him, Scully smiled with a radiant subtlety that could have melted the sun, “I will.”

And with that, she rotated, heading to comfort nightmares while Mulder moved to check on his eventual mother-in-law, whispering to himself in chanted intervals, “breathe!”