#(we ain’t even in any severe weather belt I’m just weak)

[cultivating-wildflowers]

*staring at a severe weather forecast* please I’m on my period don’t do this to me

[notabloodmage]

Even then. (DA2 fic)

doin some writing on my canon version of the Hawke family!! this is kind of messy but i needed to get some ideas down  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ anyway listen to me there is nothing in canon that says malcolm hawke couldn’t be an elf @ bioware let me have this

They hadn’t planned to settle in Lothering. Leandra was five months pregnant, the plan was to keep pressing towards the wilds, in hopes of finding a band of Chasind or Avvar that wouldn’t be so opposed to Malcolm’s magical abilities. The prospect frightened Leandra, but Malcolm insisted it was their best shot at a Templar-free life.

The storm had caught them off guard. 

The torrential downpour was on them suddenly, and all at once. Malcolm had enough mana remaining to protect them from lightning, but there was no way for him to subtly shield them from the cold that was creeping in through the wet. Ferelden was not always an easy place to live, but it had to be better than Kirkwall. 

At least that’s what Malcolm repeated to himself as he scooped his firstborn child up into his arms, trying to ignore the way his back ached from days upon days of travel. The long nights of sleeping on the cold hard ground probably weren’t helping either.  

They’d passed several small settlements on the road, but they always tried to avoid contact with other people. People didn’t even need to suspect him of being a mage--being an elf was bad enough for a lot of the country folk. He couldn’t take five steps in a town without being accused of stealing, it seemed. 

They always tried to sleep beneath the stars if they could, or in a tent if they thought it would be well hidden enough. Leandra had accused him of being paranoid, now that they were already so far from home but as far as Malcolm was concerned you couldn’t be too careful. 

He had done so much--sacrificed all of his ideals-- just to get them this far, and Maker be damned if he was going to be caught now. 

Still, in a storm like this exceptions had to be made, and Leandra had spotted an old farmhouse on the horizon. Malcolm, while hesitant, grew more and more at ease as they approached. It seemed to be abandoned. 

The couple trudged through the rain hand in hand. The land surrounding the farmhouse was uneven, muddy, and completely overgrown. Malcolm prayed that the rain would cover their tracks as they made their way to the 

It was a little worse for wear, looking like it had been sitting untouched for years which was a blessing in disguise because all it took was a swift kick (combined with a bit of mana, of course) to break the rusted padlock.

Malcolm guided them in cautiously, scanning the room for any threats. Abandoned didn’t mean safe. He wasted no time setting up wards to protect them-- but Malcolm was tired too. 

Perhaps he’d missed a spot, perhaps he hadn’t been as thorough as he’d thought. Perhaps his wards were weak with his exhaustion as he joined his wife and daughter on a bed of stale hay. Perhaps he’d been distracted with casting a quick warming spell to ensure the most important people in his life slept soundly. Perhaps he’d given in, for a moment, to the sense of hope burning brightly in his chest as he pulled his family close. He slept far too soundly that night. Better than he had in months. 

The high-pitched creak of the barn door swinging open jerked the three of them awake. 

Rays of sunlight were streaming in through the rafters--had morning really come so soon? 

The sight was so peaceful that Malcolm nearly didn’t register the clunk of boots on the wooden floor, and the wide figure stepped towards him, fiddling with the trigger of a small hunting crossbow. Malcolm scrambled back, drawing Leandra closer with one arm while the other fumbled for his staff--lost in the hay. 

“Hold still now, friend, I’d prefer not to use this--”

“Stay away from my family!!” The stranger was interrupted by his daughter’s tiny voice. 

She had leaped out of the shadows beside them, brandishing the pocket knife that Malcolm kept strapped to his belt. 

How did she-- Malcolm didn’t have time to finish the thought. He rushed forward, intent on yanking her back by the shirt collar. He’d been in such a deep state of sleep that he hadn’t even registered her absence. Then again, she was always so sneaky. Malcolm hadn’t the faintest clue where she’d gotten it from, but she had a way of sinking into the shadows and completely disappearing.  

She was only four, and a tiny little thing at that-- shaking in the little booties Leandra had made her. Leaping to defend her family with a . 

So brave, even then. 

“Minerva NO!!” Leandra was shrieking. “Don’t shoot, serah--please!! Minnie get back here--“

For a moment Malcolm thought that all was lost. He pictured himself in chains, being dragged away by Templars-- leaving his wife and daughter alone and penniless in a foreign land. He’d let them down. He’d failed. 

The atmosphere of the room changed entirely, however, when the stranger began to laugh. 

It wasn’t a bad laugh. 

Not condescending. Not cruel. 

It was light and youthful, despite the obvious late-middle-age of its owner. It rang through the morning air like a Chantry bell on the breeze. It was the kind of pure laugh that can only be created by the innocence of a child. In that moment the light in Malcolm’s chest returned, soothing his racing heart. He paused, studying the face of the stranger in the barn doorway as he raised his weapon in mock surrender, humouring the child.  

“Oh my! Be careful with that, little dragonling!” The stranger smiled down at the child warmly, crouching down to her level to look her in the eyes, before his gaze rose to her fathers, noting the matching eyes that seemed to burn with something he couldn’t quite name. Malcolm saw what he hoped was understanding in the old man’s eyes. “Put that there knife away, and settle down. We can talk this out, I promise.”

Malcolm hurriedly ushered Minerva behind him-- the child kept her eyes glued to the intruder, even when she began to cling to her father’s pant leg. Malcolm could feel her trembling, so he reached down and carded a comforting hand through a mop of brown curls that matched his own, trying to be as brave as his daughter. 

A tense quiet had settled over the barn as Malcolm tried to appraise the man before him, who was doing the same. They must’ve been quite the sight--all clinging to each other, covered in hay. Malcolm didn’t dare reach for his staff, he just prayed that wherever the damned thing was it was out of sight.  

Finally the stranger huffed, standing and leaning back on his heels.  

“Name’s Barlin,” The stranger jutted his chin at Malcolm, crossing his arms casually. “Sorry for bargin’ in on ya.”

“Malcolm…” He held his head high, meeting Barlin’s eyes as he introduced himself. “Malcolm Hawke.” 

“Quite the little bodyguard you have there,” Barlin’s voice was genuine. Warm. 

Malcolm’s mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile. 

“Small but mighty,” He could feel Minerva nodding against his thigh, as well as the tears she was smearing into the fabric of his trousers.

He called her that a lot, especially when she was little. Such a simple little phrase, but it always made Minerva feel big, in a way.

“Look, I was just checkin’ to make sure you all weren’t bandits, or bears, or something.” The man shrugged disarmingly. “I didn’t come here for a fight. Lothering’s a peaceful little town, and we like to keep it that way.”

“Peaceful? What’s that like?” Malcolm’s sarcastic question slipped from his mouth before he could stop it, and Leandra squeezed his shoulder tightly in warning. 

Barlin merely chuckled, smiling at him wryly. 

“Y’all don’t look like the type of folk who are accustomed to peaceful.” He observed. “I’m just glad you got out of the storm-- it was a good one!”

Barlin took a step inside, eyes travelling upward, surveying how the roof sagged and leaked. The old building had fallen into disrepair, but it wasn’t unsalvageable.

“Look, this place ain’t even mine. It was my brother’s before he moved to Denerim for work. Place hasn’t seen any life in aside from rats and the occasional nug in a while, as I'm sure you’ve noticed.” 

The old man paused for a moment, gaze landing on the family before him. He’d later told Malcolm that he’d had a good feeling in his gut about them, and his gut was just about the only thing he trusted. 

“I run the tavern in town, why don’t you all come back with me and let me fix you something to eat.”

Minerva perked up at that, and even Malcolm couldn’t stop his mouth from watering at the prospect of a hot meal. Leandra looked cautious, but when he met her gaze she nodded slowly. Barlin smiled at that. 

“Come on, while we walk, why don’t you tell me what you know about farming?”

Malcolm would find out through gossip in the years to come that Barlin had been trying to get rid of that property for years, but that didn’t change the kindness. He didn’t ask anything about where they’d come from or why they were running. He asked Malcolm what he did and he’d told him he was an herbalist--which wasn’t a lie, and he suspected Barlin could tell. 

“Herbalism? Farming? Sounds like the same thing to me.”

The old man let Malcolm pay him back for the land over time after they’d settled in and started earning some money. He’d also scoffed at the notion of charging interest. 

The farmhouse was rotting and falling apart, but with a lot of hard work (and a bit of hidden, domestic magic) they turned it into a home. Minerva grew up toddling around the gardens and helping Malcolm till the fields. She’d climbed gnarled tree in their front yard to watch the sun rise every morning since she was six, regardless of weather, much to Leandra’s chagrin. 

His eldest child had grown up far too quickly for his liking, and couldn’t help but blame himself. He knew it wasn’t fair to place her in charge of her siblings, especially with the added responsibility of protecting Bethany--but Minerva would insist that she could handle it. She’d lead the twins on adventures in the fields and forests surrounding the little town-- quests, she always called them. 

They had to work hard, but Malcolm had taught her to always try to make it fun. The children would race each other home, Minerva usually in front, although Carver would occasionally shove his way past her. Bethany was a lot quicker than she looked too--and always smarter than she let on. Malcolm would never forget the looks on Minerva and Carver’s faces the time he’d taught Bethany how to freeze their feet to the ground, nor Bethany’s own wide grin as she’d crossed the finish line (their garden gate), cheering with victory as Carver swore and Minerva laughed alongside her.  

His children were adventurous-- all three of them. Malcolm had lost count of the amount of times Carver and Bethany had burst through the door, shouting that Minerva was in trouble. She had a habit of getting stuck in trees, that girl... Bethany claimed to be the least so, favouring staying inside to study most days, especially as she got older, but even she couldn’t resist the call of a bright summer day. 

Minerva always knew exactly what to say to coax her out of hiding, too. Be it a promise to stop by the Chantry for one song, or spinning a scheme so grand that even Bethany couldn’t resist. Bethany was more competitive than she let on, and Minerva was always too clever for her own good. The eldest sister got herself and Carver into heaps of trouble throughout their youth. They were so rambunctious, and Minerva was always pressing Carver’s buttons on purpose, but never in a way that pushed the lad too far.  

Always so precise, even then.

Malcolm had had to come down hard on her only once. She’d set off a tar bomb in barracks of the local Templars, bringing the Knight Captain huffing and puffing to their doorstep, completely unaware that he was in the presence of not one, but two apostates.  Leandra was beside herself, disguising her frantic panic for Bethany’s safety as being furious at the tar tracked all over their home. Andraste’s Mercy, she had given poor Minerva an earful. Malcolm knew it was mostly for show-- so the templars could believe it was just a well-meant prank by some kid. Malcolm had a reputation around town for being good around a cauldron, and he promised to supply the knight commander with a free shipment of potions, and assurance that Minerva would clean up the mess. Minerva had inherited his alchemic ability. but not his connection to the fade. He’d taught her the recipe himself, so she could help him fix the thatching on their chicken coop. 

He was mostly just mad he didn’t think of this himself--he would’ve done the same at her age. He couldn’t tell her that, though, could he?What he did tell her was that she was old enough to know better, he’d said. Perhaps that was too harsh… For the Maker’s sake she was only ten...

He’d come up to her guiltily that evening, offering her a glass of her favourite tea-- a recipe they’d invented together. She was gazing up at the stars, before she mumbled an apology and he did too. 

He made it up to her by telling a story about a similar prank he played on the templars back at the Gallows. 

“I know they’re the worst, but provoking them won’t do us any favours, Mighty Mini,” The nickname made her giggle. “It’s not your fight.” That made her pause. 

“But…” She looked up at him, eyes full of concern. “They make things just awful for you and Bethany!” She protested. “You shouldn’t have to hide your magic! Magic is good!” She said it with childlike simplicity. He’d taught her well… Maybe a little too well, if he was being honest. 

“I know, Min, it isn’t fair, but that doesn’t mean you should go out of your way to cause problems for the templars. You don’t want their attention. Think of Bethany.” He gave her shoulder a firm squeeze. 

She stilled, gazing at her feet.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He took her up into a tight hug. “It’s just not fair...” 

Always seeking justice, even then. 

Malcolm was far from the perfect father, but, Maker, did he try. At the very least, he was always there when his children needed him. Even years later, he cherished every moment spent outside the walls of the Gallows. 

He was able to give his kids the childhood he’d always wanted-- more or less.

On (idk what the dragon age equivalent to Sundays is but That LMAO) Minerva and Carver would spar for hours, using swords carved out of sticks they’d found exploring woods, while Malcolm, Bethany, and Leandra would go into town. Malcolm would take care of the shopping for the week and the two of them would head to the Chantry for the service. Bethany always tithed her allowance at the Chantry, even when her siblings teased her for it. She was always such a sweet, gentle girl. She wanted to help, and the cloister in Lothering was vastly different from the Kirkwall Chantry. They were a peaceful folk, down to earth. 

Once their farm was in its prime the revered mother even asked to buy some of their harvested herbs for their healers on a yearly basis, and Malcolm given it to her for free--inspired by the kindness of his youngest daughter. He knew the gift of magic weighed on the poor girl, and he wished he could take the burden from her. 

He would’ve preferred they not have to worry about hiding his and Bethany’s magic at all, but he figured that this was as good as it was going to get. 

And it was good, indeed. For a time. 

Minerva grew up with a Father who could coax her down from the trees she’d get stuck in, and catch her when she fell. Bethany had a Father who could guide her in the ways of the Fade and teach her not to fear her power, but to control it with ease. Carver had a Father who encouraged his study of the blade despite having no combat experience of his own. 

Whatever made them happy, as long as they were safe, just, and kind. That was who their father was.

Malcolm Hawke died too young, and too suddenly. 

The fever came when Minerva had just turned seventeen, and the twins were only twelve. The illness swept through their entire family, but it took her Father with it when it left. He was buried beneath the apple tree in their garden as a free man. Not a mage, just Malcolm Hawke. His children worked in tandem to carve a headstone themselves, nestling it with care between the roots. 

Lothering wasn’t the same after Malcolm died. Minerva did her best to fill the void, standing in as her Sister’s keeper, trying to smile her way through the tears the way her Father taught her to. 

Carver left to join the king’s army as soon as he turned sixteen, prying himself out of his mother’s arms with a groan. Leandra drew her daughters even closer in his absence, especially Bethany. The young mage became even more reclusive, afraid to wander too far from home by herself. She became convinced that the Templars in Lothering suspected something, no matter how many times Minerva assured her of how careful they’d been. 

Then, Carver was back, and the Blight was upon them. They’d only had a few short days on the run to cherish their brother’s return before the darkspawn ripped him away from them once more, this time for good. 

The farmhouse in Lothering never received a proper goodbye from the family that had inhabited it for all those years. The Blight fell upon them far too suddenly for them to grab anything more than their most precious of possessions before running for the hills. 

Barlin visits it sometimes, finding the tombstone beneath the trees. The old man hasn’t died yet, even though he’s buried many of his juniors. He chats to the stone as he clears it of moss, pulling out a book with a dwarvish name on the cover.

The eldest Hawke child--the little dragonling who’d stood her ground in that old farmhouse brandishing a knife while shaking like a leaf all those years ago had done quite well for herself, it seemed. Barlin was glad of it. He hadn’t known Malcolm was a mage, but it certainly made a lot about the strange elf make sense. 

Barlin wonders sometimes if the Champion of Kirkwall knows how proud those few that survived Lothering are of her. 

[dorcasavelinehill]

YOUR ARMS FEEL LIKE HOME - Ch. 2: What Works For Us

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21747418/chapters/51883102

“So here’s a philosophical question for you:  is it really theft if we’re paying exact change plus tax?” Mike squished into the corner against the back wall of the liquor store (after only getting them slightly lost one last time before finding it) and watched intently while Donnie picked the lock. Leo pulled a long face.  “It’s still breaking-and-entering.  And we’re underage.”  He stood squished on the other side, looking around furtively, as if he were expecting their father to step out of the shadows at any moment and catch them red-handed.

April considered his argument.  “In America.  Not other countries.” Leo looked at her.  “What country are we in?” “Doesn’t mean we’re wrong.  Could be a bad law.” “It’s not a bad law.” “Are you sure?” Donnie thrust a hand straight up between the pair.  “Hi!  Remember me?  I’m trying to concentrate here!” Mike looked puzzled.  “Why do you need your ears to concentrate on picking a lock?” “Someone hit him for me.” Raph gave Mike a light smack across the back of his head.  As Mike rubbed his head, not the least bit perturbed, Donnie laughed, “Bingo!”   The back door sprang open with a loud bang as it crashed into the far wall. Everyone went very still, waiting for any indication of an alarm going off, silently or otherwise.  Even Mike was frozen, waiting, despite being the one who claimed the store alarm had gone on the blink and nobody had bothered to replace or repair it yet.  When they were certain the cops weren’t on their way the group relaxed. April chuckled nervously as they made their way inside.  “So we’re officially criminals?”   Don gave her a light nudge with his elbow.  “Only if someone catches us.” “Which we’re not going to let happen,” Leo said pointedly.  “Think you can get the register working, Kitten?” April snorted, “No problem,” and set to work on it. “Oooh, Kaluah!” “No.”  Leo grabbed Michelangelo by the bandana tails and yanked him back.  “We’re buying beer and then we’re leaving.  Raph, get me two Bud Lights.” Raphael leveled him a look that could have brought down a mountain.  “I ain’t letting ya drink piss water.”  He thrust two Shiner Blondes at his older brother.  For himself, Raph selected a six-pack of Shiner 97, and snagged a bottle of Blue Moon for April. “Bingo!” April sang out.  The register chirped for her and the cash drawer extended.  There was no till, naturally, but that didn’t matter.  “Bring ‘em over.” She rang up the Blondes, the 97, and the Blue Moon.  “Can I have anoth-” “No,” Raph said. Annoying, but April didn’t feel like getting into it with him.   Mike brought over a six-pack of some weird IPA thing called El Dorado, while Donnie grabbed a six of Guinness Extra Stouts.  When nobody was looking, Don dropped her a wink.  She ducked her head and hid a smile.  At least one of the boys wasn’t going to baby her tonight. She rang it all up.  Leo shrugged and dropped several neatly-folded bills on the counter top.  “Alright, not exact change.  They can call it a tip.” “They want a tip,” Donnie grumbled, “here’s a tip - get a new security system.  Prefereably not one advertised on your local paranormal podcast.” “Ah, Donnie.”  Raph slapped Don on the shoulder.  “Nobody robs nobody in dis part ‘a town.  Billionaires’ Row’s right down the street.  Who’s gonna break in here?”  He smirked and snagged his six-pack, leading the way out the back door. “Well, I ought to leave the door unlocked on principle,” Don snarked quietly.  He didn’t, though.  Locking up was easier than unlocking the door without a key. They stuck to the shadows, returning to their rooftops.  Their rooftops - nobody else in the city could claim them the way the kids did.   Running was freedom.   Rooftop to rooftop was a straight path that only required a leap of faith, something all of them took fearlessly.  The boys were machines of muscle and sinew that sprung and landed with precision.  April was a little goat, her sneakers skidding on landing, but always recovering her balance in an instant, never losing her footing.   They flung themselves at a building that towered over the roof they ran across.  As they ran, jumped, and climbed, they caught hold of window ledges, siding, brick, and metal fire escapes.  They accomplished all of this with no more sound than a quiet sigh of mortar and a gentle shiver of metal, while the children clambered skyward onto the next roof.   Every movement was finesse.   They moved fluidly, unseen from building to building, following the bright moonlight until they found a good spot with a nice view and plenty of room.  It wasn’t the observation deck at The Rock, but they had a decent view of Central Park and the skyline.

*****

April unhooked her camera from the back of her belt.  All the buildings glowed like fireflies in the darkness.  She photographed the skyline, getting wide angle shots of several buildings, then photographed people dancing in the street far below them. She even managed to get several shots of a party bus moving slowly down a side street, the music, mostly dance remixes of popular tunes, drifting up as the bus passed by. April swayed, feeling the rhythm, then turned back to her brothers.   They sat on the edge of the roof across from her, beers settled neatly against the ledge wall, safe from falling over.  She seated herself between Mike and Don, kicking her legs like a little kid.  Donnie handed her a bottle from his six-pack instead of the Blue Moon Raph had picked out for her.  Either Raph wasn’t paying attention or he’d decided it wasn’t worth arguing about. Around them, the city sang. “Pretty night,” Mike said. “It’s going to start getting cold next month,” Leo said.  He pulled a grimace that the others sympathized with.  Of all of them, Leonardo felt the cold the worst, though he had learned how to power through it.  This was probably going to be the last time they could get out for a long night before the weather got really nasty.  That was probably the main reason their father chased them out for the evening. They had never kept to a strictly “human” schedule; the end of September marked a break period from intellectual learning and a return to heavy physical exercise.  More advanced combat lessons, extended sparring practice in the dojo, and “winter cleaning,” where their entire home was inspected from bottom to top, searched out for any weaknesses in either defense or in structural integrity.   Donnie took a long swig of his beer.  “The service manual for the Triumph came yesterday.” Raphael grinned widely.  “Awesome!” “You know we’re going to have to start from scratch with the engine,” Donnie said. Raph shrugged.  “We gotta start somewhere.” “Oh, God,” Mike sighed.  April buried her face in her hand.   In March, Raphael and Donatello had pooled their funds and purchased a pile of junk they claimed was a 1973 Triumph Bonneville T120V.  According to them, it was a motorcycle.  Leo called it a relic of a bygone era.  Mike declared it a desperate cry for help.  April had hummed “Taps” over it and covered it with an old table cloth, the better to shield the remains from impressionable eyes. Despite its sad condition, Donnie and Raphael played around with it throughout the spring and summer, trying to catalog all the parts and determine what needed the most attention.  Don tried looking for instructions online and came to the conclusion they needed a good, solid, hard copy of the service manual if they wanted to get it back to working condition - the idea of smearing grease and assorted bits of metal over his computer rubbed him the wrong way, and anyway, a manual took up less room than a laptop. Raph wasn’t inclined to talk as much as, say, Michelangelo, and if Donnie got lost in a project, he could be silent for hours while he observed or made notes or whatever he was doing.  Get them on the subject of the Triumph, though, and you couldn’t shut them up. Automotives not being her thing, April quickly cut in before they could start talking specifications or spark plugs or whatever went into making a motorcycle.  “Think Splinter will start training me on the sword this winter?” “Nope,” Raphael said. She jerked, eyes going wide.  “What do you know that I don’t?”  Her lips pulled down into a tight scowl. “You don’t got the muscle mass.”  He took a long swallow of beer, finished the bottle, and set it down behind him, fetching another one. Without looking at Raphael, Leo casually reached out a hand and yanked hard on his bandana tails.  Raph’s head jerked.  He spat out a, “Fuck, Leo!” and glared at his older brother. Leo shook his head warningly.  “That’s between her and Father.  Keep your beak out of it.” Mike said, “I think you could -” Leo interrupted.  “You, too, Mikey.  Father’s the Master.  He decides who trains with what.” “Thank you,” April said.  She brought her bottle to her lips and was surprised to find it empty.  “These go too fast.” Donatello handed her another of his beers.   Raph watched the exchange silently.  He could be such a judgy bastard sometimes, even if he didn’t come out and say anything.  April quite deliberately opened and drank half the bottle while he watched.  She wasn’t some baby anymore, after all.   Mike rolled his eyes at all the unnecessary drama.  “I’m staying out of it,” he said, pointedly looking at Leo, “but I think you can tell Dad what you want to learn.  You don’t know he’ll say ‘no’ unless you try, right?” “Mmm.”  April shrugged.  “I guess.  Just, if we’re gonna be stuck inside all winter, I want to learn something interesting.  I hate going into lock-down.”  She banged her heels against the side of the building.  “I feel like a rabbit hiding in a hole in the ground.” Raph reached behind Don to grab her pigtail, but he only gave a little yank, not a rough pull.  “Yeah.”  His version of rough sympathy.  April rubbed her head, thinking about the long, dark months ahead.   The collective mood was somber.  The run had been fun, and the chase, but that couldn’t dispel the dark cloud hanging over the five of them. Mike snorted and unhooked a small cellular device from the back of his belt, muttering, “Screw it,” under his breath.  He poked at the touch screen.  Music came out, blasting at first.  He had to quickly lower the volume while the others winced.  “Hang on, hang on.” The quality was a little tinny, but it was perfectly danceable.  Stevie Nicks’ hypnotic voice belted out the grainy beginings of April’s favorite song

Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night And wouldn’t you love to love her?  

He set the phone on the edge of the ledge, climbing onto the roof proper and tugging on April’s pigtails lightly. “C’mon, Kitten.  I don’t wanna waste the last long night out, y’know?” April grinned and gave Mike a playful shove. “Knock it off.” “No, really!”  Mike looked over April’s shoulder and wagged his brow ridges.  “Leo, tell April she has to dance with me!” Leo sipped his beer without looking at either of the little ones.  “April, go dance with Mike.”  His lips turned up at the corners. Rolling her eyes, April hopped over the ledge to join Mike.  It wasn’t exactly a dancing song, but it was her favorite, and Michelangelo was as inclined to indulge her as Leo or Raph. Mike wrapped his right arm around her waist, taking her hand and giving her a quick spin before pulling her closer and taking the lead.  Leo, Raph, and Donnie swiveled around to watch the two of them finding the rhythm.  

She is like a cat in the dark And then she is the darkness She rules her life like a fine skylark And when the sky is starless…

April ignored the first icy breath of the wind against her cheeks and shut her eyes, pretending the whole world was watching, like she had a spotlight on her, and instead of tight-fitting, black-and-grey leggings and wrap-around shirt, she wore a long, flowing dress and fresh flowers in her hair.

Rhiannon...

The background singers repeated, and then were abruptly cut off by a high-pitched voice suddenly crooning, Ohhhh This is a story ‘bout a guy named Al, and he lived in the sewer with his hamster pal, and all of them were startled out of whatever reverie they were all in.  Mike dropped April’s hand and rushed for the phone, picking it up just as the jingle died.  His thumbs flew as he texted madly. Leo turned to Donnie.  “Did you check in?” he asked a little anxiously. Donnie shook his head.  “You were supposed to!” “I thought you were!  You told him you would!” “I said we would!  We, as in ‘any one of us!’” Between them, Raph looked disgusted.  “You two’re hopeless.” Mike finished typing out his text and listened for the beep.  “He says make sure we’re home on time.” “That’s a given,” Don said. “Anything else?” Leo asked. The phone beeped again.  “Um.  He wants a selfie of us,” Mike said. Don squished close to Raph on one side, Leo on the other.  April climbed into Don’s lap and ducked her head a little so she wasn’t blocking either Raph or Donnie’s faces.  Mike crouched between Raph and Leo and held his phone up sideways, preparing to take a picture.  “Everybody smile!” He paused for a moment, then said, “Raph, c’mon, smile.” “I am smiling,” said Raphael.  He did not smile. “Damn it, Raph, just smile!” Leo said, poking him in the side. In retaliation, Raph parted his lips in an epic grimace, displaying teeth in shark-like proportions.  Mike snapped the picture and sent it before Leo could protest. “Damn it, Raph!” “That was a smile!  I smiled!” The two of them went back and forth for a minute when the phone beeped again.  Michelangel read the response, then groaned loudly, grabbing their attention. “Eh?” “Wha-?” Mike rubbed his eyes, a headache apparently setting in.  He handed the phone to Leo, who read it, shut his eyes, and blew a loud sigh out his nose, before passing the phone over to Raph. Raph took the phone, read it, and screamed, “Sonovabitch!” Donnie snatched the phone away while Raphael advanced on his younger brother.  He held it out for April to read it with him.   The message was short and simple.   “Next time, make sure the beer bottles are not in frame.” Her stomach sinking, she scrolled the text screen up.  There, indeed, was the photograph, shot at an angle to get everyone in frame, two half-empty sixers included by Mike’s feet. “You couldn’t pay attention for two seconds?” Raph hollered at Mike.  Mike rolled his eyes, but his mouth pulled down guiltily at the corners.  “Gezuz, Mike!” “You guys didn’t move!  You just squished in!  Why weren’t you paying attention?” Leo said, “Maybe we should pack it in.”  He looked regretfully at the untouched beer bottles. “Yeah,” April said, “head home early and avoid being beheaded at dawn.  He can kill us immediately.” And then a flash of light. Everyone blinked, caught off-guard. “Was that lightning?” Mike asked. “That was not lightning,” Leo said. All heads turned to April.  As baffled as they were, she pointed both hands at her right hip, where her camera remained undisturbed.  Meaning, if it wasn’t her camera flash going off… A second flash alerted the group to the direction of the camera.  They turned and looked.  Two buildings down, there was a mild commotion.  Of the camera man, all they could make out at this distance was a hunched figure that looked like it was wearing a mask.  It stood up straight when they looked at it, cocked its head, and then apparently figured out they realized it was there, because it turned on its heels and took off at top speed, jumping from one roof to the next, more clumsily than they, but surprisingly fast. “Oh,” said Leo.  “Shhhhhhhhit!”

[elenajohansenauthor]

What We Need to Survive Excerpt: Chapter 1

[post-apocalyptic/new adult romance]

Chapter 1 - Cigarette Lighters

August 23rd, 4:23 pm – Somewhere along US-36, Central Ohio

Paul kicked a rock out of his path, watching it bounce and skitter down the highway.

He saw no point in wasting breath on cursing the weather. One squall of rain caught him earlier in the day, forcing him into the cramped shelter of one of the abandoned cars dotting the road. But the boom of thunder in the distance worried him. He’d spent plenty of nights out in the open. Sleeping in the rain was miserable enough, but he imagined sleeping through a storm would be next to impossible.

He looked up, but thick forest on both sides of the highway hid all but the narrowest strip of sky. Blank, unbroken gray hovered above him. There was no way to judge how close the storm was, except for the unreliable system of counting Mississippis.

The closest building he remembered passing was at least half an hour behind him, maybe an hour. The closest town he’d left behind yesterday afternoon. Turning back might get him to shelter before the storm struck, if he hurried.

Or it might not. The road ahead curved away from him, and the trees could hide anything.

Paul kept moving forward, faster under the threat of rain.

Ten minutes later, he spied a gas station and picked up his pace even more.

As he got closer, the station didn’t seem promising. Most of the windows gaped empty, broken down to their frames, and the front door hung askew on a broken hinge. The first fallen leaves of the season littered the parking lot. Shards of glass from the broken windows and random bits of trash lay scattered among them.

The rain started as Paul reached the edge of the parking lot. He sprinted for the cover of the roof protecting the pumps.

Hard-won caution kept him from dashing the rest of the way inside. Instead he approached the building with slow, deliberate steps, holding up his empty hands. “Hello in there!” he called. “Anybody home?”

There was no answer, but Paul remained wary. When he was a few yards from the open door, he stopped and called again. “Is anyone there? I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, just a place to get out of the rain.”

A shuffling sound came from his right, and a movement that flickered in the corner of his eye. He turned toward it and saw a gun pointed in his direction. The gunman himself hid in the shadow of the empty window frame.

“Stay where you are!” the man shouted. His voice was deep and authoritative, the kind of voice that focused the attention of anyone who heard it. Paul didn’t doubt it belonged to a man willing to shoot him, if necessary.

“No trouble,” Paul repeated. “I was hopin’ this place was empty, ‘cause I’d rather be inside than out with a storm overhead. But if I ain’t welcome, I’ll move on.”

“Stay right there, and give me a minute!”

Paul did as the man ordered, watching the gun in the window, which didn’t move. He guessed the man was talking to someone inside, but he couldn’t hear anything. While he waited, the rain grew heavier, pinging on the corrugated metal of the roofing like the highest notes played on a huge steel drum.

“You got any weapons?” the deep-voiced man called out.

“Just the knife on my belt,” Paul answered. “No guns.”

“You can wait out the storm with us in here, then be on your way. Sound reasonable?”

Paul lowered his hands. “Yeah, that’s good.” The gun disappeared from the window, and the knot of tension in Paul’s chest loosened. He hadn’t believed he was going to get shot, but he was relieved to be right.

Unless they were going to rob him the minute he walked in the door. But it was too late to run now. If they meant to take his supplies, then the man with the gun could shoot him in the back when he fled.

Best to play along.

A man with dark brown skin and chin-length dreadlocks appeared in the doorway. He was shorter than Paul, but that didn’t mean he could be dismissed as a threat, since he was much more heavily muscled. His straight-backed posture and firm gaze shouted military to Paul. Or maybe cop. And he sported a holster on his belt. The man with the gun.

Unless there’s more than one of ‘em.

When Paul didn’t move, he flashed a grin, wide and startlingly white. “Come on in,” he said, beckoning with one hand. He stood aside to let Paul through.

The inside of the station wasn’t in any better shape than the outside. The metal shelving units were empty, all the chocolate bars and potato chips gone. Glass-fronted refrigerators lined the back wall, but those were empty, too. At the counter, the cash register lay on its side, the drawer popped loose. Paul guessed that had happened in the first few days, when looters thought money still meant something. It hadn’t taken long before that wasn’t true anymore. Dark patches stained the white linoleum floor. Paul hoped they weren’t blood. Though they probably were.

“I’m John,” the man said. His voice sounded almost friendly, and Paul lifted his hand in automatic reaction to meet John’s for a shake. He dropped it when he saw there was no hand offered.

“Paul.” He settled for giving John a nod instead.

John turned and headed for an open space beyond the counter. Paul meant to follow, but he stopped short at the sight of a girl crouched under the window. She was small, her thin limbs folded in on themselves to take up as little space as possible. Her black hair was oddly uneven in length, not quite reaching her shoulders. Paul guessed it was growing out from whatever shorter style she’d had, before. Her wide eyes watched him with silent tension, like a fawn ready to bolt to safety.

Paul hadn’t met many kids on the road, but most of them looked a lot like her. Frail and frightened, not ready to face what the world had become since the plague had ruined everything.

Before Paul could decide what to say to her—or even if he should say anything at all—she shot to her feet and followed John across the room. Her ill-fitting clothes didn’t completely hide the curves of her body, and the swing of her hips was shocking and compelling at the same time. She wasn’t a young girl at all. Her head wouldn’t even reach Paul’s shoulder, but she was a grown woman, right down to the angry toss of her hair.

But still frightened.

Paul let her have her distance from him. With any luck, the storm would pass before nightfall, leaving him time to move on and make camp somewhere else for the night. He’d shared makeshift shelter with strangers before, talked, and traded, but he never slept well. And it was no great leap to guess the woman didn’t want him there.

Though she had let him in, at least. That was why she’d been at the window, Paul guessed—John had checked with her before giving Paul permission.

Lightning flashed outside. Paul counted four-Mississippi before the thunder rolled over the building. After the next strike, he counted three.

If the light were better, he could pass the time scribbling in his notebook. A half-formed song had haunted his thoughts for days, and he’d welcome a chance to jot down the lyrics. But it would be a waste of ink and paper trying to write by lightning flashes.

If the company were better, he could talk and see about some trading. He was running lower than he liked on food, though he had enough to see him through the next day or two. The towns on this stretch of the highway all seemed to be one or two days apart, so he expected to hit another one tomorrow. He could spend a day searching houses for supplies.

Glancing around the interior of the station, he wondered if there was a rack of local road maps. So far, he’d been navigating by the ones posted on the walls at rest stations. But it was too dark to see much of anything, except a weak glow from the far corner. Someone had lit a candle. He heard low voices talking. John’s, he recognized. Another one, lighter and higher-pitched, he assumed was the woman’s. But there was a third, too, higher still and squeaky.

Another flash of lightning drew Paul’s attention back to the window. No need to introduce himself to the others if they were only company while the storm lasted. With nothing else to do, he cleared a space on the counter, sat on it, and watched the storm.

There was a light patter of footsteps. Paul turned just as someone reached out to touch his arm. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Paul replied. The boy looked about nine or ten. His skin was almost the same deep brown shade as John’s. The glow of the candlelight behind him traced the edges of his short corkscrew curls, giving them a faint golden sheen.

“Do you want to trade with us before we eat dinner?” he asked, half-polite and half-shy. “Maybe we have something different, if you’re tired of what you got.”

“Sure.” Paul slid off the counter top and followed the boy over to the others.

John sat cross-legged with his back to one wall. “Aaron, I told you not to bother him.”

Aaron shrugged as he settled beside John. “I just wanted to see if he had any different food we could trade for. I’m tired of peanut butter crackers.”

In the corner, the woman sat with her knees drawn up before her. She flicked a glance at Paul but said nothing as he pulled off his pack and sat down several feet away.

“You might be in luck, then, Aaron,” Paul said. “I’ve got some granola bars. The s'mores kind, I think.”

Aaron gave him a big smile that was nearly identical to John’s. Paul didn’t want to leap to any conclusions based on the fact that they were both black, but they looked enough alike to be father and son. So far, they were acting like it.

Paul stole another glance at the woman as she stared into the candle flame, ignoring everything else. Her skin was a lighter golden brown, under the smudges of dirt. And despite the realization that she wasn’t a child, she didn’t look anywhere near old enough to be Aaron’s mother. So who was she, and how did she end up with them?

The sound of a zipper snapped his thoughts back into focus—Aaron had a battered red backpack on the floor in front of him. He reached in and pulled out two packets of crackers.

Paul rifled through his own supplies and turned up two granola bars in exchange. He was about to ask what else they might want, open-ended, to see if he could draw the woman out at all. Before he could, he heard wet, squelching footsteps from the front of the building. He leaped to his feet, whirling to face the newcomers. Three of them, two women and a man, all middle-aged, all splattered with rain.

“Easy, Paul.” John’s voice was firm. “They’re with us.”

“If we’d known the rain would start so soon,” the man said, “we could’ve just set these outside and let the storm fill them up.” He had a large metal water bottle in each hand. One he passed to John, the other he set on the floor beside him as he sat down. “So you made a new friend while we were gone?”

A soft snort came from the corner, but John answered them without acknowledging it. “Just sharing the roof until the storm passes.”

The man pulled off his baseball cap, ran a tanned hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, and smiled. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to get rained on.” He stuck out his other hand, which Paul shook briefly. “Mark.”

“Paul.”

“And this is my wife, Sarah,” he went on as one of the women sat down on his other side. The rain plastered her short blond hair to her forehead, but she smiled too and passed the extra bottle she carried to Aaron.

“Nice to meet you, Paul,” she said.

The final newcomer was still standing, looking down at Paul with a curious intensity. “Hello there.” Handsome, Paul mentally tacked on, because that was the exact tone she used. Since she was staring, he did too.

She was tall, or maybe she only seemed tall because she was lean and angular. Her hair was a riot of messy red curls in dire need of a wash, but she was pretty, in a faded, tired sort of way. Before the plague hit, she must have been beautiful. Before her eyes grew ringed with dark circles and her cheeks hollowed out from lack of food. “I’m Alison.”

Paul nodded. Alison tilted her head to the side for a moment, clearly waiting for more. When she didn’t get it, she strode past him. Behind him, which made his shoulder blades itch before he realized she was going to the small woman’s side.

Who still hadn’t given her name. Someone would, though. Paul could be patient.

Alison leaned against the wall and tapped it twice with the extra bottle in her hand. The sound reminded Paul of a food dish being set on the floor for a pet. Without looking, the woman reached her hand up, palm flat, and Alison set the bottle on it. Neither of them said a word.

When Alison sat down between her and Paul, closer to him than he would have liked, he had to resist the urge to pull away. No sense in being rude if he was only here until the storm let up.

“So, Paul,” Mark said with forced cheerfulness, “which way you headed?”

“East.”

Mark’s lips twisted behind his dark scruff of a beard, which hadn’t gone as white as his hair yet. “Damn, us too. I was hoping you were coming from there, so we could get an idea what the road ahead was like.”

Shaking his head, Paul said, “Sorry I can’t be more help.”

“Maybe you can,” Sarah said. “Do you have anything to trade?”

With an easy smile, Paul asked, “What d'you need?”

Sarah pursed her lips as she thought, and the cuteness of the expression took years off her face. “Extra socks?” she asked, hopeful enough that Paul knew she needed them, but resigned enough that she didn’t expect to get them.

Paul shook his head and turned to Mark. “Smokes.” Which earned him a light slap on the shoulder from his wife. “What, it’s been weeks now!” But Paul’s answer was another shake of his head.

John had Aaron seated in his lap and was finger-combing the boy’s hair. “I’m not holding my breath that you’ve got any natural-hair care products. I’m more likely to get struck by lightning. Inside.”

The dry, deadpan tone startled a laugh out of Paul. “I ain’t even got anything for myself right now,” he said, scratching at his dark blond hair. “I’m way overdue for a wash, and dunkin’ my head in a river ain’t the same. I’d shave it all off if electric razors were still a thing.”

Mark gestured at him. “You’ve got a knife.”

“I’d cut myself to ribbons. I think I’ll keep bein’ shaggy for now.”

Aaron, sensing his turn, piped up. “Any books? I’ve read the one I have about a dozen times by now.”

“Not much of a reader,” Paul answered. “What book you got?”

“Treasure Island,” Aaron said. “I like adventure stories.”

Alison snorted. “You’re living in one.”

John gave her a narrow-eyed look over Aaron’s head, but he didn’t say anything.

“Pain killers.”

The sharp and sudden request focused Paul’s attention on its source, the unnamed woman. Gone was the frightened doe of a girl—now her eyes were hard and flat. “Half a bottle of aspirin,” he offered. “What’ll you give me for it?”

“All I’ve got to spare is food. Cheese crackers, chocolate bars, take your pick. Or a can of Red Bull, if you’re afraid to sleep in here with us tonight and want to stay awake instead.”

“Nina …” John said with more than a hint of warning in his voice.

So she’s got a name after all.

“It’s thunderstorm season,” she said. “We’ve been lucky so far they haven’t been worse, but this one’s not going to pass over in an hour like you hope. We’re going to be here overnight.”

Alison hunched forward, elbows on her knees. “How do you know?”

“The weather here isn’t much different from where I grew up,” she answered with a slight shrug. “I lived with this every summer as a kid.” She turned back to Paul. “Anyway, does that work for you?”

Medicine of any kind was valuable, even the common stuff like aspirin. Food was never a bad trade, but he doubted she had enough to spare. “You hurt?” he asked, stalling.

“Cramps,” she answered shortly, and Paul suppressed a grin.

Any urge he’d felt to smile, though, disappeared when Alison spoke. “I’d think you’d be glad you’re having them.”

Paul found the bottle in his pack and rolled it across the floor toward Nina. It stopped at the toe of her boot, and she stared at it without speaking. “Don’t need any food,” Paul said, though it wasn’t strictly true. “I’ve got enough for myself for now. But since y'all were here first, I figure anything left in this place is yours, and I saw some lighters in the display on the counter. I’d be happy with a few of those. Seems like a good thing to have, and they might come in handy for trades down the line.”

Off to his other side, John and Mark traded a stunned look—Paul guessed they hadn’t noticed the lighters. Mark got up to retrieve them. “Let’s see …” he said, counting. “If we each keep one for ourselves, that leaves six for you. Sound good?”

“Sure,” Paul said. Mark brought them over to him, and out of the corner of his eye Paul watched Nina. She didn’t reach out to take the aspirin until the lighters were in his hands. Mark distributed the rest of them while Nina swallowed a few pills with a swig from her water bottle. She noticed Paul watching and nodded at him. He figured that was the closest she would come to thanking him, so he gave her a smile. Not the huge, dazzling grin that his mother had once told him would break hearts someday. Instead it was the small curve at the corners that his girlfriends, over the years, had all told him was sweet. He used the first one on women he wanted to impress—the second was usually reserved for the ones he was already close to. But the last thing he wanted to do was make Nina think he was attracted to her.

Even though he was. Illuminated by the candlelight, Paul could see she had beautiful eyes, big, vividly blue, and fringed with thick lashes. He had a pronounced weakness for women with gorgeous eyes.

But Paul could see Nina wasn’t like some of the other women he’d met on the road in the aftermath of the plague. The ones just as lonely as he was, who were willing to trust him for the length of one night before they parted ways in the morning. He never looked back, and neither did they. There hadn’t been many, and it had been weeks since the last time, so it was only natural he’d find himself falling in lust with someone.

Even if prying words out of that someone was a challenge.

Before the silence between them stretched on too long, Paul forced himself to look away. “Alison, you want anything?”