#6 foot tall lean mean murder machine

[suchsunshinescribbles]

[6 August 2021] Joined some bros in a homebrew DnD campaign as a Tabaxi Soulknife.

[kiirokero]

Selcouth (KNJ)

Selcouth: Unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet marvelous. Old English.

Part of the “Protect the Village!” Oneshot Series!

Masterlist

Pairing: CarMechanic!Namjoon x Writer!Reader

Genre: Fluff, a bit of angst, but a happy ending :)

Note: I stg this Aquafina water be hittin’ different nowadays

Summary: Having your car break down? Sucks. Having your car break down in an unfamiliar town after losing basically everything? Yeah, that really sucks. Hopefully, the smartest mechanic in town can get you back on the road quickly.

Word Count: 3.6k

“W-What do you mean you’re letting me go?”

        “I mean that you’re fired, Y/n, but I wanted to put it in a nicer way,” Your boss explained, releasing a sigh. “B-But why?” You sputtered out, “Mr. Choi, you know I need this writing job... No other position is open the city...” You begged, having the smallest of hope that he would reconsider. “I know Ms. L/n, but the company is going under, even if you stay I can’t pay you,” Mr. Choi groaned, one of his palms resting on his face. 

      You felt like crying. Ever since you were little, you dreamed of being a writer and sharing stories with others. When you got older, that dream changed to wanting people around the world to read what you wrote, so why not write articles for newsletter companies?

      It was difficult. The city you lived in was full of competition for every job you could name. Office workers, technicians, writers. But you had nowhere else to go. You moved away from home for this. Your family sorta cut ties with you shortly after, never really caring for you in a parental way... They were just there. So you needed to succeed. You needed this job. 

And now that was all gone. 

      So you went home, searched up writing jobs in a 50-mile radius, packed your things, got in your car, and started driving. In the next city over there was a new newsletter company getting started and they were looking for writers. It was just the thing you needed. Maybe this was the universe telling you that you needed a change of pace. That you needed a new routine, a second chance to start over and make life your bitch.

     The blur of lush, green trees whooshed past your car windows as you kept your eyes on the coarse road in front of you. The rhythmic hum of the machine you were operating was the only sound you could hear. You had a music playlist, but after an hour and a half, it got more irritating than relaxing. So you sat in silence, mind blank, as you ran on auto-pilot. 

Until your car made an odd sputter. 

     Creasing your eyebrows, you looked at the dials on your dashboard, waiting for any warning light to shine, but none did. You shrugged it off, still feeling slightly uneasy, but trusting your old machine to safely get you to your destination. Besides, there's nothing out here. It has to. 

      Nothing happened for another half-hour. Just the same methodical vroom of your tires on the road and whoosh of your air conditioning vents. You were just thinking about turning on the radio to whatever channel reached out here when... Sputter... Sputter. 

      Twice now, your car sputtered twice now. “God, please don’t do this,” You groaned to yourself, praying to whatever miracle maker was in the sky that your car wouldn’t break down on an obscure road with no big commune around for miles. Sputter... Sputtt... Sputter... It was getting worse now, but being the stubborn person you were, you refused to believe that the car you had since teenage hood was finally giving out on you. 

Sputter... Sputter... Sput... put... pu.. tttt...

      Sighing, you pulled over to the side of the road with what little acceleration you had left on your- now dead- car. You sat there in the driver seat for a second, gathering your scattered thoughts, blinking back your tears of frustration. “I can’t believe this,” You whispered to the quiet air in the car. You hit your steering wheel in anger, immediately regretting it when the sting of the hit hurt your hand in turn. Curse you Newton and your 3rd law.

      Pulling out your phone from your backpack that laid in the passenger seat, you looked up mechanics you could call. Surprisingly, there was a tiny village not too far from here, only 2 miles, that had a mechanic. Bangtan Village. “Huh,” You murmured, “Never heard of it,” 

      You’ve never heard of Bangtan Village before. Then again, you’ve never went traveling around these parts either. You were always confined to the big cities for work, so it wasn’t a mind blowing revelation that there was possibly a village out here.

     Dialing the number listed, the phone rung a few times before the voice of a man answered. “Hello Kim’s Car Repair, how may I help you?” His voice sounded very warm and friendly. The soothing tone called down your panicking heart, and for that you were grateful.

“Hey, um, my car broke down, do you do towing?” You asked, nervously fiddling with your fingers.

“Yes we do! Do you know where you are?”

      You told him what road you were on and approximately how close to town you were and he reassured you that he would get to you soon. So you had no choice but to wait.

      20 minutes later, the rumble of the tow truck caught your attention. A tall man, about 6 foot, stepped out of the truck and gave you a dimpled smile. He had tan skin and gold brunette hair that was dirtied by what looked to be the black residue that comes from working on cars. His brown eyes crinkled endearingly and he was dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans combo. He looked like the type of man who starred in a romance drama.

      “Hello! I assume your the Y/n I spoke to on the phone?” He asked, walking up to stand in front of me. For a man so tall, his height was comforting in a friendly giant way rather than intimidating. “Yeah, that’s me,” You chuckled, scratching the back of your neck. “I’m Namjoon,” He said, shaking my hand. “Nice to meet you, Namjoon,” You smiled, thinking that his hands were calloused from the work he did, but they were also a tough sort of soft.

      “Okay, so the plan is to tow your car back to my shop, see what’s up with it, then get you back on the road,” Namjoon explained, smile never slipping off of his face.

“Sounds good, Namjoon,” You smiled back.

      Namjoon hooked up your car to the truck as you sat in the front passenger's seat, watching him do his work smoothly, like a true professional. Once Namjoon was done, he got back in the truck, “Ready?” He asked. “Ready!” You firmly nodded. “Let’s go then” Namjoon grinned.

      The drive was smooth and somewhat quiet. The two of you talked here and there. About where you were going, your profession, his profession. Just very basic small talk. Before you knew it, you were in the quaint tiny village of Bangtan. Everything was spotless. The streets were free of litter, murals were painted on store walls, people were chatting friendly on the sidewalk. It was an enormous difference from the dirty, tagged, unfriendly streets of the city. It was a pleasant sight to see, a soul-cleansing image.

      Soon, Namjoon had your car in the shop and was inspecting it in no time. Already getting down to the problem while you waited anxiously waited for a verdict. “Well, I have good news and bad news,” Namjoon sighed, wiping off his dirtied hands on a hand towel. “Tell me the bad news first,” You said, grimly expecting the worst. “Okay, so, it’s a problem with your engine that will take at least a week to fix minimum.” He sighed, a sad smile on his face. You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “But the good news is! You’re in Bangtan!” He said, giving you jazz hands.

“What do you mean?” You asked, raising your eyebrows.

“Everyone here is friendly, and I know you don’t exactly have a place to go, but I’m sure someone would be willing to house you” He shrugged.

“Namjoon, I don’t have the money to pay a rent.” You sighed.

“Then you can stay here! Free of charge! Consider it a few add on to me fixing your car,” He smiled.

      You felt a little better at that. You would have a place to stay, and it wouldn’t cost you a thing. Thinking about how much money was in your savings account, you felt like angels were singing at Namjoon’s suggestion. “Really?” You asked, eyes lit up in hope. “Of course. I’m not going to kick you out on the street,” He chuckled, giving you that same adorable dimpled smile. “Thank you so much, Namjoon. I’ll make it up to you!” You grinned, bouncing in excitement. “No need, I’m just glad to help.”

      Namjoon lived on the second floor of his shop. It was a small apartment, an open living room-kitchen plan with amazing natural light. His apartment was full of plants. Flowers, mini trees, elephant leaves. He even had a beautiful bonsai that obviously got a lot of care. “Your place is nice.” You complimented genuinely, smiling at the little things spread around the room. He had a Ryan cushion on his couch, a bookshelf full of classics, and solar powered toys in the window. The ones that bobble back and forth. “Thank you,” Namjoon chuckled, scratching the back of his neck while the two of you took off your shoes. “It’s a bit messy, but it’s home,” He said, leading you through the apartment to his small guest bedroom.

      “Here it is!” Namjoon said, leaning his head against the doorway. “Thank you again, Namjoon. I’ll be sure to be the best temporary roommate ever!” You promised. Namjoon laughed, patting you on the back with his large hand. “Just don’t murder me in my sleep and we’ll be fine,” He said, and you snorted. “Have you seen yourself? You could snap me like a twig,” You chuckled, gesturing to his sculpted arms that he no doubt got from his rigorous line of work. “I’d never,” He smirked, giving you a wink that made your heart flutter and cheeks heat up.

      You nervously chuckled, looking away from him to look around the room a bit, dropping your backpack off on the bed. “I’ll let you get settled, I’ll be in the living room if you need me,” Namjoon said, giving you a little wave goodbye as he closed the door, giving you some privacy. Sighing, you flopped on the soft white bed and let out a groan at how good it felt to lie down after driving for so long. You didn’t realize just how tired you were until you drifted off to sleep, letting the sweet shackles of your subconscious lock you in a state of rest.

      “So you’re telling me, that you had to write an article about animal genitalia? And ducks have corkscrew penises?” Namjoon laughed from under the car he was working on. “Yeah, and let me tell you whatever FBI agent is assigned to watching my internet history has quit by now,” You joked, laughing along with the man who has been your roommate for the past 4 days. “Wow, that sounds... interesting,” Namjoon chuckled, rolling out from under the car and sitting up straight to look at you. “Quite,” You answered back, handing him his hand towel so he could clean off his oily hands. “Hey um, I have a weird question to ask,” Namjoon said, grabbing your attention.

      Quirking your head to the side, you raised your eyebrows, “What’s up? Nothing can be weirder than a duck's dick.” You giggled, earning a smile from the man in front of you. “Would you... like to go out for dinner? There’s this nice restaurant in town that I think you’d like,” You asked nervously, his pitch gradually increasing as he got more anxious. You internally giggled at the fact that he was nervous at asking you to dinner, but smiled at him nonetheless. “That sounds nice. Are we going tonight?” You inquired, leaning on the edge of your seat. “Um, we can... if you’d like too...” He shrugged, fiddling with his grease stained hand towel. “I’d love to,”

      Namjoon’s smiled widened as he stood up to put away his tools. “Great! Um, we can go at 6?” He offered, and you have him a nod. “6 sounds good,” You answered, standing up to go and get ready. “I’ll be waiting.” You smiled, leaving Namjoon swooning as he gave you a look of admiration. “Yeah, yeah I’ll see you soon,” He smiled back, giving you a little wave as you walked out of his shop, running upstairs to pick out the nicest outfit you had from the limited clothes you brought with you that aren’t packed in boxes.

      Soon you picked out a cute skirt and sweater, modeling them in the mirror. Once you were satisfied with the way you looked and didn’t look like you crawled right out of bed, you checked the time. 5:45. You had a bit of time left before you left, so you sat down on the couch for a bit. Once you got out there, you couldn’t help but pick up one of Namjoon’s books that were lying around to help pass the time. 

      The Catcher in the Rye. A classic. Everyone in their senior year of highschool has probably read this book, willingly or not. The sheer amount of angst in this book would seemingly drive reader away, but it does the opposite. “I see you’ve found one of my favorites,” Namjoon chuckled from the doorway, pulling you out of the world in the book. “I have a feeling all the books on those shelves are your favorites” You teased, closing the hard cover and placing the book down on the coffee table. 

      “Maybe, but I’ve been on a Pride and Prejudice kick lately,” He chuckled, looking over to the bookshelves he had in his living room. “Really? For the dramatic love story or the social critiques?” You asked, but Namjoon didn’t answer right away. He just looked deep into your eyes, something that resembled longing swirling in the brown weaves of his irises. “The love story,” He spoke softly, not daring to take his eyes off of you. 

      Namjoon looked at you like you were a star in the sky and he was the moon, longing to hold your light in the palms of his hands and never let go. Like he wanted to take you on his personal nature walks and talk to you about all the different flora he’s identified on the trails. Like he wanted you there, 24/7, while he worked on the cars in his garage. Working was a lot less lonely when you had someone to tell you about the anatomy of animal genitalia for an article they were writing that was totally scientific. But Namjoon knew that tomorrow he would have to deliver the news that your car was in working order again. 

And then you would leave him...

      “Let’s go,” Namjoon whispered, giving you his classic dimpled smile that made your heart swoon every time he flashed one at you. Nodding, you got up from the couch and followed him out the door, taking a walk through the village, waving to a few people that you’ve briefly met, and arriving at the small bistro that was situated on a street corner. 

      The inside of the restaurant smell heavenly and made your already empty stomach growl in anticipation. “Hungry?” Namjoon teased with a smile. “Extremely,” You dramatically sighed back, chucking along with him. “Well then, let’s eat, shall we?” 

      “Alright, I know you said you get your money’s worth here, Namjoon. But this sandwich is huge,” You stressed, looking at the thick one foot sub that laid ominously on the ceramic plate in front of you. “You can always save it for later,” He suggested, taking a bite into his own, 6-inch, sandwich. He groaned in delight at the taste. “I love food,” He sighed. “Well, you kinda need it to live, Joon,” You chuckled, taking a bite of your own sandwich.

      Namjoon paused mid bite, looking up at you with wide eyes as you eyed the sandwich currently in your hands, trying to figure out how they made sandwiches that tasted like Gods ambrosia. “J-Joon?” He asked, and you looked up to meet his stunned expression. “Oh, sorry, was that not okay? I won’t say it again,” “N-No! I just, I liked it is all,” Namjoon interrupted, stumbling over his words while he examined the sandwich in his hands like you had been doing moments before. 

     You chuckled, “Well Joon, I saw that you ate my mozzarella sticks,” You playfully scolded, giving him an unimpressed face. “What? You left them in the fridge for too long,” He argued back with a smile while you took another bite of your sandwich. “Mmhmm,” You hummed, chuckling to yourself. “I um, have some good news,” Namjoon spoke up after a beat of silence. 

      You raised your eyebrows, signaling him to continue what he was saying. “Your car should be ready to go tomorrow,” He mumbled, and you stopped chewing. Swallowing-more like gulping-you let out a deep breath that you were unconsciously holding. “O-oh? Is that so?” You said, feeling a tad bit disappointed now that you didn’t have an excuse to stay. 

     Namjoon nodded, fiddling with his sandwich. “Yeah, um, I got it fixed up. All good now,” He coughed, feeling unhappy about the thought of you leaving. “That’s good... Thank you Namjoon,” You said back, truly meaning the words, but not having the excitement to put behind them. 

      The two of you continued to eat and chat with this air of uneasiness around you. Neither one of you talking about the possibility of you leaving tomorrow, continuing your journey and forgetting about the adventures you had here. You weren’t quite sure what you wanted to do. On one hand, you had gotten so used to Namjoon and his presence that being without him would be a hard pill to swallow. But on the other hand, you knew that moving to the city where you could get a job was the safer, and more financially wise, option for you. You were stuck between your happiness and your routine normality that you have gotten used to having. 

      You looked at your now fully packed backpack in contempt. The feeling of dread that you got about leaving Bangtan village only increased as the day went on and you prepared for the journey to the next city over. You didn’t want to go, but could you truly stay? What would you do? What would be your source of income? You didn’t know, and not knowing this made you feel anxious. 

      “Are you ready to go?” Namjoon asked you from the doorway. You looked up at him into his golden amber eyes, not saying anything just yet. You thought about the time you shared with Namjoon. The movie nights, dinners, the time in his shop. All seemingly small and domestic things you never thought about in the moment, but now that you're here getting ready to say goodbye to it all, you weren’t ready to. 

      But you didn’t have a choice. Namjoon wasn’t going to let you live with him forever and you didn’t know if anybody in the town needed a writer for anything, so you had to toughen up and say goodbye with tears stinging in your eyes. “Y-yeah, I guess so,” You mumbled. Namjoon nodded, walking you down to the street where your car was running and waiting. 

      You stood there next to Namjoon for a couple moments. Basking in the comfort of his presence as you took a deep breath and let it out with a weak sigh. “I guess this is goodbye,” You whispered, kicking stones that laid on the sidewalk. “I guess it is,” Namjoon replied, pretending to care about the dirt that forever laid in his nail beds.

      Gathering up all the scattered courage you had, you took a couple steps to your car. You were about ready to opening the driver’s side door when Namjoon called out to you. “Y/n! Wait!” He yelled, as he ran down to your side, putting his hand over yours to stop you from opening the door. “I- Y-yes?” You asked, looking at his fiery, determined eyes. “Stay with me,” He begged quietly.

“What?” You gasped. 

“Stay with me Y/n, here, in the village,” 

“Namjoon, you know I can’t-”

      “Why not? If you’re worried about finding a place to stay, we could live together. I’ll get better at cooking, I promise,” Namjoon wavered, taking your hand fully in his. “Please Y/n, I know we may not know each other that well and you had a plan to move into the city and restart your life but... Can you restart it here? With me?” He begged, confident demeanor slowly slipping away. You were stunned into silence, unable to look away from the man beside you as he gave your hand a squeeze.

      “We can continue to have those movie-nights together. The ones where we watch bad horror films that you still get scared at and hide into my arms to get away from the jumpscares,” He said as the two of you chuckled in harmony. “You can teach me how to cook those amazing dishes of yours... We could even get a puppy in the future...” He whispered to you, gradually getting closer. “Please Y/n. Give me a chance to be your second chance. I promise to take care of you,”

“What about a job?” You asked,

      “There’s this newspaper that the town has, or my friend Jimin knows a publisher that you can reach out to. Maybe you can follow your old dream of becoming an author,” He encouraged as he spoke softly to you. “I know this is sudden, and we don’t know each other all that well, but we can get to know each other,” He finished, eagerly awaiting your answer. 

You didn’t have to think twice before nodding your head, wrapping Namjoon in a hug. “You can be my second chance,” 

[maatryoshkaa]

young god | chapter 9

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 |

word count: 5.6k

warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, frequent mentions of mental disorders, suicide, child abuse and trafficking, foul language

description: You confront Minho about his connections to the Miroh Heights Murders -- and something about you makes the quiet, cunning coroner finally agree to share his part of the story. As you remove the layers of his mask piece by piece, you’re finally given the first bitter taste of the darkness behind Han Jisung’s past. 

watch the trailer here!

09| CORONER’S CASE

Medical examiner Lee Minho leaned back in his chair, blinking slowly at the single cassette tape sitting on his desk. 

The moment he’d arrived at the scene of the crime, his eyes had caught the glint of black plastic a few feet away from the corpse, and he’d swiftly shoved it to the bottom of the evidence pile before the rest of his team had gotten close enough to see -- along with the bloodstained rock he’d found at the foot of the body. Sneaking it back out was easy enough: the rest of his team -- save for the driver -- had stayed behind to write statements for the officers. The van ride back to the hospital had been more than enough time for Minho to leisurely slip the plastic bags into his coat pocket before walking briskly up to his office.

The rock he’d rinsed with hydrogen peroxide and thrown into the pond, but the tape -- that was what had caught his attention. 

There was sure to be fingerprints, DNA evidence, maybe even incriminating voice recordings -- Minho’s gut twisted thinking of what would have happened had it fallen into the police’s hands.

There was only one problem.

It was blank.

The moment he had inserted it into the tape player, nothing but white noise sputtered out. The only fingerprints he’d found had been Yang Jeongin’s, and the cotton fibres stuck to its surface indicated it had been in the delivery boy’s hoodie pocket -- before it had fallen out, anyways, when the boy had received the blow to his head, and the impact had sent the stray tape skittering. 

Minho had seen the infamous delivery boy in passing -- glimpses through his car window, Minho turning out of the hospital and Yang Jeongin waiting to cross the street on his rusty bike. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember a time when Jeongin didn’t have his earbuds in, listening and recording his tapes on-the-go.

If this tape was blank, Minho thought, then Jeongin had to have had the rest of them in his pocket.

And one of those tapes could have been recording that night.

Kicking his chair back and throwing on his lab coat, Minho flung open the door to his office, making his way to the elevators. Intensive Care Unit: Second Floor. He nearly flinched at the bright artificial light when the elevator doors opened again, shaking his head lightly before stepping out. Most of the staff were on their break, a single nurse filing paperwork inside the office. With a quick sideways glance, Minho headed for the cot in the corner, ducking under the privacy curtain. 

Sure enough, on the bed lay the delivery boy -- eyes still as a statue’s, his blond wisps of hair fanned out on the pillow like a dull halo. Someone had tucked the covers up to his chest. Another, taller boy seemed to have been keeping him company. He had fallen asleep, upper body sprawled across the foot of the mattress, back rising and falling gently. Hwang Hyunjin, Minho remembered vaguely, from flashes of the dark-haired boy’s terror-stricken face at the crime scene. He looked even worse now, dark circles ringing his closed eyes, and a pasty cheek pressed against the white linens.

Minho’s gaze flickered back to Jeongin, fingers beginning to tremble involuntarily. It was a simple task: check the boy’s pockets, dispose of any evidence found. If anybody asked, he had an ID and could pose as a doctor easily enough -- most people couldn’t tell the difference. Still, his body refused to move -- his feet suddenly felt rooted in place, hands stiff and frozen.

Keeping a wary eye on the sleeping Hwang Hyunjin, Minho sucked in a breath before gingerly prying the covers back. With a furtive glance behind him, he slowly slipped his hands into the baggy hoodie pocket, freezing when Hyunjin gave a drowsy groan and turned his head away. Heart pounding, Minho looked back down at Jeongin -- and his brow furrowed in confusion when his fingers felt nothing but gritty cotton and empty space. His empty grasps grew frantic. Impossible. The tapes. Where could they have gone? Were they still at the scene of the crime? Or, Minho felt a chill run down his spine, had someone already--

“What are you doing?”

Minho’s eyes snapped up, a cold sweat forming at the back of his neck when he turned and saw you standing at the curtain, eyes blazing with horrified confusion. “Y/N,” he managed, straightening and brushing his hands off on his lab coat. “What brings you here?”

His voice was as smooth and cool as you remembered it, eyes blinking slowly at you as you stepped between the coroner and Jeongin. “I should be asking you that,” you shot back, fighting to keep your voice steady. Something about Minho had always thrown you off -- his features were always chillingly emotionless, flat as a mask. The flash of surprise on his face when he’d seen you was already smoothing over, a small smile spreading on his lips instead.

“It seems like you have a lot to say,” Minho began carefully. “Would you like to talk in my office? I would hate to...disturb your friends.” With that, he let his eyes fall purposefully on the sleeping Hyunjin behind you.

You eyed him warily, the tense silence growing suffocating before you finally gave a terse nod. With a polite incline of his head, Minho lead you out of the ICU and into an open elevator. 

When the mirrored doors slid open again with a hiss, you followed him silently down a hallway and into a wider room. Tall windows spanned the walls, letting in washes of golden sunlight. A sliding door led to one of the hospital’s rooftop balconies. A single desk and chair sat in the corner -- all the shelves either held plants or dusty certificates, empty picture frames hanging from the walls. Nothing personal -- no family, no pets, no friends. It reminded you of Jisung’s room, you realised with a start, fists clenching.

Minho’s strides were brisk and long, and you nearly bumped into him when he came to a sudden halt and turned around to face you. “Would you like a coffee?” His fingers were already on the machine. When you blinked back at him, bewildered, he shrugged and filled two cups, handing you one.

“What…” It was like your tongue had turned to dust, all the thoughts and words you had burning in your head melted into an incoherent mess before his piercing gaze. “Tell me what’s going on.”

At this, the coroner smiled again, leaning back on his desk. “Nothing’s going on. What do you mean?”

You took a sip of the coffee -- the bitter taste made you wince, but at least your head felt clearer. “You’re the chief coroner -- chief medical examiner, whatever -- of the Miroh Heights Murders case.”

“Correct.”

“These crime scenes are known for being strange, violent -- some injuries couldn’t have been inflicted without murder weapons.”

Minho was studying you curiously, eyes unreadable as ever. “What are you trying to say?”

You swallowed hard, steadying yourself. “How is it, then, that a chief medical examiner can’t deduce a single piece of evidence from the most brutal murders Miroh Heights has ever seen?”

A weighted silence fell on the room, the dripping sound of the coffee machine matching your erratic heartbeat. After several long moments, Minho cleared his throat. “Did Detective Bang send you? I know he’s been stressed about the lack of evidence, but we’re still processi--”

“No one sent me,” you interrupted indignantly, struggling to keep your voice level. “You had your hand in Jeongin’s hoodie pocket just now, but you’re not -- you’re not a doctor. You were looking for someth--” your eyes fell on the blank tape on Minho’s desk, and your voice all but died in your throat. “Is--is that--is that one of Jeongin’s tapes?”

“Y/N,” Minho interjected, holding out a hand when you tried to reach for it -- but the exasperation in his tone only made you more agitated.

“No,” you shot back, “Minho, I heard -- I heard everything. What happened that night, I heard it in his tapes, Minho. It’s not some serial killer doing this, some psychopath. It was Jisung. Han Jisung.” Your eyes searched his face wildly, for what, you weren’t sure -- surprise? Anger? Fear? And yet all you found was the same still, pale face staring back at you; the same, horribly uneasy feeling stirring in your gut.  

Mouth dry, you finally managed to choke out, “Did you--know?”

The coroner’s silence confirmed your worst suspicions, and threw what little self-control and rational thought you had left out the window. “You’ve been helping him this entire time, then,” you said, the words bitter as poison in your mouth.

As you stared him down, Minho felt himself freeze -- your eyes were steady and demanding, and yet your cheeks were flushed with anguish and emotion. The stark contrast stunned the thoughts from his head, the lies from his tongue -- no one had ever dared challenge him like this before, no one had ever suspected the quiet, standoffish coroner. They were always put off by his cold demeanour, the mask he always put on to distance himself from the rest of the world. Only one other person had ever tried to break past this facade; only one other person could see past it.

Something about you reminded him of Han Jisung.

And that something was what made him slowly nod, despite a thousand raging rational thoughts in his mind telling him to lie like he always did, to cover it all up, to drive you out of his office no matter what the cost. 

The slight incline of Minho’s head felt like you had been punched in the gut. Clenching your fists again to keep them from trembling uncontrollably, you demanded, “Why are you helping him? No, why is he -- how did this begin?”

Minho turned his head away, chestnut eyes stormy. Just when you thought he had finally fallen silent for good, he let out a heavy sigh. 

“Do you want to go to the roof?” 

He jutted his chin towards a pair glass sliding doors. Confused, you nodded slowly, and followed him out onto the balcony. 

His office -- along with most other ones -- were at the top floor of the hospital, with a door leading out onto a rooftop garden. Minho stopped at the edge of the railing, flat eyes looking over the city. It really was a breathtaking view -- the Hospital was the tallest building on campus, and from its roof you could see the entire sprawl of the city until it reached the gates. There was the thick stretch of the Yellow Wood, the bustling streets that joined at the older part of town where Mia’s Diner and Young Wings Record Shop stood their ground. And, with a pang, your eyes found the winding alleyways you’d taken when Jisung had walked you home; you spotted the dark cluster of dormitories where -- just this morning -- you had found the first piece of a dark, ugly puzzle.

“You know everything, then?” Minho’s quiet voice shook you out of your thoughts, and you looked at him, surprised at the sudden lack of fight in his voice. Only moments ago, back in his office, he had seemed so prepared to deflect your questions and suspicions you had begun regretting coming to him in the first place. Now, though, his eyes were glassy, not looking at you -- it was like he was far, far away.

You were beginning to know that look very well.

Shaking your head, you stammered, “No. I mean -- I know it h-has to be him, I heard...there were so many signs, little things he told me, but I -- I just didn’t want to believe --” You took a shaky breath, squeezing your eyes shut. Stop rambling. Stay calm.

“Why come to me, then?” A dark look had sunk into Minho’s features when you turned to look at him. “If you already knew about what he was doing -- what I’m doing.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Aren’t you afraid, y/n?”

You stepped back instinctively, suddenly very aware of the cold metal railing pressing against your waist -- and of the empty rooftop, of the thirty stories that separated you from the busy streets below. 

Mouth dry, your eyes flickered apprehensively to the coffee in your hands, then back to Minho, who was watching you with an unfathomable gaze.

After a moment of suffocating silence, the coroner finally broke into a flat smile. “Relax.” He turned back towards the railing, tilting the coffee cup to his lips -- as nonchalantly as if you were simply making smalltalk. “I may clean up after murders, but I don’t enjoy causing them.”

You watched him warily, heart still thudding against your rib cage. “Then -- Jisung -- does he enjoy causing them?”

The coroner sighed again, shaking the coffee cup absently. “What has he told you?”

You racked your memory, straining to remember all the therapy sessions, your little dates that seemed like they were from eternities ago. “I--I know something happened to him -- when he was younger. During his childhood, something that left a mark on him after all these years. He said his family is -- they’re...gone.”

At this, Minho let out a short laugh devoid of any humour. “Gone? What do you think happened to his family?”

You threw up your hands in exasperation, a splash of hot coffee tipping onto your fingers. “I don’t know, Lee Minho, would you care to tell me?”

The coroner was silent for several moments, face strained as if all his thoughts were clashing violently in his head. “That part of his story isn’t mine to tell.” When you opened your mouth to protest, he continued, “What I can tell you begins from the moment my life grew tangled with his.” For the first time, Minho’s gaze was fixed on your own. “Only if you’re sure…that you want to know.”

Above you, the sky had darkened to a deep orange, clouds bleeding into a saturated sunset and casting looming shadows over the entire city. 

The golden hour washed everything it touched, and when you looked back at Minho, you suddenly realised why his presence had always seemed so...strange. Outlined in light for a fleeting moment, liquid golden eyes filled to the brim with heavy thoughts and repressed memories, Minho looked as if he were were fading away; as if his mind was forever trapped in another place, another time.

Although the darkness in Minho’s eyes was only a fraction of what Jisung’s held, you still found yourself helplessly rooted in place, as if you were peering into a bottomless abyss -- always too terrified to move closer, and yet too hypnotised to look away. But a small part of you supposed that maybe this was what had ultimately brought you to this very moment, what had lured you to the edge of the cliff -- and now, the only thing left to do was to take the final plunge.

You nodded as steadily as you could muster, and Minho turned back towards the edge of the railing. Bringing the coffee to his lips, his eyes glazed over with the fog of distant memories, and he began.

────────

The autumn Minho turned nine years old was a memorable one.

Many children his age would remember it as a time when the air was always crisp and smelled of candy apples, and the sun-bronzed streets were filled with the laughter of children diving through fiery fallen leaves.

Minho remembered it as the autumn his mother’s heart finally failed from the disease it had been fighting, the flatlining monitor ringing through his ears like the persistent drone of a cicada. He remembered it as the autumn he found his father dead on the bathroom floor, empty pill bottles clasped in his bloodless hands. Years of his mother’s treatment had buried them in debt until his father had finally lost his job, and, left alone in the world without his wife or his work, with nothing but a wide-eyed nine-year-old to feed, his father had chosen death.

It was around that time that Minho stopped seeing the world in colour.

Everything passed by him in blurs of grey: the social workers’ gaunt faces, shuffling him between foster homes, the endless paperwork filed for his parents’ sudden deaths.

 And then there was the orphanage -- or ‘children’s home’, as they called it: a tall, stone building with grey walls, white lights, surrounded by black trees. The students’ faces were grey and miserable. The nurses’ eyes were flat and colourless. 

Until Han Jisung. 

When the scrawny boy stumbled into the dormitories for the first time, he brought with him a wide-eyed wonder and life the other children hadn’t seen for years. He carried an old, beat-up camcorder wherever he went, the psychologist having given specific instructions never to confiscate it. This was hardly a problem, since the boy seldom used it. Despite this odd idiosyncrasy, the other children were attracted to Jisung like moths to a flame -- the young boy spoke thoughtfully and made clever jokes; he was a walking contradiction that was equal parts charming and clumsy. At times, he was a natural-born leader, able to command the attention of an entire classroom if he wanted. Perhaps this charisma was what had inevitably drawn Minho to the younger boy -- Minho, who had both parental figures ripped cruelly from his grasp; Minho, who had been blindly searching for a sense of family ever since, and had finally found it in this strange, charming boy.

But they say there are always two sides of the coin: a dark side to the moon, and the whispered rumours that followed Han Jisung wherever he and Minho went. 

Demon child. Pyromaniac. Father-killer.

Jisung’s face always twisted when Minho asked him about the rumours, or what his camcorder held -- and eventually, he stopped pressing altogether. After all, he had already lost his entire family -- he was willing to do anything to make sure Jisung wouldn’t abandon him, too. Perhaps this was how they became such inseparable friends -- and when Jisung began stealing matchsticks and coins from peoples’ pockets, Minho looked away. On nights when Jisung would ramble on and on about strange things -- life, and death; pain, and murder -- Minho stayed silent. And as Jisung’s dark, unfathomable looks slowly morphed into inexplicable, violent episodes, Minho did everything he could to cover his tracks.

Nothing, however, truly escalated until the year Jisung turned twelve, Minho thirteen. It was a dark time for Miroh Heights, a year filled with child trafficking cases and skyrocketing rates of depression. 

It happened one winter’s day, when Minho and Jisung had wandered too far into the town to find their way back. The sun had gone down, the city gates were closed, and the streets were barren and covered in sleet. 

Shivering, the two boys stumbled down winding alleyways, their empty stomachs growling louder and louder with each step. Even the families living in the slums had boarded up their doors in preparation for the winter, not a single living soul in sight.

Nothing, until--

“Are you hungry?” They jumped and looked up at the owner of the voice -- a gangly middle-aged man hunched behind the gates of an old house. He had on a wrinkled dress shirt and stained trousers, coal-black eyes ringed with red.

Minho nodded miserably as Jisung continued shivering uncontrollably, hands shoved into his pocket and gripping his camcorder.

The man’s mouth stretched into a wide, yellow-toothed smile. “Need to warm up and have a bite to eat, eh? Say--come on in, then, it’s warmer inside--wouldn’t hurt to sit down for a bit--”

Their feet and stomachs ached too much to protest. With a large hand on each boy’s shoulders, the man ushered them inside the rickety house -- all the while with an odd glint in his eyes that Minho was too tired to process. They had entered what seemed to be a basement, but a couple floorboards had been torn out, not a flicker of light coming from the broken lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. A rusted crowbar leaned on one cracked wall, the air as stale and cold as an icy breath.

“This way, then, c’mon,” the man growled gruffly, gesturing towards a darker corridor. Confused and growing more and more uncertain, Minho and Jisung’s steps ceased, the two children peering at the dirty shadows dubiously. 

Stomach twisting uneasily, Minho turned around to tell the man that they had changed their minds, that they should probably get going -- but all he saw was a flash of grey before something smashed straight into his face. 

Minho immediately crumpled to the ground, hot blood gushing into his mouth. He twisted his head and saw that the man had seized the crowbar when their backs were turned, hands shaking so hard bits of rust fell from the metal onto the stained ground. Through the haze of his own blood, the last thing he saw was the man swinging the bar at Jisung, the boy’s spine folding from the impact before sliding to the floor next to Minho. 

When Minho came to, his arms and legs were crudely bound with duct tape, cable ties biting into the skin of his wrists and ankles. His skull felt like it was on fire, joints pulsing violently with every heartbeat. He heard soft, laboured breathing, and turned with a start to see Jisung in a much worse predicament -- although the younger boy had been tied up like Minho, his entire face had been badly beaten: both eyes puffy and bruised, cheeks scratched up, and nose clotted with blood. 

Only years later did Minho learn that the man hadn’t beaten Jisung bloody for no reason -- it was because the scrawny boy had enjoyed putting up a fight.

They sat in a cramped storage room, rusted scraps of metal and slabs of crumbled brick digging into their legs beneath them. Before Minho could open his mouth to speak, the door creaked open. A crack of dirty yellow light illuminated the mousy-haired man standing in the doorway -- and when Minho’s gaze travelled downwards, he realised with a sick feeling that the man was holding a black shotgun.

“I’ll make this as quick ‘n’ painless as possible,” the man croaked, inching closer as Minho shrank back. His next words sounded almost as if he were mumbling them to himself. “This’ll be my revenge -- my revenge on ‘em all.”

Afterwards, they had learned that the man was one of many blue-collar workers who had been laid off that year. He’d had a history of mental instability, and losing his job -- along with his wife, who had deserted him upon finding out -- had solidified his crazed hatred towards the entire town. Minho had heard stories like these on the news -- people who would kidnap and kill their families or innocent strangers before committing suicide.

Minho felt Jisung suddenly shift beside him and a loud clang rang through the cramped space. Turning his head, Minho saw that he had been struggling against the restraints, and Jisung’s damned silver camcorder had slid out of his pocket. Immediately he looked back up at the man, a cold sweat forming at the back of his neck when he saw the man’s red eyes land on the device and pointer finger tighten on the gun.

Instead of pressing the trigger, though, the man grinned and scooped it up. He threw a sharp slap across Jisung’s face, who had shot up in protest and was trying to reach for his camcorder with both hands tied behind his back. Eyes glinting in a way that made Minho’s stomach flip, the man punched the faded ON button before pointing the camcorder at the boys.

“Ah, now this is jus’ perfect. The cops’ll love this, yes, they will.” He raised his eyebrows, tongue swiping over cracked lips. “Now, boy -- I want you to beg for your life -- go on.”

Jisung only stared back at the man, as if he hadn’t heard him at all. Confused, Minho’s eyes wandered down to Jisung’s hands behind his back -- and watched in muted horror when he saw that the boy had quietly picked up a piece of scrap metal and was pressing it against the cords around his wrists.

Minho’s heart skipped a beat as the man raised his gun, holding it up in front of Jisung’s face as if it were as harmless as a toy. “It’ll break ‘em when they see this. Two of their precious kids, killed for -- for no reason. Jus’ like how she -- how they left me to die -- for no. Fuckin’. Reason.”

Minho watched, eyes transfixed as Jisung’s fingers worked furiously behind his back, a small tear beginning to form in the bonds. Still, the younger boy said nothing, only watching the gun curiously, as if it were a small problem he was contemplating.

The man scowled, dropping into a squat before pressing the gun to Jisung’s forehead. “Beg for your life, you little brat. Beg, I sai--”

Everything happened in a flash. There was a small click, and Minho wasn’t sure if it was the trigger pulling or the cords finally snapping, but he saw Jisung’s hands break free and his entire body lunge forward, metal scrap flashing in his grasp. The man gave a yell of surprise and fumbled with the trigger -- and dropped the gun when Jisung drilled the metal straight into his throat. 

The pistol clattered and slid a few feet away from Jisung, but the boy made no move to grab it. Instead, his hands wrapped around a slab of cracked brick, and as the man raised his hands in a feeble attempt for mercy, throat gurgling in an unheard cry for help, Jisung slammed it downwards in one savage motion.

Again. And again. And again and again and again, until nothing but a bloody mass lay before the young boy, Minho frozen stiff with shock. Jisung’s back was turned, but a few times Minho caught a glimpse of his expression when he shook the blood off of his face. His eyes were impossibly wide, dark pools -- as if he weren’t even seeing the man at all, as if there was something else, much, much more horrible he was fighting against in his mind.

It was gruesome, and yet Minho couldn’t look away -- the boy looked like a fallen angel, wings torn out as he fed on a man three times his size. The camcorder had clattered a few feet away and was now crudely pointed towards the hellish scene, red recording light beeping like the eye of a demon.

Finally, the awful noise ceased, Jisung growing still. After a long moment, he turned around, and Minho flinched. His face and hair were dripping with flecks of blood, pupils slowly dilating and focusing like a broken camera. Lurching a bit, Jisung got to his feet, staggering over to him. Minho scrambled backwards, horrified as Jisung reached again for the scrap metal -- and felt the younger boy sever the ties around his wrists. Looking up, heart still hammering wildly in his throat, Minho felt his mouth go dry at the expression on Jisung’s face.

Eyes warm, features still, brow furrowed -- just like any young child’s would be. His voice came out small and vulnerable, and somehow, this chilled the older boy to the bone. 

“Minho? Can we go home, please?”

When the police arrived, the boys were swept up in shock blankets and hot tea, not a soul suspecting foul play. The man had always been known to be unstable, and his house was falling apart. The poor young boys, the tragic victims, had, luckily, fought back in self-defense, and one loose, falling brick had done the final blow. 

No one even noticed Jisung quietly slipping the bloody camcorder back into his pocket.

This was the version of the story revealed to the public, and the version Minho had wanted to believe -- but it was no use. Flashes of the incident -- the bloody, rusted crowbar, the man’s deranged smile, Jisung’s blood-covered, wide-eyed face -- haunted him, the smallest things sending him into a full-blown relapse. The school psychiatrist had diagnosed him with PTSD, but had done little else to treat it. It took years for Minho to stop waking up screaming from the nightmares -- they had seeped into his everyday life, lurking in dark corners, dirty alleyways, scrap metal and rusty crowbars.

But if that incident had been traumatic to Minho, it was the matchstick to the fuse for Jisung. He walked around like a nuclear bomb, ready to blow at any moment.

When Minho met Han Jisung, he was introduced to one more colour: red. 

The first ones seemed almost like accidents, really. A bloated body floating beneath the bridge. Another, bled-out and propped up in the back alley of a brothel. A fire in a home. Always people with dirty histories -- drug addicts, abusive partners, mistresses. People who wouldn’t be missed. 

Minho had wanted to believe they were accidents. Until Jisung began coming to him, eyes lost and blank, cheeks and hands stained with so, so much red. “I killed him, Minho -- I killed another one. And I--I felt good.”

And that was when Minho’s life took another turn he could never take back.

Watching Han Jisung kill was as hypnotizing as watching a wildfire blaze across a city -- and in that way, Minho supposed he was a bit of a pyromaniac, too. He spat out alibis when Jisung went missing on school nights, washed the blood from his hands, burned the stains from his clothes. And, when he was old enough, he began studying in forensic sciences.

It was sick and twisted, but Minho convinced himself it was for the boy’s own good -- his own release. Each time Jisung came back covered in blood, a small, desperate part of Minho hoped it would be the last -- that eventually, the boy would finally find his closure and stop. Until then, Minho would stay by his side -- whether it was out of obligation, fear, or something that ran much deeper, the coroner had stopped thinking about it years ago.

────────

You felt as if someone had yanked your head out of ice-cold water when Minho finally finished and fell silent oncemore. A rattling breath you hadn’t realised you were holding left your lungs, heartbeat thudding wildly in your throat as your pounding head tried to process all that he had said. “That...that incident, when you were kidnapped. I-is that what...made him like this? Is that why h-he--”

“No.” Minho shook his head. “The real reason -- goes much further back, before I first met him.” He sighed. “I told you. That one...isn’t my story to tell.”

You tried to open your mouth in protest, but nothing came out and you closed it again in defeat. Minho was right. At some point, you needed to find Jisung again. Finally, you stammered shakily, “I-I...I have to stop this. Stop him, help him, there has to be a way--”

“There is little you can do with people who don’t want to be helped, Y/N.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, and you sputtered, “Have you read the papers? They’re talking about a death penalty. We can’t -- I can’t just do nothing, they’ll find him, the last victim is still alive--”

“And what are you going to do? Kill him?” Minho smiled faintly, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. “Trust me, Y/N, I was in your position, once, too. You’re just like how I was.”

Your cheeks burned in indignation, mind spinning at how careless his voice seemed -- entirely rid of any worry or concern. Minho only sounded tired, as if he had given up. And maybe he had, years ago. You turned your body to face him, eyes narrowing. “No. That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not like you at all, Lee Minho.”

You saw him raise his eyebrows slightly in surprise, but you didn’t let him answer, turning instead and striding towards the door. Forcing yourself not to look back, you stormed through and slammed it shut with a heavy bang.

Minho stared after you, watching you swipe the blank tape off of his desk and disappear from his office. An odd, unfamiliar feeling was stirring in his chest, and it made him slightly dizzy. 

Was it hope?

It had been so long since he’d felt like there was hope.

He thought of your face, cheeks flushed with emotion, eyes blazing as you spoke defiantly back at him. In some ways, you really were like him -- you were such an open book. He’d known from the moment he glimpsed the expression on your face when you had come to him how much you genuinely cared about Jisung. You wore your heart on your sleeve, and that was why you were so kind, so vulnerable -- so easily hurt. Just like he had been, thirteen years ago.

But you were right -- in other ways, you weren’t like him at all.

You were stronger, braver than he had ever been, refusing to leave even after his endless subtle threats. You had risked your life, demanding to meet someone who could have -- no, would have, hurt you. The moment you had stood your ground against the railing, as if daring him to make a move, Minho had been at a loss for words. 

He could see why Han Jisung had fallen for you.

He raised his coffee cup to his lips but it was empty, the last bitter drop splashing onto the railing. His cloudy eyes were cast over the city -- Miroh Heights, the city he had loved and lost, the city that had always seemed too cold in the evenings. The sun had gone down and windows of neighbouring buildings and shops were lighting up one by one like fireflies.

There was something different about you.

And, knowing this, he felt something infinitely heavy lift ever so slightly off of his shoulders.

Maybe Han Jisung could be saved, after all.

[dontshootmespence]

Aastha

Part 3 of 4

Summary: After an unimaginable loss, you discover your powers and become even more cemented in your faith. Sam experiences a similar loss and struggles with it. When you meet, how will your lives change?

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Indian!Superhero!Reader

Words: 1,922

A/N: This is for @bucky-smiles 2K Bollywood Writing Challenge! My prompt was Jab Tak Hai Jaan. The thing that stood out most to me was both of the protagonists’ struggles and/or commitments to faith, so that’s what I drew on for this fic. Although I know that Sam is an orphan in the comics, having lost both his parents to violence, I had him be raised by his mother, so she’s still alive here.

Beta’d by: The lovely @bucky-smiles herself. I wanted to make sure I did the culture and religion justice, so thank you! Also beta’d by another Indian lovely @emilyshurley​, who also made the above aesthetic for me. Thank you both for working with me. It meant a lot for me to get the culture and religion right because representation fucking matters, so your help was invaluable to me. <3

A relationship, or gasp!, love had never really been in the plans, until that morning at the Washington monument, bonding with a man named Sam Wilson about the infuriating whirlwind that was the 30-minute, 13-mile Steve Rogers. “He’s insufferable, right?” You asked, breaths heavy yet steady at your pace.

“Unbearable,” he laughed, letting go of the competition with Steve to hang back with you. “You’re Agni, right? New Avenger?”

“Been with them for about two years now, so not new. But newer. And the name’s Y/N. And despite the “A” it’s pronounced ‘ugh-nee. It’s the Sanskrit word for fire.” He smiled; impressed.

You’d never felt the need to hide your story – how you became who you were - but what Sam said next took you aback. “Sorry about your mom.”

“Thanks,” you replied, smiling fondly at the memory of her perfectly imperfect smile and shining brown eyes. “I can’t say for sure why I made it out and she didn’t. All I know is what I believe. I plan to do right by her memory.”

“That’s really admirable,” he said genuinely. “I lost someone too, and I think it broke my faith. I admire anyone who can keep it.”

“I have to,” you replied. “My faith grounds me.”

----

It was your distinct differences in regards to loss and faith that drew you closer. Sam was consistently inspired by your ability to hold onto something so intangible as faith when you’d lost so much. After every mission, you all needed to decompress, and you decompressed in your own unique ways, but time and time again, the two of you spent your time together, watching bad movies, eating popcorn, playing pool – or more accurately kicking Sam’s ass at pool – but hey.

Though he’d lost his faith in God, you’d encouraged him not to lose faith all together, instead channeling that belief into something tangible. “What do you mean?”

“Well, faith is a shaky thing for some people. Because you can’t see it. What can you see? What can you see that you believe in?”

“This team. People. I believe in people.”

“Then that’s where your faith lies. You still have it; it’s just changed course.”

“How are you so wise?” He asked with a laugh.

“Just gifted, I suppose.” Leaning over, you kissed the underside of his chin. Somehow, through all this, you’d just found each other. There’d never been any official discussion of what you were to each other – you just knew. He was your best friend and confidant; the man you loved. Another blessing you were sure. There was no animosity between you and anyone else on the team; you got along with everyone, but you found solace in Sam, and he in you.

No one questioned it either. Not even Tony. Though he poked fun every now and then, which you would of course return, because he had Pepper. After a week without any action, you were almost starting to feel left out, until you, Sam, Nat and Steve were called on a mission.

At the rendezvous point, Fury briefed you on your mission. “Pieter Sidorov,” he said, looking straight toward Natasha. “You know him, right?”

“The Russian scientist and mass murderer? Yea, I’m familiar with his work. Rescue mission?”

“Extraction. We still don’t like the guy. He’s still a grade-A asshole. But after the fall of Hydra here, everyone left that’s loyal has gone into hiding. And Sidorov is aiding what’s left of Hydra within KGB airspace. I need the four of you to get him and bring him back. We need him alive.”

The four of you nodded simultaneously, your mission clear. With the help of a few still-trusted SHIELD pilots, you made your way into former KGB airspace. “Okay, what’s the game plan?” Sam asked, already outfitted in the new and improved EXO suit; Tony had made a few adjustments in the likely case one or both of the wings were damaged, so hopefully he would never be down for the count again. “Who the hell is this guy?”

“Pieter Sidorov is a fucking genius. When you have that kind of intelligence, you go one of two ways, good guy or the worst guy. Guess which Sidorov is?” Nat started. “Anyway, he has no superpowers himself. It’s his suit. He developed a suit that allows him to suck the powers, and essentially life, from other super-powered people.”

“What can he do?” You asked. “He’s just any regular guy without the suit, but with? What do we have to look forward to?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, rattling off the list of abilities the suit imbued him with – telekinesis and telepathy. “With, obviously, the added bonus of sucking whatever powers you and Steve have,” she said, tilting her chin toward you. “So if he’s got the suit, don’t get caught.”

“Thanks, Nat,” you laughed. “We go in teams of two, yea?”

Tony and Steve were your de facto leaders, so you all looked to Steve for your assignments. “Yea. Nat and I will infiltrate the right side, you and Sam go left. Nat will hack us into the system and shoot the map of the inside of the helicarrier to your watches. You might think we need the suit too, but we don’t. It’s programmed to work with his DNA. Without him the suit is useless. We take everyone out in our way and grab Sidorov, unharmed, and bring him back to Fury. From there –“ He hesitated. “From there, I don’t want to know what Fury’s gonna do with him.”

You trusted Fury, but he was definitely a scary man. “Me either.”

“All of us will leave the way Nat and I went in. Sam, make sure your wings are operational. The rest of us, make sure our parachutes are ready to go. As soon as the pilots make the drop off, they’re out. When we hit the ground, Nat has a way out.”

“What way?” Sam asked. “Car, bus, train?” She didn’t answer, her face showing no indication of releasing her secret. “Secret underground base?”

When she raised her eyebrow, you and Sam exclaimed at the same time. “Shut the fuck up.”

Smiling, Steve ensured that everyone had their orders. “Alright,” he said, turning toward you and Sam as the pilot pulled into the hellicarrier’s airspace. “See you two on the other side. Be careful.”

“You too, Cap,” you said quietly.

After Steve and Nat jumped onto the roof of the carrier and made their way inside, the pilots swung around the left, letting you and Sam out before speeding away under the cloak of night. “Back me up,” you said softly.

“Always.” Your back was to him but he spoke with a smile. “Ten o’clock.” Sam hid in the shadows as a man, presumably a guard, approached. Your size, and apparently boobs, always made men underestimate you, leaving you the perfect opportunity to slip them into a chokehold and wait until they passed out.

The moment the guard fell to the floor, Sam emerged from the dark hallway. “Have I told you how sexy that is?” He asked.

“Not now, Sam,” you laughed. “But yes. And please tell me more when we get the fuck out of here.”

Within a minute of knocking the guard out, Nat had uploaded the map to your watches. Unfortunately, it also alerted the entire crew on board to your presence. You figured that would happen. “Alright, stay at the ready,” Sam spoke. “How many people on this helicarrier?”

“About 500.”

“Fuckin wonderful.”

Quickly, you glanced down at the map on your watch, charting the quickest and easiest way to where they were keeping Sidorov. “Right in the middle. Great. They’re coming after us either way. Wanna stealth it or make an entrance?” You asked.

“Baby, do you even have to ask?” Sam laughed.

“Entrance it is.” As you charged forward, Sam followed your lead, handling any stragglers that happened to make it beyond your wall of fire. Those that didn’t run scared, fell victim to your wrath, dissolving into piles of ash snaking through the grates at your feet.

From the opposite end of the vessel, you heard the cacophony of screaming voices. Of course, Steve and Nat were holding their own just fine.

A nearly 300-pound, 6 foot tall Russian made his way past you. Big dude, but agile as hell. He’d assumed you were the strength out of you and Sam, disregarding him to try and take you out. But that was his mistake. As the man put you in a chokehold, Sam pulled out a knife, dropping down and slicing both of his Achilles before spin-kicking him in the face and over the railing. “Thanks, babe.”

“No problem. Let’s go. I want outta here.”

Your well-oiled machine moved swiftly through the maze-like hallways. You’d have a few cuts and bruises, but since joining the Avengers, that was pretty much Tuesday. As you approached the room where Sidorov was being kept, you made your silent prayers for the successful completion of this mission. You’d always prayed beforehand, in one way or another, but in the thick of it, you couldn’t help but offer up a few more silent prayers.

Melting the metal doors before you, Sam barreled past you and grabbed Sidorov, before running straight into Nat and Steve. Sidorov’s eyes sparked with a hint of recognition. “Natasha?”

“Aww, so sweet, you remember. You’re coming with us.”

Steve took the front lines of your escape route, using his shield to push over everyone in his way, while Nat and Sam handled the scientist and you kept an eye on your six. “You ready to jump?” You yelled, wind whipping your skin as Nat opened the door they’d entered. She pushed Sidorov out, sans parachute, and was followed quickly by Steve, leaving you and Sam to bring up the rear.

“Go!” Sam screamed.

Despite having jumped out of planes with the team before, it never got any easier. As you sailed through the air, you chanced a glance back and breathed a sigh of relief when you saw Sam jump too, only to watch a hook pierce the middle of his wings, ripping them off, and knocking him off balance. He spiraled in mid-air; you screamed into the wind, unable to do anything else but pray Tony’s upgrades kicked in.

Turning your attention toward the rapidly-increasing ground below, you waited for the right moment to deploy your parachute. When you ripped the cord, the parachute deployed, but apparently during your scuffle with the Russian guards, one of them had managed to slash it.

“Fuck!” Your heart raced as the ground approached, bracing for impact.

----

Sam panicked for a moment before his backup wings exploded out of the back of the EXO, giving him control once again. When he looked down, he saw his worst nightmare. “Not again. God, not again.” Y/N was fast approaching the earth with a slit parachute; she had a healing factor sure, but there would be nothing to heal if she pancaked into the pavement.

He retracted his wings and sped toward the ground, his hand stretched out in an attempt to grab her, the parachute, anything that might soften the fall. “Please God, don’t do this to me.”

Within a few hundred feet of the ground, he managed to grab her, only to have the chute make him lose his grip. For the second time in his life, Sam watched as someone he loved fell toward the unforgiving earth.

[julietlofarophoto]

Jay Petersen

  I visited Jay Petersen and his daughter Robin on a frosty December afternoon at his home in Bearsville. I became friends with Robin in third grade and clearly remember her mother Donna; tall and thin with short blonde hair and a warm smile. They lived in brick house with avocado kitchen appliances. Jay was a technician for Sears until retiring in 1999. As he recalls it, I love how distant his childhood in Bearsville seems from the town of Woodstock. Bearsville is a hamlet of The Town of Woodstock, just a couple of miles from town’s center.

Juliet:  What brought you to Woodstock?

Jay: My parents. I was 6 months old. They moved to Piney Woods Road. It was a summer house. They started coming up from the Bronx and renting a room at the Shultis Farm. “Brigadoon" they call it now. I’ve been up here since 1937.

During war time, my father was working for the Office of Price Administration. He was on Wall Street but during the war his firm went under, like most of them did. While he worked for the O.P.A., he’d come up on weekends. There were three of us. I had two brothers.

Juliet:  What is your first memory of Woodstock? 

Jay:  Well, I didn’t get to Woodstock very much. I went to the Bearsville School. Miss Stone was my teacher until 1948 when my father’s boss came back from the war and started up a new firm. We moved to Forest Hills, Queens.

My first memory in Woodstock … The Seahorse probably. (We all laugh)

Robin:  It was a bar where the Elephant Emporium used to be. (Now it’s Rock City Vintage.)

Jay:  My father used to bring me to the Seahorse when I was nine or ten. They had a ping pong table in the wintertime. They also had a pinball machine. Donna’s father used to give her money to play the pinball machine and my father never gave me any money so I used to watch Donna play pinball. (more laughing)

I met her again in 1957 at the Irvington (now the Landau). It was owned by Bill Dixon and it was more bar than restaurant. There were so many bars. Nobody had time for food.

 Juliet:  Was Donna a local?

 Jay:  Oh yes, she was a Riseley, some of the founders of Woodstock. The Riseleys owned several farms throughout Woodstock and up Ohayo Mountain Road on both sides.

Donna came to the city with me for a period of about 2 years. We had gotten married at the Dutch Reformed Church October 12, 1958.

Robin: Didn’t you tell her you were going to marry her after your first date?

Jay: No, I told her I was going to marry her when we were at the Irvington, before the first date.

Juliet:  When did you make the choice to move here and get settled?

Jay:  I came out of the Navy and went to school in Manhattan. Donna worked at CBS.  We moved back in 1960, after we had Anthea, to this house. I drove a school bus for a while and worked at a meat packing house up here before working for Sears.

 Juliet:  What’s changed about Woodstock over the years?

 Jay:  Oh, Woodstock was the greatest right after the second world war. A lot of people went to the Art Students League on the GI bill and came up here in the summer time. This was a real wild town. Like I said, there were eight bars from 375 all the way up through Woodstock. People used to go from one bar to the other to see who was around. There was a place next to the Seahorse, two houses away. Four artists rented it and called it “Hopeless Towers.” It was next to Heckeroths, set back, a two-story cottage.

Juliet:  So what was going on there?

Jay: (Laughing) What wasn’t going on there? Well, the Seahorse had a long bar with a right angle turn that the bartender couldn't see if he was at the center. These guys would lean over and grab a bottle of gin before they went home. Dick Stillwell, who was a real character, owned the bar and got wise that inventory was not right. He made an unexpected trip to the Hopeless Towers on a not too early Sunday morning. He rapped on the door and he walks in. There are about 20 empty bottles that they had taken and lined up all along a shelf. So he walks in and sees the Gilbey’s gin bottles and he takes one off and he knew by the serial number that they were his. “Hmm”, he says, “I see. I expect all the other ones are mine too. You gentlemen owe me…” (laughs) He had it all figured out. No arrests were made, everything was fine because the tabs that these guys had at the seahorse were astronomical. You know, three or four hundred dollars back then was like two thousand today! So, they got together and paid him.

The American Legion seems to be the only place I can find somebody who remembers the Seahorse around here. I mean, this bar was known from coast to coast, by everybody who was a writer or an artist. Back then, you really knew everybody in town.

Robin: Were there a lot of people who migrated from the city, even then?

Jay: They were from all over. The Art Students league in New York brought a lot of people up here. (The complex now houses The Woodstock School of Art)

Juliet:  Any other highlights?

Jay:  I was an apprentice at the Maverick Theater. That was when Jose Quintero was the director and Lee Marvin got his start. I was in the play.  They knew what they wanted, it was before Marvin’s first play which was called “Roadside”, and Teddy Ballantine who was David Ballantine’s father was an old silent picture actor. They needed a big gruff guy with a voice to play the part of the sheriff. They didn’t have anyone, they had all these small guys. So, Teddy says “Well, my son has this friend who is a plumber assistant and if we can just teach him to learn a few lines, the part isn’t that big. He could play the part.” Lee came down and then brought the script home. The next day he came to rehearsal and he was a natural right off the bat. This guy, he was something. That was his debut to acting. From there Lee went to Broadway.

Robin: The Library Fair, didn’t your dad win a car?

Jay: Oh yeah, the Library Fair. My mother won the car. She paid a dollar for the raffle. In 1953, she won an English Ford. A little American Made but British car.  A wonderful thing about the library fair is we had John Pike who whipped up a band with Bill Moor, a guy who played a wash tub. 



I remember once I was at Kenny Reynolds’s gas station, which is now the pizza place. I used to stop there on my way home and talk to Kenny and the guys who worked there. One day it’s raining like crazy and here comes Joan Baez riding a Triumph motorcycle with Bob Dylan hanging on the back! Dylan used to have Kenny fix his car, so he was there a lot.

Robin:   What about the bakery? Wasn’t there a bakery in Bearsville?

Jay:  There was a bakery in Woodstock – Kirschbaum’s. He bought The Bearsville School and moved it there at the foot of the hill. Across from Oddfellows Hall.

I guess my first memory in Woodstock would be my mother bringing me to the Woodstock Guild and she enrolled me in a leather working course, making belts and learning the tools. The teacher was Stephenson. That was probably 1951.

Juliet:  Robin, what’s your first memory of Woodstock?

Robin:  Probably going to Folk Art and getting the penny candy. And the parrot, Charlie. Or going to Laray’s while my mother got her hair done.

Jay: Did you ever see the five and dime store? Where the General Store was, and Houst, naturally. I bought my first pair of Levi’s there at Houst, which were outrageously priced at $3.50 for a pair of Levi’s! But I had to have them, so…

 We had a scanner radio that Donna used to listen to religiously. There was a murder up here, right up the road. Sam Shirah was a guy in town who wore a triangular hat with a raccoon tail. He was visiting this lady who was married, but the husband was in New York working or something. The woman had a daughter at home while she went to Holly Cantine’s place which was a log cabin just up the road here. There was some kind of affair. The husband comes home and asks the daughter where her mother is. She tells him she was with Sam Shirah. He went down to Big Scot and bought a gun and went up there and shot Sam Shirah. They put Sam on the hood of the car because he realizes he screwed up and they’d already called the cops. He was still alive. But when they got to Cooper Lake Road, he hit the brakes and Sam went flying off so by this time, he was dead. Everyone is calling my wife to find out what was going on.

Juliet: What’s your favorite thing about living here?

Jay: Well this time of year is rough. I was the only house down here when these kids went to school. My oldest daughter Anthea used to listen for the school closings. She was like 12 years old. When she knew the schools were closed, she would start my big tractor and plow the whole road so I could get to work. I missed Anthea when she left. Robin, forget about it.

Robin:  Yeah, I wouldn’t, but Sylvia (Gersbach, their neighbor back then) learned.

Jay:  Yes, I did teach Sylvia how to drive the tractor and plow the road. But it is beautiful here. It’s just gorgeous. I love mountains. This is my kind of place to live.

 ............

For further reading, get your hands on “Legendary Locals of Woodstock” to learn more about the characters Jay Mentions, and for more great Woodstock stories.