#Cookie Monster bookbag

[deputygonebye]

Shane’s very, and I do mean, VERY overprotective of those he loves and cares about. And that’s not just because a zombie apocalypse has overtaken the world as he knew it. No. This has been in development since the moment of his birth. He didn’t exactly have great guidance when it came to matters such as this, least not from men. Growing up, all he knew, in terms of parental love and support, was his grandma, Grandma Jean. She raised him. She clothed him. She fed him. She loved him. Goodness, she did everything a good mother would, what Shane’s should’ve done but couldn’t. Grandma said that she died of a broken heart after Shane’s father abandoned the family, but even being young, Shane didn’t exactly believe that. Small towns make rumors and truth hard to hide. Gossip doesn’t ever stop. Grandma, or Mama, as Shane would call her, couldn’t protect him from what really took his mother at the tender age of 22, when he, himself, was still just a baby: the seduction of alcohol. The name of Annie Walsh forever carved on stone instead of Shane’s memories. 

Not having much other family, Shane was very protective of the family that he did have. Was just as so to the friends he made at school - he couldn’t help himself from feeling that way. It was just part of him. A piece of his soul. But those feelings really did explode, and become cemented into his person, after an encounter one lazy summer afternoon. Shane had just returned home from football practice. More so a game between a few pals from school, those who weren’t off at camp or a family vacation, it was strange to walk into his and Grandma Jean’s house without the place smelling like cookies. Strawberry jam or classic chocolate chip - those always a fan favorite - it didn’t feel right, either. Something was wrong. And as Shane investigated further, put his shoes by the front door, unpacked his bookbag of dirty football padding, he realized why. Wandering into the kitchen a bit more, searching for his grandmother, he caught sight of the worst thing imaginable in the whole world, a true nightmare that brought tears to his eyes, boiled his blood.

There, while pinned to her dining room table, a cookie tray and batter just near on the kitchen counter, his grandmother was being forced upon. Shane didn’t need to see the man’s face to know who it was that hurt his grandmother. His name was Edward Baker. And Edward Baker was somebody that Shane considered not good enough for his sweet grandma. He was a foul mouthed, uncleaned, useless excuse for a man. He had no job - he didn’t care to find one. He had no family. It was rumored that he did once have a wife, but she got smart and left him dry. He held no kindness in his heart, not like somebody like Grandma Jean did. Shane never liked him, not one bit, but he made Jean happy, and so, Shane put up with Ed Baker. But not anymore. Shane wouldn’t give him a second chance. 

Shane pulled the monster off of his grandmother without hesitation that day. Yanked the beast right to the floor and started punching as hard as he could, least, as hard as a 16 year old teenager could. Quite frankly, Shane couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. This man, if he could’ve even been called that, had laid his hands upon Jean. He violated her. Her grandson wasn’t going to allow any person who committed such a crime to go home unscathed, if not dead. And Shane wanted to kill him. Swore on his breath that he would - rained his fists against Edward’s face until his knuckles were speckled in red. The only thing that stopped him was the gentle touch of his grandmother. Her arms around Shane’s waist, her angel-like voice whispering in his ear, her tears that decorated the shoulders of his t-shirt. 

Shane, honey, stop this. No more. It’s over. It’s over, honey.

From that day forth, Shane promised to protect and keep safe all of those he cared about, even if it got him into trouble for doing so. He wouldn’t ever let anyone else get hurt. Not like how his beloved grandmother was. Not when he was strong enough to do something about it. It was why he became a cop, a deputy. To protect and serve - the very code of Shane’s core. 

[raineyretro]

Custom LED backpacks you can’t get anywhere else⚡️

[chasingpj]

𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞

"Bye, for now, puddles."

pairing: percy jackson x child of hecate!reader

words: 6,220

warnings: a little angst, missing a meal, death of a parent, i believe that is all.

timeline: post sea of monsters

if you want to be tagged every time I update this story, click here

a/n: hi hi! I'm so excited to finally get this chapter to you guys. I'm sorry this literally took a month. i was taking two writing-intensive courses this summer and i was just burnt out. i hope you enjoy it!

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten

A grunt escapes you; your contorted body weighs down the top of your suitcase as your damp fingers slip off the metal zipper. The unforgivingly humid weather provokes the heat of your efforts, adding to your discomfort. There’s urgency in your fingers, your frustration growing at each failed attempt to close your suitcase.

“Y/n! Hurry up!” Atticus shouts from outside of the Hermes cabin. As the zipper slips out of your grasp once again, you throw your head back in annoyance, hand coming up to push away wisps of hair that fall on your face. A familiar chuckle comes from the corner of the room, grabbing your attention from the wooden ceiling. Connor sits on the side of his bed; his comic book forgotten beside him as you fussing over your suitcase seems to be more interesting to him.

“It’s not funny,” you grumble, sitting onto your heels.

Connor rises from his bed, shrugging his shoulders with a smirk. He kneels by your suitcase, “It’s kinda funny.”

The corners of your mouth almost curve up, but you stop yourself, opting for a roll of your eyes instead.

“What the hades do you have in here?” The tips of his fingers turn white as he pulls on the little piece of metal. You shift your weight to the corner he works on, but it helps him as much as it helped you earlier.

“My brother’s left a bunch of books behind, so Lou Ellen and I split them up. She’s taking half, and I take the rest. We’ll study them and then exchange notes.” A hum of acknowledgment comes from Connor’s lips as he inches the suitcase closed.

“You guys are a bunch of nerds.” You squint at the other with a playful offense, and he laughs at your hardened features. “I bet you guys study more than the Athena Kids,” he teases.

“There’s a lot to learn,” you say simply, watching as he brings the zipper to the end. He leans back on his heels, and you move to take in the half-empty cabin.

The sight of the Hermes cabin being this tidy was foreign. There aren’t any sleeping bags on the floor; the belongings of your many cabin mates didn’t clutter the walls or the corners of the room as they usually do. It’s funny. There are always complaints of the cabin being too small, but it appears bigger without the mess.

“Will you and Atticus visit throughout the year?” Connor’s expression is hopeful. As the last day of camp approached, Connor’s wishes of a full cabin all year round became more apparent. The shift from a max-capacity cabin to a half-empty one must be a tough transition for social people like Stoll Brothers. If it were you, you’d be counting down the days of everyone’s departure.

You ruffle his brown locks, “we’ll probably stop by for, maybe, spring break?” Connor’s hopefulness begins to sag, and you frown. Spring break is pretty far from now, huh? “Depending on how mortal life treats us. You know, we might be back soon,” you add on quickly, hoping to lift his smile.

Though you wish to go home, you’re dreading all the supernatural activity you’ll have to deal with once you leave. Your father works tirelessly to protect the house, but entities always manage to get in. And if they can’t, they don’t mind hanging outside.

The hopefulness that faded from Connor’s face restores, and he gives you that famous mischievous smirk. “Well, I hope the ghosts bother you guys enough to come to visit early.” His tone is playful, but you can tell he meant some of his words. You laugh hesitantly and nod, rising from your suitcase.

“I’m glad you’re that eager to see us again.”

You thank him as he leans down, lifting the heavy suitcase from the ground for you.

“Y/n!”

“I’m coming!” You tug on the handle, glancing at Connor. “The year will go by fast, and soon this cabin will be bursting at the nails with new unclaimed people. Atticus, Lou, and I included. Anyways, you have your brother. You guys will find something to entertain yourselves.” You nudge him as you make your way outside.

“Yeah, you’re right. You will write to me, yeah?” Connor asks.

“Of course. I’ll send you snacks that you can’t buy at the gas station.” Connor’s arm pumps back to his side, hand in a fist as he hisses a “yes.”

The corners up your mouth hesitantly pull up as you push open the cabin door, finding Atticus and Travis talking on the porch. For the past week, the anticipation of your departure was killing you, but now that it was time to leave, you feel gloomy.

You knew the cause of your heavy heart was the uneasy tone of your going. Living day by day with the intention of moving on was hard. Because every time you look at their newly occupied beds, the sinking feeling in your chest returns. Every time you find yourself wandering in the forest, the memories of your often chaotic magic lessons flood your mind. You remember when Alice misaimed her wind spell, shooting Alabaster far into the trees. While you all rushed to check on him, Alice burst into tears because she was convinced she killed him only to approach a laughing Alabaster who shouted, “Right on!”

Every time you were in the Arts and Crafts center, you remember how you, Sage, and Lou would do Tarot Readings for the campers and how you would argue with the Apollo kids when they insisted your tarot cards are as honest as fortune cookies.

At the armory, you remember how Ambrose ran into James so hard, he stumbled and knocked down half of the shelves of weapons.

In the courtyard, you remember how Ernest, horrified by heights, produced the highest pitch scream he possibly could as he rode a pegasus for the first time under the persuasion of Alabaster.

All these memories, whether hilarious like your spell mishaps or bittersweet like when you and your sibling’s group hugged around Sage when she cried about her abusive stepmother, held a special place in your heart. Because the times where you laughed and cried together reminded you of the genuine bond, the family that was ripped away from you overnight.

“We'll see you guys soon. We should go. Argus will leave without us," Atticus says, relieved that Argus is still waiting for you on top of Half-Blood Hill.

“Have a safe trip, guys,” Travis says, patting Atticus’s shoulder before reaching out his arm and giving you a short side hug. You grab your things, hastily saying a final goodbye, and soon, you and Atticus are trudging up the hill.

Your free hand pats the pocket of your shorts, calming your worry of forgetting the necklace at the cabin. What rests in your pocket is a raw tourmaline crystal, now smooth with the help of Beckendorf, encased in a silver spiral cage.

You and Atticus carry protection crystals all the time, and they help with staying out of the radar of monsters and entities. After hearing Percy’s many stories of monsters bothering him, you figured he couldn’t be too cautious. Then after finding a spell in Alabaster’s many books that can dim down a demigod scent for a while, you decided to make him an enchanted necklace to wear.

You pack into the truck with Atticus right on time. Atticus sits in front of you, chatting away with Cecil as you make yourself comfortable in the back row with Ambrose. You frown; among the three other campers in the van with you, Percy isn’t one of them. Argus peeks into the back, doing a rough headcount. Great, now you’ll have to wait until next summer to give it to him.

Right, when you were going to chastise yourself for not giving him the necklace yesterday when you were done with it, a distant voice shouts, "wait!"

Argus halts in the middle of closing the sliding down and turns around. He shakes his head with disapproval while opening the door all the way, revealing out of breath Percy.

A smile widens across your face as he gets into the back seat with you, and you nudge Atticus’s seat.

"See, I told you we wouldn't be the last ones here.” You side-eye Percy, seeing the corners of his mouth pull up in amusement.

“Some people just don’t know how to get to places on time, huh?” Atticus says, and his eyes flicker to Percy before giving you a wide grin.

“Didn’t sleep in today, firefly?” There is a playfulness in Percy’s voice, and you smile proudly,

“Nope, not today.”

“It’s a miracle,” Percy mutters, loud enough for you to hear, and you scoff. Atticus snickers and nods in agreement.

“We were supposed to gang up on him, not you two on me.” You stick your tongue out at Atticus, and he returns the action.

“It’s more fun making fun of you,” Atticus teases.

“Rude,” you mumble with a slight smile on your face. The two boys chuckle, Atticus turning more into his seat to tell Percy something about a new Marvel movie. Excited voices fill the van as the other boys join in the conversation, and soon they are debating if Batman is really a superhero or just a rich guy in a suit.

You had to admit, as the conversation became more passionate, you were pretty entertained, but as you catch sight of Camp Half-Blood growing farther in the distance, you’re reminded of the ache in your chest. It’s only a temporary leave, but when you return, things will never be the same, and the false hope of your siblings returning has been proven to be foolish.

☆’.･.･:★:･.･.’☆

Following a ghost dog while weaving through the hustle and bustle of Grand Central is almost impossible. Atticus’s hand is latched to the straps of your bookbag as you move through people, trying not to roll your eyes at the way Ambrose turns to bark as if he was reprimanding you for being too slow. Easy for him to say when he can walk through walls and people.

“Track 28,” Atticus reminds you as your eyes find the number written on the tan bricks of the high walls. You make a sharp left towards the entrance of another hallway, ignoring the groans of a grouchy bystander that you may have cut off. The next hallway you enter is a lot less crowded than the main floor, and you slow down your pace.

“Where do you guys live again?” Percy asks as he jogs up beside you. He had insisted on walking you guys since his train departs in the same station.

“Sleepy Hollow.” Percy scrunches his face as if he recalls something, and you smile, waiting for the question everyone asks when you say you live there.

“Have you seen the headless horsemen?” Percy asks, half-joking. A snort leaves your throat, and you look at Atticus, who’s equally amused.

“Oh yeah, plenty of times.”

“Really?” Percy asks, his eyes wide with surprise, and you laugh.

“No.” Your response makes his face drop comedically fast, and Atticus bursts into laughter. “It’s just a story, but there’s a lot of history there, so the place is crawling with ghosts. We’ve met the guy who wrote the story, though,” you mention.

“No way,” Percy squints his eyes in disbelief.

“I’m serious! Atticus and I take walks in the cemetery sometimes. We leave drachmas on the graves of newly passed people, so their venture into the underworld is smooth, but some people like to wander.” You shrug. “Washington Irving is one of those people.”

“Cool,” Percy says with such enthusiasm that it makes you smile. Ambrose turns around and barks again, standing at the golden entrance that leads to the grey tunnel lit with fluorescent white lights where your train waits beside the concrete platform.

“He always rushes us,” Atticus complains, and Harvey lets out a coo that sounded close to a groan as if he agreed with him.

The marble floors turn to concrete as you enter the tunnel. The blue and silver train on your left hums as it sits dormant in its station. Ambrose trots ahead, peaking into the doors and windows to find an empty cart to occupy.

As you follow a few feet behind him, your fingers fiddle with the necklace resting in your pocket. You’re regretting not giving it to Percy earlier because, for some reason, the idea of giving it to him now was more intimidating than if you had done it earlier on the bus.

Ambrose decides on a cart, and Harvey jumps off Atticus’s shoulder, squealing happily as he follows the hound while completely ignoring a worried Atticus trailing close behind.

"I, uh, made this for you," you sputter, the words coming out fast like vomit. Your fingers pull out the crystal necklace abruptly, and you put it in the palm of his hand. "It's black tourmaline. It has protective qualities; good at keeping negative energy, negative auras, things like that. I put a spell on it to dim down your demigod scent for a while, so you catch a little bit of a break. It'll last for a few weeks, maybe a month or two if the spell caught on well."

You bite your lip as Percy studies the necklace resting in his hand. "Wow, really? Thank you, Y/n. This is great.”

Nervous, you shift on your feet under his bright, smiling orbs. "It's no problem. After everything that happened at camp, I think it’ll be good for you to have one.”

Percy nods, his features softening all of a sudden, and he shifts. “Thanks for protecting me,” he says, and you feel heat rush to your cheeks. “Getting rid of that thing became more than you expected. I felt bad that I couldn’t help. Swords aren’t really useful when it comes to demons, huh?”

A small laugh of agreement leaves your lips. “It was nothing. I wasn’t going to let you be tormented by that thing if I could help it.”

An announcement echoes in the hall, reporting the departure of your train in a few minutes. You glance over, catching Atticus, Ambrose, and Harvey with their noses practically pressed against the window as they witness your interaction with Percy. The amused smirk on Atticus’s face makes you roll your eyes; he’s definitely going to tease you when you get on the train.

"I should go.” You face Percy again, catching him securing the necklace around his neck. The stone rests a few inches under his camp half-blood necklace. "Thanks for walking us here. Be careful getting home."

"You too…” he trails off, noticing your brother looking out the window. For a second, he seems as embarrassed as you do and a nervous chuckle leaves his lips. “Your brother is waiting."

“He’s so annoying,” you complain, and Percy’s next chuckle doesn’t sound as hesitant this time. "Well, uh, bye, for now, puddles,” you tease, butterflies dancing in your stomach.

"Bye, for now, firefly."

You both awkwardly wave at each other before you turn around, getting on the train with Atticus. With your gaze fixed on the floor, you plop into the seat next to him. You don’t even need to look to know he is smiling teasingly at you.

"How cute,” he teases, nudging your shoulder repeatedly with his own.

"Ew, shut up.” You shove at his shoulder, your nose scrunching as he flails his arms against yours as if you were fighting. Atticus chuckles and a string of sounds come from your familiars as they join in to tease you, and you couldn’t help but laugh too.

☆’.･.･:★:･.･.’☆

The suburban streets of your neighborhood are filled with the chirps of birds and bugs and the sounds of cars that pass every once in a while. There isn’t much conversation between you and Atticus as you trudge up the hill leading to your dead-end street.

“Gods, I hope we can get inside without being seen,” you manage to say through your heavy breaths, lazily holding on to the handle of your suitcase as it rolls behind you. Ambrose’s nose nudges the back of your knees as if to encourage you, but it’s more cute than helpful.

“There’s no way that we are. Janie and Celia are always sitting on the neighbor’s porch.” You grunt in acknowledgment, knowing that Atticus is right. The neighborhood ghosts are friendly enough, but their company can be annoying.

As if on cue, you hear a delighted squeal from ahead the moment you reach the top of the hill. Two ladies wave their handkerchiefs in the air a handful of houses away.

Celia, the tallest of the two, wears a steel blue dress with a high neckline and a big bow tied on the base of her neck. She has a jacket button closed over her corset with a frill at the end of her sleeves. Her skirt is floor-length and complete, with ruffles cascading down its entirety. And, of course, no one can miss the high-crowned hat decorated with fake flowers, bows, and crimped fabric as it all sits on top of her blonde hair in an intricate updo. Janie, her sister, wears the same style of dress and headpiece only in a burgundy red. The resemblance between the two makes it clear that they’re siblings close in age. They have the same high pinched noses that jut in the air; both of their faces are regal like those in renaissance paintings.

You’ve seen them around for as long as you can remember. They were two sisters who died of scarlet fever a year before their first courting season, which was a big deal according to their constant moaning and groaning about it.

You look ahead, your expression blank as if their high-pitched voices didn’t fill the streets and they weren't racing toward you with their skirts in their hands.

“My word! It’s the end of summer already?”

“Atticus, you’ve grown taller!”

“What a handsome boy! Y/n, your shorts are too short, don’t you think?”

“It’s quite bizarre how such clothing is acceptable these days.”

“How beautiful you’d look in a gown like ours!”

“Where’s Alabaster?” Janie asks, attempting to circle her arm around Atticus’s, but he raises his arm to push back his damp hair to avoid the contact. She scoffs at his rejection and sighs.

“Alabaster was sweeter to us than you guys!” Celia pouts. Your heart sinks a little at the mention of him. Of course, they’d ask about him, and of course, your father will ask too.

Gods! Your father will ask about him.

You had forgotten you’d have to break the news today. These past few weeks, you debated whether or not you should do it by letter, but it felt wrong. It was only right that he’d find out in person.

“We know you can hear us,” Janie huffs.

“I hope dad doesn’t work late tonight. Do you think Grandma will be waiting for us?” You ask. As annoying as it was having spirits follow you, it was a little fun ignoring them when convenient for you. Atticus nods,

“Probably-”

“No one’s home,” Celia cuts in, and Atticus pretends to shoo a bug away to conceal that he paused from her interruption.

“But I don’t think dad is going to take long. He said his last lecture ended at three,” Atticus continues, and you nod.

‘I hope grandma came by to visit. I missed her.”

“I just said no one’s home.” Celia snaps, and you press your lips together to hide your smile.

Atticus sighs. “I know, I’m dying for those moon cookies she makes us.” At the mention of those cookies, your stomach grumbles. You hope Celia was wrong because you’re suddenly craving your grandmother’s cooking and her company. Her funny stories and voice that’s always a little too loud for the indoors never fails to cheer you up. As short and frail as she is, her voice and personality could fill a room.

“Me too,” you say shortly.

“Hello?!” Celia waves her handkerchief in your face, and you persisted in ignoring her. Suddenly, a sound of disgust comes from Janie as she brushes off her skirt.

“Y/n, retrieve this monster of yours!” She squeals as Ambrose bites the fabric of her dress, tugging on it with a growl.

“Damn this dog,” Celia shouts, attempting to shoo him away, but yelps in surprise as Ambrose snaps his jaw shut near her hand. “Get this thing under control! Y/n!”

Your hand comes up to cover your smile even though the two are shuffling behind you and a stifled chuckle comes from Atticus. The sound of Janie’s heels on the concrete becomes louder as she rushes beside Atticus again, and your smiles drop. The sight of your house comes into view, and you tilt your head confused; your father’s car is parked in the driveway.

“You said no one was home?” You say out loud, and Celia gasps beside you,

“Now you speak to me?” She snaps, halting as you approach the fence. She stands tall, hands folded in front of her elegantly as Janie’s expression is gleaming like a child on Christmas. “Your father requested to keep it a secret, so I obliged his wishes. He canceled his last lecture today to make you both a meal. What a lovely man.”

Your hand finds the latch for the white picket fence as you smile at the familiar narrow victorian-style house ahead of you. A path of cobblestone leads you to the brick steps of the small porch.

Your home sticks out from the more modern American houses that surround the area. It’s an antique, a snippet of history, as your father likes to say. The house is a russet brown only because the bricks are so old they’ve darkened in color. The house accents such as the window trims, porch overhang, and columns are copper, and the hipped roof has brown tiles that look like fish scales. Beside the porch, the bay windows from both stories stack on top of each other, and above the porch roof is the dormer that’s a part of your bedroom.

Gods, you’re yearning to be in your room. You just want to pull out your Murphy bed from the wall and bury yourself in your sheets. The idea of being in bed puts a pep in your step, and you are careful to avoid the salt ring that surrounds your house.

A butterfly passes by your face, flying to the bunchberry bushes your father has planted in the front garden. Among the grass, there are various flowers and herbs that your father grows in the summer. You’ve inherited many things from your father, but his green thumb isn’t one of them. He takes his gardening seriously while you can barely keep the cacti in your room alive.

“Enjoy your meal! Come talk to us one of these days. We missed you two!” Janie shouts after you as you make your way up the stairs. You turn around, Atticus smiling at them.

“We missed you, girls, too,” he says as if he didn’t want to admit it. Janie squeals something about how handsome his smile is, and you scoff, amused as you grab the doorknob.

Once you push the door open, you're hit with a rush of deja vu. The history channel plays faintly in the next room as you take in the home you’ve missed dearly.

There are two bookshelves against the wall on your right, a wide ledge with pillows under the bay windows. A messy coffee table filled with letters and stacked with books sits in front of the comfy reading nook, letting you know that your father was recently hanging out there.

There is a brown mahogany staircase that ascends upstairs to your left, and right beside it is the altar for your mother. A statue of her rests in the middle of the rectangle table covered in a black table cloth. On top of it lies the many offerings for your mom. Herb-dressed candles burn beside bowls of fruit, bouquets, a crystal enamel wine glass filled with alcohol, feathers, and other things. You ignore the altar as you put down your stuff beside the door, following Atticus as he takes off his shoes.

“Kids?” You hear your father call enthusiastically from beyond the foyer, and you persist forward into the entryway ahead of you.

“We’re home!” Atticus announces as he enters beside you. Ambrose barks making a beeline to the right and behind the kitchen counter. He jumps on your father with so much force he stumbles back.

“Gods! Why does he look even bigger?” Your father exclaims through a laugh, fixing the round glasses that threaten to slip off his nose as his other hand grips Ambrose’s paw. He yelps in surprise as Harvey's claws rest on top of his head, clinging to his hair to steady himself.

The warmth and smell of home fill your senses as you catch your dad’s gaze. “Well, come here! Are you going to hug your pops or what?”

You rush over with Atticus. Both of you hug your dad tightly on either side of him, and you smile as he presses a kiss on your temples. “I missed you guys so much!”

“We missed you too!” The smile on your face falters as he looks up, scanning the archway as if he was waiting for someone else. You shift, not ready to be faced with the question, and you peer around his body to look at the food on the stove behind him.

Your father notices your interest, and he chuckles. “Come on, let’s eat. You guys came right on time.”

You shuffle through the kitchen with Atticus, making your way to the rounded table at the end of the kitchen.

“Dad, what have you been up to?” Atticus asks teasingly, and your father perks up.

“I've done a lot of things to keep me busy. I volunteered to teach summer classes while you were gone. I’m reading this book with a fascinating perspective of the shift from Paganism to Christianity in Rome. It’s an amazing read; I highly recommend it. Though, I don’t quite agree with it.” Your father hums thoughtfully. “Oh! And I bought gnomes for our garden! And the thrift store had this little house and this old lady figurine! I put it on the porch. I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but she’s the official guard of the door," he declares proudly. "And…” He twists and turns before heading to the bookshelves in the living room area. He grabs something from the shelf then he showcases a cartoon Dobby bobblehead with wide arms. A high-pitched cackle leaves his lips. “It completes our collection!”

“Woah! Where did you get it? We went to three different places for it, and we couldn’t find it.” Atticus matches your father’s excitement, and you snort at the two.

“I went to a mythology convention in Boston a few weeks ago. There was a game stop across the street from the center, and I thought, ‘why not?’ I went in, and I saw this little guy by the register.” Your father is giddy as he nudges the head and watches it jiggle in his hands.

You think of what your grandmother’s reaction would be if she saw all the things he bought on his trip to the thrift store. She’d definitely complain. She always said that even growing up, your father had a liking for knickknacks. On your shelves and counters, there are always little trinkets lying around. It even extends to the walls, a variety of paintings and diagrams are neatly hung beside each other. From the state of your house, it’s clear your father is a maximalist in its purest definition.

“Wow! That’s awesome!” Atticus reaches out his hand for it as your father brings over his entire collection of Harry Potter bobbleheads, the toys huddled in his chest before he places them on the dining table. “The whole gang can hang out with us for dinner.”

“I hope they like pasta,” Atticus comments, lining them up as your dad retrieves the pan of food.

Your stomach grumbles at the sight, and you’re quick to serve yourself as Atticus and your Dad talk about anything and everything. You guys discuss what your grandmother has been up to, how your father’s classes were going, which led your father to ramble so much he formed a tangent on top of another. The conversation was going so well that you were sure he wouldn’t ask about your summer, but you had assumed too soon.

“So enough about me! How was Camp?” Your father chirps, and you shift in your seat.

You smile with confidence to hide the wariness you felt. “It was great!” You figured if you keep your answer short, you could move past it quickly.

“Yeah, the usual. Fun as always,” Atticus adds.

Your father’s eyes flicker between the two of you, and the first thing he notices is the way your smiles don’t reach the rest of your face.

The clanging of metal utensils on glass plates fills the room as the both of you fixate on your food but neither take a bite. The camp was never a touchy subject. The sudden unwillingness to speak about it makes his eyebrow cock up in suspicion. His eye averts to the empty dining chair beside you and the dinner place settings that remained untouched. Alabaster was supposed to join your return home. At least, that’s what he had assumed.

“Did Alabaster decide to stay at his foster home?” There’s caution in his tone, and he’s taken aback at how both you and Atticus tense up. The clings of metal halt abruptly, and slowly, you move to glance at your father.

“Dad, something happened at camp this summer.” Now, it was your turn to have a tone laced with caution. Alabaster lived with you for months and quickly became a part of the family. Your father saw him as his second son, and you were afraid to break the news that he may never see him again.

“What happened? Did he get into trouble?” You frown at the sudden edge in his voice. Atticus shifts beside you,

“He took the others to go fight for the Titan Lord.”

“What?”

“Mother came to speak to him and told him that it was best to fight for the other side since their chances are better,” you say slowly. “They left at the end of July. Only Atticus, Lou Ellen, and I stayed at camp.”

Your father’s expression darkens, grief written all over his face. “And you haven’t seen them since?”

You shake your head, not wanting to delve into the details. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing them again in a while and not in the best circumstances.” Your father nods, understanding the implication in your words. “Mother promised that she’d take care of them if they fight for the other side. I didn’t want to go; it wasn’t right.”

“That must be why everything is rotting,” your father mutters more to himself. You furrow your eyebrows.

“Rotting? What’s rotting?”

“Our offerings to your mother,” he clarifies. “All the fruit I leave on her altar goes bad in a few days. The flowers wither quickly too. The garden, in general, hasn’t been doing well either. I didn’t understand why.”

Your focus returns to your plate. Suddenly, you weren’t that hungry anymore.

She must be angry, you think to yourself. A part of you wanted a sign from her to let you know if she was bothered you didn’t join. When the sign didn’t come, you assumed she didn’t care; that, in a way, you were dead to her. It didn’t dawn on you to ask how the altar or the garden your father dedicated to her was doing.

“Can I be excused?” You strain, your face a little hot, and you’re not sure if it was from your anger or from the tears you’re blinking away.

“Of course.” The warm smile on your father’s face fails to budge the dread you’re feeling. “You can be excused as well, Atticus.”

You miss the way your father and Atticus exchange looks as you stood up. There wasn’t a verbal agreement, but Atticus stands up tall, determined to make you feel better. He trails behind you, and suddenly, he slings his arm across your shoulders. “You know what’s one of the things I missed at camp?”

“What?” You ask, trying to ignore the heavy feeling in your chest.

“Beating you at Tekken,” Atticus teases. Your lips curve slightly; his playful nature manages to brighten up your mood a little bit. “Let’s play. I’ll go easy on you, but I’m sure you’ll still lose regardless.”

“You’re on,” you nudge him, and Atticus chuckles, walking ahead of you and up the stairs. Your hand grips the railing, and you walk up a few steps before halting, and your eyes find the front door.

“You don’t get it!”

“I don’t.” You shrugged, amused at the way Atticus’s eyebrows knitted in disbelief. He ignored you, grabbed the remote, and played the Star Wars movie again. You groaned, seeing the slanted letters move up the TV screen. “Atticus! I can’t watch this!”

“Why not?!”

“Well, first off, my dyslexia won’t let me read that quickly, and if a physically written prologue is needed before a movie… it’s not a good movie!”

“How dare you!” You threw your head back as a laugh bubbled in your throat. The exasperated look on his face was too funny. You had no desire to watch these movies, and you figured if you bothered him enough, he’d give up trying to show them to you. The shrug of your shoulders made him scoff. “Just watch it!”

A huff left your lips, and unwillingly, you returned your gaze to the screen. Suddenly, a hollow knock came from the front door.

“It’s late,” you said, but Atticus was too caught up in the beginning battle of the movie to pay any mind to you. Rarely did you get visitors, definitely not past midnight on a Friday. Cautiously, you rose from the couch and moved toward the door.

Rain erratically hit against your curtain-covered windows; the wind and cold made the walls around you creak as they adjusted. Whatever waited for you at the door, you just wished it was a person, not a weird ghost or monster. Your finger latched on the side of the curtain, allowing you to peek through the glass of your front door.

A gasp left your lips. Alabaster, soaked from the ruthless rain outside, was the last person you expected to see. But even though you didn’t expect him, you had an inkling as to why he was here.

Hastily, you unlocked the door and flung it open. “Al?” You sputtered; his green orbs were surrounded by tired eyes and puffy skin.

“He died this morning,” he strained. Your expression softened, and before you could say anything, Alabaster stepped forward and hugged your shoulders tightly. The raggedness of his breath, the shutter of his body, sent your chest a weight of sorrow. You couldn’t imagine being in his shoes and losing your father to a long battle with cancer at 14. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes; the person you looked up to the most was breaking down. You never thought he would need your help for anything, but it seems that you were wrong. “I’m sorry. You guys live the closest to me, and I didn’t know where to go-”

“It’s okay,” you interrupted. “Oh, Al, I’m so sorry,” your voice cracked, hands rubbed his back as a sob left his lips. A creak of a floorboard caught your attention, and you turned to see a confused Atticus emerging from the living room. With a sad look, he understood what happened, and soon his expression was mimicking yours.

“I’ll wake dad and get clothes,” he said, then rushed upstairs.

Your father didn’t even hesitate to help Alabaster, opening the doors of your house to him. In his greatest time of need, the three of you stood beside him, and overnight, he had a place in your home and in your heart. The three of you spent so much time playing video games, getting into trouble around town, learning magic. All the good times you and Atticus shared with him, were they really worth throwing away to fight with Kronos? You realize now that his departure was never only a betrayal to the camp but to you, Atticus, and your father, and you couldn’t help but think perhaps, you guys didn’t mean as much to him as he meant to you.

A shaky sigh leaves your mouth at the thoughts persistent to ruin your mood. The desire to leave camp was to avoid all the things that reminded you of your siblings, but now that you returned home, you realize that running away isn’t as easy as you thought.

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if your username is bolded that means i can’t tag you ! you probably have your visibility settings on!

[goodlucktai]

when the bones are good

@natsumeweek 2021 day 4; sweet/sour

read on ao3

(previous part)

x

Yousuke Takuma looks like he regrets inviting the Natori brothers into his house. They tend to have that effect on people.

“I shouldn’t be reading these,” he says in a very calm tone. “These are the sacred property of your clan. They shouldn’t even have left your property.”

“It’s not like anyone is going to miss them,” Shuuichi replies plainly. “My grandfather still thinks I can’t get past the locks on the storehouse door. Even Takashi can get past those, and he’s eight.”

“Sometimes I just ask Urihime to get me the keys,” Takashi admits. “She doesn’t get along with grandfather so she likes having an excuse to take stuff from him.”

It’s a nice way of saying ‘she fucking hates him’ but Takashi is a nice person. 

The kid is chronically honest. Always has been. He’ll strive to frame it kindly, but the truth is all you’re getting from him. It can be annoying, but mostly it’s pretty funny, and at the end of the day Shuuichi is glad that Takashi doesn’t feel the need to lie or make up stories. Even about the really unbelievable things. He just says what he’s thinking, because he knows it’s the truth, and his big brother will back him up if anyone gives him any trouble.

Shuuichi doesn’t have a lot in his life to be proud of, but he’s proud of that. 

The right people don’t care if a little kid tells ghost stories, anyway. Hinata thinks they’re great. She keeps threatening to write them all down and adapt them into her first screenplay.

Takuma puts his face in his hands. Across the room, Tsukiko giggles, clearly not as focused on her homework as she would like for the rest of them to believe she is. Ginro sets a tray of tea down on the table and gives Shuuichi a stern look for having the audacity to stress her master out so soon after his injury. Chastened, Shuuichi lifts his hands in apology. 

“If you really don’t want to look at them, I’ll put them away,” he says. “But I trust you not to—run off with them and patent them under your name, or whatever it is you think I should think you’re going to do.”

That works a huff of wry laughter out of the man, and he looks up at Shuuichi with a warm expression. It’s the way Shuuichi thinks his dad might have looked at him if he’d been born a proper son.

“Lunch first,” Takuma says, “then we’ll take a look at this paper magic of yours. Though if a couple of little geniuses like yourselves can’t figure it out, I don’t know what you think this old man will be able to do.” 

He adds the last bit with a smile for Takashi, who beams up at him from where he’s been not-so-subtly sneaking Jinbe rice crackers. Jinbe is the most unsettling of Takuma’s three familiars, but he’s also—to Shuuichi’s resignation—Takashi’s complete favorite. It appears to be mutual.

“You’ve kept your promise, haven’t you?” Takuma asks after a moment. “About staying away from those meetings?” 

Shuuichi sighs performatively. “Of course I have. It’s not like I could bring my brother with me, and he’d hardly just stay home. He’s very disobedient.”

Takashi scoffs. “Hinata-neesan says I’m your most redeeming quality.”

“Nowhere in there does she mention ‘obedient,’” Shuuichi replies without missing a beat, and grins when Takashi makes a face at him. 

“Alright, alright,” Takuma says, laughing properly now. “As long as you’re keeping your word, I don’t care about why.” He pushes himself up to his feet, moving a little stiffly, and smiles at his daughter when Tsukiko hurries over to take his arm. “There should be some margherita pizzas in the chest freezer. I bought them on a whim the last time I was at the supermarket. Should we try them?”

Of course they should. Takashi scoops the last of the cookies off the table and piles them neatly in Jinbe’s greedy hands, even though Takuma sighs and makes noises about spoiled shiki. Tsukiko gives the disappearing treats a bit of an odd look, but she seems more fascinated to be in the company of spirits than unnerved.

Shuuichi is beginning to think that his relatives are just bad people. 

“By the way, have you made any progress on,” Takuma starts, and finishes with a nod towards Shuuichi’s arm. 

The lizard is scurrying around in busy little circles, as if it’s feeling restless. Shuuichi covers it with his hand, something that sometimes works in calming it down, like putting a blanket over a bird cage. In this case, it crawls onto his hand instead and resumes scurrying there. Weird little thing.

“I still have no idea what it is,” Shuuichi says ruefully, “but Takashi is trying to teach it tricks.”

Takuma stares at him, and then at his brother. Takashi offers, “It knows ‘roll over’!”

“Go,” Shuuichi’s mentor says firmly, pointing them down the hall. “Kitchen. Lunch. We’ll discuss this later.”

A knock on the door interrupts their noisy exodus, and Takuma frowns. Clearly, he isn’t expecting company. The amiable man’s posture tenses as he gestures for Tsukiko, Shuuichi and Takashi to stay put. Ginro and Benihimo flank him on his way to the front door. 

Exorcists tend to be a paranoid bunch.

But with a dangerous ayakashi on the loose, Shuuichi thinks, with a prickle of unease all his own, maybe it’s better safe than sorry. 

“Urihime, go collect all our scrolls and put them in my bag,” Shuuichi says swiftly. “Sasago, stay right here.”

His shiki both nod, and Urihime disappears. 

Tsukiko is picking up on the atmosphere, even if her eyes aren’t the same as theirs. Even normal humans have a sixth-sense sense for certain things and it’s not to be taken lightly. She shifts nervously, and something in Shuuichi’s chest goes warm when he realizes she’s put her arm around Takashi’s shoulders protectively. 

“Seiji?” Takuma asks. His voice is raised in surprise, carrying from the genkan. “What on earth are you doing here?” 

Relief and dread fight each other in the pit of Shuuichi’s stomach. Dread wins. He’s only encountered Matoba Seiji twice, once at the summit he inadvertently followed Amasaki to, and then again in passing for a few minutes in the woods, but those brief meetings were enough. 

Even normal humans have a sixth-sense for certain things. Usually danger. 

“Tsukiko,” he says casually, “can you and Takashi go get lunch started?” 

To Tsukiko’s eternal credit, she doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Takashi, will you help me? Dad buys so much weird stuff when he goes shopping that it might be hard to find the pizzas.”

Takashi gives Shuuichi a look that says, very clearly, that he knows when he’s being fobbed off. Shuuichi ruffles his hair in a way that ruins the careful work Sumi-san (the only member of the Natori house staff who will still talk to either of them) put in that morning with half a dozen bobby pins. Now it flops into Takashi’s eyes and he makes an outraged sound, reaching up to shove Shuuichi’s hand away. 

“I’ll fill you in later,” Shuuichi says. “Promise.”

That’s enough for Takashi. Mollified, he trails after Tsukiko without argument, and with only one curious look over his shoulder. Jinbe drifts after them watchfully, and probably only partly in hopes of more snacks. Sasago remains at Shuuichi’s side, a stalwart presence that he’s come to depend on. 

It’s Shuuichi’s job to keep the monsters away. Whatever form they might take. 

Takuma looks irritated as he leads Seiji into the sitting room. With a nod of his head, he invites Shuuichi inside, too. The tea tray from before has vanished, a new one sitting in its stead, and Shuuichi notes with some inward amusement that Ginro didn’t lay out any snacks this time. 

“Well, what do you know,” Seiji says, as enigmatic as ever. “Shuuichi-san, I never would have expected to find you here.”

It’s impossible to tell what this guy is actually thinking. 

“Did you come by to check on Takuma-san, too?” Shuuichi asks. He has to work to keep his tone from biting, but he manages it.

“In a sense,” Seiji replies politely. “I was hoping to find out more about the ayakashi that attacked him. Going after it before it hurts anyone else is an exorcist’s job, don’t you think?” 

It’s bait, as clear and obvious as a cricket dangling from some fishing line. If he were still the bitter brat he used to be, maybe Shuuichi would have risen to it fiercely, like a tide, surging and crashing against Seiji’s unchanging stone facade. He would have said, ‘You don’t care about helping people. You called Takuma-san weak. You’re just looking for someone to use.’

Which is all perfectly true, and perfectly justifiable reasons to not want to drink tea with this guy and discuss the differences in their conventions, but it’s not like calling Seiji out would do any good. It probably wouldn’t even be satisfying. He would just gaze at Shuuichi with that stupid cat-that-caught-the-canary expression and make him feel like an idiot for existing.

He gets enough of that at home, thanks. 

“You’re right,” Shuuichi says mildly, with a smile of his own, “that is an exorcist’s job.”

Takuma eventually tells Seiji what he wants to know, clearly having given up on keeping the teenager away from exorcist summits and dangerous ayakashi, but he does afterword his information with warnings to be careful. 

Urihime sets Shuuichi’s bookbag beside him and he nods his thanks. Seiji clocks the two-second interaction with sharp eyes. 

“Look at that! You have a servant?” His eyes follow her when she moves to stand next to Sasago, next to both of Takuma’s shiki along the side of the room, and he whistles. “Two servants. Pretending to be an exorcist on the sly, are we, Shuuichi-san?”

More bait. Another cricket. Shuuichi sips from his teacup. “They belong to my family. I don’t know why they follow me around. They must be bored.”

All of which is true, technically. Takuma’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, but he doesn’t comment. Sasago turns her head very slowly, and her eyes, hidden beneath their blindfold, seem to bore into the side of his head. Urihime is less subtle and outright hisses at him. 

“Hmm, jury seems to be out on that,” Seiji says, and laughs. 

The sitting room door rattles open and Tsukiko peers through. Shuuichi’s fists clench in his lap, because sure enough, Takashi is right behind her, his brown eyes peeking curiously into the room. 

“Sorry, papa, but is your guest staying for lunch, too? Only, I don’t know how many pizzas to put in.”

“No, no, I couldn’t impose,” Seiji says. “I’ll get going and leave you guys to enjoy the rest of your afternoon. It looks as though you were having a pleasant time before I barged in.”

We were, Shuuichi thinks, but he keeps it to himself. He and Takuma stand up to see Seiji out. Seiji pauses when he spots Takashi behind Tsukiko, and his amicable expression takes on an edge that Shuuichi can’t define. He looks more engaged now than he did during the entire conversation with Takuma. 

“Hello again,” Seiji says in a pleasant tone. 

“Excuse me?” Shuuichi interjects loudly. “‘Again’?”

“Hi,” Takashi replies at length. His gaze is fixed on Seiji’s face as though there’s something interesting happening there. Jinbe drifts like a shark behind him, mask pointed towards Seiji suspiciously.

“As I thought, you have good eyes,” Seiji remarks, whatever that’s supposed to mean. He looks across the room at Urihime and Sasago, down at the bag by Shuuichi’s feet, at the lizard mark curled up on his arm, and then finally up at Shuuichi himself. Smiling widely, he adds, “I look forward to seeing what becomes of the Natori clan.”

Takuma escorts him out properly, and Tsukiko goes back to deal with the pizzas. Alone save for a scattering of trusted ayakashi, Shuuichi kneels and beckons his brother over. 

“C’mere, squirt.”

Takashi crosses the room to him. Standing in front of Shuuichi like this, they’re almost eye-to-eye. 

“Have you met that guy before?” Shuuichi asks. 

“Only once. It was when you had classroom duties and Hinata-neesan took me to the 7-Eleven to get chicken nuggets,” Takashi explains. “We met Matoba-san while we were walking. He said he was your friend.”

“I don’t have any friends.” 

Takashi nods very seriously.

“That’s what Hinata-neesan said. She took out her pepper spray and waved it at him. I think Matoba-san thought that was funny, but he said he didn’t mean to upset her, and he left. It was the right thing to do, probably, because he didn’t have any spirits with him, and Urihime was getting annoyed that he was talking to me.”

Shuuichi feels like he’s aged thirty years in the past three minutes. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes hard enough that there are spots in his vision when he looks up again. 

“Takashi, listen,” he says, “stay away from him. If he ever approaches you for any reason, tell me about it, okay? Promise?”

He holds out his pinky. Takashi rolls his eyes, much too grown up at eight years old for things like this, but he hooks his finger around Shuuichi’s gamely. 

“Whoever lies has to swallow a thousand needles,” they recite together, and then Shuuichi ruffles Takashi’s hair again just to make him squawk. 

“Sorry about that, boys,” Takuma says when he comes back. 

He pauses in the doorway and his bandaged face creases in a smile to see them rough-housing playfully, Takashi struggling to free himself from Shuuichi’s headlock, the tense atmosphere from before banished like an errant spirit.

“Bring those scrolls with you to the kitchen,” Takuma says warmly, “and I’ll help however I can.”

Seiji can think whatever he wants about Takuma, but the man is clever. By the time Shuuichi and Takashi are ready to leave, packed up with a leftover pizza and some cookies for the road, they’ve puzzled out the array that they were stuck on and Shuuichi managed to make a paperman fly. 

Takuma had looked over the notes he’d taken ruefully. He couldn’t help but absorb some of the practices for himself as he helped the boys study them, and clearly he felt guilty about that. Shuuichi leaned forward across the table and caught his eye. 

I trust you, he wanted to say. You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father. But there was absolutely no way Shuuichi could say something like that. Not out loud, with his mouth, where someone might hear him. 

“Clan trade or not, if you’re ever in danger and any of this paper magic could help you, I want you to use it,” he said instead. “No secret is worth keeping if it means you get hurt. Right, Takashi?” 

“Right,” Takashi piped up, his little voice clear and bright in that sunny kitchen. He was watching intently as his paperman wobbled precariously across the table, trying to carry a note to a delighted Tsukiko, and didn’t bother looking up even as he added, “It’s just paper, ojisan.”

“Yeah, ojisan,” Shuuichi teased laughingly. 

Takuma rolled his eyes, but gave in with a smile, as if he couldn’t help but be charmed by their noisy, obtrusive presence in his home. For a second, even though he was clearly the one who had gone out of his way to help them—wasting an entire day working with them on magic he didn’t fully approve of them studying in the first place, an entire day he should have spent recuperating—Takuma looked as though they were the ones who had done him a favor, just by being there. 

“What did Seiji mean when he said you had good eyes?” Shuuichi will remember to ask his brother a little later, when they’re walking home. 

“Oh, I guess because I noticed the weird mark on his face,” Takashi says. 

“Weird mark? What did it look like?”

Takashi hums thoughtfully, glancing around. He trots off the road a little bit to pick up a stick, then crouches in the dirt and starts drawing a strange, crooked symbol. Shuuichi leans over him to watch.

It’s not a symbol he’s ever seen before. Yokai writing, if he had to guess. 

“What does it mean?” he asks the shiki. 

Sasago drifts over and inspects the drawing, her face giving nothing away. 

“‘Something owed,’” she translates after a moment. “I think the closest human word would be ‘debt’.”

“Huh,” Shuuichi says. He offers Takashi a hand and hauls the kid back upright, frowning thoughtfully. “And you said it was on his face?” 

“Yup, above his right eye. Didn’t you see it?” A thread of anxiety works its way into Takashi’s voice that Shuuichi is quick to smother. 

“I didn’t have my glasses on,” he says smoothly, “so I must have missed it. You know your eyes are better than mine.”

Takashi grins up at him, appeased, and they spend the rest of the walk playing with bits of talisman paper. It’s habit by now to keep their pockets stuffed full of scraps. Shuuichi manages to make a couple of them fly, and Takashi claps his hands together in glee every time.

To anyone who might be watching, it probably looks like the wind is catching the scraps and lifting them out of their hands instead of the shaky first steps of magic it really is. There won’t be anything to question about the sight of two brothers, taking their time getting home to a place where no one is waiting for them, laughing and jumping as they try to catch those floating pieces of paper.

[itsmariestmarcuniverse]

The Letter I Wish I Could Write

Dear Mrs. (Redacted),

Thank you for your note on District-Wide Policy.  I appreciate the fact that you do not have the library books your child checked out.  That’s why I wrote to you to tell you about policy.  I’m not allowed to give your child his report card until all fees and fines have been paid.  I don’t feel like a bigger person for following the directions set forth by the people who employ me; truth be told, it makes me feel like a cookie cutter.  But, what am I to do? Girl’s gotta pay rent!  Besides, they’re called “lost” library books for a reason - they’re lost.  Your monster, sorry - brat, wait - darling child, checked out four books and never returned them.  The fact that you only owe $12.61 is nothing short of miraculous.

As for your lovely threat about the “thief” who took Darling Child’s fidget spinner - that was me, bitch - I mean, ma’am.  With the full support of my boss, I have taken all spinners.  She says that she will only release them to the parent of the owner. Please don’t bring your shotgun, as you have indicated that you would in the past (you know, if it wasn’t such a hassle to put on a bra and drive to town). 

PS - I’m saving your letter to enter into evidence should the need arise.

PPS - Also, if your child is clever enough to “snuk his figgit spiner in his bookbag” without your knowledge or consent, he is clever enough to answer open ended questions.  So next time I ask him why he hit another student, I’m going to expect an answer.

Thanks! :)

[twobitcowboy]

And when it comes (I won’t be done)

a/n: TRIGGER WARNING: slightly in depth descriptions of panic attacks including gross vomiting so if that’s a trigger maybe don’t read this or try to skip around it, it’s only in the beginning few paragraphs. so this is my first DEH fic and actually the first fic i’ve written in over a year so i’m sorry if it’s awful. this is based off my own lovely anxiety experiences but obviously didn’t go exactly like this. however, cookie monster ice cream is a real thing and it’s good as fuck so if you ever get the chance to try it, do it. you will not regret it. Connor and Evan might be slightly ooc because i haven’t written in a long time. i also might make this part of a series? please tell me what you think in the comments. that’s all, hope you enjoy!

read it here on ao3 

–

The bathroom stall floor is surprisingly comfortable, contrary to popular belief. The only noticeable pain is the ache in his neck that he’ll be feeling for a few days after this and oh yeah, the searing pain in his lungs and how it feels like someone is using his heart as a stress ball. That’s only a small problem right now though. The real problem is that there is someone else in the bathroom right now and Evan really needs more tissue. The one in his hand is soaked in drool and snot to the point it’s running down his arm and soaking his sleeve. Which is, eww gross, just because he’s having a panic attack doesn’t mean he doesn’t have standards. He’s been holding his breath since he saw the boots appear from under the door of the stall he’s hiding in and now that’s beginning to be a bit difficult. Evan tears his eyes from where he’s been staring at the shoes and to the toilet paper dispenser. Looking up from the floor it seems a million miles away. The dull metal that is covered in sharpie penises is now his greatest foe. Slowly he moves his arm from where it’s plastered to his chest and reaches up to snag the tail of the paper. If he wasn’t already holding his breath he would be now, moving his arm down inch by inch the toilet paper descends to him. He’s doing pretty good so far, the sound of the sink gives him a chance to pull faster and the person not hear the rattle of cardboard on metal.

Just his luck though, the person sneezes and it scares his already jumpy nerves. On instinct he flinches, pulling his hand to his chest and making the metal dispenser clank deafeningly. He freezes once he realizes his mistake and lets out his breath as quietly as he can, but his voice still quivers into it.

“Huh?” He hears the person ask and a shoes squeaks against the ugly brown tiles. “Hello? Uhh, is anyone in there?” Evan tries to stay quiet but can’t hold it in anymore. He takes in a gasp of air and then proceeds to sob and gag into the toilet bowl. “Oh shit, uh whoa. Hey, hey which stall are you in?” The boy asks again and 1) like hell Evan is going to answer 2) his voice is gone and it won’t be back for a good three to five business days thank you very much. Instead he lets out another blubber and screws his eyes shut as more tears catch on his eyelashes and trickle down his face.  He can hear the boy pushing open stall doors as they bang against the wall and it won’t be long before he finds Evan. There’s a hesitant knock on his door and the sound of fabric rustling as he turns to see the boy sitting crisscross on the floor. “Hey, are you ok? Do I need to call someone?” Evan can’t answer that with anything other than a sob and hastily unlocks his phone to write a note. The boy is still talking softly to him as he types a message and slides his phone across the tiles, making a horrendous scraping sound. He sees a hand with long, slender fingers topped off with black polish wrap around the screen.  After a moment the boy speaks to him, “Hi Evan, I’m Connor. I can see you’re scared of me but I promise I won’t hurt you. How about you talk to me and I can get you out of here?”

Evan just lets out another sob and hyperventilates which is not good, he thought this stage had already passed but it has decided to come back. Connor is shushing him and telling his it’s going to be ok, and then sliding the phone back under the door. Evan reaches out and draws it back to his person and types another note before throwing it across the floor. He’s pretty sure he’s cracked it, opps. That will be something Future Evan can deal with because Future Evan is good and not a mess. Now Evan likes Future Evan, Future Evan has his life somewhat together. Now Evan is currently trying to hide behind a toilet and sitting in water, at least he hopes its water. No, that’s definitely piss. Great. The hand shoots out and snags the phone before it can go any further and reads Evan’s new note. “Evan, buddy, I know you’re really scared but I need you to unlock the door so I can get you out. We can go anywhere you want. I can call your mom-,” Connor doesn’t get to finish that sentence because now Evan is chanting no over and over and the sound of his voice mixed with sobs is a terrible sound that makes Connor’s heart ache. Evan’s mantra is cut off as he gags and dry heaves into the toilet and god knows how much he’s already thrown up for nothing to come up. “That’s ok Evan; I won’t call your mom. Just breathe for me, deep breaths. That’s it, good job. I can take you home, or out for ice cream. Everyone likes ice cream. Have you ever been to A La Mode? It’s really good, they have all these specialty flavors. My favorite is cookie monster; it’s got cookie dough, chocolate chips, Oreo bits and its blue! How cool is that?” Yeah so now Connor is rambling but it seems to be working, Evan’s breaths are calmer now and they sobs are few and far in between.

Evan makes some sounds that aren’t cries and sound a little like words. Guiltily Connor asks him to repeat himself because he couldn’t understand the first time. He doesn’t do too much better this time but Connor can make out a few words. “You can’t move?” Evan hums an affirmation and Connor reckons it’s time to slide the phone back to him, so he does. “Can you tell me why you can’t move?” As it turns out Evan is very, very scared, his mom worries too much and he doesn’t want to be a bother to her, and he hasn’t been to A La Mode and thinks it sounds nice. Connor learns this all over the next twenty minutes and at some point the school police officer appeared and Connor told him the situation. He then realized that he is indeed talking a boy down from a panic attack on the bathroom floor that’s covered in piss. What is his life? But hey, at least he’s not high, you’re welcome mom.

Meanwhile Evan is forcing himself to scoot closer and closer to the stall door as his whole body shakes. He’s cleaned up as well as he can but there’s no doubt his face is red as a tomato and his eyes are puffy. His hands tremble as he reaches his arm across the stall that feels like its miles long instead of feet. He finally latches onto the lock and weakly wraps his fingers around the notch and pulls with all the strength he has left. The lock doesn’t budge, not a bit. Evan whimpers and draws his hand back. One step forward, two steps back.

“Evan? What’s wrong?” Connor asks, voice full of concern, he shifts closer to the door, “go on, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Stuck,” Evan rasps.

“Stuck? The lock?” Connor has his hand of the handle now and is pulling it lightly, like that will help any.

“Mhmm.” Evan steels himself and reaches out again and pulls at the lock again, this time it comes loose and he flinches back as Connor tumbles into the stall, he has obviously putting his body weight on the door and wasn’t expecting it to open. The door slams against the wall with a bang and Evan finally gets a look at his helper.

Connor in unfairly gorgeous with long medium brown hair and an angular face that combats Evan’s own round one. “Uh, hi,” Connor says once his face isn’t kissing the floor. Evan rasps back a hello, fully aware that he looks like a Trash Child. Connor looks as flustered as Evan feels, hair a bit wild and cheeks flushed with this lovely red color Evan would like as a shirt. Connor clears his throat and looks around at the damage that Evan has made. His bookbag and jacket are scattered across the floor and the toilet bowl is full of tissues and spit. Evan tries to swallow but grimaces at the dry burn, the hyperventilating dried out his throat. Connor takes it upon himself to lead the way and gathers up Evan’s bookbag and hands him his jacket. He reaches past Evan’s head to flush the toilet and then stands up, reaching out his hand. “Up you get,” Connor commands and Evan shyly reaches out with his clammy hand and grabs Connor’s, who then pulls him up. His knees buckle and he ducks protectively in on himself. Connor wraps an arm around him and pulls him into his side, shushing and soothing him. “I got you, I got you. It’s alright Evan, I got you.” This makes Evan feels much better. They slowly shuffle towards the exit and Evan catches sight of the campus cop, OJ. Now Evan likes OJ, loves him even, but his mind only sees him as a threat at the moment and reacts by making him flinch and whimper into Connor’s armpit. How rotten, he was doing so well.

“It’s ok Evan, that’s just OJ. He’s here to make sure we get to the car safely and don’t run into anybody,” Connor reassures him but Evan isn’t so sure. Instead he closes his eyes and whispers, “go,” to Connor hoping he will lead them to safety. It takes them awhile but Connor slowly navigates the two of them through the school and to the student parking lot. Connor bids OJ goodbye once they reach his car and Evan scrambles into the passenger seat and puts on his seatbelt. To his right Connor climbs in and cranks the car, setting the air temperature so that it’s warm and comfy. They then pull out of the parking lot and Evan allows himself to doze off the gentle rocking of the car and sound of tires on asphalt.

Evan wakes with a jolt, still very groggy and exhausted. Connor is peering at him, leaned into the passenger side of the car.

“Hey wake up, we’re here.” It takes Evan a second to remember where ‘here’ is but then he looks at the fancy font on the sign and remembers Connor has taken him to get ice cream. Evan likes ice cream, who doesn’t like ice cream? Connor has taken it upon himself to unbuckle Evan already and he backs away from the door to give him space to get out. Evan stretches his legs out from where he curled into a ball in this sleep and realizes he’s very stiff. He shuts the car door behind him and trails after Connor into the quaint little shop. The bell above the door dings happily and the sudden chill of the shop makes Evan shiver. Connor looks at him with a soft smile and asks what he wants. Evan lets his eyes trail over all the flavors on display and other options on the chalkboard menu. After a minute or two of debate Evan taps Connor on the arm and points to the pastel pink and blue of the cotton candy flavor. Connor nods and asks what size he wants but Evan hadn’t thought that far ahead so he just shrugs and says, “you pick.”

Connor walks up the the counter and is pleasant with the girl and orders for them, two scoop cookie monster and one scoop of cotton candy. Evan bides his time by looking around the shop at the glass cases full of pastries and and other delicate décor that litters the counters and walls. After paying, Connor hands Evan his cone and tells him, “why don’t we sit outside? It’s a nice day out and the sun is good for you.” Evan nods in agreement and the bells chimes goodbye and they settle into the uncomfortable metal seats under the pavilion and take leisurely licks of their ice cream. Evan hums in contentment at the sweet sugar flavor on his tongue, it’s been so long since he’s had cotton candy ice cream he forgot how good it tasted.

“Good?” Connor asks and the shorter boy nods yes and looks over at his companion and tilts his head in a question. ‘Your’s good?’ it seems to ask. Connor chuckles, “yeah, do you want some?” He extends his hand over the table and tilts the blue desert towards Evan. Evan stares for a long time at the cone in Connor’s hand as some of the ice cream melts and a blue streak trickles over his long fingers. Evan clears his throat, blushing and tilts his head forward. He takes a slow lick and catches a bit of cookie dough and it starts to tumble, he jerks his head and catches it in his mouth, pulling away.  Connor is blushing that lovely color again and Evan has to restrain himself from reaching over and seeing if that color comes with a heat. Wait, what the fuck? He stops that train of thought and interrogates it thoroughly. ‘Head Evan that’s like hella gay.’ Head Evan just shrugs and waves a tiny pride flag around, honestly fuck Head Evan. Now Evan snaps back to the present when Connor asks him a question he didn’t hear.

“Huh?”

“I asked how you broke your arm,” Connor repeats casually but his eyes show he’s very curious, how interesting. Head Evan files this information away for later, research purposes. Evan looks away and picks at a hang nail, tearing the skin off. It stings as blood rushes to the surface. He should probably answer the question now.

“I uh, fell out of a tree,” he whispers and quickly shoves more ice cream in his mouth so he can’t talk anymore. Connor’s eye brows meet on his forehead and his mouth turns down into a little frown.

“You’re a senior in high school and you broke your arm falling out of a tree? Isn’t that like something an elementary school kid would do?” Ok that’s a little cruel but he does have a point. But in Evan’s defense he didn’t plan on being alive to deal with the aftermath of jumping from a tree. He says as much.

“I didn’t plan on it being a problem when I ju-fell.” That causes a stiff silence and they continue to eat their ice cream. Connor breaks the silence after a few minutes.

“Can I sign it?”

“Sign what?”Evan asks confused, head snapped up to look at the long haired boy.

“Your cast, can I sign it?” Connor clarifies.

“Oh, yes.” Evan nods and Connor gets up from the table, metal chair scraping on concrete. It makes Evan’s ears ring. He watches Connor walk to his car and rummage through the console, grumbling quietly before giving a triumphant, “Ah ha!” He comes back to the table with a sharpie in hand. Evan extends his arm and listens to the sound of the felt tip scraping over plaster. It should make his skin crawl but he doesn’t mind it in all honesty. Instead he watches Connor scrawl his name in big capital letters over his broken ulna. Evan smiles at how large the name is written, it takes up almost all the space on the cast. The two of them spend the next few minutes eating their ice cream and making slow conversation. Connor tells Evan he hates his parents and Evan snorts and murmurs something about teenage angst. Connor flicks a left over straw wrapper at him for that. Evan tells Connor he likes trees and Connor calls him a hippie. Evan blushes and tells him to shut up.

It’s getting to be four o’clock and Connor suggests they head home. Evan agrees once realizing how tired he actually is. He will defiantly be taking a five hour depression nap when he gets home. They load back up into the car and drive silently for a bit until Connor realizes something important.

“I need your address Evan,” he says, slowing to stop at a red light. Evan likes that, how much he says his name. It keeps him grounded. He tells Connor his address and where it’s at in context to other landmarks around town. “Wait did you say you live across from Hooters?” Connor has a smirk on his face.

Evan stutters out his correction, “Hoofers, I live in the neighborhood across from Hoofers.”

“Oh the big barn turned restaurant that closed and is now home to the aggressively modern and hypocritical church?”

“Yeah that one.”

The car is thrumming a somber song, engine weeping softly in loss and Evan can fully agree. They’re sitting in Evan’s driveway and he can’t quite convince his body to get out and leave, which is fine right now but soon Connor is going to notice and get wierded out. Evan really doesn’t want to lose his maybe almost friend so quickly.

“Can I get your number?” Connor’s voice is loud and sudden, it startles Evan. “Sorry,” he apologizes.

“You…want my number?”

“Uh, yeah. So we can stay in touch, and so I can check up on you.” Ok that’s a small disappointment. Connor, the beautiful boy, only wants his number to make sure he won’t end up dead. Which makes sense, who would want Evan the Trash Child’s number? But still, they connected so well, they had ice cream together. Ice cream creates a real bond that should not be messed with or taken lightly. Evan isn’t going to say any of this obviously; he just enters his contact into Connor’s phone and hands it back to him. Then they’re both sitting there again, silent in Evan’s driveway listening to the car cry farewell. He’s overthinking this, it shouldn’t be this hard. Why can’t he just get up and out of Connor’s 2008 Honda civic? ‘Well, it is a nice car.’ ‘SHUT UP HEAD EVAN!’  He can’t take it anymore.

“ByethankyoufortheicecreamandnotthinkingImweirdforhavingapanicattackinthebathroom,” he blurts out, snatches his bookbag from the floor board and darts from the car, across the driveway and up to the front porch before Connor can even realize what’s happening. Evan’s fumbling to get his key in the lock when he hears Connor speak from where he’s now standing by his open car door.

“Bye Evan, see you at school,” that’s nice. No big expectations. A simple ‘bye I’ll see you in the hall and never speak to you again.’ Evan can handle that, that’s a small thing Evan can do. So he gives Connor a small, shy smile and scurries into his house, slamming the door behind him. He can hear the car’s tires grinding asphalt and slowly driving away. Once he can’t hear it anymore he lets out a sigh and wanders to his bedroom, dumping his belongings on the floor and flopping into bed. He crawls under the covers and shuts his eyes, letting some peace finally wash over him.