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daisybeewrites · 3 years ago

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July — d.j.

for @dreamcxtcherr ‘s 3k writing challenge. congrats lena!!

word count: 1.8k

warnings: mention of car crash/death, mention of alcohol consumption, daisy cries, i think thats it lmk if not!!

ship: R x daisy johnson

okay y’all… first ever anggstttttt!!! i’m way too excited about it. if you want a fully immersive experience, i recommend listening to july by noah cyrus slowed + reverb

(gif uncredited on pinterest (ugh, i hate that. credit a gif if you use it!! im trying to find the owner)) update — found owner

It was another mission. Another nightmarish fire-fight where you almost lost a limb, almost lost a friend, almost lost your life. Twenty-four hours later and you’re back home, safe.

Well, as safe as you can be when your engagement is on the verge of breaking off.

You stare at the simple ring on your left hand. White gold band, a tiny amethyst set to the left of a diamond. There was a nearly identical one lying next to the sink, the only difference being the switched places of the glittering gems.

You know she didn’t do it purposefully. You had both been exhausted after what was supposed to be an in-and-out mission turned into a hostage situation. Daisy did what she always did as soon as you were home — take off her gauntlets, wash her hands in the sink, grab a snack, and hop into a steaming shower.

But you still can’t stop yourself from staring at it, eyes fixed, hands shaking, breath held and mind racing.

You used to join her. You would wash each other’s hair, ease each other’s sore muscles with delicate touches on tender purple-black bruises. She would lean into you, letting you braid her hair and falling asleep in your arms, drifting into a deep slumber. It was intimate, lovely; it was normal and perfect.

Taking a sip of your room-temperature beer, you slide off the cool granite of the kitchen island. You had a new routine after missions now, you just had to get used to it.

You hear the shower shut off, bare feet pad into your cosy bedroom, and the door shut with a loud creak. The minute squeak of the mattress tells you that Daisy flopped into bed.

A ghost of a smile lights your face. It looks more like a grimace, you think, as you check your distorted reflection in the green glass of your beer bottle. Chucking the empty bottle in the recycling, you run a hand through your dirty, salty hair. The comfy sweats you changed into an hour ago would need to be washed, the dirt still adorning your skin rubbing off on the black material. You exhale before heading down the hall towards the bathroom.

The tiled room is filled with steam, the mirror fogged up so that only a blurry outline of your silhouette could be seen. You are unrecognizable.

How fitting.

The quick, cold shower you take does nothing to ease your mind or body. You wipe the mirror in a circle, taking out a first aid kit.

With all your cuts bandaged and the proper creams Jemma had snuck to you and Daisy applied to your fresh bruises, you headed into the hallway in your towel.

Daisy is standing in the kitchen, lilac lounge shorts you bought her last Christmas showing off her tanned and scarred legs. She looks warm and soft, a very different Daisy than the superhero who had broken a mob boss’ legs just hours before. Her hair is wet and in braids. You frown. You always braid her hair.

If she hears you, she doesn’t turn around, so you take a moment to admire her. Ten seconds, that’s all you give yourself. It was a stressful mission, if you stare too long she might snap. From the back, you can’t see the dark circles you know are there, but you can see the tension in her shoulders and the slight tilt of her head as she ponders what to eat.

You say nothing as you go to the bedroom to change. You find a black pair of SHIELD sweats and an old, holey t-shirt you vaguely remember stealing from Fitz. A presence at the doorway catches your attention.

“Hi,” Daisy says tentatively. Your breath caught in your throat, your lungs holding the air captive until Daisy spoke again.

“I missed you.”

Your eyes widened. Maybe tonight wouldn’t end with one of you on the couch, clutching a six pack while the other cried as quietly as possible, tucked into cold, lonely sheets.

“Braiding my hair, I mean,” She clarified. Her fingers twisted together, rigid posture giving away her nerves.

The air felt humid, as if the open window had suddenly sucked all the AC out and let the mid-summer heat in. Your memory flashes to the last time you and Daisy had a normal, happy conversation.

The edges are fuzzy, but the pure joy in Daisy’s chocolate eyes is clear. Fairy lights strung haphazardly around the living room, a movie playing in the background, your lips on hers. Blankets make a ceiling over your head that shut out the rest of the world, this moment was only for you two. You played with the thin metal band on her ring finger, she ran her hands through her hair. Her matching ring scratched your scalp lightly. You both smile as you pull away. You whisper childhood stories, laugh at the funny parts and offer melancholic smiles at the not-so-lighthearted parts. You were happy.

That night you got the call — Lincoln Campbell, yours and Daisy’s best friend, had wrapped his car around a telephone pole coming off of a long shift at the hospital. His blood alcohol was almost .40.

Eggshells littered the house from the time you got back from the funeral. One wrong word, Daisy would snap and spend hours punching a bag until her fingers bled. You would fill those hours with whatever was closer — wine or your car keys. You pulled yourself out of your head, realizing you should answer her.

“I missed it, too,” You breathed.

Daisy made a small, unintelligible noise before collapsing against the door frame. You froze for only a second, your mind racing through possibilities. Was she bleeding internally? Was it her back again? Did she get shot and not notice until now?

You leap over to her, catching her as she crumbles to the hardwood floor.

A quiet sob wracks her chest. Your hands hover over her slouched back, unsure how to comfort her. At this moment, Daisy feels foreign. Her sudden vulnerability alerts you to how she’s been holding her emotions in for god knows how long.

��Daisy…” You start, hesitantly.

Daisy hiccups loudly, another wave of tears washing over her.

“Tell me to leave, I’ll pack my bags,” Daisy cried, “But I don’t, I-I don’t want to lose you!”

Burning tears gather on your lash line, threatening to fall at her words. You never could stand to see Daisy cry.

Your brows furrow slightly in confusion before you realize what Daisy is talking about. After Lincoln’s death, you two had fought increasingly more often until Daisy locked herself away or spent the night at May’s, and you went for drives until your car ran on empty. On those nights, bottles of wine disappeared from the cabinet without a trace.

Daisy sits up, stamping down her sobs, seemingly resigning herself to the fact that you aren’t going to say anything. Her trembling lip and red eyes pierce your heart. The astronomical distance between you two seems atomic now. You reach out quicker than lightning, shushing her cries and rubbing her back.

“Do you want to go?” You asked after a while. Your knees dig uncomfortably into the floor, your shoulder hurts from the ridges in the doorframe.

Daisy sniffles, her hair falling into her face as she looks away. You crane your neck down, carefully tucking her hair behind her ear.

“You know I’m afraid of change, I guess that’s why we’ve stayed the same,” You sigh, your chest constricting and squeezing the broken glass pieces of your heart.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself to continue, “But if you want to find a new life, someone who loves you better than I do, darling, I understand.”

Daisy is still frozen, stare burning holes in the floor. You’re glad that the two of you are at home, the poly-tectic adaptive materials hidden between the walls keeping the house from collapsing. By the slight groan of the foundation, you can imagine Daisy could bring down a mountain with the amount of pain she’s in.

Which can only mean one thing.

“I’m not enough,” You stated. It wasn’t a question. You glance down, a glint in the low light cast from the lamp on the bedside table catching your eye. She has her ring on…

Daisy finally, finally shakes her head ‘no’. You let go of a breath, guilt building every second that passes. She isn’t happy. You shouldn’t be happy that she’s staying.

“Feels like a lifetime, we’ve been trying to get by while we’re dying inside,” You say, gently.

Daisy snaps her eyes to yours, a desperation in them you recognize as grief.

“So much of the past year has been consumed by grief. We never took time off, we never talked about it. I’ve done a lot of things wrong, loving you being one,” She whispers.

You nod, there is no denying that you each had a part in getting to where you are now. Delicately, you grab her hand. She squeezes it, a rush of small vibrations traveling up your arm. Your chest flutters at the familiar affection.

“So have I,” You assure her. She gradually falls towards you, exhausted. You let her rest her head on your shoulder, her breath evening out as her arms wrap around you. You feel hot tears flow down your face, fall onto her hair. Slowly, you pull Daisy closer to you.

Hours later, the sun peeks over the top of the mountain range in the distance. You had adjusted the two of you sometime around two a.m., no longer able to feel your legs from how the floor cut off your circulation.

Sometime around three, you had gathered the courage to move Daisy to the bed, trying hard not to wake her. She had only turned over and not let go of your hand.

You haven’t slept at all tonight, thoughts spinning until you force yourself to pause and count to ten, only to repeat the pattern.

You know what you have to do. You know what’s best for the both of you. You’ll leave, pack your bags and find a place to stay until you can scrape up enough money to rent an apartment. You’ll go to therapy, learn to live without Lincoln, without Daisy. Eventually, Daisy will heal, too. You both have the team at your backs, no matter what happens. She would be okay.

But you know you won’t. The fear of losing Daisy, of losing your life, your home, yourself stops you. You can’t move on. You can’t move forward.

You know that the big changes it takes to heal could cost you Daisy. So, you stay the same. You give into fear. You’ll never be enough, never love Daisy right, never quite heal fully — and neither will Daisy. But you still stay.

You’ll always stay the same.

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ahhhh how was it? did you love it? any feedback? want more? put any thoughts/feelings/questions/concerns in the comments or my ask box!! i really enjoyed writing this and i hope you enjoyed reading it even more!!

<<3

#daisy johnson x y/n #daisy johnson x reader #marvels aos #agents of s.h.i.e.l.d.#angst #fic #quake #ashby writes #dousy #lincoln cambell x daisy johnson #lincoln cambell x reader #mcu #bioquake #jemma simmons #gn!reader

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eternalstrigoii · 4 years ago

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Your Own - II

We have something they didn’t plan on: alternating POV. I Borra (Maleficent: Mistress of Evil) x Desert Warrior Dark Fey (Reader); Maleficent x Diaval; Aurora x Philip; Conall x A Break.

Yet another love-filled shoutout to @vespertineoracle for putting up with my nonsense + loaning Nyvi where he’s needed.

“Dwellings space out along here,” Borra traced the open swath of farmland on the map between the stone walls of one human kingdom and the since-crumbled wall of thorns around the moors. “They’re surrounded on all sides but the sea.”

It was a matter of concern, and for good reason. Forays into the moors rarely went above single-pair scouting parties, and almost never included those who were not Conall, Borra, or you anymore.

“How do they survive?” Ini wondered aloud, scowling at the shapes meant to represent high peaks and rolling valleys; dense fields of crops nearly walled with grain. If not for the danger it held, the beauty of the rolling landscape bathed in night would’ve pleased you immensely. (You ran your tongue against the backs of your teeth at the memory of a melon stolen from a vine, its sweet, green flesh sugary and easily rent by your talons in the safety of the nest.)

“With help,” you replied, banishing the memory as quickly as it came.

Borra met your eyes, and you shifted your weight to the balls of your feet to keep your wings from drooping. He’d gone out alone the night before; he was as tense before he left as you were when he did. He cared for those defenseless creatures, some of the last of your kind left mostly-undisturbed. (Your kind, even if they weren’t precisely yours; they could do nothing to alleviate your plight, though there was much you could do for theirs.) You were the shield at his back, and you stayed to protect them while he was gone. You’d watched the sea for ships, for lights, for anything that could’ve been a threat until he returned. Unscathed, which pleased you. Angry, which did not. There were more poachers, and one of them got away. With a fey, he presumed, for he never saw the little creature return.

And now he seethed. He plotted, restless, at your side.

“Can we monitor a route?” Ini asked.

You were thinking less of scheduled routes and more of establishing your own sort of battlements, your own stations around the moors where they could be stopped before they entered.

You nearly thought Shrike had come to join you when she landed, except she stalked toward you with much too clear of intent. “Is it true?”

You were all torn away. Borra’s head quirked.

“Conall found a newcomer. One of us, out there.”

The since-crumbled wall of thorns, your mind reminded though you shoved the thought away.

You stood with him, followed without being prompted. Whispers betrayed collective curiosity, though no one dared approach. No one should; migrations were rarer and rarer these days. It was as though, beyond your self-imposed isolation, nothing of your people was left.

Maybe there weren’t. Maybe this one was all that remained.

You followed the scent of iron-burned flesh to the healers’ nest. You stood behind him as Conall kept pressure on her wound while Nyvi, cradling something that did not look like a bolt or the head of an arrow, placed it into the black stone bowl. It hissed, boiling the water while it burned off her blood.

You rested a hand on his back, watching the seawater froth and churn. The object bobbed, small and round. Compact. Like a stone for a slingshot, easily fired from a distance.

“They plucked her from the sky,” you whispered.

Conall’s gaze lifted. They were both soaked to the skin, you realized, and they had yet to unwrap a strange, bird-skull decorated material from around her head. It looked like leather, though why one would wear leather armor on their head puzzled you for a moment. Just a moment. Until the severity of her wound regarded you, and you tore your eyes away from the blood-soaked cotton Conall held to her skin.

“Will she live?” Borra asked, though not even he could keep the tension from his voice.

“She won’t die,” Nyvi responded. “Conall brought her in time.”

“Who is she?” you managed, though your voice was hardly above a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Conall replied, his voice even and low. Betraying nothing that the bone-dressed fabric plastered to her skin did not. “I watched her fall into the sea.”

You looked to him, though you knew he’d already decided. The wall of thorns was not made by collective strength or unity amongst the moor-folk; the crumbled wall of thorns had to be hers. They had to be her doing, though you couldn’t imagine why she would let them fall.

“Borra,” Conall cautioned.

He looked to you. You nodded without needing to be asked; the others could stay. If there was a chance he’d be fired upon, you wouldn’t let him go alone.

“Suren.” His voice was less guarded with you; don’t do this.

You had gone last down the woven flight-tunnel, though, and that meant you would be the first to leave. So you did, with Borra at your back and something like fear weighing heavy in your chest.

The others watched you leave as though they knew you would once word reached you. You wondered if they knew about the iron ball withdrawn from her side, and you bristled at the thought. You didn’t know her, yet you didn’t want her to die. Humans shed blood often enough at the expense of your people’s lives, people you had known since you fledged and those who had been lost long before you existed. Outsider though she was, she was one of you.

You kept close to the water with him. Your ascent hugged the cliffs. It was cool and quiet with thin clouds passing before the moon; the high twinkle of stars painted the black sky in a hue of glittering magic.

He held out his hand, and you fell back. Your wings flattened; you coasted alongside him into the low branches of a nearby tree.

There was a horse coming. It struggled across the river, with the water rushing violently around it, but it was sure-footed and its rider…

Was not dressed like a poacher. Not at all.

You scowled and lowered into a familiar crouch, keeping an eye on the big, white beast and the golden-haired child perched on its back. Her cloak was as white as its fur, and the floral pinkness of her dress made your eyes narrow.

Some part of you wish she’d seen you, quirking your head like the hawk watches prey. Saw the moonlight on your golden eyes and faltered. But it was the part of you that also held those moor-folk dear, and the part that backed your confusion as the girl swiftly dismount. “Maleficent?!”

The moor-folk gathered as she ran over the grass and the moss. They knew her.

“Godmother?!” Her voice cracked. She sunk onto a chair of woven branches, her slender body wracked with early sobs.

You looked to him, refusing to believe what it was you thought you saw. He was always so near to you in thought that if he believed it, you would’ve also.

But he watched her with sharpness in his eyes, and you shifted your weight nearer to him as though in preparation for attack. It would not be the first time you’d witnessed human deception.

“Please,” her voice was small and breathless, “come back.”

The moor-folk didn’t know what to make of her, but they gathered. They gathered like they wanted to comfort her. Like they knew her, and the absurdity of the thought nearly made you shake your head. Humans do not commune peacefully with fey, they never have.

“She’s not on the moors,” another voice called, and you raised your talons in preparation.

“Oh, Diaval!” the girl gathered her skirts and ran from the branch-chair into the arms of another man – human, you thought, though the only human smell came from her. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“No one’s seen her.” So they did commune with the fey. These two, at least. They understood their language, and the moor-folk…cared for them? Knew them in return? “She’s nowhere to be found.”

Not to them. But you knew where she was, and you knew who she was, though you waited for confirmation.

They both looked wrought.

“What if she never comes back?” Diaval asked, and suddenly patted the front of his feathered coat, “What if I’m stuck as a human forever?”

Then what are you? you thought, quirking your head again.

“I have to find her,” the teary child replied, and you bristled.

You can’t, you shan’t, and you don’t deserve to. Your kind shot her from the sky.

They looked off into the peaks, and you followed their gaze to the highest of them – the one that would make the best fortress, should their people need to be gathered.

“She’s the only one who can break the curse.”

Curses. Humans communing with fey. Absurd.

And yet, you still looked to Borra in hopes he thought the same. As though your uncertainty wouldn’t be mirrored.

Curses. Humans communing with fey. Poachers on the moors, and a dark fey nesting in the peaks none the wiser. None of it made sense.

“Have you ever gone there without flying?” the girl asked Diaval.

“No,” he admitted. “It’s a sheer drop. It won’t be easy.”

“We must.” The girl was…willful. Strange. She moved across the moors like she knew them well, and the flare of concern in your chest when she approached the little creatures wasn’t a response you could stifle.

“Leif?” she paused before one of the tree-men gathered along the forest’s seam, “Would you help me get there?”

The tree men communed, all three of them, before agreeing.

“You should let me go first.” Diaval joined her. “She may not…” He paused, as though struggling to find words. “She may not be open to your company right now.”

The child had her shot from the sky.

You bristled so hard, the flare of your wings came so abruptly, that Borra had to rest a hand on your shoulder to stop you from disturbing the trees.

“Please.” The child’s voice broke again, and real tears came this time. “This is all my fault. I need her, Diaval.”

The not-human was her mate, you thought in passing; he didn’t smell like fey, but the pain that flickered clearly across his face betrayed his agreement. He feared for her, the half-dead fey Conall brought back to the nest. There could be no one else. You hoped there could be no one else.

“We’ll find her, Aurora,” he said, drawing her close again. “I promise.”

You hated doing nothing, but nothing was what you did. When they left for the peaks, you and Borra took to the skies with information that you thought made no sense separately or together.

Not to anyone but Conall.

You left them to make sense of it on their own. In the safety of the nest, with Ini watching for ships or lights or flying projectiles, you had fewer qualms about leaving him on his own.

Or, so you told yourself. But you had to see her.

She slept still, her dark wings unfurled to her sides. They were preened enough to properly dry, though that didn’t stop you from combing out a spot of matted feathers when you saw it.

Nyvi redressed her wound. Again. You could tell by the growing pile of saturated bandages that he’d done it several times in your absence.

She was beautiful. There were chips in her horns like they’d been clipped by weapons, but they were nearly pristine. Her hair was long and straight, the color of wet bark. Her lips were the color of ripe berries. She was of the forest, then; appropriate that Conall of all of you would find her.

“Did you find those responsible?”

You tore your eyes from her face to offer Nyvi use of your hands. He accepted them willingly, offering you the pad of cloth that would continue to absorb her blood as long as it flowed. You held pressure while he gathered new bandages for her wound.

“We know they came from the fortress on the other side of the river.” Ulstead, you thought with mounting disgust. A name like spitting up a half-eaten bone. “She was there, and then they shot her from the sky when she departed.”

“Why would she go to a human fortress?” He slipped the bandages under her with the ease of pouring sea water, and wound them tightly around her stomach.

You were silent for a moment. It made no sense to you either, but neither you nor Borra could deny outright what you’d learned. “Because she has a human daughter, and it was a matter of courtship between her human daughter and their prince.”

His hands paused. He looked at you like you’d grown another set of horns.

“I know. Conall believes she’s already begun forging peace.”

“And what do you?”

You believed only what you knew, and the black marks around your wrists may have been covered by your gauntlets, but the ones around your ankles never were. The piebald scald on Borra’s back and sides. The lameness in Nyvi’s left wing.

“I believe what I see,” you whispered. “How much blood has she lost?”

“A deal. She’ll be weak for a time, but she should recover.”

Maleficent. You thought her name over, and it was nearly on the tip of your tongue when Nyvi gently moved your hands to finish folding her bandages. They were separate from the ones around her chest, covering her in place of armor.

“She won’t die?” you verified. It was because Borra had taken to protecting the creatures of the moors, you justified to yourself; she was one of you, whether or not you knew her. Your wariness, your hesitation, wasn’t mirrored in your mate. He wanted to protect her just as fiercely as the other little creatures who couldn’t defend themselves. He wanted to protect her even if she was shot down for attempting to forge an alliance between humans and fey.

“She won’t die.” Nyvi’s hands closed over yours and gave them a comfortable, chilly squeeze. “Come. We need to let her rest. I imagine Borra and Conall will be holding council soon.”

You nodded, fully in agreement, and yet you lingered.

You were used to rage when they tried to take your peoples’ lives. You seethed with him at the vanished moor-folk; every vanished fey was to be presumed dead for good reason. But, at least for the time, you were sad for her.

“She was all alone out there,” you said before Nyvi fully left. “With a human for a child and another creature for a mate.”

“She’s home now,” he said and caught your fingers once again. “Let her rest.”

You did, allowing yourself to be guided from the nest in which she slept with the cushion of shed down beneath your feet muffling your retreat.

You were sad for her, and you were sad for Conall, and you were, in part, sad for yourself, because his rescuing her from the bottom of the sea proved that there could be no diplomacy. If your people were to have peace, there must first be war.

“If Conall hadn’t found her, she would be dead.”

One of the forest-women nearby shifted restlessly. You knew her from the last celebration; she’d just welcomed a child into the nest, her first with her mate. They weren’t even a moon old.

You all had vested interest in Maleficent. In what became of her. Her existence was as much a joy as a threat, and, though Conall and Borra were largely in agreement, the gravity of your newfound situation escaped no one.

He told them of her daughter’s search. He told them everything – of the girl, of Diaval, of the moor-folk and his time protecting them. He told them how, in all that time, she evaded sight. Conall pressed that her defense of her human child shouldn’t come as concern, and Borra agreed; it wouldn’t be the first time the fey were blamed for carrying off one that was unwanted. But it changed nothing of the circumstance that brought her to you, the potential for that same child’s betrayal despite what you’d seen.

The only advantage that you had in regards to housing her was that no one launched ships. Not yet. Because the moors were surrounded on all sides but the sea, and that made the moors a clear advantage.

He held up the iron bullet, and the sound of burning flesh set your teeth on edge. He was used to pain, and you sought to be just as comfortable, but it was different when it was him. The sear of iron on your skin could be ignored, but the possibility of his pain could not, even when he didn’t flinch.

You were grateful that Nyvi stayed close. That his wing brushed yours even when it was physically difficult for you to unwind your talons from your palms long enough to provide a gentle touch in return. You had to brush his wing with your own in thanks; you couldn’t recall when last your circumstances escalated so quickly. Poachers. Escape. A mysterious dark fey shot down from the sky. A mysterious dark fey communing with humans. You should’ve distrusted her, and you did not, because she was alone and as badly in need of family as the rest of you.

Entertaining the alternative was too much. A traitor in your nest. Brought home and cared for by the people you loved most. Someone who would turn on you, let you die – or worse.

You all gathered because you were afraid. Afraid of what she meant, what had been done, and what would be done in retaliation.

You could offer them no comfort.

And that was why you were glad Borra rose to the occasion. He thought clearly. He planned ahead. If you were to go to war, he would lead once he knew the odds.

Conall must know that.

You couldn’t keep your eyes on either of them for very long. You were tense and it had no outlet. You were tired of planning; he should’ve taken you with to the moors the night before last. If you’d been able to do something with yourself before all of this, maybe what was left unknown wouldn’t make your skin crawl.

Like her loyalty. Like why she had been shot down now.

Like why you’d never seen her. With all the berries you’d foraged, the rabbits you killed, the herbs you fetched for the healers for their balms and salves and tonics; how hadn’t you seen her? How hadn’t you crossed her path? You had a suspicion, a faint, nagging thought that couldn’t be dismissed – had she seen you? Were you both predators keeping watchful eye on the other, or had your dance changed? Which of you remained the predator and which became unwitting prey?

“You’re wrong, Con,” Borra said, and your attention returned. Sometimes you thought he could’ve spoken from miles away and you would’ve heard him. “We have something they didn’t plan on.” He turned away from Conall. Stared into the shadows at the flight-path’s entrance. “We have her.”

You bristled, and you hated how quickly it began to ease.

She was no threat to you. She was wounded, cowering as though she’d never seen another of her own. Her eyes were bright like Conall’s, the crisp green of a forest in spring, and they were wide. Her wing was even partly folded around herself for protection.

Good, you thought. She distrusts you as much as you distrust her. But only that much. There was a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes. If you were kind, you would acknowledge her relief.

It was no wonder Borra didn’t share your reservations.

The collective of you shifted toward her, their attention piqued. Even Nyvi moved closer to you; you glanced his way and refused to acknowledge the quiet surprise in his features. She wasn’t supposed to be awake and mobile.

“She holds powers none of us possess.” He presumed. You presumed. You hoped. All the talk of curses and thorn-walls and great battles with fallen kingdoms leaving shifted soil and shattered trees had to mean something. But you didn’t know her, so it was little more than an educated guess.

“She’s wounded, Borra,” Conall replied, and you poorly resisted the urge to note his reservation.

“Who are you?” she cried. Maleficent. What would she have done if you breathed her name?

Probably what she did when Borra approached her. Her wings flared in self-defense, drawn up and fluffed to make her look larger than she was.

She’s been hurt before.

She was no warrior. Not like you, not even like the majority of you. When he got close to her, she froze, tense. The antelope in the open grass.

Teach her to fight, the part of you whispered that wasn’t demanding she show you that she already could. She held her own just fine with Borra studying her, with no space between them besides the teasing breath of provocation. You knew what he was doing, and yet you snarled low in your chest when he abruptly flew backward, momentarily engulfed by a swirling, green mist.

He didn’t land hard. He wasn’t hurt. But the step forward you’d taken was instinctual.

“You see?” You knew he spoke to Conall above the rest, and yet you forced yourself to release your breath. “You see what’s inside her?”

“Yes,” you whispered with them. He was right. Whatever he noticed, he baited the truth out of her, and it panned out in his favor.

“That is what will save us all.”

Or doom you, that nagging part of you whispered in the back of your thoughts.

But you trusted him. When the others took flight – when you all left her – you did not stay behind.

Whatever fear you have of her, place your trust in him. He has yet to be wrong.

“Are you coming with me?” He ran his hands over your arms while you stared into the darkness from whence you’d come. You watched the flickering bonfires of families not too much unlike your own, long lost, and the moist chill of the caverns bled into your clothes.

“Back to the moors?”

His fingers trailed over you. You closed your eyes, folded your wings. Sunk back into him. “We have to know what we’re up against.”

“We can’t afford to move quickly.” Though you couldn’t afford to doubt him, either. There was a reason he led, and it was the same reason that you loved him. He was smart, keen, attentive. And, as his wings folded around you, you released the tension in your posture at the reminder that he would never allow harm to come to any of you – not in battle, and certainly not in the damp cold of a lower altitude.

“The escalation worries you.” A statement, not a question, but an invitation all the same. He rubbed warmth into your arms and you leaned against him with your eyes closed, basking in his warmth like the lizard in the sun.

“She worries me,” you admitted. “Her closeness to them. She may be one of us, but she was alone, Borra. She doesn’t know our people. She has no loyalty.”

He sighed. The movement of his whole body against yours offered you comfort even when the subject didn’t.

“You saw her,” you pressed.

“She was afraid,” he murmured near your ear in effort to keep it between the both of you.

You felt for her. Truly, you did, but you stared at him. As though fear hasn’t led humans to hatred. As though fear wasn’t the undercurrent leading you to war – not fear of death or fear of extermination, but fear of whatever else might come instead. Whatever they did to those little fey, whether they killed them or entrapped them or kept them as live decorations; if they killed enough of you, there was nothing to stop them from doing the same to the ones that remained.

As deeply as you longed for freedom, you wanted to shed the fledge-down of fear that clung to you even more.

“Come with me,” he repeated, more gently. “I need your eyes.”

Take Ini, you almost said, but it would do you no good to wander around the nest and play at killing deer on the plains with your kinsman’s daughter.

You pressed close to him. Nodded into the crook of his neck.

The tide was high. You should’ve known with the moon the night before, but you took the long path into the moors, avoiding Ulstead altogether. There were necessary tactical advantages to your detour, especially considering you didn’t know whether or not the potential remained that you both could be shot from the skies, but you strongly suspected he had an ulterior motive in bringing you outside the nest on one of those rare daylight excursions.

The sun on your back made you splay your wings and coast on the tidal currents. There was brine in the air and it filled your chest with its freshness, its purity. The wheat fields were thick and golden and your fingers skimmed them when you had to fly low over them, the brush of their seeds against your palm tickling like the fine hair of some strange creature.

Low clouds kissed the peaks and traced their misty lips over your skin. You did a twirl onto your back, careful to keep high enough to remain out of sight.

But the wind still startled right out from under you when a voice rang out from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“To all who live on the moors--”

“Great skies,” you whispered, diving to stick close. You were high in the trees, and yet the sound reached you as though divine. Like the phoenix herself spoke from the belly of the earth.

Borra landed with you at his side, your fleeting dream of catching fish for lunch and perching in the mountains to let the wind caress your hair gone with the warmth of the sun while shielded in the canopy.

“--And kingdoms far and wide, the king and queen invite you to attend the wedding of their son, Philip, to Aurora in three days’ time. All are welcome--”

You looked to one another, doing nothing to quiet your surprise in the privacy of mutual isolation. Aurora? The daughter? Maleficent’s daughter? The girl on horseback last night?

Great skies. He was right.

“--And all are expected.”

You watched his eyes change. He planned, though you knew what would be done: fly low, scope out the battlement, keep to the trees and return the way you came. All potential threats needed to be identified; whatever you couldn’t do now would have to be revisited under the cover of darkness – you’d have to know the numbers of their men, the prevalence of their iron, the tricks they had up their sleeves.

“She betrayed her,” you whispered, though it sat strangely on your tongue. You’d witnessed mortal deception, but it never looked quite as authentic as the child made it seem.

“It’s what they do,” he agreed. “We’ll have to scope the battlement—”

“Know their men. Find their iron, and their tricks,” you finished.

His wings quirked, and the faintest hint of pleasure touched the curve of his lips.

“I won’t go into war not knowing what it is we’re up against,” you reminded him, though you knew he didn’t need to be. He wouldn’t ask any of you to follow him blindly into the unknown. You already knew they were taking fey, that they refined their weapons and had new methods of shooting you down from the very sky.

“I’ll never ask you to.” His fingers found yours and laced through them securely.

It was different, out there. Less stifling. Maybe it was because you’d soared freely through the peaks, or maybe it was the familiar comfort of his body heat perched beside you, but you abandoned your reservations.

You could be ready for war in three days. All of you, together. The risk was high, but with attention to detail and a prayer to your ancestors for luck that, in your heart, you’d already begun, your people might soon know freedom.

#Dark Fey #Maleficent: Mistress of Evil #Borra #Borra Maleficent #Maleficent Borra #Conall #Conall Maleficent #Maleficent Conall #Suren of the Cavernous Dark #In Which We Fill In Plot Holes And Straighten Out The Timeline (sorta)#I promised you New Content and I didn't lie but I also wasn't truthful

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pippastrelle · 5 years ago

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“A Not-So-Simple Story in Deapriffe”

Chapter One | Chapter Two | CHAPTER THREE

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Chapter Three: A Not-So-Easy Evening

[4k Words]

Kalyani wished she could have been more horrified to find Ahmed with a black eye. She was horrified. Still, at the same time, she couldn’t argue she was shocked. She wished she couldn’t have expected that from Ari and Barry. She wished she couldn’t have expected that from the company. She wished she couldn’t have expected that from the whole of Deapriffe.

She also wished she couldn’t have expected to have to convince Ahmed to get an ice pack before he returned the assembly line. As much as they needed him, Ahmed coming back from Clarke’s office with a black eye would have done nothing but stoke fires. Kalyani herself had to prepare her best ‘deferential secretary’ voice for when she returned to her office. The fierce emails and calls had already arrived for Clarke. She had to hold herself up through a whole afternoon of “Yes, Sir”s and “Mr. Clarke said”s while the four-hundred she and Ahmed needed hammered deeper and deeper inside the back of her skull.

Kalyani met Ahmed on the factory bus to head back home. It was packed with their – rightfully – furious colleagues. They protested the payments amongst themselves and to everyone else listening. She knew they deserved to. She knew everyone was just as stressed. But the noise reached into her nerves and injected her whole body with anxiety until it felt like she had a dozen vipers crawling up her back, constricting around her throat and piercing every inch of her skin. She had to keep her earphones in for the whole trip. Ahmed sat next to her. He shot her an understanding furrow of his eyebrows and lift of his lips whenever she caught his eyes while he mediated what light conversation he could with the others.

All through the bus journey, all through the stroll past Lord Way, all through the lift up to their third-floor flat, the four-thousand followed in their shadows. It festered and buzzed in their ears, until they shut the flat door and it was all the silence had.

They slipped off their shoes as usual and Kalayni hovered, only a few steps into the main room. They’d squashed the living room and kitchen into one. A low sofa and television took up one corner while a half-square of countertops ending in an oven and a fridge took up the other. They usually ate on the sofa but they had two plastic wheelie chairs propped against the kitchen counter too, which Ahmed would use to wheel around on whenever he wasn’t relying on his foot. She stared at her bedroom door. “I’ll…I’ll grab my laptop. We’ll look at the budget. See what we’ll need to do to get four-hundred.”

“Cool…I’ll go grab another ice pack before this starts getting worse again,” said Ahmed, indicating the sore cloud over his eye.

While he headed for the fridge, Kalyani forced her feet forwards. Her stomach churned, the floor a tipping ship, and the sensation didn’t let her go even after she had her laptop and was sat on the sofa. She gripped the laptop’s edge. She took deep breath after deep breath until, finally, she could turn on the screen.

“Okay. So. Since our savings aren’t enough right now to get two-hundred for either of us, the first thing we can do is take the money from our food budget. We can cut down how much we buy in a week and buy cheaper versions for the next month or two. Cut down on going out with people too. Even if it won’t get us much, it’ll get us something. We can do the same for any toiletries or clothes or things we’ll need. We’ll be fine,” she said, quite aware of her creased forehead and the hands covering her mouth failing to convince even herself.

“We’ve got four days to make up the rest of the money,” Ahmed added. “I can easily do more shifts tomorrow and Friday. That’ll get us some more.” He rose from the fridge with a bag of frozen chips pressed to his face. He’d had to put his sock between his cheek and the chips to protect his skin from the cold.

Kalyani’s eyes were boring into the digital budget. As her heartrate continued to spike, her hands shook over her keyboard and she swallowed. “I’ll– I’ll ask around the neighbours. Hopefully, they’ll have some sewing they can pay me for before Monday. I’ll work on my breaks and in the evening so I can get us a bit more before we have to also have to think about paying the rent next week which will take most of what we’ve saved right now and…”

“Kalyani, Kalyani, deep breath.” Ahmed rested a hand on her arm and joined her on the sofa. He took a deep breath with her. Kalyani nodded to herself and pulled her knees up to her chest. Ahmed offered her a bright smile through his makeshift ice pack. “We’ll be okay. We can do this. We’ve just got one tough month to get through then everything will be back to normal. We can do this.”

She nodded along. When he put the ice pack down and opened his arms for a hug, she gladly fell into them. They held each other close for a few silent ticks of her watch, willing to hide from the world in their embrace.

“I love you,” she said, the white ring on her left hand clicking against the black ring on his right.

“I love you too,” Ahmed murmured. He leant his head against Kalyani’s soft hair. He didn’t speak again. She held him closer, realising he needed her warmth as much as she needed his.

“If we can’t earn enough money by Monday, we can sell things too,” he said, his voice lowering as the held cheer slipped away. “We’ve got some decorations but…” He sighed. “It’s probably the console that’ll get us enough. Maybe the screen too.”

Kalyani glimpsed at the television and game console stacked in the corner. Games they’d been collecting longer than they’d lived together piled high in a neat, rainbow-coloured tower by its side. Selling them would certainly get them Clarke’s money. Selling their weekends of laughing and shrieking as they declared victory over the other would certainly get them Clarke’s money.

Her heart weighed her to floor. She closed her eyes with a weak, sad laugh. “It’s funny. The reason I asked you for a job at Clarke’s Motors in the first place was so I wouldn’t have to worry about the Sharks…”

Ahmed furrowed his eyebrows down at her. “You want to move?”

After a few seconds silent, she shook her head. “It’s just as bad everywhere else in Deapriffe. There wouldn’t be any point.” Her lips tightened as her eyes darkened. “It’s not like we can do anything to change it either. Not at this rate. Everyone’s used to it, and no-one’s going to be the one to get shot for a message. The police have probably been in the Sharks’ pocket since we were born. Wouldn’t be surprised if the local government too…”

Kalyani was hardly conscious of what she was saying. The anxiety built to a balloon’s pressure in head and all it could do was pour out of her mouth. Still, as always, Ahmed listened, his shining eyes unmoving from her. Kalyani shifted. “I’m best at Clarke’s. You don’t have to worry about me leaving. I know you’d never anyway.”

“No,” Ahmed agreed. He replaced the frozen chips on his eye and stared up at the ceiling. His lips twitched, but the circumstances restrained his usual smile at his thoughts. “I still remember the first time Dad let me sneak into the assembly shop with him. He was holding my hand the whole time so I wouldn’t run off but he went through how all the cars were made with me, who everyone was, and how it all worked and it was incredible. I thought it was the coolest job in the world. In school, everyone was telling me to ‘aim higher’ but being able to do it now with my own hands, I love it. I love getting those car shells and transforming them into something you see on the roads, knowing how every car’s constructed, seeing all the parts and effort that went into every one of them.”

Kalyani enjoyed the fire rising in Ahmed’s expression. It was so bright yet inviting, like a campfire, as if he couldn’t wait for the other person to get as lit up as he was. When he looked back, he offered it to her.

“I know there are things wrong with the company. I know stuff like welfare and the pay could be better. But I love the work so much. I love who I work with. I don’t want to have to give up on that if I can do anything to help it.”

Kalyani sighed and closed her eyes. “Yeah. Exactly…” She shifted against him and for a few seconds, she didn’t stir. Her chest glowed with Ahmed’s comfort yet her anxiety kept pumping her heart and turning her stomach. So, in the dark of her mind, she rummaged furiously for a solution. She pulled the whole flat into view, pricing everything in every drawer until she could find something enough for Clarke on Monday. Anything other than their precious games. And she found it. The thought dulled every sensation in her body.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back in a sec,” she said. She hugged him one last time before she left to her bedroom.

Ahmed waited. When she returned, she returned with a neat, varnished, square box. His face fell. “No.”

“I never wear it anyway. It might as well help us.”

She opened the box to reveal the beautiful necklace inside. The glittering, engraved gold was a celebration of craftmanship with its thick chain of interlocking segments and plaits and the heavy adornment in the middle that seemed carved with every flame in the sun. She’d inherited it from her grandmother. She’d never worn it, just like she never wore any jewellery, but she’d kept it for all years Ahmed had known her.

“It’s real gold. If we sell it, it’ll definitely be enough.”

Ahmed rose. He closed his hands around the necklace’s box. “Thank you. Thank you so much…I know just what we’re going to do.” He projected reassurance through every inch of his face for her. “We’re going to pawn it! They do that over at the horse races. We’ll pawn it, get the money for Clarke, then work for the rest of the month to get it back! I can do more shifts, you can do more sewing, and we can even sell some small things to help if we’re struggling by the end. We’ve got thirty days. We can do this!”

“Yeah,” Kalyani said, her voice wavering. “Yeah.”

“So we’ve got our plan! I can go to the racetracks on Sunday morning to pawn the necklace. That way we’ll have these four days and a whole month to save up to get your grandmother’s necklace back. We can do it.”

He hugged her again.

Enveloped in his arms, Kalyani murmured, “You can pawn it on Saturday afternoon instead. In case something goes wrong and we need Sunday to try something else.”

“Alright.” He broke apart so he could see her try a smile. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I love you. Thank you.”

“I love you too.” Ahmed cocked his head towards the kitchen. “Alright. Now, do you want to do the cooking together tonight or do you have some work to finish?”

“Don’t worry. Don’t worry. I can do the cooking too. I’ve got that one jumper to finish but I can do it tonight.”

“Or, how about you sit on the sofa and do that while I cook? That way we can still chat.” He poked her in the chest, pretending to be stern. “Remember? You’re going to sleep at a decent time tonight so you can have breakfast with me in the morning.”

She chuckled. “Fine.” She clutched her grandmother’s necklace box to her heart. She drummed her fingers against the old wood as her chest swirled with equal stress and relief, each cutting the other down whenever they rose. Four-hundred was still so much money to get, but they had her grandmother’s necklace to pawn, but…

Kalyani’s quiet exhale deflated her. She rested against Ahmed one more time and he held her in kind.

“Elise’s family has been really struggling since her husband’s accident,” she said.

He sighed. “Yeah.”

“And Łukasz is only nineteen.”

“Yeah…”

On the other side of Deapriffe, Thresher was just as miserable. For the evening, she’d found herself in the Mary Rose: its status as one of the city’s finest dining establishments evident by the mass of chandeliers, silverware, columns, and arched windows. It had the architecture of a cathedral, but one refurbished in the ‘modern’ image of square polished and glass surfaces, and the night’s guests had filled its every corner with a raucous chatter. The restaurant was a luxury most of Deapriffe’s population would never see. Still, Thresher could hardly appreciate it with loud Sharks and trembling waiters all around her.

Outside the wall of windows they had gazing out onto the city, the nearest billboard was dead. The road was in lockdown and the Mary Rose should have been as well. Except, when a procession of the Shark’s white cars pulled up outside your doors, you weren’t allowed to stay shut. A sea of black and white suits filled every gleaming table across the restaurant floor. Laughter and catch-ups washed the air, covering the few meetings beneath it. Discussions that would go on to dictate lives melted into inanity for passing ears.

Thresher sat on a central table alongside her mother and twin. She couldn’t even wear her frustration on her face. Eyes from every corner flicked to the Shark boss and her children before hurriedly moving on. Even the waiters, who looked upon the mass of Sharks with indiscriminate terror, noticed how the attention warped around the three of them. They skirted away accordingly, until a lift of a hand had one darting over to take care of anything any of them wanted.

Sandra Vaughan reclined in her seat with a wine glass in hand. She ran through the other major Sharks for her children, supplying anecdotes for how she’d dealt with each of them. Thresher played the part of an interested listener. She kept her attention on her mum, she smiled, and she recognised enough of the names to add comments of her own, each of which Vaughan worked off with a proud glint in her smile. Every one wore Thresher down further. Her moments of success hit her harder than the failures: the moments where she realised she could dress up as the perfect, cisgender, Shark son her mum wanted forever, and she did not know how to deal with that prospect.

Finley, on the other hand, made no show of anything. He didn’t bother to hide his boredom at the sound of politics. He tilted back in his chair and texted his friends across the restaurant, enjoying the sight of the waitresses. Many of the women had caught Thresher’s eye as well, the restaurant’s black uniform blouse and pencil skirt a gorgeous shape on all of them. However, she stuck her attention to their table and continued draining her glass. The attention of a musclebound Shark never came as welcome to civilian women like them.

“Clarke made a decent point about Letizia Fulgoni,” Vaughan was saying. “She’s been raking in the profits recently. Shake that down and you’ll have yourself a nice bit of extra income.”

Thresher raised an eyebrow. “‘Shake that down’?” She chuckled. “Don’t worry. We won’t even have to bother. Fulgoni’s got no history of trouble. She’s got the new location but without any real safety nets, she’s not going to risk disobeying us. There’s no need to waste the manpower threatening her.”

The lines across Vaughan’s face flattened. “Watch yourself. It’s a pit trap too many Sharks fall into. Going easy on the businesses because things are ‘comfortable’ is the surest-fire way to losing everything to whichever upstart’s nearby. The biggest mess I’ve ever had to deal with was in Wobbegong’s–”

Finley snorted loudly. “God, these names are stupid!”

“He’s a stupid man,” said Vaughan. “Wobbegong earnt his name. The only reason I didn’t kill him was because I wasn’t in the mood to deal with his brother’s inevitable revenge and lose me my best bookkeeper. Wobbegong, the pathetic bastard, had all his businesses ‘banding together and refusing to pay’. Bryson had to take over and double down on the whole road to get things back in line.”

Vaughan caught Finley’s exaggerated slump in his chair to her side.

“I understand. I understand. When I was your age, I didn’t want to have to care about all these names and faces either. People learnt their lessons through fear and all I had to consider were the drinks and the men I wanted that night.”

Finley burst into laughter. “Is that why you left Dad at home tonight?”

“Shush,” Vaughan chided – smirking. “Tonight’s for the family business family. You’re controlling your own territory now. Knowing the names and faces pays off in the long run. You’ve got to know what it takes to piss people off, what they’ll do when you have, and where you hit to hurt them the most. Sometimes, it takes a burnt-down house. Sometimes, it’s a simple punch to the gut.”

“Do we have to worry about Clarke at all?” Thresher asked.

“Please. Clarke would rather cut off his other ear than be an issue for us. He’ll stay in line. Meanwhile, you’ll get some extra cash out of it.”

Finley spun his knife between his fingers. “Shame. He looked hilarious this morning. Let’s increase the pay next month. I’d love it if he didn’t get the money.”

“So, if we don’t ruin our most useful asset,” Thresher continued, with a pointed turn away from Finley, “you’re saying we can rely on Clarke. We’ll use his decades of collaboration to our advantage. Let Fulgoni know any disobedience from her will just profit Clarke and there’ll be no risk of them banding together. This way, we get all the benefits without bothering about the extra Sharks and potentially agitating the Deapriffe police chief living in our territory.”

Vaughan’s lips twisted behind her wine glass. She set it down and flicked her hand for a new round. “James Dunn is firmly in our pocket. I make sure of that. He hasn’t done anything against the Sharks in all of Deapriffe. He’s not going to start because it’s affecting a business down the road. The only thing you’re risking by acting is a few civilians’ bones. That’s nothing in the grand scheme of things.” Her gaze settled on Thresher’s face. Thresher turned to avoid it but Vaughan ordered her back. “You know what I’ve been hearing.”

“I know.”

“Thresher…” Vaughan groaned through her teeth, caught between her care and frustration. “Listen. When you look weak, it makes me look weak.”

“I know.”

“You’ve got to start showing your backbone. You already have everything you need. If something broke out here right now, I’d trust the two of you to come out on top. All you have to do is make it so no-one’s got any doubt of that in the mind. Keep your efforts on that, then everything else they could say becomes irrelevant.”

Thresher caught Vaughan’s significant look. She raised her eyebrow. “Wondering if I’m gay again?”

Finley sniggered. Vaughan didn’t say anything.

Thresher rolled her eyes, not that it could stop the constriction of her heart. “No need to ‘worry’, Mum. Trust me. I am not interested in men.”

A stiff waitress arrived with their drinks. Vaughan took hers with an understanding gesture towards Thresher. “Take some direction from Finley. This job is all about experience. Keep getting fights under your belt and it’ll become second nature.”

“Yeah. Sure. That must be– Oh, I didn’t order a rosé.” Thresher passed her glass back to the waitress. “This must be for another table. I’ll have whatever white you’ve got.”

“Oh.” The waitress – a beautiful woman with red snuck into her uniforms in her locs and her heels – stopped. Gingerly, she collected the glass and Thresher’s face fell at the look of cold disgust piercing through her made-up eyes. Then, she cursed herself for not having expected it. The waitress attempted a civil, service worker nod before leaving to get Thresher’s drink. Vaughan’s hand snapped around her wrist. The waitress yelped.

“What do you call this service?” Vaughan demanded.

Thresher’s heart punched against her ribs. She rushed to take the rosé back. “Mum, I don’t care about this.”

Vaughan refused to loosen her hold on the waitress’s wrist. “Tell me your name.”

“…Sofia.”

“Full name.”

Sofia tested Vaughan’s grip before realising she was trapped. “Sofia Gálvez Moreno, Ma’am. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll get him his white right now.”

Vaughan hauled Sofia’s arm forwards and Sofia crashed against the table in front of Thresher. “We’re in no rush here,” Vaughan said, as if delivering Thresher a present. “You’ve got the time to teach Sofia some respect before she goes get you the right drink.”

Sofia’s eyes snapped up, wide. “No! Please, Sir, it was an honest mistake!”

Thresher put on a scowl for her mum and brother. She leant back in her seat, as if she couldn’t care less, and growled. “Get me my order.” She raised the rosé. “I’m keeping this. Come back with my white, on the house, then stay out of my sight for the rest of the evening.”

Sofia nodded like a child’s toy pulled too many times. “Yes, Sir! Right away, Sir!”

Once again, when she attempted to leave, Vaughan refused her. Finley leant over the table towards Thresher. “Here’s some of that ‘direction’ for you. You’re not teaching nursery.” He slapped her bicep. “All that time at the gym isn’t for show. People remember a broken arm way more than any of your wittle mean words.”

“No! Please!” Sofia cried. She met Thresher’s eyes, pleadingly. “Please, you have to understand. I’m just tired! I’ve been on my feet since seven this morning and I haven’t been sleeping well for weeks now. I’ve been busy looking after my sister’s baby! My sister’s got a heart disease and she’s in hospital while her son is very young. He’s only a few months old. My sister doesn’t have any other family in Deapriffe so I’m the only one who can watch him nights and look after her and–”

The words stabbed dagger after dagger into Thresher’s heart, horror painting her face uncontainably. Meanwhile, Vaughan and Finley sank deeper into their exasperation and incredulity as they heard the next rambled sob story on a list the length of a motorway. Vaughan put her face in her hand and groaned. “Enough!” She tightened her fist. Sofia cried out in pain.

“Mum–!” Thresher started.

Vaughan uncovered her tired expression. “Just shut her up!”

“Please! Don’t hurt me!” Sofia begged.

As Thresher looked around helplessly, Finley banged his hand down on the table. “For God’s sake, Thresher. Look! It’s easy!”

Thresher’s eyes shot wide. “Finley!”

“No!” Sofia recoiled.

Finley rose.

“DON’T TOUCH HER!” Thresher roared. She wrenched Sofia out of her mum’s hand. Sofia stumbled onto her heels past Thresher and the talk in the restaurant blew out like a bulb. Thresher faced Sofia, thrusting her hand at the exit. “Get out of here! No-one is going to follow you or they’ll have me to deal with.”

Sofia needed no convincing. With a final glance to Vaughan and Finley, she fled as fast as she was able to in her heels. Thresher watched her until the fire exit door had clattered shut. Her blood pounded like gongs in her ears. Her breathing rusher in and out of her chest. Neither succeeded in disguising how quiet the Mary Rose had become.

As instantly as they had stopped, the surrounding Sharks made a point of continuing their conversations and keeping their eyes on their own tables. Vaughan and Finley, however, had nothing to distract from their rage. Finley held his fists so tight his knuckles were white. His teeth seemed ready to crack against each other. The severe lines on Vaughan’s face cut through her skin as if freshly torn.

Finley tore his eyes off Thresher, facing his mum. “I don’t need him. I can do this by myself–”

“No! We do this as a family,” Vaughan snarled. Thoughts burnt behind her eyes. She pulled her voice down into something low and even. “Finley, when I tell you, take your brother out into town. I want him back with a kill. We’re going to get through his block.” She slammed her fist against the table and levelled her finger at Thresher. “And you are going to man up!”

Thresher’s eyes fell. She didn’t move.

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Chapter One | Chapter Two

I’m only posting three chapters for now. I might post more depending on what feedback I get!

Also, guessed the film I based this off? DM me with the correct film and I’ll draw whatever character you want for free!

#my writing

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