#He would have gone to his bar or perhaps the place where he died if so

[duncanor]

Oh, Warwick went down the mine because he was looking for Silco...

[itsmewillful]

I will Always Find You

Main Masterlist

Character Masterlist:

(Vox x fem!reader)

Word Count: 5782 (i got too carried away)

Outline: You, the wife of the infamous media overlord Vox, falls from Heaven and you find yourself in a chaotic new world. You meet the Hazbin Hotel crew, but most of all, you met him. Your long lost love.

Warning(s): Canon typical violence, language, etcetera.

A/N: Heyy guys, I totally was not gone for an entire year. . .but, I'm done with High School now so I will probably start posting a little bit more often. . .*no promises though. my memory is absolute garbage*

Also, why am I obsessed with a TV?

Story below the cut:

Heaven.

The place all virtuous and 'perfect' people ascend to after living the life every good person is meant.

You don't even know how you got here. You always thought that you would go to Hell. (Not to put it lightly) Perhaps it was because you were widowed at a rather young age. Perhaps it was because you were murdered by your late husband's arch rival. Or maybe, it was a bit of all.

Your life on earth wasn't bad per se. In fact, you had a very happy life. You got married at the fruitful age of 20, to your best friend, and lived in a very comfortable home. Your husband, Vincent Holland, was a big-time news reporter in your hometown.

But, why was it in Heaven that almost all your memories regarding Vincent were blurry? As if someone with significant power was preventing you from reminiscing on your past life?

You could barely remember his face; his award winning smile. His sapphire blue eyes, and his dark hair.

You hated this.

You couldn't even remember how long ago you died.

Hell, you couldn't even remember how you died. Just that you were murdered one day and your body was left to rot in a random alley.

A hand waving in front of your face interrupted your sad train of thoughts, and your attention immediately shifted back to your friend. Or acquaintance, you weren't exactly sure where your friendship status lay.

"You alright there, partner?"

You sighed slowly and nodded your head in affirmation. You weren't sure if you were doing it to convince them that you were okay, or yourself.

"I'm alright, Kai, just a bit tired ," you mumbled pathetically. Kai was a very beautiful shark-like angel. You met them some time ago and instantly clicked with one another. But, Kai was one of those people that had a tendency of gossiping with their girlfriend Molly. And you were never comfortable sharing anything beyond your life in Heaven.

Which was a pity because you were sure if you shared it, you wouldn't feel so fucking stressed out.

The shark angel let out a small laugh and gently patted your head.

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say m'lady. You know if there's anything bothering you, you could always talk to me or Molly, right?"

You again nodded your head, even though you probably would never take up the offer.

"Hey you guys! How are you both doing?"

Speak of the devil and he shalt appear.

"Hey Molly! I see you're finally off of work?"

"Yup! And I brought a treat for you both!" Molly said in a sing-song tone of voice. Kai smiled with a nearly evil-like grin and made grabby hands at their girlfriend.

"Gimme, I can smell the baked goods!"

You chuckled at Kai's antics and stood up from the chair you were sitting in. Kai raised a brow at you and you motioned with your hand that you were going to get another drink. You picked up your now empty whisky bottle and began to head over to the bar where you and Kai find yourselves frequently whenever you both have had a long day at work.

The bartender, Mr Smiles (as Molly so lovingly named him) greeted you with a very drunken smirk when you arrived at your favourite destination.

"Hello there, Mrs. Holland. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

You rolled your eyes and sat down on one of the barstools, placing your cup down and sliding it over to the bartender.

"Another, please." you said simply. Mr. Smiles blinked at you before grabbing your cup and pouring more of the golden liquid into it.

"The 'Another' for the lady." he said cheekily, to which you giggled. You snatched the cup up from the table and practically downed the strong liquid and forced back a gag when it burned your throat. The bartender chuckled at your silliness and leaned over the bar so you could hear each other better over the loud chatter of the Cloud Nine bar. (You and Kai always found the name of the bar to be hilarious)

"So, you never drink this much unless you have something to spill. Need to talk about something sweetheart?" he asked with a patient tone of voice.

You sighed dramatically and leaned back against your chair, deep in thought.

"I just. . ." you trailed off in thought before sighing again in annoyance at your capability of explaining your biggest problem.

"You just?" he tried to urge you to continue, but was rudely interrupted when a flock of angels came bursting into the room.

"His Holiness, Archangel Michael needs to discuss important matters in Town Square. Everyone present is required to make an audience immediately."

Murmurs began to fill the room in confusion of the sudden announcement. You raised your brow at the bartender, quietly asking him if he knew what all the commotion was about. He shrugged before continuing on with putting the remaining glasses away.

"Hey, partner, we need to head out to Town Square." Kai said, putting a webbed hand onto your shoulder. You nodded and stood up, following close behind your two buddies. Molly, like always, had a small hop to her step as if she was always happy and excited about things. Her partner smiled at her giddiness and soon began to also skip along with her.

Oh, how much you missed being able to have someone to be close with. And once again, your thoughts began to turn back to your late husband, Vincent.

You missed him so much.

And you were fully aware that your beloved Vincent was in Hell. The place you were also sure to go to when you kicked the bucket. But alas, here you are, in the city of silver and gold.

You stopped abruptly when you reached Town Square and noticed how big of a crowd was already there. Thousands of angels and souls alike, all stood cramped up around a huge balcony that belonged to Archangel Palace.

The chatter began to quiet down when the all-loved Archangel Michael stepped up to the balcony and waved to the crowd to silence their speech.

Kai bent over to you and whispered about how interesting things were going to get. You didn't respond, but instead gasped when a photo got projected onto the side of one of the Palace's huge spires. It was a really bloody scene: demonic-like creatures were sprawled all over the ground, torn to shreds from what you could tell. What made you feel faint, however, was the carcuses of angels. What the fuck were angels doing in Hell?

It seemed that a lot of other people were questioning the same exact thing, and Michael, once again announced order from the crowd and the only sound remaining were the hushed whispers.

"It has come to my knowledge that a secret organisation has been founded without my permission. Adam, the first man, and Sera, have been discovered sending down angels every year to kill them." He stopped mid explanation and waved his hand over to an angel that stood close to him. A scroll was placed into Michael's hands, and he unscrolled it and began to read whatever was written onto it.

"According to the words of Sera: Hell has become too overpopulated, and a risk of war could arise. Exterminations have been a necessity, and is, therefore required to keep balance between Good, and Evil." Michael immediately crumpled up the scroll, and threw it back at the poor angel that was beside him to catch.

"This is all tyranny, of course. Me and the Council did not agree to such lunacy, which is why, we are going to have a public vote as to whether or not Sera should be ex-communicated from Heaven."

A loud gasp came from the crowd.

Especially from Molly, who also seemed to begin to tear up.

"That means she'll be thrown to Hell!" she choked back a sob in surprise. Kai patted their girlfriends back to try and sooth her large and soft heart.

You, however, were enraged from the idea of angels going down and killing people. Your beloved Vincent was down there. What if he was killed?!

And like always, your spiral of thoughts was interrupted when Michael began to speak again.

"Just to be absolutely clear, this is never to be discussed with anyone ever again. After the vote is casted, anyone caught discussing this topic will immediately be casted from Paradise, and into the pits of Hell for treachery. I cannot be clear enough."

Murmurs filled the Square as everyone agreed to Michael's proposal.

"Great! Well, everyone better head off to vote now! Have a great day everyone." And like that, he vanished in a cloud of golden smoke.

You didn't realise your jaw was hanging open until Kai mentioned that you looked like a venus-fly trap waiting for a bug to land in your mouth. You clamped it shut instantly and glared at them.

"Chill! It was just supposed to be a joke!" They huffed in faux offence. Molly giggled at her partner's antics, and gently rubbed her fingers in between Kai's fins that decorated their body.

"Calm down, love. We need to head to a voting booth so we can cast votes. I know what I'm voting for."

"Yeah, I can't believe such a thing was happening behind our backs! Who knows how long it has been going on?"

Molly sighed and rubbed her fuzzy face for comfort.

"I don't know, but I hope it wasn't for too long. I believe some of my family is down there."

"Yikes, that's tough. I'm sorry for that." Kai said with sympathy laced in their voice.

You blinked back tears that were forming in your eyes. You would not cry over the possibility that your Vincent was double-dead.

You were strong.

+++

You sighed heavily when you arrived at your small apartment later that evening.

"What a rotten day," you mumbled to yourself. As if on command, your pet land-shark Vark came running into the foyer. You smiled instantly and picked up the little creature and began to pet him between his eyes.

You and Vincent loved sharks. It was a shared passion you both had that made you best friends instantly. When you first got married, you both always joked of getting a shark and naming it Vark.

Well, you had the shark, just not Vincent.

You were thinking about him again, and it was making you feel bad once more.

Why couldn't you remember some things? Who or what was making you forget?

You placed Vark back onto the ground, who of course, whined with the lack of affection from your part. You stepped over the land-shark and headed over to your balcony, that had a perfect view of the Embassy of Heaven. The place you go to whenever you have questions regarding the after-life and anything else.

Maybe there you would find answers.

With a new destination in mind, you grabbed Vark's leash and hooked him up to it. Vark began to wag his tail (well, his fin) in excitement about where you would be taking him. You smiled again at your pet's adorable-ness and began to head back outside once more.

The streets of Heaven were very peaceful. Just about no soul was out and about. It made sense since it was rather late. Around eleven o'clock actually.

Soon, the golden pillars of the Embassy came into view, and you let out a sigh when you realised it was still open. You approached the heavy double doors and swallowed back a scream when they opened up automatically. Vark found it hilarious however, when you just about died a second time from a mini heart attack.

You huffed at your shark and headed inside the golden-themed building and found that it was practically empty. I mean-duh it was empty, it was basically in the middle of the night.

A Cherub, from the looks of it, approached you and gave you a rather judgmental look over.

"Honey, I'm sorry to say this but no pets are allowed." the Cherub said with an irritating tone of voice.

You stared at the flying goat-creature and rolled your eyes.

"Vark, is a service pet. I am afraid you can't throw him out." you lied with a fake smile. One thing that Vincent taught you to do well, was fake things. You were especially good at putting on a fake show. One of the things that, once again, surprised you that Heaven looked over.

Wasn't lying a big sin?

The Cherub interrupted your thoughts when she cleared her throat rather obnoxiously.

"Alright honey. Whatever you say. To what do I owe the pleasure of assisting you with this evening?"

"Oh, well. . .I am not so sure how to explain it." you answered truthfully; slightly cringing at your lack of effort of just telling her.

The Cherub pulled out a clipboard from thin air you assumed (since she most certainly wasn't holding one earlier) and began to scribble something onto it.

"Well, Mr. Heart will be able to assist you with whatever, 'complicated' issue you have got going on." She handed you a piece of paper that had practically illegible handwriting on it, and pointed to a corridor that led to a couple of office rooms.

"Hope you find what you need, honey. Good night." and like that, she sauntered off to what you assumed to be her office. What a weird person, you thought with a click of your tongue.

You began your tread to Mr. Heart's office, and stopped when you reached the door. You lifted your hand to knock but stopped when the door was flung open and a rather energetic angel stepped out of the room.

"Hey there! You must be one of the 'poor souls' Chili sent to me! Come on in!" he moved aside and held a hand out for you to shake, to which he practically tore off yours when he shook it rather rigorously.

"The name is Heart! What's yours m'lady?"

You mumbled your name back and he let out a very loud laugh.

"Why, Mrs. Holland! Quite the pleasure to be meeting you!" 

You nodded your head and held back a gasp when he pulled you by the hand into the office.

"So, tell me what has troubled you enough to venture here so late in the night?"

You opened your mouth to begin speaking, but clamped it down when you couldn't find the right words to say. Damn it, you were nervous. You couldn't, however, pinpoint if it was from the very very close proximity of the Angel, or the lack of knowledge of how to explain your memories being jumbled up.

You could begin by telling the angel to take a few hundred steps back.

"Sorry, but um, could you step back a bit?" You asked with a shaky breath. The Angel smiled with pearly white teeth, but didn't seem to move an inch.

"I can't hear you clearly if I am too far back. It is best if I stay here." He said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. (or Heaven)

You nodded, even though you doubt that was the truth. You mentally noted to never come back here again once you're down getting some answers.

"So, I have a question." You began.

"Everyone that comes here has questions. But I can't exactly be sure that your question is legal to answer or not."

Your eyes widened in curiosity. Some questions could be illegal to ask? Flashbacks from today's event clouded your thoughts, but you immediately shook them away. A traitor is how you would be viewed if you discussed with anyone about today. And you would be quite foolish to bring it up with an official member of the Council.

"So, you were saying, Mrs. Holland?"

"Why am I not able to remember some things about my life on Earth?" You may as well pull off the bandage and stop dancing around the bush in fear of being judged. Your worries worsened when the Angel's eyes seemed to darken a little.

"Whatever do you mean, darling? What memories?"

"That is the whole point! I know that I can't remember some things! I just don't know what." frustration was very clear in your voice at this point.

Mr. Heart laughed wholeheartedly as if your 'situation' was the funniest thing anyone has ever told him.

"Well my dear, no need to get all fierce with me! I only want to assist you. And it seems that you are treading on very dangerous waters. I would watch out if I were you."

You swear your eyes became fire. How dare he act as if your troubles were something scandalous! Vark began to lick your leg as an attempt to calm you down, which worked for a moment until the 'ever lovable' Mr. Heart reached a hand out and began to rub your shoulders as if he had any right to touch you.

Vark, being the wonderful pet he is, noticed this and bit his leg. The angel howled in pain and kicked your beloved baby and he began to wail in pain. At this point, all you saw was red as you lunged onto the man and began to beat him up with what some people would call a 'mother's fiery.'

Some raised voices from outside of the office eventually joined the chaos of the room, and you were dragged off the very-much battered up Mr. Heart. Well, Mr. Heartless to you.

"Mrs. Holland! How dare you strike a Seraphim! That is considered treachery to the Hierarchy of the Council!" the same Cherub from earlier screeched at you in a high-pitched tone.

"Well I'll be damned! He touched me without consent and kicked my pet! I was defending myself-"

"You lie! One sin after another! How could you!?" you felt yourself being picked up from two service angels, and being dragged to another room, your shark following you right behind.

"Where are you taking me?" You shouted, attempting to pull off the two angels that were holding you roughly.

"We're not taking you anywhere. You are going to be sent somewhere." the Cherub said with a malicious tone of voice. You bit back a sob when the words processed in your head.

They were going to send you to Hell

You eventually approached a door that read 'Employees Only' and met a room that had an arch that took up the entire floor.

The portal to Hell. The place they were going to toss you into for something utterly stupid. How hypocritical of them. Heaven, the place of love and peace? My ass!

The Cherub flew over to a panel on the side of the wall, and loud sirens were heard throughout the room. Hell, you bet the entire 'cloud kingdom' could hear the loud blaring the room was making.

A red coloured portal began to appear on the ground within the structure of the arch. You gulped and felt tears begin to dwell in your eyes.

This was it.

Good-bye Heaven. Good-bye Kai and Molly.

You could hear Vark wailing from the loud noises and you attempted at twisting around to look at him. Your last attempt at begging for your shark's mercy was cut off when you were tossed into the portal.

You fell for a moment.

Then everything went dark.

+++

What awoke you from your 'dreamless sleep' was the feeling of something wet being dragged across your face. You moaned in pain when everything came crashing down on you. Literally.

Your back hurts, your head hurts, hell, even your face hurts.

You opened your eyes and noticed your beloved land-shark was on top of you, licking your face. You didn't feel anything but pure joy at that moment when you realised your shark wasn't going to be left all alone up in Heaven.

"My baby! I thought I wouldn't see you again!" you cried aloud and clutched the shark tightly against your chest. Vark seemed to love the attention and began to get all giddy from your loving embrace.

You pulled away from him after a few minutes, and began to observe the scenery around you. You appeared to be in some sort of alleyway, noting that there was garbage and other things that you didn't care to find out what it was exactly. You stood up slowly, and nearly fell back to the ground when you felt your knees shake.

Damn, you fell hard.

(Not as hard as you fell for Vincent though)

Vark noticed that you were in pain, and began to lick you again as a way of comforting you. You smiled softly and patted his smooth head in reassurance that you would be alright. Vark got the memo, and jumped from your arms. You attempted to stand again, and lent against the wall for support.

"Vark, I need you to do me a small favour." You said with a small voice. Vark wagged his fin and his tongue poked out of his mouth in anticipation for what your next words would be.

"Can you go up ahead and see if there is anyone that can help me? I don't think I'm going to be able to get around."

Vark tilted his head to the side in slight confusion to your words, to which you sighed heavily.

"I'm hurt Vark. I need help." You said a bit more simply. Vark recognised the phrase from when you trained him years ago, and immediately ran around the corner of the alleyway in search of some suitable help.

Who are you kidding? This is Hell. Why would anyone want to help? You sighed and placed your fingers on the bridge of your nose to attempt to relieve some stress that was building up.

What a rotten day.

+++

Minutes turned into hours, and you began to grow weary that something had happened to Vark. That is until you heard the familiar pat pat of Vark's fins.

You looked up from the corner you were hiding in, and noticed a very tall demoness was approaching you with Vark and-was that Molly?

"Oh my gosh! Are you alright?!" The demoness exclaimed with pure worry in her tone. You smiled weakly and shook your head.

"No, I-I'm sorry if I'm a bit of an inconvenience. You see, I was kinda kicked out of Heaven? And I'm injured from falling. . ." You babbled on. Maybe you hit your head harder than you thought.

The demoness held a sympathetic gaze in her eyes, and she looked over to her companion who was observing you as if you were an anomaly.

"Wait, you're from Heaven?"

You nodded your head, and the fellow seemed to get all smiley. Why? Who knows.

"That's crazy toots! Ya know, my sister is up there, I wonder if you eveh got to meet 'er."

You shrugged nonchalantly.

"I didn't meet much folk up there. I'm not much for socialising."

The spider-like dude nodded his head in understanding.

"'Tis fine, we are all different. Anyway, the name is Angel Dust, and this is her majesty Charlie." He pointed to himself then waved one of his other arms to the blonde demoness, who you now know as Charlie.

She was beaming with complete and utter joy. Why do they both smile so much when they are in the fiery pits of inferno?

"You need to come back with us and tell us EVERYTHING! You could be so helpful for my hotel!" Charlie began, but then immediately stopped once she noticed you were very much lost.

"I'm so sorry for being so direct with you! I'm Charlie, as Angel said. I should've asked if you wanted our help first. I mean, of course you want my help! I mean, do you?" She awkwardly trailed off when she noticed that you were staring at her as if she had grown another head.

Hotel? What does she mean by that?

"What she is trying to ask is if you needed a place to stay?" Angel asked, brushing his hands through his hair (was it hair?) and smoothing it over. His hair (it was definitely not hair but you didn't know what else to call it.) reminded you of Molly, and your heart ached at the thought of Kai and Molly going to your apartment and not finding you there.

You felt tears welled up in your eyes, but you tried hard to not look like you were about to burst into a puddle of sadness and utter hopelessness.

Charlie noticed this, however, and she crouched down to your height and engulfed you with the warmest hug you've ever received in a long time. You felt the dam break, and immediately you began to sob. At this point, you don't even know what you are crying over.

Maybe it's for everything that has happened over the past-decade?

Decades?

You were not entirely sure at this point honestly.

You both eventually entangled each other from the hug, and she offered you a hand to help you up. You took it gratefully, and stood up slowly to prevent yourself from falling back over. Charlie smiled at you softly, to which you grinned back.

"Alright now, are we headin’' back to the Hotel?" Angel asked with a hint of impatience in his voice. Charlie nodded her head, but looked back at you to make sure that is what you wanted. You properly smiled that time, and they both took the answer as 'yes'.

+++

The hotel was nothing like how you imagined. You learned on the trip there that the hotel was a place where sinners dwelled to try and redeem themselves to earn salvation.

That was the most wholesome thing you thought you would ever hear in Hell. There's hope for you yet.

You were currently in the lounge of the hotel, where a lot of 'group activities' took place on a daily basis. You and Vark were on top of a very comfortable couch that was tucked away in a corner. You were honestly so comfy, that you felt yourself dozing off. Until you heard a voice that made you want to rip your ears off.

"Why, hello! I didn't know our beloved Charlie had once again found another unfortunate soul to try out her silly project!"

The man's voice sounded muffled, almost as if he was speaking through some sort of antique microphone from ages ago. You made eye-contact with the looming figure, and noticed he reassembled a deer in a strange and unique way.

Who the Hell was this man? And why is he so-red?

As if he could read your mind, he shoved his hand in your face to shake and practically announced to the hotel who he was.

"The name is Alastor! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!" You smile you returned was weak but you still shook his hand, and sighed when you realised he wasn't about to break your hand like the other guy. Mr. Heart or whatever his name was.

That stupid prick. You were mad at him again.

"No need to frown, dear! Smile some more! You're never fully dressed without one!"

This Alastor was starting to get on your nerves. And he seemed to be a staff member of the place, which only meant you would be seeing him a lot. That is if you stayed. Also, his own smile was slightly unnerving. . .not to mention kind of creepy.

"Alastor! Leave the poor girl alone." you heard Charlie call from another part of the lounge. Alastor rolled his eyes before he turned hot on his heels to argue back that he was simply 'introducing' himself.

Whatever, you didn't really care.

You stood up from the couch, Vark following closely, and began to sneak away from the chaos of the Hotel. You eventually found yourself on the sidewalks of the busy street of some part of town.

One thing you noted was how many bright neon lights decorated the sides of buildings and billboards. Vark seemed to be lost in the flashing colours and noises of the advertisements playing on TV's.

There were so many TV's. Which triggered a long lost memory that you never remembered from your time in Heaven.

It was a year or so after you and Vincent got married. He had just landed a job as a news reporter for a small company that was local to your hometown. You were aware that he loved all the new technology that was being released too quickly to follow up on. But you never expected him to one day bring back an extremely expensive TV for your living room.

"Vincent! What on Earth did you get this time?"

He rolled his eyes and rolled a portable box TV into the kitchen for you to examine.

"I got us a TV. It's especially for you so you can watch me when I'm on the afternoon news." He said with a cheeky smile. You chuckled at his antics and headed over to him to give him a hug.

"You're such an attention seeker, and you're also adorable."

He only laughed at that, and hugged you back just as tightly as you.

"Only for you doll, only for you."

The memory faded, and it left you standing idiotically in the middle of the sidewalk. That was new, and not to mention, so heartwarming.

You missed Vincent. A lot. And you were aware you kept thinking about him. Must be because your memories are no longer blocked.

Vark began to bark at an advertisement when you noticed a man with a TV for a head appeared on one of the TV's close to you. He was talking about some sort of security system, but you didn't care. What you did care about was how familiar his grin was to you.

That wasn't a coincidence, was it?

Vark distracted you from your thoughts when he began to run away when the scent of seafood wafted through the air. You out called after him and began to spring after the shark.

How does an animal run so fast with fins?

You once again got lost in your thoughts and didn't notice that you and your runaway shark were headed towards a huge crowd that was forming in front of a building nearby. Vark, being so small, ran in between the demons of all sizes and continued on his way. You were about to do the same until you ran into someone and knocked yourself and the stranger down.

"Woah! Careful where you're running off to!"

"I am so sorry!" You squealed when you realised that you had unintentionally caused a scene. You had landed completely on top of a random person; in front of a huge crowd; and it was the same man with the TV head.

Ah, what luck you had. Your thoughts were cut off when the TV headed man began to look you up and down, which made you very...uncomfortable? But his gaze felt familiar, as if instinct was telling you you knew this strange man.

"I feel like I've seen you before, do I know you?" He began, but you cut him off when you scrambled to your feet when you noticed Vark returned to you with some fish in his mouth. Or what you assumed was fish.

"Vark! You are in so much trouble!" You announced, bending over to pick up the mischievous land-shark that has caused oh-so-many problems with you today.

You heard people around you murmur, to which you raised your brow to, but decided to ignore. You turned back around to again apologise to the man you so rudely knocked over, but found him staring at you as if you had hung the stars in the sky.

What was his deal?

You heard him mumble your name, which definitely made you jump a bit.

"What was that?"

He rushed over to you instantly and immediately grabbed your arm and pulled you into the building the crowd was forming around, completely ignoring all the commotion that began to arise outside.

You both eventually reached a secluded corridor, and you found yourself standing in close proximity with the man.

Who even is he? And what the fuck gave him the right to drag you around like a doll?

He called your name again, and you felt his hands gently cup your cheeks. You met his artificial gaze, and you all but gasped when it all finally clicked.

Vincent Holland. Your long lost and beloved husband.

"V-Vincent?" You stammered, completely bewildered that you had somehow found him in a city with millions of people. Maybe luck was truly on your side finally.

"H-how?" You started, but got cut off when a pair of digital lips met yours in a sweet kiss. Your eyes widened in shock: you were kissing a TV. But this was also your husband. (Who had a screen for a head somehow…)

You closed your eyes and wrapped your arms around his neck and deepened the kiss, humming softly when he began to bite and suck at your lips. You pulled away, however, when Vark began to cry from the lack of your attention.

"Vark! Stop it!" you scolded him. Vincent chuckled at the interaction to which you raised a brow.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh nothing. I also have a land-shark named Vark." he stated as if it were the most obvious thing. Your eyes widened in disbelief.

"Are you being serious?"

"Yes, doll. I got him as soon as I found out you could have one. And I named him Vark because, well, we always joked about it."

You smiled so sweetly at this. You and Vincent coincidently having a pet shark and naming them the same was just too heartwarming to you. You pulled him back into another kiss, to which Vincent welcomed whole-heartedly.

You pulled away after a minute when your lungs burned for air, and noticed Vincent was staring at you adoringly.

"What is it?" You asked.

"I thought I would never see you again. You don't know how much I've missed you. I looked for you everywhere as soon as I was able to to it safely. Even though it didn't happen as fast as I wanted, I knew I would always find you." he whispered. He kissed your head gently, which you leaned into slightly.

You felt your heart ache a little, when you realised that he probably didn't get to live in an oblivious bliss to your absence. A perk of living in Heaven, you supposed, was the lack of memory of anything that could make you wish the fiery pits of Inferno.

"Me too Vincent, me too. I'm so glad that I found you again." you placed your forehead against his (screen), and shared a loving embrace.

You and your beloved Vincent, was once again, united. 

i finally looked over it, and part one of the prologue is up. if there is any mistakes i didnt catch, feel free to let me know!

also, i love vark. he carries this story ngl.

But I still will because this story felt very. . .rushed. even though it's so DAMN LONG HOLY SHIT.

-will

[k9wa]

𑣲 MINE, ALL MINE. ft. SATORU GOJO

⠀ — so when i die, which i must do,

⠀ OR

⠀ — it isn’t gojo’s death that kills you, not more so than the circumstances.

⚠︎ 236 spoilers, angst, gn reader, i miss him so much i’m literally spiralling, its been three months i actually can’t take it anymore, angst, Angst, maybe angst idk. wc 797

december 30th rolls around faster than you can hope to process.

nothing in your apartment has been moved even the slightest inch in the last week. 

two coffee cups still sit atop the kitchen counter, their contents long spoiled and beginning to smell.  one of them is far worse than the other due to the abundance of cream and sugar inside it. 

a large pair of black boots, leather with a pointed toe stay messily in the doorway— you’ve already memorised the steps to take not to trip over them and knock them out of place. 

the bed remains the same, blankets and pillows in the identical messy pattern they were on the morning of the 24th. (you haven’t even gone into the bedroom, actually. you don’t have the bravery. you sleep on the couch.)

…the place is empty. it’s full, what with the clutter and picture frames on the wall and furniture. but it’s empty. cold, even. like a hand reached in through the ceiling and grabbed any warmth, ripping it out without mercy and leaving you in the frigid remains.

he should be here, you keep thinking. this is his home too.

maybe you’re dramatic. maybe his death shouldn’t have turned you so utterly pathetic. maybe you should be able to get a semblance of a fucking grip and at least clean the apartment that is suffocating you with memories you can’t bare to discard because it’s all you have left.

but it isn’t satoru’s death that kills you, not more so than the circumstances. it’s how.

and it’s not that he went out in a blaze of glory, fighting against the strongest sorcerer of all time who he, momentarily, had backed into a corner. not that he died with a smile on his face, the adrenaline of combat surging through his veins because to his core he enjoyed it.

but that it was megumi who he had to go against. that he found it easy to fight him no holds barred because of the irreparable mark the boy’s father had left on his very soul when he himself was just a boy. why? why did he deserve such a fate? why was it placed upon him? it isn’t fair.

his death incapacitates you because of how sudden it is. with no warning, lured into a false sense of security, just to have the rug pulled out from under you. at only 29 years old, over ten years of companionship are reduced to nothing but what used to be.

you’ll soon forget how his hand feels in yours, the sound of his laugh, the tickling of his hair against your nose when he nuzzles your cheek. it’s nauseating just to think about, yet not being able to recall at all might just be more than you can handle.

it’s not satoru’s death that kills you, because everybody dies. and in your line of work, it’s always sooner rather than later. satoru, strongest or not, is—was human. his death would rear it’s head some day, that was something you both knew. 

but fuck you’ll curse every night to a god that doesn’t listen, and to the walls of a room that no longer feels like yours that you didn’t get more time.

he deserved to hit 30, to have what remained of his students crack jokes and call him old, and to watch him whine and run to you with complaints. he deserved to grow old enough to where he could finally be at peace with the death of suguru getou, or at least find peace within it enough to where it didn’t plague his life anymore— despite his insistent denial that it didn’t.

fuck what he deserved, damn it all to hell. you wanted him to do these things. wholly and perhaps even selfishly. 

you wanted him to grow old with you, 

you wanted him to stay by your side so you could stay by his. 

you wanted him to reach a point someday where jujutsu society no longer had the two of you bound in heavy chains like two puppeteers; despite satoru’s advocacy and determination to make it different. where you could live your life together free of its terror.

…you wanted to see him succeed at that so badly. to see the proud look on his face when he no longer had to watch more children be sent to death.

look how well that worked out, huh, satoru?

you open the front door to your apartment, feet weaving easily around the pair of shoes obstructing the walkway. you walk past the same two grey coffee mugs on the counter, past the half shut bedroom door, and sit on the couch. you lay down, still in the same clothes, the same shoes.

you spend the night wishing it was you who’d gone first. 

maybe tomorrow you will have the bravery. 

⠀ 𑣲 MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

[imyourbratzdoll]

𝒃𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒂𝒘𝒚𝒆𝒓

🍓the strawberry shack masterlist🍓

summary - andy has been having a tough time between his job, his wife and his son in the hospital. he decides to treat himself to something sweet.

warning - smut, oral sex, gloryhole, cheating, swearing, daddy kink.

18+ only please, the gif and headers I use aren't mine. thanks to @lomlisarilevinson for sending in the requests that started this au.

Warnings and Reminders - Please do not plagiarise, copy, repost/republish, adapt, or translate any of my work on any social media platforms, apps, or third-party sites. The only platforms I post my work on are: Tumblr and Wattpad. I do not own any character of any franchise (Marvel etc.) All my works are fiction and may be dark or triggering content: READ ALL WARNINGS BEFORE PROCEEDING.

Andy couldn’t keep dealing with his wife and his work. He had been so stressed, having to deal with the asshole trying to steal his cases and then coming home to his wife nagging him, making him miserable and wishing he was anymore else other than there. It hadn’t been the same as in the beginning, not since she intentionally crashed the car with his son inside. Their son was lying in a hospital bed, in a coma, all because of his wife, but he couldn’t find it in himself to leave her. Laurie had pushed him to his breaking point today, causing him to walk out, slamming the door and head toward a bar, only to be stopped by the flashing pink sign next to it.

He had always wondered about this place, wanting to see what it was all about but knowing it wasn’t suitable for him as he was married. Not that it had stopped many men, but still. Andy liked to think he was different from all the rest. Maybe if he still held love for his wife, he wouldn’t be walking through the door of The Strawberry Shack. Perhaps if she didn’t make him feel so drained and dead, he wouldn’t be putting cash onto the counter and walking through to where the girls were held. 

Andy surveyed the room to see who would be perfect for this little affair. He wouldn’t waste this. What was the point of cheating on his wife if the other woman wasn’t worth it? It wasn’t like he was getting anything at home, so the woman he chose here had to blow his mind. Andy walked over to your area, feeling himself harden in your presence. Something about being around you without actually seeing you did something to the men. As though you were a siren, luring the poor defenceless men into your trap. He decides to start small, wanting to test the waters before fully committing. Andy’s hands move down to his slacks, unzipping them slowly and taking his hardened member out, groaning as he strokes his hand up and down, swiping his thumb over his leaking tip. 

He moves closer to the hole in the wall, feeding his thick cock through it and groaning when he feels your wet tongue flicking across his swollen head. You slowly suckle him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you take his cock deeper, moaning around him as you taste his salty taste. You choke on him, becoming messy with your movements, unknowingly causing the man on the other end to try and find something to hold onto as he feels his soul begin to leave his body. You suck hard on his tip, swirling your tongue around his leaking slit, slurping him wonderfully. Andy’s eyes roll to the back of his head, wondering if he has suddenly died and gone to heaven. No one had made him feel like this. The way you were sucking his cock felt amazing, and it was so worth cheating on his wife for.

His head falls forward, connecting with the wooden wall as he pants, feeling his cock start to twitch, and his balls tighten. “Ugh, fuck! That’s right, darling. Milk daddy of all his cum!” Andy groans, moaning as you swallow him, picking up your pace until hot cum spurts from his mushroom tip deep into your mouth. You moan around him, swallowing every last drop of him before cleaning Andy up, licking him clean from the white cream. Andy pulls out of the hole, tucking his softening cock into his dress pants and zipping them up. “Thanks, sweetheart.” He doesn’t even feel a pang of guilt as he looks down at his wedding ring, shrugging his shoulders as he already plans to return to you. 

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

[gaily-daily-musings]

Read a fic once based on this old fairy tale called Bearskin. It was about a man making a deal with the devil. For 7 Years he could not bathe or groom himself. At the end if he succeeded he would be rich beyond his wildest dreams. It took place in colonial times but I'm changing it to modern times because of reasons. (“Modern” as in sometime in the last 30 years or something idk)

-

The devil must be bored if he's talking to him, Obi-Wan surmised. He's injured and currently laying on the side of the dirt road. He'd been drinking heavily. The war had torn England apart. But he'd remained steady in the faith that at least he could come home to Satine. They were engaged to be married and had wanted to wait until after the war.

He came home to a funeral. She'd died a fortnight before he arrived. Her parents offered him condolences and a place to stay. He declined.

He'd meant to drink himself to death. It seemed he was on the right path if the figure in front of him is to be believed.

The devil appeared as a frail old man but there was a secret delight in his eyes. A joy found from the suffering of others. Perhaps Obi-Wan is closer to death's door than he thinks if he's able to recognize Satan in disguise. That or he's gone insane.

“Have you come to take me? I would have thought I'd be bound for elsewhere.”

The old devil chuckles. “You are, but not quite yet. In the meantime, I can offer you a deal.”

It's so cliche. Obi-Wan snorts. “I don't do deals with strangers. Or the devil.”

“You may call me Palpatine.” The old man croaks. “Save yourself from death and be rewarded greatly in earthly pleasures.”

Obi-Wan is a man of god. Or he was, anyway. The war took much from him. He has nothing and no one. So with nothing to lose, he decides to listen.

“For seven years you must not bathe nor groom yourself. You cannot change your clothing or tell anyone else the reason why. If you do, I will claim your soul for hell. But if you succeed, I will give you riches untold. You will never want for anything ever again so long as you live.”

Obi-Wan hums. The pain on his side thrums. The bar fight from earlier had not gone in his favor.

“Don't worry, I shall even the odds for you.” The devil produces a furred cloak. It looks to be made from a large animal. A bear most likely. “Put this on and wear it always. When you reach into the pocket you will take out a handful of gold. It will never run out.”

Obi-Wan looks at the cloak outstretched towards him. Infinite money would definitely make things easier on his journey.

He laughs then, low and joyless. The devil had hit him exactly where it hurt. He'd always been rather vain about his appearance. Being unable to maintain his personal hygiene was certainly quite the tailored test of strength.

Maybe it's the alcohol in his system muddling his higher thoughts, but he takes the cloak.

“Deal.”

-

The first year isn't necessarily horrible. In fact it's quite good. Not being able to cut his hair or nails or trim his growing beard grated on him, but it's a minor inconvenience.

That being said, it was nothing compared to the dirt beginning to cake onto his skin. He itches for soap but never gives in to the temptation. He was good at self discipline. The devil had misjudged him. He'd win this easily.

He stays at luxurious resorts dining on king's meals. He travels the country. Sometimes in taxis, sometimes on foot. The money in his pocket ensured he always had food and a place to stay.

The second year gets a little harder. He's begun to smell. Obi-Wan has to dig into his pockets twice now to get a room rather than just the once. The nicer 5 star hotels start to turn him away, pointing him to a local establishment.

He begins to braid his hair, not knowing what else to do with it. He wonders just how long it is going to get and when he will have to start tucking it into his pants or wrapping his long beard over his shoulder. For now though, it is bearable.

By the time of his fourth year, his skin has darkened so much he no longer appears English at first glance. Soot and mud cling to his hair and clothing. It starts to feel like a second skin. An outer layer stitched into him. The bearskin cloak wraps around him like it is a part of him. He looks more like an animal than anything else now.

It is near the end of this particular year that he travels to America. He'd never been before but wondered about going often. He has to bribe a shipyard captain to let him stow away on a barge. An airplane would never have let him on even with proper credentials and an entire truckload of gold.

The journey is long and hard but he makes it in one piece. He is grateful for the rain on the way there. He is not allowed to clean himself, but natural rainfall is unavoidable and thus a loophole. He loves to be caught in it. Standing in it on purpose would count as bathing he thinks, so he never does so if there's shelter around. But to be out in the open and nowhere to go? It was wonderful. A tiny respite from the horror of his reality.

America is not as beautiful as England in his opinion. But it isn't bad either.

9 times out of 10 a taxi driver or Uber will refuse him service, so Obi-Wan opts to walk most places nowadays. He doesn't mind so much.

He travels through town after town. They seem to get smaller with each one he passes.

One night Obi-Wan finds himself a bit cold and tries to find warm lodging. The only hotel in town refuses him business even with the money he presents. Perhaps they thought the coins were fake. He didn't blame them. Who would believe a homeless looking beggar to have a pocket full of gold?

He settles out back in the alleyway. He'd bought a sleeping bag a long while ago for this exact purpose. Just as he's zipping himself up he hears some men yelling. He sits up and gets out of the bag. He peers around the corner of the hotel.

Two men were pounding on the door to one of the rooms.

“We know you're in there Jinn! Give us the fucking money!”

The men are holding guns. They looked serious. Obi-Wan's heart chills.

A man's voice–Jinn he assumes–calls out. “I can get it tomorrow! I already told your boss!”

“Yeah well the boss changed his mind! He wants it now! Open the fuck up!”

Obi-Wan's feet move before he realizes it. War had taught him to not fear death. He's used to charging into the fray.

He approaches cautiously but deliberately. One of the men, brown haired, jumps back and holds the gun up.

“Who the fuck are you?!”

“Christ Jack, It's just a hobo calm down.”

Jack glares back at Obi-Wan. “Do I look like I have a handout? Get lost!”

Obi-Wan teaches into his pocket and holds out the gold coins. “I have money. I'll pay what Jinn owes.”

“The fuck?”

Suspiciously, with the gun still trained on him, Jack moves closer. He takes one of the coins and holds it up.

“Holy shit these are real!?”

“What?”

The other man takes a coin as well and bites into it. His eyes go wide.

“Is this enough to cover the debt?” Obi-Wan asks.

The two look at each other.

“Uh, yeah?”

Obi-Wan dumps the gold into Jack's hands. Confused, the two men leave presumably back to their boss. Obi-Wan should probably go too. He doesn't want to stick around if a mobster catches wind that some homeless man wandering town is loaded. No telling what they'd do if they caught him.

Just as he's turning to go pack up his sleeping bag, the door to the room opens. An older man steps out. His hair is long and gray. He looked tired. There are bags under his eyes like he'd been awake and worried for days. Obi-Wan knows that look.

Jinn stares at him, taking in his state of dress. Obi-Wan knows what he looks like. More importantly what he smells like. His nose had long since stopped working, but from the reactions of others he knows it's nothing good.

It's the stench that gets people more than his dirtied appearance. The last hotel that had accepted his money and made him sleep in the janitor's closet. They'd set up a small cot and shoved it into the room. They'd probably burned the sheets afterwards.

Jinn scrunches up his nose in a familiar gesture. But then he braces himself and takes a step forward, “You…paid my debt?”

Obi-Wan doesn't really know what to do. He has never been in this situation before. “It was nothing.”

Truly it wasn't. There was far more money where that came from.

Jinn’s face falls in aching relief. He breathes out a shuddering breath. “I–Thank you, I–I don't know what to say. Thank you!”

He startles Obi-Wan by coming closer. No one had willingly entered his space two years. Jinn stretches out a hand. “You saved my life!”

Obi-Wan stares. For a moment he lifts his own on pure reflex. But then he looks at his own hand. At the filthy overgrown nails. The mud caked onto skin. He drops it. Jinn doesn't let it discourage him.

“How can I repay you?”

“Don't ever borrow money from loan sharks again?”

Jinn chuckles. “I won't. It'd been stupid of me in the first place. But I'd been a bit desperate at the time. I didn't want to lose the farm and I–” he shakes his head, trailing off. “Nevermind that. It doesn't matter.”

Obi-Wan furrows his brow. (Though it was more like one brow these days) “Lose the farm?”

The sadness on Jinn’s face returns. “It hasn't been doing well these past few years. The bank was going to foreclose on it and I just couldn't stand to lose it.”

Obi-Wan needs not even a second to make his decision. “How much do you need?”

Jinn gapes. “I couldn't possibly! You've already done so much!”

“I told you it's nothing truly. I have more than I need.”

Jinn looks hesitant still. From his perspective Obi-Wan needed the money far more than he did. Obi-Wan reaches into his pocket and pulls out another handful of gold.

“Here.”

Jinn scrambles to hold out his palms. Obi-Wan dumps the coins. Jinn blinks several times as if Obi-Wan and the gold will disappear at any moment.

“Don't think about it, just take it.”

Jinn cups the gold to his chest and nods. “Thank you.” He says again. Then, “Is there truly nothing I can do for you in turn?”

Obi-Wan is about to say no when he thinks for a moment. “A ride out of town would be nice.”

The sooner the better. He couldn't exactly change his appearance should the loan shark catch wind of him. He's easy to spot as it is.

Jinn nods vigorously. “Absolutely! Wherever you want to go!” Then he pauses. “Though could I at least persuade you to stay the night at my place? It's the least I can do. It's about an hour from here.”

Obi-Wan nods. A bed sounded lovely. Jinn smiles.

“I'm Qui-Gon Jinn by the way.”

“Ben.”

-

He dozes off in the car on the way there. Jinn drives with the windows down and puts up a new air freshener. Obi-Wan isn't offended.

They arrive well past midnight. Jinn quietly shows him to a guest room. He tells him to please keep it down as he had three children. Obi-Wan nods.

The bed is amazing. It's a rarity he gets a mattress as nice as this anymore. He snuggles in and tells himself not to feel guilty for ruining the blankets. He'll just pay for them tomorrow.

In the morning he smells breakfast coming from downstairs. He pokes his head outside. He can hear Qui-Gon's hearty laughter and unfamiliar voices. He walks down the stairs. He feels out of place and self conscious in this house. This was clearly a nice, warm home and he was an invader.

“Ben!” Qui-Gon says with a smile. It's a shocking sight to have one directed at him. “Come sit!”

Obi-Wan slowly moves closer. There are three kids of varying ages at the table. The eldest looks about 20. The girl with blue and white hair seemed 17. The young boy looked 14. He doesn't see the mother anywhere.

The youngest scrunches his nose and holds it. The girl hits him in the side with her elbow. But she stiffens as well when she inhales and makes a valiant effort to avoid doing the same.

“These are my kids: Anakin, Ahsoka, and Ferus. Kids, this is the man I was telling you about.”

“You?” Anakin folds his arms. “You're the guy that gave dad the money for the farm?” he squints skeptically.

“Yes. He is.” Qui-Gon says giving him a look. Clearly he'd briefed them on Obi-Wan's appearance and to be polite.

“Thank you for the room.”

“Please, it was the least I could do.”

“We have a shower too.”

“Anakin!” Qui-Gon hisses.

Anakin shrugs. “What? We do. Works well and everything.”

Despite himself Obi-Wan laughs. It nearly startles him. He hasn't done that in awhile.

“Thank you but no.” He takes a seat at the table.

Ferus scoots away.

“So, Ben, what do you do?” Anakin asks.

Qui-Gon sighs heavily.

“Nothing. I currently travel. I wanted to see America so I left England a few months ago.”

Anakin nods. “Yep, figured with the accent.”

Ahsoka has stopped eating. Unable to keep her food down. She seems to be silently gagging.

“I can just take my plate outside and finish if that's alright.”

“Nonsense!” Qui-Gon says. “You're my guest! You will eat at the table!”

“May I be excused?” Ferus asks.

“You may. But you have to start your chores.”

“Yes father.” Ferus takes his plate and dumps it in the sink. He runs upstairs. Ahsoka looks after him longingly. Obi-Wan resolves to eat quicker.

Obi-Wan clears his throat. “So what do you do, Qui-Gon?” He asks in polite conversation. Even if he didn't engage in it much anymore he still knew how to.

“Mostly run the farm. I have a stall at the local market on weekends. Ahsoka here makes the best homemade jam in three counties!”

Ahsoka blushes. “That was two years ago dad!”

“She won first place at the county fair! Here, try it on your biscuit!”

Obi-Wan takes a bite of the jam on his biscuit. Oh. That was really good. “This is delicious Ahsoka.”

She nods. A small smile on her face.

“Do you sell these too?”

“Yeah, Anakin made the label for the jar.”

He turns the jar around and sees the design. It was quite nice.

“Are you into graphic design?”

Anakin shakes his head. “I went to college for engineering.”

Went?

“He dropped out to come home and help take care of the farm.” Qui-Gon says with a frown. “I kept telling him we were fine.”

Anakin snorts. “The bank was three days away from foreclosing but sure. You were fine.”

The rest of breakfast goes well all things considered.

Anakin and Ahsoka go out to do chores. Obi-Wan asks if he can help. Qui-Gon says no he's done enough.

He wanders out to the horse stalls, curious as to what kind of work one did on a farm. Anakin is shoveling hay. There's only just the one horse. It was black and beautiful. Obi-Wan, with his mangy hair and foul stench scares it. He must look a fright. The poor creature rears up. Anakin slips and falls backwards into the mud. He groans angrily.

“Sorry! I didn't mean to!”

“Threepio is skittish as hell. He'd jump over a gust of wind.”

Obi-Wan moves to help him up. But just as with Qui-Gon, the sight of his own hand stills the movement. Anakin looks up at him incredulously.

“Seriously? I'm covered in horse shit and you're not gonna help me up?!”

Obi-Wan grasps Anakin's hand; human contact, warm skin on his own. He nearly cries right then and there.

Anakin goes to use the hose to rinse off. Obi-Wan declines his offer to rinse as well.

“What is it with you and water? Afraid of it or something? Like a phobia?”

“Something like that.”

Anakin shrugs. “Whatever.”

He asks if he can help out with any chores. Anakin, unlike Qui-Gon, agrees. After helping to feed the horse and chickens and pigs, he follows Anakin to the garage. He discovers that Anakin fixes the townspeople's cars out of there. It's just a small business he runs on the side while on sabbatical from college.

Obi-Wan watches him work. They talk. It's nice to have a conversation. He missed it fiercely. Having someone there to talk to. The worst part of the devil's deal wasn't the dirt or the nights outside or the smell clinging to his soul, it was the loneliness.

Anakin is very smart. He seems passionate about the cars. He'll make a good mechanic.

“I don't think I'm going back.” He says quietly as if his father is eavesdropping. “I talked to Watto in town and he said he'll hire me. He owns the only car shop in town. Said he'd rather have me on then steal his customers. Might even take over for him one day.”

“What about college?”

Anakin shrugs. “Dad needs me. He never recovered after mom died.”

Amakin stands, cracking his hands. He wipes the grease off his hands with a cloth.

“You know you really saved our asses.”

“It was nothing.”

“Yeah that's what dad said you told him.”

“it's true.” He shrugs.

Anakin hums. He peers at him, he's come closer without Obi-Wan realizing. Anakin leans down as if he wants to peel back the dirt and skin to the mystery core of this man in front of him.

“He said you asked for a ride outta town?”

“Yes.”

Anakin hums again and nods. “You in a hurry or something? Dad won't ask for help but we could use an extra pair of hands for a few days if you're willing.”

Obi-Wan weighs the decision. Not only would the bed be nice to sleep on for longer, but he's surprised at how much he longs to be useful. To do good work. To have a purpose again. Wandering around aimlessly grated on his soul.

A few more days couldn’t hurt.

-

He gets to know the family. They were all very charming in their own way. Even Ferus who couldn't stand to be in the same room as him. Though a lot of candles have been lit throughout the house recently he's noticed.

Qui-Gon keeps insisting he eat at the table. Anakin makes dinner once. It's good. Obi-Wan wishes he could do the same for them but he couldn't wash his hands for prep.

No one probes him on why he didn't want to shower. For that he's grateful. He couldn't explain even if he wanted to.

The days pass. Anakin teaches him about cars. Qui-Gon and him sit on the porch and talk in the evenings. Ferus still won't go near him, but Ahsoka makes an effort. He liked this little family.

The weekend comes and the family sets up their booth for the Saturday market. Qui-Gon invites him along. Obi-Wan is apprehensive.

“I'd rather not scare away your customers.”

“Are you kidding?” Anakin asks. “People in this town are voracious gossipers. They'll crowd the stand if you come.”

So he does. True to his prediction, people are curious and stop by the little booth to gawk and ask about him. They don't look at him directly, merely a side eye or a glance. But it's obvious they're peering out the corner of their eyes.

The children of the shop owners are curious as well. They gather in a little group hiding behind a tent. They giggle and whisper.

Obi-Wan decides to take a walk around after about an hour or so. Tired of being the center of attention. It's odd, growing up he loved talking and mingling. He loved company. But this kind of attention wasn't worth it.

The kids follow. They aren't subtle. A brave one steps out. They touch the bearskin cloak. They shriek and run back to the group. They whisper even louder now and laughter follows. Another runs up to him, touches his back, and spins around to run. Obi-Wan frowns. Seems he is the subject of a game now.

The next one that comes, Obi-Wan suddenly turns and roars. The children scream and scatter. He has himself a chuckle. That should keep them away.

But then, not a minute later, something hits his back again. He sighs and turns. Then he pauses. No one is there. A pebble hits the front of his chest. Then another. He looks up. Ferus and the other kids pick up a rock and toss it at him. Obi-Wan holds up his arm to shield his face.

“Hey! The fuck are you little shits doin?!” Anakin comes crashing into the scene.

The kids scatter. Anakin grabs Ferus by the back of his shirt. He shakes him.

“This man saved dad's life! What the hell are you doing throwing rocks!?”

Ferus kicks at him but Anakin holds on. Anakin was probably used to roughhousing. Anakin wins easily, pinning his brother to the ground.

Ferus starts to cry. “I don't want him in the house anymore! He's scary and smells weird!”

“Apologize!”

“Anakin, it's fine.”

“No it's not!” He snaps. He pushes Ferus' face into the dirt. “Say you're sorry you little snot!”

“I'm sorry!” Ferus bites out.

Anakin lets him up. Ferus scrambles away.

“I'm not gonna tell dad. But if you pull this shit again he’ll have you shoveling the horse stall out for a month!”

Ferus flips Anakin off and runs away. Anakin sighs. He gets up from the ground and wipes his knees.

“Sorry.”

“It's alright. Kids can be cruel.”

“Yeah well I wonder with Ferus sometimes.”

They walk together. Anakin asks him about England. He overheard a late night conversation Obi-Wan had had with Qui-Gon. But it seemed private so he didn't intervene.

“Sorry, you don't have to answer that. I mean, life fucking sucks. I know that as much as anyone.” Anakin says, hands shoved into his pockets. His flannel shirt looked good on him, Obi-Wan notes. It accented his chest.

Something constricts behind his ribcage. It nearly knocks the breath right out of him. Anakin's curly locks fell out of his baseball cap like a golden waterfall. He was beautiful.

Obi-Wan looks away.

“I don't need to know your life story. Everyone is going through something. It's clear as day that you are too. We all handle grief differently.”

“It's fine.”

Obi-Wan chooses to tell him about his parents. About his childhood. How his fiance died. He misses her.

Through it all Anakin listens attentively. Obi-Wan can't stop staring at him. God he hasn't touched himself in so long. Perhaps that was it. He was just pent up. Anakin wasn't running away in horror the way most people didn't these days so Obi-Wan's fantasies had decided to fixate on him.

He can't help noticing Anakin's hands. Long fingers, strong arms. They were almost always covered in grease.

They wander far enough they're several blocks away from the farmers market and in the central town.

“Ani?” an older woman steps out from the corner store. She smiles.

“Hey Mrs. Organa!”

The woman is kind enough not to linger on Obi-Wan. She greets Anakin warmly. Anakin introduces him. Apparently he used to babysit her kid when he was younger.

“And how is Padme?” She asks.

Anakin's face tightens. “She's, uh, she's fine.”

“That's good to hear. You must come over for dinner sometime. I know Qui-Gon tends to hole himself up in that house of his. Tell him he needs to get out more. His friends miss him.”

“Will do Mrs Organa.”

She walks away.

“Padme?” Obi-Wan asks. He shouldn't pry. He's not sure what possesses him.

Anakin winces. “I met her in college. We're on break right now though. Haven't told anybody because they all expect me to marry her. Well, except you.” He winks. “Can you keep my secret?”

Obi-Wan blushes. Thank God it can't be seen through the dirt caked onto his face.

“It's safe with me.”

After another hour they decide to head back to the farmers market.

A car is following them. They notice around the same time. Anakin frowns. He recognizes it. It's the same one that Qui-Gon had gotten into when meeting with the loan shark.

They run. They race through back alleys and across streets. The car catches up and men get out. They have baseball bats. Obi-Wan knows how to fight dirty, but apparently so does Anakin. They make a good team. They take out the three men together. Anakin spits on their unconscious bodies.

“Should have sent more.” He growls.

Just then another car appears.

“Apparently they did.” Obi-Wan says exasperated.

They get into the now empty car and drive away. Anakin speeds through the streets. He's a demon behind the wheel. He's smiling. He was enjoying this, the adrenaline and the chase. Obi-Wan is impressed.

Clarity returns to him.

“…turn around.”

“What?!”

“They want me, Anakin. Not you or your father. This won't end if you help me get away.”

“No! I'm not giving you to those assholes!”

“Anakin please, I don't want any harm to come to your family!”

Anain jerks the wheel. After several maneuvers he manages to lose their tail. He parks the car and turns to Obi-Wan, now angry.

“Why the fuck would you just give up like that?!”

“I'm not giving up. If I leave town after you were seen helping me it'll only backfire on you! You know it!”

Anakin grits his teeth. He growls angrily under his breath.

“If you don't take me back I'll just find them on my own.”

Anakin suddenly reaches out. He takes Obi-Wan's face in a steely grip.

“Why are you helping us? You've already given us everything!”

He answers truthfully. “I have nothing else to live for.”

Anakin stills. His blue eyes are wide. They are like a balm. Ocean blue cleansing his soul. He aches to bathe in them.

“Please let me do this, darling.”

Best case scenario he gives him some more gold for his own ransom and they let him go. Worst comes to worst they discover his secret gold pocket and keep him as a cash cow. But he doesn't think it'll come to that.

Anakin dips his head and bumps against his forehead. “Okay.” He says quietly. He doesn't let go of his face.

“Anakin…”

Anakin shivers. “I really like the way you say my name, you know? That fucking accent. So posh.” He gives a little smile, sad and small.

Obi-Wan has no idea what the hell to do with that information.

Eventually they part. Ankain starts the car and drives him back into the open. They find the other car easy enough and stop. Obi-Wan gets out. He nods at Anakin and heads over.

-

The thing is, only Obi-Wan is able to remove the gold from his pockets. No one else can. It doesn't work like that. So when the loan shark has his men search him they find nothing. As far as they know he's telling the truth.

“My lost my entire family in a car crash two years ago. I was the only survivor. I sold my estate and pocketed whatever money I could carry. I don't care what happens to me.”

“So you just, what, gave the last of it to save a random guy you don't know in the middle of the night? No connection to Qui-Gon Jinn at all?”

“I'm sure you've researched him thoroughly by now. Did you find me anywhere in Qui-Gon's history?”

The gangster frowns. No. They didn't.

“I have nothing and no one. I figured he could use the money more than me. I'm a tired old man who's given up on life. I just wanted to do some good in the world before I shuffled off this plane into the next.”

The shark sighs. Clearly this was been a dead end. It was a long shot anyway. He'd ordered the mysterious hobo brought in more out of curiosity than anything else. Nothing much happened in this area after all and he was intrigued.

They let him go in the end. Obi-Wan breaths a heavy sigh of relief. Thank God.

He should move on. Should head to the next town over. But his heart doesn't want to. He wants to see Anakin one last time. With the loan shark now disinterested he could potentially stay.

But oh the way Anakin had looked at him. He knows the danger wasn't over yet. He would ruin that boy.

When he walks down to the house it's late in the evening. He hears a shout from within as he makes his way up the driveway. Ahsoka opens the door in shock. Seconds later Anakin bursts out the door showing her aside. He races down the path, startling Obi-Wan. They collide. Anakin wraps his arms around him tightly. Obi-Wan falls into the embrace. He hugs him back.

“I'm alright.” He assures him. “They won't come here again.”

“You fucking idiot!” Anakin says, relief in his voice.

Dinner is a boisterous affair. There's smiles and laughter and even Ferus talks to him. Obi-Wan can't remember the last time he felt so at home. He'd been at war for years and then fell into the Devil's deal soon after returning to find his fiance passed. He longs to stay here.

Ahsoka gathers the dishes. Ferus helps her wash. As Obi-Wan heads up to his room for one last time, Qui-Gon mentions that he wouldn't mind if he stayed. He needed an extra hand around the farm anyway. And he's sure Anakin wouldn't mind. He says this last part with a knowing twinkle in his eyes.

Obi-Wan thanks him but declines. It was only going to get worse from here. He was still recognizable as a human more or less. But he had three more years to go. He can't imagine putting this family, or Anakin, through all that. It was his burden to bear and his alone.

That night, it's hard to sleep. He thinks perhaps he will sneak out at dawn before the family wakes. He'll leave a hefty pile of gold on the counter. Just in case. Perhaps Qui-Gon will be able to hire a real farm hand with it. Or Anakin can go back to college.

After about an hour of tossing and turning, there's a soft knock on his door. He sits up. Anakin comes in and shuts the door behind him.

“Couldn't sleep.” He says.

He takes a seat on the end of the bed. Obi-Wan bristles.

“You're leaving aren't you?”

Obi-Wan hangs his head. “It's for the best.”

“For you or us?”

Both.

Anakin runs a frustrated hand through his hair. Obi-Wan wants to tangle his fingers into those locks. He swallows thickly. All the more reason to leave.

“When mom died, dad hit a wall.” Anakin says quietly. “He couldn’t get past it. He held onto all her things. He refused to sell anything that reminded him of her. Then the bills started piling up. He should have sold the farm years ago. We all knew it. The town knew it. But he wouldn't. So he started gambling. Then he started losing.” His eyes are dark as they stare across the room at the wall. “All he had to do was let go. None of us would be in this situation.”

Anakin could have been in college with his girl. Ahsoka and Ferus could be hanging out with friends and focusing on school instead of doing endless chores.

“Grief makes it hard to see the obvious. I know that more than anyone. I don't know what you've been through but you don't have to keep going through it alone. You can stay here.” Anakin turns to look at him. Obi-Wan feels pinned. “Stay here with me.”

Obi-Wan dares not hope he means what he thinks he means. He couldn't possibly want a filthy, disgusting creature like–

Anakin takes his hand. “Whatever burden you're carrying you can set it down here. I won't judge you.”

“It's not that simple.” Obi-Wan chokes out. He can't just wash away his past. The dirt must remain.

Ankain leans in. “Please,”

Obi-Wan lets him. Heaven help him, he lets him.

Their lips press together. He doesn't open his mouth. He's too afraid. Anakin's nose brushes against his. His breath must smell horrendous. His teeth are more yellow than white.

Anakin kisses him again. This time the other man lays a hand on his cheek. He presses his thumb into his jawline. Against his better judgment, he loosens his jaw. Anakin's tongue slips in. Obi-Wan moans. He tasted better than any hot meal he's ever had. Any drink of water on a searing summer day.

“Ben…” He breathes.

It's enough to knock sense back into him. The last person who moaned his name like that was dead. Only Satine had ever called him Ben.

He pulls away. Anakin holds on. Obi-Wan gently takes his hands and pulls them off. He smiles sadly.

“I have to go Anakin.”

Anakin looks like he wants to protest. He actually wants this mangy animal in his house. In his bed. Obi-Wan cannot fathom why.

“I…” Obi-Wan hesitates. It is selfish to ask. He shouldn't ask. Shouldn't even consider it. “Can you wait for me?”

Abakin deserved to live his own life. He already sacrificed so much coming back here to help his father with his shortcomings. But he can't help but want. He needed to know there was a light at the end of the tunnel. That someone out there was thinking of him.

“How long?” Anakin whispers.

“Three years.”

Ankains face tightens. Three years was a long time for a practical stranger.

“Okay,” he squeezes their hands together. “I'll wait.”

-

Obi-Wan leaves the money on the dining table.

It's about a mile or two away from the Jinn homestead that he decides to stop living for himself. Too long has he been using his money for his own gain. He had more than he could spend and more than he could ever need.

Whenever he passes by someone on the street with a sign, he fills up their cup. Whenever he stays at a homeless shelter, he gives everyone there as many coins as they can carry. He tips any cashiers or retail workers that help him handsomely.

It makes him feel a little lighter. Knowing he was doing something in this world to make it better. The gracious smiles he receives in return are all he ever needs.

-

When the end of year seven arrives he is more animal than man. Even the shelters turn him away now.

The stench is terrible and foul. He scares children and animals wherever he goes. But everyday day brought him closer to the end. Closer to Anakin.

He makes it an old church at the edge of a town somewhere in Arizona. It was Thursday afternoon. No one was inside.

“Devil! I have held up my end of the bargain! Show yourself!”

There's a chilling laughter followed by a tingle up his spine.

The old man appears just the same as before. Though now, instead of delight, he looks agitated.

“It seems you have.” Palpatine snarls.

Obi-Wan grabs hold of the bearskin and rips it off. His hair, having grown into it, yanks off with it. He feels like his very skin is peeling away. But Obi-Wan keeps yanking. Needing to be free of this thing he'd become.

The second it's off, something clicks. Obi-Wan blinks. His body feels lighter. He looks down. It wasn't just the bearskin weighing him down, it was the years of dirt and mud and filth. He's clean now. All of it is gone.

His hair and nails are trimmed as well. He runs his hands over his face. Shock and awe coursing through him followed by elation. He could smell the air now. It was fresh and good and oh he's missed this!

“And the riches you promised?”

“Put your hand into your pocket. No matter what clothing you wear, it will always produce a handful of gold.”

Obi-Wan grins at the devil. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Palpatine lip curls. “I'll have your soul yet, Kenobi.”

Then he vanishes.

-

Obi-Wan bathes for three days straight. He's so pruny that his skin is wrinkled beyond measure. But he doesn't care. He'll never go another day without showering again.

The resort he checked in at brings him room service. He snuggles into the soft blankets. Happy and clean at last.

His thoughts turn to Anakin. Had he waited for him? If he'd gone back to college he may have started dating Padme again. Perhaps they even married. The last time someone waited for him they'd died, so returning to find them married this time wouldn't be so bad. At least he tells himself that.

It takes months for him to get his affairs back into order and re-enter society. After seven years England had declared him dead. He returns to his home country and visits Satines family. He apologizes for disappearing on them.

After the fourth month he admits he's stalling. He works up the courage to return to America.

-

Anakin is at the local mechanic shop. The pay is fine for what it is. Qui-Gon had urged him to return to college and finish his degree. He had. But shortly afterward Qui-gon had fallen ill. He moved back home again, for what he now suspects is the last time, and takes care of him.

Ahsoka has moved away and is living her life. Ferus is about ready to graduate. Ahsoka offered to come back and help out as well, but Anakin refused. He had it covered. No need for them both to be here trapped in this town.

The medication was expensive, burning through all the gold they had left. He shouldn't have bothered finishing his degree. They would have had so much more.

He sold the animals first. Broke his heart to get rid of Threepio. He'll have to look into selling the farm at some point but decides to wait until after Ferus is out of the house.

Anakin isn't sure what he'll do when Ferus graduates. His little brother takes care of their father while he's at work in town. Qui-Gon assures him he doesn't need looking after and can stand to be home alone for a few hours but the last time that happened he had an episode and fell down the stairs. So no. Leaving his father alone is out of the question. Anakin wipes his sweaty brow and sighs.

Soon he's headed home again. He spots a strange car into the driveway. It looked nice. Brand new. He narrows his eyes. Qui-Gon better not be meeting with loan sharks again.

He enters cautiously. “Dad? I'm home!”

He finds him In the living room. He's on the couch having tea with a man in a white button down and slacks. Qui-Gon waves him over. A grin is in his face.

“Anakin! Come in! This is an old friend, Obi-Wan!”

Anakin eyes Obi-Wan. His auburn hair and blue eyes were striking. He frowns. “He just popped on by then?”

“Sorry to drop in unannounced.” The man says. And Anakin freezes for a moment. The crisp accent reminded him of Ben. “I was in the area and wanted to see how Qui-Gon was faring.” Then his face turns serious. “I didn't know he was sick. I would have come sooner if I had.”

Qui-Gon shakes his head. “Nonsense, you're here and that's what matters!”

Obi-Wan smiles. He sets his tea down. “Your father tells me you're selling the farm?”

“Yeah?” Anakin looks between the two of them, brow raised. “It's about time anyway.”

Obi-Wan nods. Then he turns a bit nervous. “I already asked Qui-Gon here, but it's just–well I have a rather large inheritance and thought my old friend here could use it. We've been discussing moving him to a city with better doctors. I can pay for the treatment of course.”

Now Anakin is thoroughly confused. This stranger from his father's past had swept in and is offering a way out? Why? Who would do that? And how do they know each other?

“Dad, what the hell did you promise this guy?” What kind of “old friend” swoops in after years of estrangement? This had to be another loan shark.

“Anakin it's fine. He just wants to help.”

Anakin narrows his eyes. “Sure he does.”

Just then his cell goes off. It's his boss. Anakin sighs. “I'll be right back.” He mutters. This wasn't over.

He leaves the room and stops outside in the hallway. Just as he's about to take the call it drops. Anakin frowns. He punches the number into his cell to call Watto back.

“Why won't you let me tell him Obi-Wan?”

Anakin pauses. He lowers his phone from his ear. Voices whisper from the other room.

“Trust me it's for the best.”

He hears a clink of porcelain. “He missed you. We all did.”

What?

“I'm not what he needs.”

“Believe me, you think I don't feel guilty for trapping my son here? I do. All the time. But he refuses to do things for himself. I want him to be selfish, Ben.”

The name shoots through his chest. Ben. Kind, lovely Ben. Anakin slumps down the wall. Heart in his throat.

The accent was exactly the same. He should have known. It was the cleanliness that had thrown him off. Obi-Wan was respectable in every sense of the word. His hair was perfectly cut and beard trim and neat. He sat with an air of refined nobility that most people didn't have. It was no wonder he hadn't recognized him.

The hell was he playing at? Coming back into their lives like this again when they needed him most? Was he just going to give Dad a bunch of money again and fuck of back to England? Is that all he thought he was good for?

With shaking legs, Anakin goes back in. Qui-Gon looks up.

“What was that about?”

“Huh? Oh, um, Watto just couldn't find where I put the tools. It's fine.”

He plops down right next to Obi-Wan. To Ben. Both men blink in confusion. Anakin stares back.

He had a scent now. A bit of aftershave and cologne. Anakin wants to bury his nose in it.

“How do you know my dad?”

Obi-Wan tenses. “Oh, um, it was about 20 years ago. My car broke down in the middle of nowhere and Qui-Gon here fixed it for me.”

Anakin squints as his father winces. Qui-Gon was handy around the house but he didn't know shit about cars. That had been his mother. She was the one that had taught him about engines.

“He fixed it for you?”

“Yes that's right.”

“Do you hear that?” Qui-Gon sits up. He puts a hand to his ear. “I think I hear Ferus calling.”

He practically runs out of the room. Anakin snorts. He turns back to his interrogation.

“Why are you here?”

“To…check up on your father?”

“After 20 years? Try again.”

Obi-Wan swallows. Anakin watches the bob of his adams apple. As angry as he is right now he's also fighting not to just grab the stupid man.

“I was in the country and thought I may as well pay a visit while I'm here.”

“Nothing else? No other motives? No one else to see?”

“No?”

Obi-Wan looks like he wants to sink into the couch and disappear. Good. Let him cook. Anakin has waited three years for him to come back to him and now he doesn't even want him!

Anakin stiffens. Oh. He didn't want him anymore.

The epiphany settles like dust after an explosion. Anakin leans back, away from Obi-Wan. He'd met someone else back in England. He must have. It's why Ben didn't want Qui-Gon telling him who he was. And now he was too embarrassed to owe up to it.

Heartbreak clings to the edges of his chest. Anakin swipes it away. He supposed it made sense. Obi-Wan was far too handsome to remain single for long. Of course someone else snatched him up. The fact that Obi-Wan had still bothered to come back at all meant something. At the very least he was still willing to take care of his family. Of Qui-Gon. For that Anakin would always be grateful.

The fight leeches out of him. “I see,” he says quietly. He forces himself to continue. “Thank you for checking up on him. He can be really stubborn about his health.”

Obi-Wan offers a small chuckle. “I'm well aware. I practically had to fight him to get him to agree to come to England.”

Anakin startles. “England?”

“Yes. I know some people, great doctors. They will take care of him there.”

Anakin wilts. Everyone was leaving. Everyone was moving on. Anakin was still stuck where he's always been.

“You're welcome to come too of course. I just wasn't sure you'd be amenable. You have your own life here after all.”

Anakin thinks on it. On the one hand he'd like to make sure Qui-Gon was alright personally. But on the other he'd have to see Obi-Wan's lover or partner or whomever.

Then again, England was a good place to start over. Maybe they could be friends? Anakin's voice comes out small. “I'll think about it.”

-

Anakin watches the sun set on the porch. He wipes away the silent tears that fall. At least now he could finally stop wondering and move on. His Dad would be taken care of. He could get out of this town just like he always wanted. He didn't have to wait around anymore.

Another presence becomes known with the creak of old wood behind him. Anakin tenses. He braces his arms against the porch railing.

Go away, he thinks. Go away.

Obi-Wan appears beside him with a plate of cut apples. “I thought you might like some.”

Anakin shakes his head. Obi-Wan puts the plate on the railing all the same.

“Qui-Gon's gone to bed.”

Anakin nods. Just go away.

“Anakin?” He sounds shocked. “Darling, why are you crying?”

Fuck. Anakin grits his teeth. Can't even be alone in the middle of nowhere on a farm. He hunches over more, trying to hide his wet face. He shakes his head again. Fuck him, calling him darling like he still cared.

“I've been waiting for someone,” he whispers, not trusting his voice. He grips the railing and it creaks under his hands. “I don't think they're coming back for me anymore.”

The old Anakin would have called him out for it. Would have screamed and yelled and made a scene. But now? He's just done with it all. He wants it to be over. He wants to be unstuck.

For a long moment, Obi-Wan is silent. So quiet that Anakin almost thinks if he turns his head to look he'll be gone. Alone again. But then Obi-Wan exhales and Anakin is suddenly aware of another body leaning against the railing.

He dares to glance over at him. But Obi-Wan isn't looking at him. He's looking up at the evening sky. His face has crumpled inward, a reflection of Anakin’s grief.

“Perhaps he was unsure if his presence was wanted.”

Anakin swallows a bite of anger. “I'd given him no reason to think he wouldn't be.”

Obi-Wan hesitates and then, “I'm sorry, Anakin.”

He closes his eyes, letting the night air cool against his heated skin. Then he opens them. “Who is she?”

Now Obi-Wan finally turns to look at him. “What?”

“The person you're leaving me for? That's why you didn't come back sooner isn't it?”

Obi-Wan looks shocked. “No! Anakin no I was busy trying to get my life back in order! There's no one!”

“Then why pretend? Why didn't you tell me who you were Ben?” He snaps.

Obi-Wan flinches. “I thought you'd moved on. You're better off without me.”

Anakin laughs coldly. He waves his hands over his head at the house and life in general. “None of us would be better off without you! You saved us! You saved me!”

Anakin wants to tear his hair out. Curse this idiotic self sacrificing man. “Stop thinking about what you think I want and start thinking about what you want! What do you want, Obi-Wan?”

It comes out easily. Surprisingly so. “You, Anakin.”

It shocks them both.

“I want you. Anything you'll give me.”

Anakin shakes, his skin practically vibrating. “I'll give you anything you want, you asshole!”

Their mouths clash as their bodies brace. They moan into the kiss, finally reunited.

-

(They move to England in a gorgeous mansion and are in love and gross about it. Ahsoka is the best man for Anakin. Ferus bears the rings. Qui-Gon is very proud. He can't stop crying, it's embarrassing.)

[dbacklot99]

Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About The Crow Road, But Couldn't Get Through it To Find Out

Co-written by dbacklot and cheeseplants

WARNING: SPOILERS EVERYWHERE!!

Overall Premise: Books are clearly important to Good Omens and Neil & team have left us Clues. In S2E2, the xray trivia highlights a list of books they would like the audience to read. But even more specifically, there are names of certain books on the back of the chairs in the theater in the opening credits. Those books are: The Tale of Two Cities, Pride & Prejudice, and The Crow Road - twice!

What might this mean? One theory is that the chairs represent the seasons. The body swap in S1 is similar to how Carton, in Tale of Two Cities, takes his doppleganger's place in jail, sacrificing his life so Darnay could go free and be with his family. Pride & Prejudice is clearly referenced in S2, with Crowley's proposal as a sort of mirror to Darcy's first proposal. (There's probably a whole lot more to unpack there - and if you like Austen, here are some thoughts about Aziraphale's favorite book, Persuasion, and how it may relate to the characters.)

BACK to The Crow Road. The title is shown on two chairs in the opening sequence, suggesting that it is related to both S2 and S3. Furthermore, we see the book multiple times in the show and it's the book Muriel reads at the end. As an aside, Neil Gaiman and Iain Banks were very good friends. Iain Banks died over a decade ago, so it is also likely a bit of a tribute to his friend.

So let's dig in and see why perhaps Neil keeps holding this book up and shouting Clue!

Side note: The book is long and most of the action happens in the final third, which can make it a hard read for folks. There's also a lot of characters and it can be tricky to remember how they are all related. There is a family tree BUT it has spoilers.

The Name: The Crow Road is a phrase used by the grandmother to indicate someone has died, ie - he's gone the crow road.

The Plot: This is the story of Prentice growing up with his immediate and extended family in Scotland. His Uncle Rory disappears in his early childhood. Some family members choose to believe Rory is still alive. After a hook-up with his Uncle Rory's former girlfriend as a young adult, Prentice starts gathering journals and writings from his missing Uncle Rory, who was (for a few years) a successful writer and traveler. Prentice eventually learns that 1) another Uncle, Fergus, had murdered his own wife and covered it up as a car accident and 2) Rory had figured this out and confronted him. Fergus then murdered Rory, hid all the evidence, and hired an acquaintance (who also traveled) to send matchboxes from bars across the world to Prentice's father, Kenneth. Kenneth, believed - as Fergus intended - that these were messages from Rory, indicating he was still alive. 

Stylistically, Prentice's childhood memories and fragments from Rory's journals are interspersed throughout the book, much like the minisodes are in S2. It can take the reader a while to figure out who is telling the story or where this information is coming from. It is also unclear how reliable Rory is as narrator - perhaps this also plays into S2.

What it Might Mean: 

Fergus could represent the Metatron. He is very powerful, rich, and conservative; he lives in a castle (Heaven?) and wants authority. Fergus also murders two relatives and hides those murders; the murder of his wife may have been inspired by jealousy over her sleeping with another man, an event which may or may not have happened.

Fergus also sets up fake messages!! The matchbooks are red herrings to make it look like Rory is still alive. As the Metatron relays messages from God, I can't get over the possibilities here. We have seen God speaking directly as recently as Job, but are the other messages real?

I can't help but wonder if the matchbooks and their use as messages inspired Neil to use the matchbook in S2. The matchbook in S2, incidentally, connects to all three minisodes - the quote from Job, 41:19 (reversed 1941), and the matchbox is from the Resurrectionists pub. So the matchbook contains not only Gabriel’s memories but refers to Azi’s as well?

Much of the book is about this missing uncle. Is a character (or their memory) missing in S3? I have theories, but its too soon to tell.

There's also an interesting theme of Prentice collecting his Uncle Rory's writings and records, including sending some corrupted computer discs to an expert in America to try to restore them. Given the emphasis on records ("It contains information in a tuneful way") and journals in S2, not to mention this trivia nugget ​​ - my brain is itching that there's a connection there.

Faith & Beliefs: The book talks about Faith a lot. Prentice believes in God and his father Kenneth doesn’t. And Kenneth doesn’t just reject religion, he wants his children to reject religion too. Prentice on the other hand desperately wants something to believe in - especially after a friend's death in an accident. This leads to a huge fall out - they end up not talking over it.

"'I mean, what's the big argument? Can't you just agree to disagree?' 'No; we disagree about that,' I shook my head. 'Seriously; it doesnt' work that way; neither of us can leave it alone. There's almost nothing either of us can say that can't be taken the wrong way, with a bit of imagination. It's like being married.'" (Ch 7)

Kennth seemingly taunts God - he climbs a church during a lightning storm and is struck dead. His uncle Hamish (one of Kenneth’s brothers) also represents the extreme version of Faith and ends up running a sort of cult, at least until Kenneth’s death.

What it Might Mean: The thread they pull through a lot is about meaning, and whether you can have meaning in life without God. Prentice gains Faith because his friend died senselessly; he wonders how can you have a world be so cruel. There must be a reason for it (this is sort of Az coded), and he turns to God to create the meaning for him. 

BUT Kenneth’s argument is that you don’t need Faith for the world to have meaning (or at least that is my reading). It is wonderful because it is inherently meaningless (this is very existentialist, but I do think that’s the point). That Faith doesn’t do that, and just means you are looking outwards without looking at what is right in front of you. Which again, could be a Crowley way of looking at it, or at least where he is headed. Life is good as life, and doesn’t need God to make it so. 

Hamish represents someone putting so much meaning into Faith that they lose all sense of Joy, he becomes distant.  (One of my favorite scenes is Hamish doing a jigsaw puzzle with the pieces upside down - and cutting the pieces with scissors if they don’t fit right!)

The Romantic Relationships: Prentice is infatuated with a cousin (second cousin?), Verity. She is described as beautiful, in white/light colors, pure, lives with Uncle Fergus in the castle. There are legends around her birth -  she was conceived under a tree during a storm. She is unattainable and eventually ends up with Prentice's older brother.

Ash, on the other hand, is almost literally the girl next door and Prentice’s long-term best friend. Her family is poorer and maybe has some domestic violence issues. She's always there for Prentice - literally a shoulder to cry on, sharing a bottle of whiskey, helping him sober up after said whiskey. There's obvious romantic tension from Ash’s side but she never pushes him and instead guides him along. And the book ends with a romantic resolution that feels very much like the final fifteen - except with a happier ending.

“- and I still didn’t feel I could tell her how I felt about her because she was going away now, and how could I suddenly say I love you when I’d never said it to anybody in my life before? How could I say it now especially, the night before she was due to leave? It would look like I was trying to make her stay, or just get her into bed. It would probably wreck this one precious evening that we did have, and upset her, confuse her, even hurt her, and I didn’t want to do any of that.” (Ch 13)

They finally kiss and spend the night together, both confessing their love. Ash has to leave the next morning to pursue a career opportunity in New York; Prentice is sad that she goes but re-dedicating himself to his studies and working towards a relationship together. 

What it Might Mean: To me, Verity is very Heaven-coded and Ash is very Hell-coded. A big part of Prentice's arc (Prentice may represent Azi here) is getting over his blind infatuation with Verity and realizing the value and love he has with Ash. However, they also need to be apart and grow a bit before they can be together.

Other thoughts? Connections? Would love to hear your theories!!

@cheeseplants

[innerchorus]

AAAAAAAHHHHHH (spoilers and screaming about ArSen Chapter 131)

Please avoid if you don't want big spoilers for this chapter, there are some shocking moments and some major differences from the novels. I don't have time to go into great detail but I'll try to share a few panels and summarise the key events.

Team Hilmes sighting! They're hearing the commotion as the two kings fall from the tower.

@tired-reader-writer not only do we get to see Isfan but he's joined up with Kubard! I'm so happy to see it!

Jaswant is with Estelle; he's been ordered to protect her by Arslan because Ecbatana is not a safe place for a Lusitanian right now. Realising that something has happens, she rushes towards the North tower.

Me seeing the crumpled and bloody bodies of Andragoras and Innocentis: OKAY YEAH they're definitely both dead.

AND THEN ANDRAGORAS FUCKING STANDS UP.

It's okay, though. He does die. Because Tahamenay appears, and as she embraces him she slides a dagger into his heart. YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT. Andragoras is killed by Tahamenay.

She tells Team Arslan that the official word is to be that the Shah died in the fall from the tower.

Estelle arrives on the scene and realises she was too late to save Innocentis. Alfarid sees her start to disintegrate and urgently reminds her of the people who need her and tells her to hurry, after which she gallops off to find them.

Tahamenay (about Estelle): "If my daughter were alive, she would be about that age too" ??? Are we going there? Or is it just an acknowledgement that her daughter really is gone for good (and perhaps it's this understanding that allowed her to kill Andragoras, knowing she would never reunite with her child?)

Recognised as a Lusitanian in the teeming streets, Estelle runs into trouble that Jaswant can't diffuse, as he too is a foreigner, but Farangis leaps in to save the day and gives Estelle Prince Arslan's standard, knowing if she has it, nobody will bar her path.

She flies to where the group of Lusitanians should be but finds an empty and bloodstained room. For a moment she is destroyed by the knowledge that she was too late again and couldn't save them, but then those three kids show up and it's revealed they've kept them (yes, all of them!) hidden and safe. I really needed this and was surprised how emotional it made me feel, actually.

Word is spreading that the two kings are dead; we get some reactions shots from Team Hilmes, Isfan and Kubard (Isfan's fang made an appearance and it's fucking cute as always!), and Kishward and Tus.

And then the end of the chapter really fucked me up and I wasn't ready. I was never going to be ready but I wasn't expecting this NOW.

FUCK NO except please know that I'm also whispering 'yes' even though it's horrible because both Isfan and Kubard are seeing this??

SHAPUR except it's not, it can't be, because he's dead and both of them know it. So what's going on here? Is this a Team Zahhak impersonation (as we saw with Ghundi taking the form of Husrab) or is this something more sinister (an undead Shapur controlled by Team Zahhak? I'm leaning this way because look at those eyes... feels different).

GUYS. THAT WAS THE FINAL PAGE. WE HAVE TO SURVIVE ANOTHER MONTH BEFORE WE SEE WHAT HAPPENS/

What do I even want to happen. Is Isfan going to be put in a position where he has to fight or kill his (not) brother? Is Kubard going to have to intervene to save him? (I want this, obviously, especially as we're not going to get the scene from the second half of the novels where he does something similar in a different situation). What's Team Zahhak's angle here?

How did we get from the head jars which have been haunting my nightmares for literal months to this hellish scenario, which never even crossed my mind?

[alittlebitofloveliness]

The Girl in the Ditch

Somewhat different from my usual stuff but I'm so excited about it! Please lmk what you think. TW: death, violence

****************

Most stories start at the beginning, but at the beginning of this story is an unwanted girl with an unhappy life and not much else. Instead, this story starts at the beginning of its end, with a girl in a ditch.

She lies spread out, in a dewy stretch of grass on a mostly forgotten back road, half hidden in the tree line. The picture would be almost peaceful if it weren’t for the blood matted in the girl’s raven black hair and the ring of bruises stained around her neck like some sort of gristly necklace. 

She’s found in the early hours of the morning when the sun has only just finished rising. A trucker on his route sees first her shoe and then the rest of her, dark skin and old clothes and blue eyes forever frozen in wide eyed terror. 

She was a fighter, the cops say, when they show up and take her away. There is blood under her fingernails and a chunk of hair that doesn’t belong to her stuck to her shirt, but it wasn’t enough to save her- not this time. Soon enough, the murmurs turn dark. She isn’t the first girl this has happened to and she won't be the last, poor girls with poor lives and bitter ends. It’s little wonder really, a girl like that, from the wrong side of town, in the bars at sixteen, mixed up with bruisers and gangs and drugs. She didn’t know what she was getting into. No wonder it ended this way.

When they go tell her family there is no father to be found and a mother high enough she doesn’t understand a word they say. There is a hard faced boy in the doorway who refuses to believe it, and another who truly can’t, a younger boy almost as small in the living room as the girl looked in the ditch.

Both boys demand to see her, and recoil at the sight. The older one punches a hole in the wall of the morgue and the young one screams, begs the corpse to wake up, calls to her in a language unknown to the cops and maybe the universe, his face- one made for mischief- twisted in a feral sort of horror and grief. He collapses, and the older one grips his shoulder tightly as he faces the cops who brought them there and demands to know what happened, who did this, what they know. 

Upon hearing they know nothing the boys leave, the older one cursing and half carrying the younger one, who’s shouting has given way to an endless blankness.

There is a short lived investigation, with no leads and no suspects. It’s closed before the girl in the ditch is even buried, a case gone cold before she ever died. It’s hard to catch a murderer no one knows anything about. 

The town seemed to think the girl in the ditch wouldn’t have a funeral. They couldn’t be more wrong. It’s a small room at a cheap funeral home, decked out in flowers plucked from the side of the road. It’s attended by a mother drunk out of her mind, and half the petty criminals in Tulsa Oklahoma, and is perhaps the most beautiful service any of them have ever seen. Only one person speaks, the girl’s eldest brother, who’d punched a wall upon first seeing her corpse and who’s gruff voice goes so soft when he gives the eulogy it would be a wonder anyone could hear it, if the room hadn’t been quiet enough you could hear a pin drop. The girl in the ditch lies silent, battered and beautiful on the dais, the sorrow of the mourners a final blanket. 

The youngest brother doesn’t attend, cannot be found no matter who or how hard anyone looks. By noon, most folks have given up searching. There’s only one person who might have known where he was, and she’s currently in a coffin, being lowered into the ground. An auburn haired teenager stays behind once everyone else has left, smokes a cigarette and leaves the rest of the box of Marlboros on the headstone in place of the brother who couldn’t.

The girl in the ditch has been in the ground for two days when the east side becomes a warzone. 

It starts with the Shepard gang- a tough group of career criminals- and a new string of jumpings and stabbings. They’re searching for something- or someone- and they will stop at nothing to find whatever it is they are looking for. A gang known for petty dealing and east side squabbles is suddenly starting fires, kidnapping, extorting people, hunting them down. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it all ties back to the girl in the ditch and the brothers who broke when they saw her. 

After two months of searching, fighting, and bloodshed, the gang’s leader gets caught, standing over the body of the cousin of a guy who knows a guy who thought maybe he’d known someone once whose money came from taking little black girls where they’d never again be found. The tigerlike man they take to the holding cell is at once and not at not at all the boy from two months ago who’d been told his sister was dead. There’s a darkness in his eyes now instead of just hardness, a spark creeping rapidly towards a glint some would call madness. Few things can drive a man crazy like the horrors of the unknown.

He pleads innocent but he looks guilty, with his sloppy clothes and dark skin, and in the end it wouldn’t have mattered if he was innocent, he’s a black kid up for murder in the deep south. The jury sentences him to a life behind bars, and when the prison gate clanks shut behind him it does so with grim finality. There will be no appeals for him, no reduced sentence. The man in the cell stops holding on to the shred of his reality, and spends the rest of his life trying to solve a murder that will never be solved. 

The Shepard gang’s crusade does not stop with the loss of their leader. If anything their methods get worse, their shakedowns more violent, their desperation more palpable. People speak of them with terror or with awe, whispers swirling about the girl in the ditch the boy behind bars and the brother who has promised vengeance for them both, a boy who wears the face of his sister and the sneer of his brother, who has lost everything and so has nothing left to lose.

There is one person left who can reason with the shadow of the mischievous boy he once was, and it’s an auburn haired teen who left cigarettes instead of flowers on a grave. With him, the newly minted gang leader returns to something resembling human, but as more time passes he grows colder and colder, and listens to his redheaded friend less and less. Their friendship ends in a blowout fight that leaves one boy reckless and wild, and the other withdrawn and sullen. It’s the recklessness and violence he has used to fill a piece of his heart where his family once lived that brings the boy to an untimely end.

The story ends, same as it began, with a body in a ditch. This time it’s a boy, and his killers are easy to find. It doesn’t change the fact he’s found stabbed and discarded like some sort of trash, or that he was sixteen when he died, just like his sister. It doesn’t change the fact that there is no one left to mourn him but an older brother who’s gone mad and a best friend who’s last vestiges of goodness died with his gang leader buddy. 

The story starts with a girl in a ditch and ends with a boy in another. It’s a story that has happened before. It will happen again. 

Tale as old as time, right?

[swampofiniquity]

Mercy Me (Leon Kennedy x Reader)

Trying to get back into writing and posting, as well as obsessing over the Re:4 remake, so I wrote this little thing.

Rated: Teen

Word Count: 1,630

Cross-posted on AO3

Summary/Warnings: Takes place right before and after the events of Resident Evil 4. You are a bartender and Leon is your favorite customer. Leon x gn!reader, alcohol consumption, Leon is obviously lonely and needs someone to take care of him.

Masterlist

"Wait, hold on, you're telling me you just snuck out of that women's house through the window?"

Leon shrugged, knocking back the last of a Knob Creek triple that should have been a double, but he tipped so well that you didn't mind giving away a few over pours now and then for him. Well, that and he had a habit of nonchalantly dropping just the most insane, quietly compelling anecdotes that you actually looked forward to your midweek closing shifts at the bar when he was in town. 

"She had a roommate. I didn’t want it to be awkward."

"At least tell me it was on the first floor?" You had stopped pretending to even be working at this point, the wash cloth in your hand having long since gone dry and useless against the still sticky spot on the bar top. 

He hesitated a moment, a cute flush creeping on his cheeks as he scratched the back of his head. "Uh, third floor. It was fine though, the apartment had a fire escape." 

You let out the laugh you’d been holding in since you’d finally nagged loose the story behind his latest romantic excursion with the last person you’d observed him leaving the bar with. You couldn’t help but flash him a smile as you heard his answering self deprecating chuckle. “You certainly are an interesting man. Need a refill?” you asked, half turned to go fetch the bottle again from the counter behind you. 

“Nah, I should probably call it. I’m actually traveling out of town for work tomorrow morning and I’ll hate myself later if I don’t hit the hay soon.” 

“Fair enough, I’ll cash you out.” As you moved to close his tab at the register, you were practically vibrating with the need to ask. Nearly an entire year had passed since Leon had first visited your bar and while you wouldn’t hesitate to call him a friend, he played everything so close to the vest that you had no idea what the hell he did for a living, other than it seemed to pay decently and he’d disappear for weeks at a time, often coming back with a hitch in his step or a new kaleidoscope of bruises. It worried you, not that he didn’t seem capable of protecting himself, you’d caught peaks at the piece he kept in a holster under the jacket he always wore. 

But it made your friendship seem oddly lopsided with how often he’d lend an understanding ear to your troubles taking over the family bar after your dad died or your less than successful efforts with the local dating pool. You were an open book, a heart on your sleeve kind of soul.

You could only guess where the man across from you would keep his own heart. In that holster perhaps, nestled behind his gun. Or maybe off his person completely, tucked away in a footlocker somewhere. Hidden in the dark and solitude, not out of nature or preference, but out of survival. His life had to have been lonely, you’d never seen him leave with the same person twice and there was never any mention of even a coworker, let alone a friend or any family. In your experience, most people drinking alone after midnight on a Wednesday didn’t have anyone waiting up at home. 

If they had a home to go back to at all. 

“Don’t bother, this should cover it.” While you were embarrassingly lost in thought, Leon had fished a couple of bills out of his wallet and slid them across the bar. You grabbed them as he turned, stretching his back out before turning for the door. “Have a nice night.”

“You too, have a safe trip!” But you couldn’t keep back a shout when you opened the till to complete the transaction, finally counting the money. He’d given you $200 for two middle shelf drinks. 

“Wait, Leon! You gave me too much.” You waived the money back to him, attempting to beckon him back over with a smile. “Should I be worried about how much you’ve had to drink, giving me a 500% tip?”

“I’m not drunk, and it wasn’t a mistake.” He paused, flipping his collar up in preparation for stepping outside into the cold. “Save that stool for me until I get back.”

With that, and a quick head pat for your dad’s old bar dog Max, Leon stepped out into the night, leaving you with a giddy pit in your stomach. 

Someone was pounding on the door downstairs. 

You had dismissed it at first, chalking it up to just another sound from the storm raging outside and trying to fall back asleep, but then Max started growling from his orthopedic dog bed by the radiator, heaving his old bones up to howl at the window. Heart pounding, you gingerly pulled back a sliver of the curtain, catching sight of a familiar motorcycle parked crookedly on the sidewalk outside. 

You didn’t think twice, throwing on a robe over your pajamas and flying down the stairs to the private side door of your apartment over the bar, flipping the multiple deadlocks and stepping out into the freezing rain to find Leon soaked to the bone, leaning up against the front door to the bar like it was the only thing keeping him upright. 

“Leon,” you called out over the sudden lump in your throat. He’d been gone for almost a month and you’d been lowkey terrified that he wasn’t coming back this time. No matter how confused you were at his reappearance, you felt tears sting your eyes with relief. 

You watched as he started, wheeling around and squinting through the rain and darkness. He mouthed your name before moving towards you, limping so alarmingly that you lunged forward to grab him before he could fall. He was heavier than he looked, body shaking with the cold or something else you couldn't tell. “Just my luck, you wouldn’t be open tonight, huh.” 

“You know we always close early on Sundays. C’mon, you’ll catch your death out here.” You were both soaking wet and dripping onto the threadbare welcome mat when you finally managed to coax him inside your apartment, just as another huge clap of thunder vibrated the windows of the old building. “You rode here in all that?”

“M sorry, didn’t know where else to go. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as the storm blows over, I promise.”

“No, it’s fine, really. I’ll put on some tea.” You froze as your sock gave a nasty, wet squelch as you made a step towards the stairs. “Shit.”

The storm raged for hours, but neither of you seemed to notice once you finally convinced Leon to stop apologizing for ruining your night. You’d found some of your dad’s old clothes in your closet for him while his own were tumbling away in your ancient dryer. After you both were warm and dry, you made some black tea for the two of you, splashing in a bit of whiskey and some fresh lemon to fight off the chill from the rain. 

He didn’t explain where he had been and you didn’t ask, content to sit with him quietly as he sipped his tea and absentmindedly pet Max, the dog leaning happily against his legs. 

“So this is where you grew up, huh?” You startled a bit at the sound of his voice cutting through the comfortable silence, looking up from your mug of tea to find Leon staring up at the old photos on the fireplace mantel across the room, the smallest smile twisting up the corner of his lips. 

You tried not to focus on the new scar that marred his smooth cheek, positive he hadn’t had it last you saw him, and tucked your feet up under you on the couch. “Yep, my dad too. My grandfather bought the bar off a guy when he got home from World War II. Almost ran it right into the ground too, until he hired my grandmother to do the bookkeeping. They got married after less than a year and my family has lived here since. The portrait in the middle is from their wedding.” 

To your surprise, Leon stood up, poorly hiding a pained grimace as he limped to the mantle, picking up the picture in question. “You look just like her.” The charming smile he sent you over his shoulder gave you butterflies. Until he replaced the frame and instead of returning to the couch, started perusing your other family pictures, much to your horror. 

“I guess so, but hey-” You jumped up, latching onto his arm and applying gentle pressure until he turned his attention back to you. “Don’t look so hard at all those, I’m not sure I’m ready for you to see my awkward highschool phase.”

“Aw come one, I’m sure you were cute.” He winked and his eyes looked so much bluer up close in the low light of your living room. 

“Yeah, well maybe I’ll let you see them if you tell me what’s going on with you,” your words gradually dropped in volume until you ended on a whisper. You could feel Leon stiffen. “You can’t just show up like you did at someone’s doorstep and not offer any explanation.”

“It’s not a very nice story,” he replied softly, reaching out to touch the necklace at your throat. You held your breath as he turned it over, righting the chain you hadn’t noticed was twisted. 

“I’m a bartender, more than half the stories I hear aren’t very nice. Try me.”

Leon heaved a sigh, scrubbing a palm over his face before nodding. “One condition: got any more of that whiskey up here?”

[thana-topsy]

Twenty-Two

Hadvar and Ralof have to work together to escape Helgen. [Read it on AO3]

[Part 1] [Part 2]

------------

He read the name from the list:

“Ralof of Riverwood.”

The words felt unreal leaving his mouth, as if spoken by someone else. The moment he had seen Ralof on the cart, the blood had drained from his face and the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. No, gods. Not like this. He had been prepared to meet Ralof in battle, perhaps even to die by his sword. But not like this… 

Hadvar looked up to meet Ralof’s eyes, wondering what he might see—fury, anger, regret? He wasn’t prepared to see righteous determination. A man proudly and willingly facing his own death. And for what? Hadvar wanted to lunge forward and grab him by the shoulders, shake him. ‘Why!?’ he wanted to scream at the man he once called his best friend. ‘Why would you throw your life away for a traitor!?’ 

But he stood still, frozen in place, quill in hand poised to check the name off his list. Ralof lifted his chin and looked away, turning to walk towards the headsman. One hundred words rose and died behind Hadvar’s teeth. He cleared his throat and called the next name. 

—

The shriek of the dragon’s shout faded as Hadvar shoved his shoulder against the door of the fort, barring it with shaking hands. He fell back against the wood, breathing heavily, sweat stinging his eyes. He could smell his own singed hair, his right arm pulsing hot with burns. How had things gone from bad to worse to catastrophic, all within twenty minutes. 

This was a nightmare. The work of Vaermina. 

Hadvar wanted to wake up.

He took a moment to gather his wits, the world spinning dizzily around him. A dragon had attacked Helgen. A dragon. A creature so powerful that it could warp reality with a single word. How was he supposed to live in a world where dragons roamed the skies? The civil war suddenly seemed so small and pointless.

The fort shuddered around him, loose rocks falling from the walls and ceiling. 

He smacked his own face then beat a fist against his chest with a growl. “Think, Hadvar, think!” Scour the fort for resources; create an exit plan. 

The fort had three exits, but they all led back out into the chaos. He could sit in the fort and wait for the dragon to leave on its own, but the idea made him feel like a coward. That, and as the fort shook with another rumble, the survival rate of that plan seemed slim to none. He glanced around the room—the barracks—and walked over to the first chest he saw, kicking it open. Spare uniforms. A bit of loose gold. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. He had his sword and his own two feet. He needed to move. 

He jogged from the barracks and into the adjoining chamber, running headfirst into two Stormcloak soldiers. 

There was an awkward pause in which the three of them simply stared at each other, then Hadvar took a stumbling step backwards, throwing his hands up in placation. “Wait, wait, don’t attack! Let’s just—”  

One of the soldiers let out a bellowing warcry, drawing his sword and sprinting towards Hadvar. 

His reaction was automatic, drilled into him from hours of training in the Solitude courtyards. He spun to avoid the attack while unsheathing his sword, then used the momentum to bring the sword down on the back of the man’s neck. It wasn’t a clean strike, but Hadvar felt the reverberation of the soldier’s spine cracking, blood arcing across his sword and knuckles. 

The soldier’s companion was already on him before he had time to recover, and he barely caught the downswing of her sword against his own. He threw her off balance with the force of his block and seized the opportunity to drive his sword into her chest, aiming for her heart. A quick death is a merciful death, came Captain Aldis’ voice in the back of his mind. 

The soldier looked into his eyes, her expression fearful, disbelieving. I’m sorry, he thought, but his jaw was clenched tight around the words. She coughed once, blood bubbling from her lips, then slid from his blade to the floor. 

It was over in a blink. Hadvar’s breathing was ragged, his heart pounding in his ears. He could hear the roar of the dragon outside as the fort shook around him. He had to get out, had to—

Another Stormcloak came jogging into the room. He looked down at the bodies on the floor, then to Hadvar as he readied his weapon.

It was Ralof.

All of the fight left Hadvar’s body like a candle extinguished in the wind, and he dropped his sword, dropping to his knees immediately after. “Ruh—” He couldn’t even say his name. 

Ralof was staring at him with unbridled rage in his eyes. Hadvar half-hoped he’d kill him.

“I tried—” Hadvar began, throat dry. “I tried to reason…” 

Ralof stared at him a moment longer, sword still at the ready, his lip drawn into a snarl. Finally, he spat on the ground, but sheathed his sword. “Aye,” he growled. “I heard as much.” He walked over and extended an arm, and Hadvar let himself be pulled to his feet. “Where was that mercy when you were sending me to the block, eh?”

“Those weren’t my orders,” Hadvar argued breathlessly, but it felt like a sorry excuse even to his own ears. 

“No, ‘course not,” Ralof grumbled. “Just doing whatever those Imperial dogs tell you to do, right?”

“Please, let’s not. We need to get out of here before the fort comes down around us. War be damned, that was a dragon, Ralof. A gods-damned dragon.”  

Ralof was looking into the middle distance, eyes unfocused. “Aye,” he said. “Never in my wildest dreams…” 

Hadvar took a moment to study his face. They hadn’t seen each other in over three years, and their last encounter had ended in an explosive argument that came to blows. Hadvar had walked away with a swollen and blackened eye, though he’d managed to break Ralof’s nose. He could see even now where it hadn’t quite healed right. 

“This fort will be swarming with Imperial soldiers,” Hadvar said. “We need to get you something different to wear. I found spare armor in the barracks—”

Ralof snarled at him. “I’ll be damned to Oblivion before I don Imperial armor!” 

“Think, Ralof! Forget your stubborn loyalties and think!” Hadvar took him by the shoulders. “Let’s get out of Helgen alive, first, yeah?”

The fort shook again, as if to remind them. Ralof’s scowl remained, but he nodded with a single jerk of his head. He glanced down at the bodies of his fallen comrades. “It pains me to leave them here. They deserve proper burials.” 

“If there’s anything left of the fort after this, I’ll see to it,” Hadvar promised. It was an empty promise, really, but a part of him genuinely wanted to keep it. 

They returned briefly to the barracks to exchange Ralof’s armor for that of an Imperial set, then made their way deeper into the fort. They encountered only a handful of other soldiers making their way through the fort, and, to Hadvar’s relief, none of them even spared Ralof a second glance. 

“Up ahead!” one shouted from the group down the hall. “There should be an exit that’ll put us out near the main gates.” 

Hadvar and Ralof jogged to catch up, but a massive CRACK shook the fort. Ralof lunged in front, throwing his arm in front of Hadvar to stop him right as the ceiling began to collapse. He turned and threw himself against Hadvar, toppling both of them to the ground and out of the way of the falling rubble. They coughed as the dust settled, and Hadvar felt his stomach twist at the sight of the blocked tunnel. 

“Guess we’ll have to find another way out,” he said. 

Ralof sighed, dusting off his skinned knees as he got to his feet. “Why in the name of Talos do you Imperials fight without breeches!?”

Hadvar let out a startled laugh, once more allowing Ralof to pull him to his feet. “That much we can agree upon, old friend.” 

“Easy, Hadvar,” Ralof warned, stepping away. “We are not friends. Not anymore.”

Hadvar’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest, and he clenched and unclenched his fists. “This way,” he said, beckoning Ralof to follow. “Hopefully there’s an exit further down.” 

They did not find an exit, but instead found a torture chamber. 

“Troll’s blood…” Ralof cursed under his breath. He turned slowly to look at Hadvar, rage clouding his features. “Hadvar… what in Oblivion is this?”

Hadvar was just as speechless, his eyes scanning the room. He knew these rooms existed, dappled across Skyrim in various forts. But beneath Helgen? “I—”

“Ah, did you boys come to watch or to help?” came a soft, wry voice. A man stepped out from behind a pillar, his dark eyes nearly black beneath his low hood. “Afraid we’re a little light on prisoners at the moment.” 

“There’s a dragon attacking Helgen!” Hadvar blurted. “We have to get out of here!” 

“Dragon?” the man repeated, sounding bored and dismissive. “Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“I’m telling the truth! We have to leave before it brings the fort down on our heads.” His gaze jerked to a body slumped in one of the cages. “Gods…”

“Oh him?” said the torturer, turning to look. “Don’t bother. Lost the key ages ago. He screamed for almost a full week before finally going silent.”

Ralof let out a bellow of rage, drawing his sword and charging the man. The torturer barely had time to look surprised before Ralof had buried his sword in his chest. He pulled back and shoved the man off his blade with a kick of his boot, spitting on the body before whirling on Hadvar. 

“These your men, Hadvar!?” he yelled. “Is this who you’re fighting alongside!?”

“I don’t associate with that man,” Hadvar said numbly. 

Ralof gestured to the crumpled figure with his sword, sending an arc of blood across the stone floor. “You wear the same uniform!” 

“This is war, Ralof!” he yelled back, his face and hands flooding with heat. “We’ve all heard about what Stormcloaks do with their prisoners! Are those your men? Eh?” He strode through the chamber with determination, wanting nothing more than to leave it behind him. “None of us have clean hands. Now let’s get out of here, if we can.”

He didn’t check to see if Ralof followed him, and a part of him didn’t care if he did, but he soon heard footsteps trailing behind him.   

The fort was massive, beyond what Hadvar could have imagined. To think this labyrinth had been beneath their very feet for all these years. They reached a final chamber that appeared to be a deadend until Hadvar heard the whistle of wind. 

“Hear that?” he said, holding up a hand to signal pause.

Ralof went silent, cocking his head to the side to listen. The rumble of the dragon fire had grown distant. The silence of the empty fort pressed in around them, interrupted by the strange whistle. “Sounds like a breach in the walls somewhere,” Ralof said. 

They scoured the perimeter, finding a drawbridge, and beyond that, a massive opening in the fort’s stone wall that led to a natural cave with a mountain fed river.

“If we follow the water, we may be able to find a way out of here,” said Ralof.   

Hadvar nodded. “Smart.”

Ralof gave him a scathing look. 

“I’m being genuine!” 

Grunting, Ralof ducked through the opening in the wall without sparing him another glance, and Hadvar followed with a sigh. 

After a harrowing trudge through the caverns, nearly being killed by giant spiders, sneaking past sleeping bears, and crawling their way up and out through a crack in the side of the earth, Hadvar and Ralof emerged into the daylight, blinking into the blinding sun like newborns. With barely any time to reorient themselves, the sound of the dragon roared overhead, and Ralof grabbed Hadvar by the shoulders and yanked him down to hide behind a large boulder. They watched the massive black beast fly off, roaring once more before fading into the distance. 

Hadvar gasped, pushing to his feet as realization dawned. “By the gods… It’s headed right for Riverwood! We have to go warn them!” 

“Out-run a dragon!?” Ralof argued. “Are you mad? We barely made it out of Helgen with our lives!”

“We have to do something! I’ll go to Whiterun. Alert Jarl Balgruuf. He can send guards to Riverwood. At least they’ll have a fighting chance—!”

“Hadvar, steady…” Ralof said. He’d gotten to his feet, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. “Steady,” he repeated, reaching out to take him by the shoulders. “By Talos, you haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

Hadvar blinked back at him, startled by the observation. He suddenly felt like a teenager all over again, long-buried emotions clawing their way to the surface of his mind. Ralof’s expression was almost wistful; sorrowful. Hadvar reached out to grasp Ralof’s shoulders in return, his hands shaking. “You haven’t either, you know.” 

To his surprise, Ralof smiled and let out a bitter laugh. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, sliding his hand to cup the back of Hadvar’s head, and brought their foreheads together.

Hadvar gripped the edge of Ralof’s cuirass, squeezing his eyes shut as he let out a shuddering exhale. He’d almost witnessed his friend’s execution. Almost took part in it. Now, in light of everything that had followed, he wasn’t sure if he’d have been able to live with himself had it been seen through.

I’m so glad you’re alive, he thought, but the words wouldn’t come.

Ralof pulled away and Hadvar reluctantly let his hands slide from his shoulders.

“We should probably split up,” Ralof suggested.

“You’re probably right…”

Neither of them moved. Hadvar swallowed, then opened his mouth to speak.

“Maybe—” Ralof spoke first. “We should go together to Riverwood. Split up from there.” He looked down at his Imperial armor. “Besides, I can’t go waltzing up to the nearest camp dressed like this.” He froze, eyes darting to Hadvar once more. “That is, unless you plan to take me as your prisoner.” 

Hadvar let out a breathy, nervous laugh. “My friend, a dragon just attacked Helgen. I’m not worried about taking prisoners right this moment.” His stomach dropped, realizing he’d once again referred to Ralof as his ‘friend’. 

But Ralof didn’t comment on the slip-up. He simply turned his eyes back to the sky. “Aye,” he agreed. “Strange times ahead, no doubt.” 

Hadvar swallowed. 

“No doubt,” he agreed.

[thaboah]

SHAMELESS HEADCANONS BEFORE THE SERIES

OKAY, I love shameless, although I don't know if it has a fandom, I'm going to write a couple of headcanons (I have to admit that this series has a very important place in my heart)

Que bien me cae Lip-

Frank tended to disappear a few times a month, come back in days. Fiona was used to it by now, but still every time he disappeared she couldn't help but worry a lot.

She would even ask people if they had seen him, when she would pass by a bar she would try to see if she saw him inside.

Although in the end that situation normalized him and he no longer worried unless he was away for a long time or it was the day of payment.

Fiona sometimes seemed to be forever mad at everyone for her situation. Shortly before Debbie was born, she used to argue a lot with Lip, about things around the house.

Sometimes it seemed like they hated each other, Ian was much calmer, he didn't like to fight with Fiona or Lip, when there were problems he would leave the house for a walk.

Lip and Fiona were practically throwing things at each other one day. It was a horrible fight, Frank wasn't home, Monica had been gone for months, and Ian was tired.

They had reached the point where neither of them could be at the same table without fighting, which was normal, Lip was 12 years old, Fiona 16 and they both have a lot of character.

To be honest, neither Fiona nor Lip remember what the discussion was about. They both yelled at each other before locking themselves in their room and didn't come out until it was time for dinner.

Ian was long gone, his initial plan was to take a long walk, return shortly before dinner, or dine somewhere with the few bills in his pocket. Then he saw the train and wanted to catch it, who knows, maybe it was a little late, but who cared?

Take a little detour, avoid the conductor, if he pretended to be asleep when he went for the tickets, everything would be fine. Pretending to be asleep, not really falling asleep. Perhaps it was the fatigue accumulated over the rest of the days or perhaps simply the comfortable constant rattle of the train that made him fall into the arms of Morpheus.

The conductor woke him up, the train had finished its journey and it was time for him to get off.

"What? Where I am?" He asked.

"You're on Lake view kid." The man answered.

Ian woke up fully, got up and ignoring the conductor, rushed out of the station to check that it was true.

On the other hand, Lip and Fiona were starting to worry, Ian was nowhere to be found, but instead of looking for a solution they preferred to start blaming each other.

"Fiona, didn't you see him leave or what?" Lip looked somewhere between worried and angry.

"I was sleeping, plus your window faces the street, you could have seen him leave easier. It's not my fault!" Fiona replayed on an even worse tone.

"Then whose fault is it? Because Frank wasn't even here. You can't blame him for once." He said pretending to be sarcastic.

Both were arguing when the door opened, they ran thinking it was Ian, but instead they found Frank. Reeking of alcohol, as always. The boys' look showed clear disappointment, and Frank, thinking it was because of him, responded.

"What?" He said confused.

"It's not because of you, Frank." Fiona said rolling her eyes.

"Ian is missing." Lip answered, but Fiona smacked him on the arm and whispered.

"Why do you tell him?" "Because maybe he knows where Ian is." He answered quietly.

"Little vermin, I'm drunk, not deaf." He said unsteadily a bit. "Although no, I have no idea where the red-haired creature is."

"God Frank, his name is Ian and he's your son." Said Lip somewhat annoyed.

"Are you really surprised?" Fiona said mocking Lip's comment.

By that time, Frank had already settled on the sofa, preparing to sleep without worrying about his son.

Lip and Fiona were too busy arguing loudly to let him sleep. He put the pillow over their ears and squeezed hard to see if they would shut up.

Then the minutes passed and the discussion got worse, like this morning and like every day. Frank was rarely there and didn't usually pay attention to them, but this time it was annoying.

He got up without warning and raised his voice, much louder than Fiona and Lip, he could be heard perfectly from the street.

"It's enough, fucking normal that Ian has taken off if you spend the day like this." Lip and Fiona fell silent instantly, not that they had never seen Frank yell at them before. It was just weird that he would do it for a topic like that. "You're brothers and if Ian is missing the way you say, you should go looking for him. Don't waste time arguing over whose fault it is, because it's clearly both of you. For being insufferable."

Something in Lip and Fiona made them listen to Frank and they went out looking for him. For once together and without arguing.

They searched everywhere and were about to give up the search, because it was useless, Ian was nowhere. Fiona was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, Lip was holding her shoulder as they walked home, trying to hide it but he was just as worried. Hours had passed.

Then at the door there was a red-haired boy, who curiously had left the keys inside his home. He wouldn't stop yelling the names of his brothers, even though he had assumed that surely they would all be asleep by now.

Lip and Fiona ran out to hug him, nearly taking his breath away. Then the door of the house opened, it was Frank, he had woken up by the noise.

He knew better than anyone that all he had done was sleep, that there was no place for him in that embrace, so without saying anything he left the door open and turned around. Although he smiled nicely when he saw the situation resolved in the best way.

"I'm so sorry, Fiona." Ian said, his voice shaking. Ian felt guilty, he really didn't want to worry them, he just wanted to get away from that environment for a while.

"It's okay, we're glad to have you home again."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

That's all! I'm so glad you're reading this because it means you've read it all! Let me know if you liked it and in case you didn't know I have the requests open. :)

[kirnet]

Don’t Wake the Ancients - Chapter 2

read on ao3 | previous chapter | next chapter

-

Two hours.

Dorotea and Verda were in that lab for two hours, frantically pouring over whatever evidence they had, checking and checking and triple checking the blood to see if exhaustion was just taking its toll. Verda had taken the news well at first, his jaw set, but over time he paled, his hands beginning to shake. He excused himself to the corner and pulled out his phone, quietly shushing the person on the other end as Dorotea politely pretended that she couldn’t hear.

“I love you, Eric,” he whispered, “and I love the girls.”

“No, no, don't come over. Yes, the captain knows. Yes, the detective-” he glanced up. “Dorotea is working hard. I’ll speak to you soon. Yes, I will.”

Captain Sung had been the first to know, and he assured Dorotea when he called back that a hazmat unit was on the way from the city. Protocol was being followed. Keep your head down and do your job.

God, Tina had been down here, too. And where had she gone? Haley’s? The bar? What was the incubation period? Was it even contagious? She ground her teeth as she meticulously reviewed every centimeter of every slide they had collected, bracing for the moment where she found the missing element and everything would click into place. Some sort of equipment error, obviously, or a possible chemical reaction with the film developer. Perhaps extreme shock had damaged the cells? But she had never seen anything to this extent.

In two hours, nothing.

Verda leaned back against the wall, his head in his hands.

Who would she even call in her final moments? Tina and the captain were already informed, and Lord knew that they had their hands full with their own worries at the moment. Calling anyone in the town would be unwise, their collective psyche on edge and ready to stampede after the discovery of the murder this morning. Maybe Rosa, her old nanny, who used to wash her hair and sing her to sleep?

Had she always felt this feverish, or was she just panicking?

“When I first started here,” Verda mumbled after a long silence, “I was convinced that you hated me. You just glared at everything.” He let out a strained laugh. “Now I know that it’s just your face.”

Dorotea’s brows pulled up. “Verda…”

“Even after knowing you for years, knowing your tells, you still seem so calm to me. Frankly, I’m jealous.” He sighed, removing his glasses and wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “Out of everyone to be stuck in this situation with, I’m glad it’s you.”

“This ain’t over yet,” Dorotea announced, a new fire in her veins. “The hospital has all of the information that we have. If anyone can figure out what’s happening, the team from the city can. We just have to hang tight and wait for them to get here.”

Verda’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “So we’re not curing this? No Langford-Verda vaccine?”

Dorotea shook her head, her dirty blond hair finally dry. “You’re a coroner, I only have my bachelor’s degree. If we do, then I’m expecting a six figure salary.”

Whatever reply Verda had died on his tongue as Dorotea’s phone rang. She snatched it up. “Langford.”

“Detective.” Captain Sung’s voice was clipped. “We are on the way to the station now. I wanted to give you as much warning as I could. The health concerns have been cleared.”

“Cleared?” Dorotea and Verda shared a glance, aghast. “Cleared by who?”

There was a pause. “By Rebecca.”

Verda’s eyes widened. “That Rebecca?”

But Dorotea didn’t hear him. All air had left her lungs, left the room, filling them with disinfectant and dust.

“Detective?”

Her teeth were bound together, muzzled. She could not separate them, could not even move a finger.

“Dorotea?”

A knock at the door.

Everything adrift in Dorotea snapped back into place, giving her vertigo. Still, she stood, straightened her back and adjusted her lab coat. “Captain, I need to note that I strongly disagree with this course of action and still recommend quarantine of the station.”

“Your opinion is noted. Open the door.”

Verda just shrugged at her look.

Dorotea shuffled over and unlocked the deadbolt.

Multiple figures crowded the narrow stairwell before her, all uncomfortably shuffling for space, but Dorotea looked past them, her gaze finding Captain Sung in the back. “Apologies, Captain,” she started before the woman in front could move forward. “I was the one who broke lab protocol and therefore am at fault. Verda is blameless.”

“Oh, Dorotea.”

Rebecca’s voice was oh so soft, cutting Dorotea like a fine blade. She finally shifted her gaze to her, Rebecca’s heels clacking with every step. She placed a well-manicured hand on Dorotea’s shoulder. “It’s been so long.”

Rebecca was tall, about Dorotea’s height, though she towered over her with the added inches from her shoes. Her pantsuit was perfectly tailored, emphasizing the lean tone of her body. Straight nose, stern brow, full lips and cheeks, all on full display, her long summer blond hair braided neatly over her shoulder.

Almost the spitting image of Dorotea.

Dorotea stiffened. “Yes, it has.” She stepped back, Rebecca’s hand falling away. “You cleared this? What is it, then? I’ve never heard of anything like it.”

“We- my team and I-” Rebecca gestured to the four strangers behind her, “-have encountered this a few times before. To our best knowledge, it's the aftermath of a rare mutation that increases the amount of enzymes in the bloodstream, leading to a faster rate of cell death than normal. While incredibly confusing to come across, it is completely harmless and completely localized to the individual.” The corner of her lip quirked up. “Your instincts were good, though. Had it been something dangerous, you would have maximized everyone’s safety.”

Verda and Dorotea locked eyes. She glanced back at Rebecca, mouth open, before snapping it shut. “I thought you worked in security?” she finally asked, lips pursed.

Rebecca nodded. “I do.”

“And that involves encountering rare blood mutations?”

“Yes,” the man behind Rebecca snapped in a distinctly British accent. “It does.”

Dorotea finally spared him a glare. He was broad as a barn, tall, the strength of his limbs clear even under a pea coat and a pair of cargo pants. The harsh lighting did him no favors, bleaching his already pallid skin and short-cropped blond hair. Whatever look he was giving her was obscured by the rusty tint of aviator glasses perched atop a proud aquiline nose.

“Well, then we’ll need a full write-up of whatever you can offer about this mutation,” Dorotea eventually grunted, fingers balled in her lab coat. “If it affects other parts of the body, we don’t want our results-”

“Langford.”

Two pairs of brown eyes snapped to the captain.

“I think Doctor Verda would like to go home.”

“I-” Verda had removed his glasses, his red-rimmed eyes fully visible now. Dorotea’s heart fell somewhere into her abdomen. She placed a firm hand on his back. “Yes, of course. Can you get home by yourself?”

Verda nodded, the relief instant on his face. “Yes, yes I can. We can discuss this later, I just need- I-”

“It’s alright.” Captain Sung pointed his square chin up the stairs. “And take tomorrow off, too.”

Wasting no time, Verda threw his belongings together and scurried up the stairs, the glasses askew on his face.

Heavy air settled on Dorotea’s shoulders. She was then acutely aware of Janet’s corpse to the side of her, still waiting forever patiently on the table. “I should clean this up,” she murmured. “We can continue this later?”

“Yes, of course,” Rebecca sighed, taking another step forward. “Though, if you need anything…”

Whatever she had planned to say was halted by Dorotea’s withering glare.

-

Dorotea was sure her staircase didn’t used to be this long.

She trudged up the steps to her apartment, her boots knocking against the edges as the light flickered above her. Built a little unevenly on top of Mr. Brian’s hardware store, the one bedroom was a steal, Brian offering her the place for dirt cheap. The pipes groaned in the colder weather, but they never leaked, and she had to light the back burner of her stove with a match, but Mr. Brian was always quick with any repairs that she couldn’t manage by herself.

The whole unit might have been smaller than her bedroom as a child, but it was hers, all hers.

It took a few tries to get her lock unstuck (push in, then up, then turn the key). She shambled in, hung her dripping hat on the hook by the door, and kicked it closed. Idly, her eyes roamed over her collection of photos and frames that covered almost every available inch of wall. A fine layer of dust covered all of the knick-knacks gathered up on her scratched wooden furniture, all bought second-hand from rummage sales or gifted by a kindly neighbor. She brushed her finger over the five remaining strings on her father’s guitar propped up against the couch, the sixth long since snapped.

Her boots were the next to go, kicked off into some corner, then her jacket and shirt, until she was wriggling out of her damp jeans in the bathroom, the shower head coughing as it tried to bring up warm water. She carded a hand through her hair- short and choppy, cut by her own hands in this very bathroom- a deep sigh growing in her rib cage.

No, that was impossible.

She had barely been able to hide her shaking hand when the man spoke, his deep voice immediately putting her on edge.

There was no way that the man she maced in the forest was currently walking around with working eyesight, and there was certainly no way that he was a part of her mother’s team.

Steam rolled out of the shower, fogging up the mirror. Dorotea stepped in, scalding water rolling down her bony body. There was a logical explanation for this. She was exhausted, her emotions were running high. That, mixed with the memories from the witch’s cabin, were a recipe for jumping to conclusions. She needed sleep, a square breakfast when she awoke, and maybe a new habit of mindful breathing.

Feeling slowly returned to her numb toes. No, she was just accusatory because Rebecca had shown up unannounced. Everything would be sorted out in the morning.

Water burned her back.

She stepped out, skin now pink, and blindly fumbled for a towel before realizing that she had never grabbed one. She picked her shirt off from the floor, dried herself, and shambled over to her bed, not even bothering to turn off the light before climbing under the quilts.

The pattering rain pulled her into sleep instantly.

-

A square meal turned into a packet of instant oatmeal and a reheated cup of yesterday’s coffee, but Dorotea had made sure to take a few deep breaths as she lumbered down the stairs, Mr. Brian’s ruddy face greeting her from behind the store counter as he unlocked the register. Her windshield wipers worked overtime as her truck inched towards the station, water sloshing against her tires. Usually the other side of the road would be packed with cars, their headlights blinding her as they headed out of town. But the rains made it too dangerous to handle coal, so the majority of Wayhaven’s men remained in bed, at least for the time being.

Len was still at the front desk when she entered the station, some thick book about World War I open in front of him. He greeted her with a tired smile.

“Any trouble last night?” Dorotea asked, shaking her hat off as she went to unlock her office.

“A few calls of people thinking that they saw some stranger outside their window, but they all seemed to realize that it was just the wind or a neighbor taking their dog out.” Len shook his head. “And Miss Benedict called. She wants to know when’s a good time to come in and present her, uh, theories.”

Dorotea deflated. “Christ, doesn’t that woman ever sleep? Thanks, Len. I can hold down the fort until Douglas gets here.”

They said their goodbyes. Dorotea combed through the inbox on her desk. She hadn’t been able to go through the statements Tina took yesterday. No one heard anything, no one saw anything. Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy both confirmed that they were asleep in bed for the whole night. Lance Huttle, the Abernathy’s farm hand, said he had spent his whole night at his house. Though he lived alone, one of the neighbor’s kids claimed that his truck had remained in the driveway when she went to bed around 2 a.m.

Dorotea walked to the corner of her office with the statements in hand. Her whiteboard was usually reserved for help with Garret’s homework or Tina’s doodles (one of Dorotea permanently lived in the upper corner, absurdly big cattleman hat and under eye bags the source of much teasing), but today it would have an actual use. Careful to preserve her portrait, she wiped it clean and started fresh. The farmhouse door was found ajar, and according to Abernathy it was always chained and padlocked at night. She’d have to track down the chain to see if it was cut or if the lock were somehow picked. She’d get Tina to- no, Tina was heading into the city now. Dorotea would do it after visiting Janet’s apartment-

“Dorotea?”

The whiteboard marker squeaked as her hand suddenly stilled. She squared her shoulders. “Good morning, Rebecca.”

Rebecca frowned at the formal tone, but it was quickly schooled back into a neutral expression as four familiar shapes entered behind her. “How are you after last night?”

“Able to work.” Dorotea crossed her arms. “Did Mayor Friedman ever contact the city, or were you contacted instead?”

“We were already in Wayhaven. The city contacted us, actually. We have experience with savage killings such as this.” Rebecca stepped to the side, fully revealing the people behind her. “Dorotea, I would like you to meet my team, Unit Bravo. They will be assisting you on this case. Bravo, meet my daughter.”

Dorotea bit her cheek at the pride dripping from her mother’s voice. “I assume you already went above my head and got the mayor and captain to sign off on this?”

Straightening the braid over her shoulder, Rebecca sighed. “Both of them encouraged this union. This killer is top priority for us, and Wayhaven is out of practice dealing with something like this. Working together is the safest option for the town.”

Before Dorotea could answer, she gestured a man forward, one that had been subtly shifting his weight from foot to foot. He was absurdly tall, handsome, a charming smile lifting his graceful cheeks as he stepped towards her. His dark hair was swept into a bun, loose waves falling around his face in a way that Dorotea would usually think was done painstakingly in front of a mirror, though she believed that they really were effortless. His leather jacket rustled as he reached a tan hand out. “Nathaniel Sewell. But please, call me Nate.”

Nate’s grip was firm but gentle as Dorotea took his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

A woman bounded forward as Nate receded. She flashed an easy smile as she grabbed Dorotea’s hand, her pearl teeth almost glowing against her warm dark skin. Easily the shortest of the bunch, she wore a bright outfit of a purple scarf, patterned raincoat, and a lemon yellow beanie that hid most of her coiled hair. “Farah Hauville. Charmed,” she purred as she brought her lips down to Dorotea’s skin, her thick New Orleans accent dripping from every word.

“Less pleased.” Dorotea snatched her hand away, though it was hard to tear her gaze from Farah’s glimmering amber eyes.

To her credit, the rejection rolled right off Farah’s back. She shrugged, smile still gracing her full lips.

The next two refused to stop glowering, so Rebecca stepped in. “This is Agent Morgan,” she announced, gesturing to a woman with tan skin and a smattering of freckles. She had a wolfish look to her, angular, the steel-glint of her gray eyes and the sharpness of her cheeks at odds with the curvaceous build of the rest of her body. Her hair fell in thick layers around her face, some of them ending at the chord of leather that loosely hung from her neck, a heavy crystal pulling it down. Morgan tucked it into her shirt before Dorotea could examine it.

“Just Morgan?” Dorotea asked when she made no move to greet her. “Or is Agent your name?”

Cold hard silence.

Dorotea sucked in a breath, counting down in her head. “No disrespect meant, ma’am.” When Morgan just scoffed, she turned to the last man.

She didn’t need to consider him for long. Mostly, she was just wondering if he always wore those aviators during the darkest parts of the day. “Commanding Agent du Mortain,” the man from the lab boomed, arms crossed.

Nate shook his head, obviously embarrassed. “Adam…”

“Have we met before, Commanding Agent?” Dorotea asked, enunciating his title clearly through her drawl.

The agent- Adam, according to Nate- peered at her over his aviators. “Obviously not. This is my first time in Wayhaven.”

Dorotea frowned. “Guess you got one of them voices, then. Could have sworn I heard you before.”

“Your kind tends to have trouble with any type of nuance. It is not surprising that my accent would confuse you.”

“I have other matters to attend to,” Rebecca announced before Dorotea could snap back. She glided over to the door, resting her hand on the knob as she turned back. “I expect you to perform your duties to the best of your abilities.”

She left as Douglas shuffled into the station, barely looking up from his phone to avoid colliding with her.

The five stood in silence, wearily eyeing each other. Eventually, Dorotea cleared her throat. “Well, let’s get right to it, then. Our victim is Janet-“

Adam raised a hand. “We already have all of the most recent details of the case. Going over them again would be a waste of time.”

The stack of papers under Dorotea’s arm grew heavier. “I don’t even have all of the most recent info.”

“Hence why we were brought in.” Adam fully removed his glasses now, his glaring green eyes as pale as everything else about him. “Our specialty is succeeding where others fail.”

Dorotea’s nostrils flared. “Excuse me?”

“What Adam means,” Nate quickly added, waving his hands apologetically, “is that we have more experience on these cases-“

“No, I understand perfectly well what he meant.” Dorotea, only a few inches shorter than Adam, stepped into his personal space, her hat making up the difference. He raised a brow at her. “It has barely been 24 hours and you want to question my competence? I don’t know what- what on God’s green Earth do you think you’re doing?” She whipped around to Morgan, who didn’t even spare her a glance as she lit a cigarette with a silvery lighter.

“Smoking.” Farah cackled, gleefully watching the exchange.

“You can’t- Hold it!” Whatever lasting thread of composure Dorotea had managed to keep snapped as Adam reached for the door knob. “Where are you going?”

“To perform a duty you obviously can’t,” Adam grunted. “I grow weary of this. Each of us will go out and canvas the town. You may stay here and continue to make excuses.”

Nicotine stung Dorotea’s nose as she inhaled sharply. “Look,” she started, removing her hat to run a hand through her choppy hair. ��I apologize. I am acting unprofessionally, and you’re right, I am making excuses.” Her voice softened. “I’m out of my depth. I have no experience with solving murders, as a cop or a medical examiner. Your expertise will be invaluable, and I am grateful to have you as a resource. But you admitted yourself that you don’t know Wayhaven.” She gestured to the row of buildings across the street, windows aglow in the dark morning. “You don’t know her people, her history, her rhythm. If you try to go out there as you are now, no one will give you the time of day.

“But I know her,” she continued. “And I want to keep her safe. You are welcome to your opinions on me and this station, but the fact remains that we both want this killer put away. You need me as much as I need you. Command your team, but you will treat me as an equal.”

To her surprise, Adam removed his hand from the door. Nate straightened, his relief obvious. “You’re right, Detective. Where would you recommend we start?”

“Janet’s apartment,” she answered in a breath. “So far, we’re flying blind. We need any insights we can glean from her life. Barring that, we need to wait for Verda to come back tomorrow to finish some lab work.”

“Take Farah and Morgan,” Adam grumbled as he put his shades back on. “If the ‘rhythm’ of this place is so important, then Nate can spend the morning finding it.”

Farah cheered, kicking her legs as she perched on the edge of Dorotea’s desk. Morgan’s scowl deepened. “Wonderful,” she growled, smoke curling around her lips.

With a hop, Farah took Morgan’s and Dorotea’s arms in hers. “Looks like we have a girl’s trip.”

-

“Is it always so fucking freezing here?” Morgan chattered around her cigarette, arms wrapped tightly around her body as the trio followed Mrs. Giles down the hall. Farah mumbled an agreement, her scarf covering her nose.

Dorotea chuckled as Mrs. Giles unlocked the door labeled 203. “Then let’s solve this case before the snow comes. That would outright kill you.”

Wayhaven may be small, but she was sprawling. Plenty of people had land to farm, orchards of apples and cherries and space for livestock and horses that Dorotea sometimes took along the forest paths. Some families had been here as settlers, their old log cabins replaced piece by piece into what they lived in now. If you had money, like Rebecca or Mayor Friedman, you lived at the north end of town, far away from the meager bustle of the town square. Those folk had lawns, manicured rose bushes, sprawling driveways that came to an end at a well-insulated house, though the rain didn’t discriminate.

And if you didn’t have money, you lived here. Most of the miners, the handful of school teachers, farm hands, and those relying on government assistance stuck to the apartment complexes just outside the center of town. Rent was affordable, usually, though lately Mrs. Giles had made a habit of raising it annually. Her only income since her poor husband died, she had cried at a town hall when her tenants complained. How else was she supposed to afford to live with the mortgage of three complexes?

“She was curious,” Mrs. Giles started as Dorotea entered the bare apartment. No couch, no table, no furniture save for a sleeping bag against the far wall and a pile of paper dishes in the kitchen trash. The bathroom door was open, and from where she stood Dorotea could see toiletries on the sink and clothes draped atop the shower curtain. The door to the bedroom was closed. “She only came here to sleep, according to the neighbors. Didn’t make an effort to get to know anyone.”

Ah, the good old rumor mill. “Anything else they might have told you?”

“Not to speak ill of the dead, but she was a bit of a-“ she glanced over at a shivering Morgan. “Well, let’s say that she didn’t dress for the weather, bless her heart.”

Dorotea rolled her eyes as she snapped on her gloves. “Thank you, ma’am. We can take it from here.”

Mrs. Giles huffed at the obvious dismissal, though she hovered around the front door for a bit before finally closing it. “This place stinks,” Morgan growled, nose pressed into her black leather jacket.

“I can open the window if you want.”

Morgan scoffed. “Hilarious. What are we doing here?”

“This place has a definite serial killer vibe,” Farah attempted to whisper as she poked at the sleeping bag with her foot.

“I don’t see any signs of struggle.” Morgan glanced at the door knob- intact- and around the bare walls. “I doubt she was taken from here.”

“Please try to avoid touching anything if you’re not wearing gloves.” Dorotea walked straight over to the closed door and pulled it open. She narrowed her eyes as light fumes wafted past her into the rest of the apartment.

Before she could look into the room, Morgan gasped. Dorotea swung around, quickly closing the distance and putting a hand on her back as she gagged. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s just sensitive to smells,” Farah tried to explain as she frantically looked around the room. Eventually she settled on the window. She raced over and lifted it up, allowing fine mist to blow into the room.

Morgan’s coughing died down, enough that she could stand and slam the window shut, almost cutting off Farah’s fingers in the process. “I think I have a mask in my glovebox if you need it,” Dorotea said, sliding her jacket off and holding it out.

“I’m fine.” Morgan slapped it away. “What the hell is in that room?”

“Janet had traces of film developer on her fingers,” Dorotea explained as she walked back to the room. Morgan and Farah stayed where they were.

She stepped fully into the room, careful to keep the door half-open behind her. Red light bathed her, turning everything into a bloody monochrome. The sole window in the room was covered with cardboard and tape, and the only sign that it was even there was the faint sound of rain hitting the glass. Two folding tables were set up on either wall, each covered in a variety of equipment and containers. “It’s a dark room. Where you develop camera film,” she called out after inspecting the set up.

“So our victim is a photographer,” she continued as she came into the living room. Her eyes snapped to Farah. “So, what’s missing?”

Farah tilted her head, almost cat-like. “What?”

“I thought you agents had all the facts. Quickly, now.” Dorotea snapped her fingers.

Morgan fished for a cigarette as Farah thought for a moment. Her eyes exploded into saucers. “There’s no camera!”

Dorotea nodded. “Good. No camera, no backpack, no laptop. There’s no film in the dark room, so I don’t think she’s developed any of it yet. My guess? We find the camera, then we find where Janet was killed.”

Smoke drifted towards the stained ceiling. “And how do we go about finding a single camera in hundreds of miles of woods?”

When the rain stopped, dogs could be called in. There might even be a lingering scent to follow. Maybe they would be lucky and find it in a clearing before the first snowfall. Dust it for prints, prints that were already in the system, and bring a bastard to justice. Janet Greenland could rest peacefully.

Sometimes miracles like that happened in Wayhaven.

But Dorotea, optimistic as she could be, was a woman of logic. Hope had its uses. Hope was necessary. Someone could stumble across the camera and possibly solve the case within a day. But the only newcomers she had heard of in Wayhaven were Janet and Unit Bravo. Statistically, the murderer was from the community, her community, the very people she would do anything to pay back the kindness they had shown her her whole life.

“I don’t know,” she answered instead, staring blankly at her reflection in the window.

-

Morgan and Farah were already back at the station when Dorotea arrived, just like they had been at Dorotea’s apartment. “Our agency has better cars,” Morgan had grumbled after Dorotea offered them a ride in her truck. “They don’t smell like wet dog.”

Their jackets drip-dried on the coat pegs in Dorotea’s office as they milled about, waiting for their other half to return. Nate eventually trailed in, shaking the rain from his arms. “How did it go?” he asked.

“The detective’s only lead is maybe hidden somewhere in the woods, if it’s not in someone else’s possession or washed halfway out to sea.” Morgan leaned against the wall, a healthy distance from where Farah curled up in a spare chair Dorotea had stolen from Tina’s desk.

When Nate made a confused face, Dorotea explained. “How did you find the town?”

“It’s nice. Quiet.” Nate pulled up a chair and sat across from Dorotea, his hands steepled in his lap. “I stopped by, what was it, Haley’s? She only had good things to say about you,” he added with a smile.

“Haley’s only got good things to say about everyone,” Dorotea said, cheek resting on her fist. Her notepad sat in front of her, scribbled with anything her ever-tiring brain could cough up. She could try to talk the mayor into offering up a reward for finding any other evidence, but sending everyone out into weather like this seemed like it would cause her more headache than anything else. Verda and Tina would be back tomorrow, hopefully with new leads of their own. Until then…

Dorotea sighed. Tina always had her nose in one of those god-awful detective books. They had even formed a bit of a book club over the years, cackling with wine glasses in hand as they read the smut scenes aloud. They were terrible, yes, but they had a way of compressing time into an exciting spectacle, not a slog of awkward waiting.

“You’re doing well, Detective.” She looked up at the sound of Nate’s honeyed voice. “And you have all of us right behind you.”

She attempted a weak smile. “Thanks. But I’ll believe you when I have this jackass in my holding cell.”

Morgan opened her mouth for a quip but suddenly stopped, her nose wrinkling. A few seconds later, Nate and Farah followed, their heads snapping to look through the window in Dorotea’s office to the welcome desk.

Lance Huttle trudged in, the hood of his raincoat drawn low over his face, but there was no mistaking him. A man accustomed to years of hard labor, Lance was massive, giving the Commanding Agent a run for his money. His lopsided shoulders moved under his coat as he removed the hood, his other arm busy protecting a plastic container from the elements. Blue eyes brighter than the lake on a summer day twinkled as Dorotea stood from her desk.

“Hey, missy,” he greeted in his gruff voice, giving Dorotea a side hug. Douglas spared the interaction a glance before turning back to his computer.

“What brings you out here?” Dorotea asked.

Lance scratched his scruffy neck. “Mrs. Abernathy made these just for you. She wants you to know how much we appreciate all of your hard work.”

Wayhaven had a hard time forgetting and an even harder time forgiving. The sins, or the boons, of your father were yours to carry, something both Lance and Dorotea had in common. It was long before Dorotea’s time- and hell, even Lance’s- when Wayhaven went on strike, refusing to work in the Friedman’s mines until their demands for higher wages were met. They weren’t, and the scabs started rolling in, most of them too desperate for a paycheck to even pay attention from the animosity from the town. Lance’s father had been among them, and while he might have once been a union man himself, he had a new wife with a new child growing inside her and what wouldn’t a father do for his young family? So he tolerated the abuse, and Lance grew up and became a miner just like his daddy, the strike long since over.

But when the layoffs started, the coal company claiming that the new safety equipment was simply too expensive to keep everyone on board, the town still remembered. Only Abernathy had offered him a job, and that was grudgingly, not that he would never admit that now. Dorotea’s generation mostly rolled their eyes when hearing the series of events, but they all still knew the tale well.

Dorotea took the container with a smile. “You know I can’t talk about the case.”

“I know,” Lance chuckled. “But Mrs. Abernathy thought it was worth a try.”

She popped it open. An ocean of thumbprint cookies filled it, each with a center of apple preserves. Douglas’s head snapped up as the aroma of shortbread filled the office. Dorotea held the container out to him, and Douglas wasted no time grabbing a handful, chipmunk-cheeks straining against the sheer volume he stuffed into his mouth. The memory of last night slammed into her as she stared at the sweets, and she set them on Douglas’s desk without taking one. “Thanks. You wouldn’t have anything more to offer as a statement, would you?”

Lance’s smile fell a tad. “Sorry, Tea, but no. I know the Abernathys are real shaken up about the whole thing, but if you ask me-” his voice lowered, and he leaned down to Dorotea’s ear- “Mrs. Abernathy is enjoying all of the attention. You should’ve seen how many casseroles came in through her door this morning.”

The door opened in Garret slid in, his red hair dark against his forehead. After getting a nod from Dorotea, he settled into Tina’s desk, though he grabbed a handful of cookies on the way.

“Well, give her my best.” She patted Lance’s solid back. “And keep an eye out for me, would ya?”

“Anything for you, missy.”

“Uh, Detective?” Douglas called as Lance excused himself. “You’ve got a call.”

She frowned at his prominent wince. “Who?”

“Miss Benedict.”

[naoa-ao3]

Waiting for the Sun

Methos wakes, heart pounding in his chest and in his ears.

He has his hand on his stomach and for a second he isn't sure where he is. What bed this is or when it is.

Then his eyes adjust and he sees familiar shapes and walls.

It's his bed but it's empty and when his hand slides to where for but for a brief time Alexa had lain it closes on air.

Everyone dies and at times he's been numb to it, at times he's been used to it. Those times are not good ones. They're lies and he swallows in the dark, looking at the electric clock on the table beside the bed.

3:00 A.M.

She's only been gone a few months and he barely knew her for more than that and yet just the same he feels as if he'd spent an eternity with her.

"Alexa." He whispers to no one and no one whispers back.

Grief takes time and he's had more of that than anyone else but knowing and feeling aren't the same thing. The pain in his chest doesn't care what his mind knows. The pain in his chest only cares about the empty space beside him and the missing smile from his life.

He exhales and for a second can smell antiseptic that isn't there either. He can hear the sounds of the hospital she died in and the ache in his chest grows painful and angry. It claws at him. It gnashes it's teeth and makes his ears hurt.

The bed is cool and empty and really, they travelled so much in the time she had. . . he doubted she even spent a week's worth of nights in this bed.

Still, his hand opens and closes on nothing and he tries to make himself calm and detached but when he can't he instead rises and walks to the windows.

He's lived long enough to know that grief will never truly become easy. . . to know that if it does then something all the more is wrong.

He stares out at the street below, remembering beaches and blue water in Greece and the look on her face when the plane had touched down. She hadn't it seemed really believed they were going until they'd gotten there.

He wishes it were not night and the sun were up instead and he had places to go, bars and shops and parks. . . places with noise and people and moving life but it is night and the sun won't be up for just a little while longer.

He's had so many dawns that came too soon, so many he'd tried to stave off. Now is one he wishes would speed itself. Now is one he waits for because the night is very lonely and he has no one beside him but her ghost. A lingering memory and a feeling in his chest.

Accepting sleep gone he turns from the window and runs a hand through his hair. It's suddenly cold and he reaches for a sweater, catching a glint of moon on the hilt of his sword and shakes his head.

There's nothing for it so he turns the light on and doesn't try to sleep again. He makes something hot to drink and reads a book, practicing being Adam Pearson and a million other men.

The sun will rise and the day will start and life will go on.

All of it without Alexa and eventually when all others have passed away he alone will remember her face and name, the look in her eyes when she smiled. . . he plans to never forget any part of her. Not so long as he still lives.

He waits for the sun to come and the day to start and thinks of seeing Joe and maybe Mac if he has the time. . . he's let himself get oddly comfortable with these people, allowed a kind of comradery he hasn't known for a very long time. It's curious and perhaps not the wisest but on this night he's glad he can count friends so close.

When the sun rises he keeps Alexa in his chest and puts his book aside.

There are things to do after all and places to go and the streets are coming to life with cars and people and noise.

The sounds of civilization and her forward march.

If only for a brief moment he had gotten to share that chaos with someone special and even if she isn't there any more he feels in some small way close to her again.

[manwalksintobar]

One Day  // Philip Levine

Everyone knows that the trees will go one day and nothing will take their place. Everyone has wakened alone in a room of fresh light and risen to meet the morning as I did before I came upon this name and this sad nature by which others know me. How long have we waited quietly by the side of the road for someone to slow and ask why? The light is going, first from between the long rows of dark firs and then from our eyes, and when it is gone we will be gone. No one will be left to say, "'He took that stick and marked off the place where the door would be," or "She held the child in both hands and sang the same few tunes over and over."                              Before dinner we stood in line to wash the grease from our faces and scrub our hands with a hard brush, and the pan of water thickened and grayed, a white scum frothed on top, and the last one flung it all in the yard. Boiled potatoes, buttered and salted, onions, thick slices of bread, cold milk, the smell of coffee from the kitchen. I felt my eyes slowly closing, you smoked in silence.                                         What life were we expecting? Ships sailed from distant harbors without us, the telephone rang and no one answered, someone came home alone and stood 66for hours in the dark hallway. A woman bowed to a candle and spoke as though it could hear, as though it could answer. My aunt went to the back window and called her small son, gone now for 17 years into the closed wards of the state, called his name again and again, and her tears fell into nothing. What could I do? Answer for him who'd forgotten his name? Take my father's shoes and go into the streets?                                        Yes, the sun has risen again, I can see the windows change and hear a dog barking. The wind buckles the slender top of the alder, the conversation of night birds hushes, and I can hear my heart regular and strong. I will live to see the day end, as I lived to see this hand grow long and spotted. As I lived to see the earth turn molten and white, then to metal, then to whatever shape we stamped into it as we laughed the long night hours away or sang how the eagle flies on Friday. When Friday came, the early hours perfect and cold, we cursed our only lives and passed the bottle back and forth.                                                               Some died. I turned and he was gone, my friend with the great laugh who walked cautiously and ate with his head down, like a bear, his coarse hair almost touching the plate. The tall one with arms no thicker than a girl's, who cursed his own swollen face as though he could have another. 67The one whose voice lilted softly when he raised a finger and spoke. Gone in pain and fear. I sat beside him, helpless, trying to describe the sea as I had seen it, but it was lost, distant and unseen, perhaps no longer there under a low sky. I wanted to tell him how the waves darkened and left only the sound of their breaking, and after a silence we learned to bear, it all came back. He turned away to the wall and slept, and I went out into the city. It was I who'd held his wife and felt the small bones of her back rising and falling as she did not cry. Later I would see my son from a distance and not call out. I would waken that night beside a sleeping woman and count each breath.                          Soon it was summer, afternoon, the city hid indoors in the great heat, the hot wind shrivelled our faces. I said, ''They're gone." The light turned from red to green, and we went on. "If they're not here," you said, "Where are they?" We both looked into the sky as though it were our only home. We drove on. Nothing moved, nothing stirred in the oven of this valley. What was there left to say? The sky was on fire, the air streamed in the open windows. We broke free beyond the car lots, the painted windows, the all-night bars, the places where the children gathered, and we just went on and on, as far as we could into a day that would never end.

[charlesandmartine]

Tuesday 7th March 2023

Our apartment could hardly be described as roughing it. The Motels can only be regarded as adequate in most cases and we only used them in the Outback when no Airbnb solution was available. This place is total luxury with the covered area containing the BBQ (with sink), bar style seating, sofas, Netflix and hot tub allow the perceived outdoor Aussie lifestyle become an absolute reality and is extremely desirable. Martine is most pleased because she once more has a cafetiere. I think I want to live here. Thing is, if you go past our superbly appointed apartment around a corner of the outside space, there is what one might describe as a well appointed shed. Perhaps that was where we were supposed to be? The first thing on the agenda was to go down to the station to check arrangements for the train journey on Thursday on the tilt train to Brisbane. We popped into the station at about 5 o'clock yesterday and it was completely deserted and locked apart from a couple of girls who appeared to be living in the waiting room. Well at least the bedrolls were laid out. Perhaps they were Matilda's?

After so much travelling we thought a quiet day was required and the best place to find a quiet day is on a deserted beach. We asked our host, Deborah, where we would find such a place. Well she said you don't need to be in woop woop! Yes they do actually say this! Aussie for middle of nowhere! Anyway on her advice we pointed the Nissan towards Yeppoon. Well that is after we had another go at the station. The staff were all there this morning and we made arrangements to dump our cases there tomorrow evening. I think the itinerant girls had moved out of the waiting room. Yeppoon was 35 mins drive away but we were soon to be getting our first glimpse of the Pacific again after what seems ages. We were heading for Cooee Bay, Wreck Point Lookout, and Lammermoor Beach. James Cook had called here in 1770, but it was in 1802 that the famous Navigator and Cartographer Matthew Flinders arrived as part of his renowned circumnavigation of Australia mapping the country for the first time. Some of his maps are still in use today apparently. Aussies love Flinders and his cat Trim. There are monuments, roads, stations, statues to his and Trim's memory all over. He returned to England and soon after died aged 40 in 1814. Big hero, gone. Not only that but he was buried in St James cemetery near to Euston station but even in 1852 the exact location was lost. Some people were convinced he was buried under platform 4. However when clearing the old cemetery for HS2, they found him! He was one of 40,000 graves cleared. I heard he is likely to be reburied with his father in Lincoln. Wreck Point recognised the loss of the good ship Salina in 1848. She was due into Sydney in July 1847 but she failed to arrive. Instead she washed up at Wreck Point 15 months later with no explanation. Well life is full of mysteries. We had no hope of solving this so we moved on to Lammermoor Beach for the quiet time. And quiet it was too. We had the beach to ourselves. We discovered approaching the beach there was a local outlaw, the Tilapia fish. Report all cases, it is an offence to have one dead or alive! Well we tried to be helpful; looked everywhere for it but couldn't find him. Luncheon came and went, the sun baked down in a cloudless sky moving what little shade there was but still 33 degrees. The beach started to fill as the kids came out of school so we moved on to Emu Park. Now we could do with seeing a few more Emus but it turns out Emu Park is a small township with no Emus apart from an artist's depiction of some but with fantastic views of the Keppel Islands nonetheless. Disappointed, but a couple of Magnums did the trick and we repaired to Woolworths and Liquorland for some beers and other items for another BBQ.

[elham5379]

As Quebec hadn't given him any specific instructions on where to head, he decides to roam around, map the place out. He turns a few corners, noting down each of the doors and rooms as he went, when suddenly-

"Holy shit, you made it?"

He finds Kamran's cell.

"I thought Bec wanted you dead, but hey, this is a pleasant surprise."

He slowly returned to reality, the bright lights over his heavy eyelids made his world red for a second until he opened his eyes. Kamran winced and attempted to bring his hands up to cover his eyes, only to discover his shakey hands. He'd never seen himself weak like this before, not even in prison when he barely ever ate. Old age... he wasn't that old, was he? Look at him attempting to convince himself. Perhaps if he was killed off back in Turkey, perhaps he would have been more of a success. The road where he was either a success or failure really was a living hell... just as he'd mentioned eight years ago. Except that eight years ago he was doing great, up until now, it was pure havoc.

Kamran managed to pull himself in an up straight position, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes. He took a look around, finding himself in some sort of cell.

His chest stings. A weak hand clutched his chest, he lifted his shirt and found stitching lines.

"I've got you now, haven't I?"

The memories flow back like an ocean wave, soft yet chilling. His chest feels tight, and the chemicals in the air don't help. He feels manic, the need to escape, where was he? What happened? And who are those people? His episode pauses itself as a familiar voice is heard.

Kamran doesn't bother with looking over, it was the silly wannabe cop who was also some sort of philosopher. He grits his teeth in anger, his eyes staring down at the hard cold floor with silent rage. He slowly closed his eyes and turned his head in the direction of the kid. His eyelids drew back and his cold blue eyes landed right on the others', a death stare.

Foxtrot shrugs and sighs at Kamran's gaze, "Yeah, I deserve that."

He looks around the bars surrounding the man, trying to figure out what it is that's holding it together. It looked just like an ordinary cell, but there had to some strange contraption or weird function built into it. This was Quebec's haven, after all, it's not Bec-ian if there's not some modification to... literally anything.

"Look, I'm sorry," he halfheartedly apologizes, "I had a job to do, just like you did."

He looks away and rubs the back of his neck with the hand not held in a sling, "I'm sure it won't, but if this makes you feel any better-"

He unbuttons the top part of his shirt, just enough to expose his own stitches, "Look at that."

"I have to give it to you," he chuckles and buttons the shirt back up, "You have a very good aim."

Fox sits down outside the cell, "I thought we were goners there, truth be told."

Then, he lazily grins, "Might be weird to say, but it'd be a shame if you died early."

"That was a whole adventure you lead me through, it was amazing!" Foxtrot cheered in a tone of false childish innocence, as if the chase was nothing more than a game of pretend.

This is my favorite scene from my favorite RP with my OC Kosar (Kamran). The red isn’t my words, it’s my RP partners. He’s been gone for a while, hope he’s okay ❤️ I love Foxtrot, he’s so comedic. This scene really captured the difference between the two characters and the tension built from Kosar’s reply is so easily broken by the first two words in the next reply. He shrugged. He fucking shrugged. I love them.

Ps. The RP was called Hunt, this scene sort of explains everything.